Page 70 of Thief of Roses
“They will have to hear us,” she assured him, putting her hand on his arm, “between your hard work and the blaze I intend to set tonight.”
“What will they hear?”
“A great many things.”She grinned.“Our devotion to each other, most of all, and my fervent prayer that somehow the spirits will find a way to keep us together.”
“Do not be angry with them if they cannot.”
“All I can do is plead my case.And,” she glanced up at him, “I have an important story to tell you tonight.”
“It’s selfish, but knowing we only have a few weeks together, I don’t feel like celebrating.I am grateful for what we’ve had, for what I never expected to have, and for how long I’ve had it, but my heart wants to throw a tantrum.”
“Oh, how I feel that too!”She squeezed his arm.“But that’s why we need to celebrate.We will come out, just before dark, and start the fire and invite those entities that wish to join us.If we were with a caravan or camp, there would be special foods, special songs which I will attempt to remember, and other people to provide entertainment.It’s too cold for flowers or I would make us crowns to indicate that we are leading the rite together this year.”
“You’re leading the rite,” he corrected.“I am following along as best I can.”
“You’re a Rivan god, Baró,” she reminded him.“Even if you defer to me in practice, we lead together.”
“How many flowers would you need?”
“Three or four each would suffice.”
“Roses,” he volunteered.“Take what you need for the occasion.”
“That’s inspired.Thank you, Baró.”Roses were magical, and the roses here never faded.The gods could not fail to hear their rite tonight if they used roses.
He started back towards the fortress, going on all fours due to the strenuous work he had just completed.He glanced at her over his shoulder to see if she followed.
She joined him as they returned to the fortress.
“Would I disrupt the Magic if I took something out of the wardrobe in my room?Or searched through your things for something that might make a cloak for you?”
“No.Intent on humanizing me yet?”he teased her.
“Never.”She kissed his cheek.“I am intent on outfitting you like the god you are.”
And a few hours later, she had accomplished just that.Or at least she thought so.
She could not be certain of Baró’s feelings on the matter, whether he did not mind or endured only for her sake, but the crown suited him.She kissed him after she placed it over his horns in the event he required consolation.It may not have been a crown like once he wore, but the ring of evergreen she fastened together dotted with the never-wilting roses suited him more than any ring of iron or silver or gold.She also presented him with one of the larger, heavier cloaks she had found in his wardrobe, an embroidered red confection that did not look as worn or faded as many of the others.She guessed that the clasp would no longer go around his neck and so had taken the liberty of removing the clasp and exchanging it for gold trim off her now-unused bed.With his size and stature, it did not quite look as full and long a cloak as it had when she had pulled it out, but it still covered much of him in a way that did not seem anything but dignified.
In her ritual clothing, someone would have mistaken her for a Mother presiding, confident that she might not have appeared so shabby next to the Magic now.Her shirt, though simple, bore embroidery around the collar and sleeves, and she had trimmed a new skirt with fur.She did not, like the Magic, wear a gold cord, but she did make a deerskin belt for herself, utilizing the feathers and stones that Baró had brought her back each time he was away.She had gotten a little more artistic about her own crown, weaving the floral rope into her hair so that it sat like a crown, but would not dislodge when dancing since she did not have the magnificent set of horns Baró did to keep it in place.She had plaited much of her hair into the crown but had let much of it stay down, weaving it like a basket in great sheets so that her braids fell like curtains around her shoulders.
Baró remembered a timelong ago when he had paraded himself around in fine clothing, pretending to be a man and failing miserably at it.Echoes of the embarrassment of absurd younger days haunted him now but this was for Rivani, so he endured in silence.She, on the other hand, looked charming.The flowers sat finer than jewels in her hair and the embroidery twinkled ever so subtly when the light hit it.She once described herself as plain and square, and perhaps she was a little square in jaw and shoulders and hands, but it produced a more stately effect than anything unbecoming.She looked strong and proud and ready to command armies even in adornments so soft and feminine.
Baró kept glancing at her like a youth making eyes at his sweetheart.
What a wyfe she woldeth have made.
Though they would never have their formal celebration, never be joined in truth, they were already bound, no matter the barriers and separations.When he died, somehow they would be reunited.There had to be more than this miserable world when someone loved so fiercely.
He bit his tongue lest he forget himself and say such a thing.He could never confess himself.Never.Not until she was gone and his time was over.Never being able to say it to her made him grieve even more, but he was resolved.The fact that he wore roses proved that.
“Are there any roses left?”He tried not to make it sound like a question of import.
“Of course.”Rivani led the way back to their bonfire pit.“I know how dear to you they are.”
“Not so dear as they used to be.When you leave,” his voice cracked.“When you leave, will you take the rest?You will have much better use for them than I will.”
She cast a sideways glance at him.“The ones we are wearing would be enou—”
