CHAPTER 43

A bizarre dream pelted at a single, lonely mind in the void. The picture of being on one’s knees, scrutinized. Analyzed. Judged.

Powerful eyes, directly ahead, glowing pink-ish golden light. They stood out from the eyes behind them, each glowing in a different color. A red pair that inspired rage against a forgotten injustice slightly to the left, a yellow-golden pair full of understanding and empathy to the right. And even more eyes beyond.

Voices spoke. Opinions were considered. A gestalt of godly minds, spiraling towards consensus.

Beneath the voices – faint and distant – a crackle. A single little flame, sputtering, burning, out of sight but kept very much in mind. It would be a white flame if it could be seen. That much was intimately known.

Everything about that flame was intimately known. It was beloved. It was adored. It was more sacred than the eyes of all the gods combined.

But it was gone. That little flame had died, and all that was left of it was the warmth on the skins of those that loved it. It couldn’t be relit, couldn’t be replaced. But it would not be forgotten, could not be forgotten. In a world of glowing eyes and little flames, a little dark spot where the purest white one had been would never go unnoticed.

From the eyes that were closest, from those that were pink and gold, a strand was extended. A rope of energy. Of Power. Of Life. A power offered sincerely, to be grasped, and followed to more power, and more life.

But that strand could be rejected. Just as easy would be to stay here, with the embers of the white flame, and die with it.

A deep, intimate sadness. A profound loss. That white flame had been everything, had been so unspeakably important. Those godly eyes that looked on understood, knew how tempting it was to reject the strand, and stay.

But… Even though it was possible to do that, it wasn’t an option. That flame had been so bright, so holy. And there was nobody else here to remember how warm it had truly been.

Time marched onwards, even in this timeless space. It was… known, somehow, that to consider the offer of the power much longer would be to reject it, and be left behind here, in this place where the cinders of one soul were already mixing with the ashes of another.

I… I loved you so, so much, Faron. I loved you more than I love myself.

There was no answer.

I’m scared. I’m scared she’ll take you from me, will take her from me. That I’ll just be clay to her, forced into a new mold. I might… I might prefer to stay here.

Again, there was no answer. There was no sound, no wind. There was only a single, lonely soul, and the void, rapidly encroaching.

But then… Then she’ll be alone like this. She’ll be stuck in a cairn of loss.

That power beckoned again. The time to take it was almost up. And there was only one choice.

I’ll join you here, eventually, Faron. But I just can’t, yet. I can make lives better, even if I have to… to risk forgetting about you.

________________

She gasped, and opened her eyes, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling of a strange place. Her breast heaved up and down, sweat beaded on her forehead and poured down the sides of her face. She rolled her head to the side, and saw she was lying on her back on a bed with silken sheets, in a room that was otherwise dark, save for a few magical torches spread about it.

Where was she? Who was she?

“Hello, Faith.” A beautiful and terrible voice said by her other side. Two words that promised a beacon to guide her out through the fog, spoken by a voice that filled her with inexplicable amounts of resentment and awe.

She rolled her head to look at the speaker; A young-looking woman with curly hair and glowing eyes. She was familiar to her. They were tethered to each other by something, by some power she didn’t quite understand.

“You took your time getting back to me,” the woman said. “I was worried you might not come back.”

“Back?” She asked. Had she been here before? Had she been anywhere before? “I… I don’t understand.”

The woman softly smiled at her, and made a gesture, beckoning her closer. She hesitated to do so, didn’t think she wanted to be touched. “Come here, Faith,” the woman whispered, after a few seconds.

It felt… good, when she did that. There was a gentle tug on the power that connected them, guiding her towards the woman’s glowing eyes. She used her arms to lift herself from the bed a little, and crawled towards her.

As soon as she actually obeyed that tug, a grin sprouted on her face. Wonderful feelings rushed through her, suffusing her, sating a thirst she hadn’t even noticed, overpowering that resentment. The woman had an arm extended towards her, a place she was clearly meant to lay her head.

She did so, settling back down to curl up in the woman’s embrace, and stared up into her eyes. That glow was mesmerizing, endless, awesome. “You don’t remember a thing, do you?” The woman asked.

She shook her head. The woman had said she’d come back, had called her Faith, even if that didn’t feel like her name, so… there probably was something to remember. But she couldn’t. “No,” she whispered.

“That’s for the best, I think,” the woman seemed to decide. “You were so… burdened, before.”

“I was?” She asked.

The woman nodded. “Oh, yes. Scared, angry, and defiant.”

She tried to picture those feelings. Tried to picture them applying to the woman. It didn’t quite fit, didn’t quite add up. This woman was beautiful and gentle. If she’d felt about her like that, she’d been wrong to do so. “I’m… sorry,” she said, eventually.

The woman smiled conspiratorially, and put a hand on the side of her face, caressing it. She leaned into it, closing her eyes, rubbing her cheek against the soft hand. It felt wonderful. That tether of power that connected them flowed through the touch, feeding her, nurturing her. It sparked… feelings, down in her body. Good feelings. Feelings that–

A noise, from elsewhere in the room. She yelped, and scrambled away from it, sitting upright against the bed’s headboard. That feeling the woman had mentioned, scared, coursed through her, overpowering the good feelings that came with being touched.

The woman sat up on the bed, too. She pulled her close again, whispering soft, cooing noises, letting her hold her as tightly as she wanted.

“Dear?” Came a new, strained-sounding voice, and her head snapped up to listen. No. Not a new voice. A voice she’d forgotten, but already knew and loved. A voice she trusted, a voice she was just as connected to as the woman. A voice that had spoken a name that felt right.

“Dear,” she repeated in a whisper, as she started to scramble towards it, away from the woman. She wanted to meet that voice. She wanted to remember why she felt so strongly about it. She wanted it to tell her who she was.

The woman with the glowing eyes didn’t let her get far. A hand took her by the wrist, stopping her. “Patience, Faith,” the woman chided. “We’ll deal with her later.”

“But I–”

The woman’s face hardened. “I said no,”

She was torn. That other voice had been so appealing, so desirable. It held promise, knowledge, and familiarity. But the woman with the glowing eyes? She… She had that power. And that power attracted her.

She slowly crawled back towards her, the allure of the power and a desire to obey eclipsing her reluctance to ignore the other voice. As she got closer, that hardened face softened again, slowly melting into a smile that spoke of approval once she was kneeling by the woman’s side.

“Do you know who I am, Faith?” Asked the woman.

She shook her head. She didn’t know. She didn’t have even the faint sense of familiarity to guide her with the woman, like she did with the other voice. All she had was that sense of awe. Whoever this was, she was… epic.

“Ishara,” the woman said.

“Ishara,” she repeated, uncertainly. That name didn’t fit the woman, somehow, just like how Faith didn’t fit her. She frowned. She was so confused, had so many questions. She opened her mouth to ask them, but was silenced by the woman leaning forward and stroking her cheek again.

Again, she leaned into the touch, hoping it would feel as good as it had a moment ago. And oh, did it ever. This woman, this Ishara as she called herself, had a quality to her. Something about her was magnetic, made her want to…

The woman leaned forward, guiding their faces together. Their lips touched. A kiss full of the same power that her touch carried. It elevated her, made her feel stronger, more complete. It lingered for a few seconds, tasting of eternity and wonder.

“M–more,” she said, when the kiss broke. She wanted more of that power, and more of that intimacy. Her body was alight from the brief kiss, every sensitive part of her alive and tingling. She wanted to be touched on all of them, urged to do the same to the woman.

The woman grinned at her. “More? I can give you more.” Their lips pressed together again, charged with power, a conduit for that energy that made her just feel utterly fantastic. Hands appeared on her body, caressing her. Every touch made her feel alive, every stroke made her feel more like herself.

The woman guided her through everything, teaching – no, reminding – her what felt good on her body, helping her to learn and relearn what they both liked.

A kiss in the nape of her neck, a lick between her breasts. Every touch was potent, every sound a delight. At the back of her mind, her thoughts lingered on the other voice, and the word Dear echoed through her head, a name as intimate as any touch with this woman.

But she wasn’t able to dwell on it for long. Everything the woman did distracted her from the voice, and every tug on that power that connected them drew her attention back to those glowing eyes.

Desire. Need. They were oppressive, amazing feelings. They weighed her mind down, drove both of them to move their ministrations south, to that space between her legs where the feelings were concentrated most strongly.

There was something missing. Something she desperately wanted, but just wasn’t a part of what either of them were doing. This satisfied her instincts, made her gasp when her breasts were touched and moan when the woman’s hands first found her folds, but it wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t stop to dwell on it, though. She couldn’t find the words to express it, couldn’t form a cohesive enough picture to begin to describe it.

That power hung in the air. She could feel it, taste it, even smell it. It was a part of her, it made her whole, fulfilled a deep craving she’d seemingly always had. It made her stronger and smarter. Feeling it stirred memories in her.

She pressed her lips to the woman’s again, tasted her as she felt that electric feeling spark between their tongues, smelled her as she remembered a shrine, and a dress that made her feel the same way.

Thinking about it; dwelling on that memory made her as excited as it did nervous. She remembered finding it, studying it for a while before she discovered how it smelled. How good that smell had made her feel then, how she’d felt like a different person. She’d been thrilled by it. It had stoked passions she’d thought were dead, under the approving gaze of a statue of… of the glowing eyed woman.

“I know you,” she whispered when their kiss next broke. “I found your dress.”

“So you did,” purred the woman. “Aren’t you glad you did?”

She nodded, and was soon swept up into another kiss. More power flowed between them, permeating every fiber of her being. She wondered what she might be able to use it for, what it could do. The woman rubbed at her sex with two fingers and growled. More memories floated up from the haze.

An image of a beautiful woman with freckles like a constellation of stars, and vibrant red hair. A hero, someone she adored and revered. Someone she’d craved an eternity with. Someone with whom she’d had that thing for which she couldn’t find the words.

“Love,” she whispered. That was it. That was what was missing from this. She didn’t love this woman.

“I love you, too, Faith,” the glowing-eyed woman said, breathily.

Another kiss, another jolt of power. An image of a set of black eyes. A vile creature that had overpowered her with a glance, made her powerless, tried to sell her. But she’d killed him. She’d struck him down with a gilded sword, and righteous hate.

She and the woman with the glowing eyes rolled over on the bed, putting her on top. She sat up, looked down at her, took in the dreamy grin on her face. She… She’d done something to her. Something terrible had happened between them. Even now, this woman looked up at her like she was a thing, a possession.

She was conflicted. Being looked at like that… It excited her. She wanted to be possessed, already was possessed, surely. But not by this woman. She was an imposter, a distraction.

The glowing-eyed woman seemed to notice how torn she was. She propped herself up on the bed, grinning. She wrapped her arms around her neck, pulling her back down to prone, pressed their lips together with purpose, imbuing her with more of that power.

And she just couldn’t bring herself to refuse it. She wanted that power, longed for the memories it awoke in her, but there was something beyond that. A basic urge chiseled into the bedrock of her soul that told her she should feel good, and needed to make this woman feel good, too.

So, she committed herself to that. She caressed the woman between her legs, stroking and teasing, enjoying the gasps she let out, savoring every time she moaned into her mouth and she was able to take in more of that power. She curled her fingers into the woman, rubbing and exploring, finding the spots she liked the most and focusing on them.

“I won’t punish Seeker,” the woman gasped.

“What?”

“I won’t punish her, Faith. I… That was hasty. I’ll reward her for bringing you to me.”

Seeker. The name echoed through her mind. The name of her beloved, she realized. The freckle-faced woman, vibrant red hair, endless blue eyes. The one she belonged to.

It was hard to focus on her, though. She loved Seeker, but… Seeker couldn’t give her this. The woman with the glowing eyes stared up at her, face twisted in pleasure, toes curling. She had such complicated feelings about her. She was the source of that power, of her power. But… she was confused by her. Anger and adoration. Rage and lust. They mixed in her, drove her, made her aggressive.

She pressed her lips to the woman’s again, passionate like fire. She did it to get at the power as much as she did it because it felt good. With each kiss, more memories bloomed to life in her head. Flashes of a marriage to a wonderful man, a blur of grief, and a passionate relationship with an angel. She started to remember herself, who she was, what she liked.

With each kiss, she took more of the glowing-eyed woman’s power for herself. She was becoming better, was becoming more with every bit she took. The magical torches in the hall flickered to the rhythm of her heart, and she could not only feel the tether of power that bound her to the woman, but to others, as well.

The woman smiled dully. She let out a guttural moan as she climaxed, arching her back and flexing most of the muscles in her body. “Faith… that… that was…” The woman started, but trailed off. She looked absent, her eyes a little duller and faded.

But she didn’t let up. She could finally remember how long she’d spent yearning for this power. And she could finally satisfy that hunger. She wanted more. She wanted all of it. Couldn’t let this woman keep any, because she knew how she’d abused it in the past.

“Kiss me again,” she ordered the woman.

“W–wha?” The woman asked.

“I said kiss me,” she ordered the woman. She laced the command with all of her avarice and frustration. She could feel the power – her power – behind those words, and heard the woman gasp softly before lurching up, and pressing their lips together.

She slipped her tongue into her mouth, coaxing another muffled moan as her hands squeezed and groped her flesh. She could feel futile efforts to push her away, to break the kiss. Weak shoves turned to even weaker presses as the kiss deepened until the few movements her arms still made stopped altogether.

She pulled on that tether of power, drawing it into herself. Her limbs burned with it. She absorbed more and more of it like a sponge, and became aware of what more and more of it did. A high priestess in Astoria that was blessing a wedding, the pontifex enhancing his own stamina in bed. Hundreds of minds used her power for thousands of things, and it felt…

She let the woman drop back down onto her back, and closed her eyes, focusing on that feeling. It ran along her back, suffused her entire being. It felt fantastic. It felt right. It felt divine. She could follow any one of those threads of power with her mind, trace it to a holy spell being cast in her name.

“D–dear?” Stammered a stunned voice, as a hand appeared on her calf. She opened her eyes, turned and saw Seeker. She looked stunned and confused, eyes wide, and blood matting her hair to her head from a nasty gash the woman had inflicted on her after she had put the collar–

The collar.

She scrambled towards Seeker, away from the woman. She could see a trail of blood running from where Seeker had landed on the table, all the way to the raised dais. “Seeker?!” She asked, hatred rising in her. She’d never seen Seeker so injured before, and that woman had done it.

She reached Seeker quickly, took her into an embrace, heedless of the blood. Seeker leaned into the hug, giggling and burying her face in her neck, taking deep breaths. “You… You smell… You smell good, Dear,” she said.

She broke the hug, examining Seeker. The collar was still snugly wrapped around her neck, shining in the darkness of the hall. She touched it, cautiously. She didn’t want it on Seeker. She didn’t even want to see it. She slipped the fingers of both hands between Seeker’s neck and the chain, careful not to hurt her, but entirely indifferent to the metal. She didn’t care if it broke, didn’t care if it flew into the void. All she wanted was for it to be off, and…

And that was enough. The chain slipped into nowhere, dropping to the steps leading up to the dais. Her jaw dropped slightly as the loop of chain started to slide and roll down them, impossibly loud, as if screaming to the whole world that she’d been able to do that. She’d both known she could do that, and been completely oblivious to it.

It settled three steps down from the top of the dais, on top of her right foot. Her foot, which… which had changed. It wasn’t the prosthetic anymore, no longer a construct of porcelain and leather. It was now… different. More real. From her knee down, her leg faded into the same color as the chain, gold with a coppery hue to it. She cautiously touched it, and could feel the skin was as warm and supple as anyone’s.

“Lanri?” Seeker asked, uncertainly.

She slowly looked up at Seeker. Lanri. That… had been her name. But now that Seeker called her that, it just felt wrong. “Please don’t call me that,” she whispered.

“Faith?” Seeker tried, next. The Heartwarden looked tired, with bags under her eyes, and that awful gash on her head. “That’s not it either, is it?”

She shook her head, and Seeker leaned forward, gently caressing the side of her face.

“What did she do to you?” Seeker quietly asked. “Your eyes, Dear…”

She swallowed. “I… I don’t know. But…” She trailed off, as Seeker’s sword caught her eye. She was lying to Seeker. She knew exactly what had been done to her. She remembered all of it. She remembered the brooch being plucked from her hair, remembered being forced into a different outfit.

She remembered Ishara incapacitating Seeker, threatening her, deriding her, abusing her. She remembered briefly snapping out of her stupor when Ishara threw Seeker, then being held down, and… “Raped,” she whispered.

She started down the steps, unnaturally steady on her feet, as a dull hate built inside of her. Seeker had earned her love by saving her from people that tried to do what this god hadn’t even thought twice about. Even now, she was still connected to her by the faintest thread of that power.

She’d taken almost all of it, somehow. She’d needed to. A god that was willing to rape her worshippers, beat her angels unconscious, and used her powers to help innocent people get taken by vampires had to be stopped.

“Dear?” Asked Seeker, softly. She didn’t answer the angel. Her eyes were glued to that sword. She’d used it to protect Seeker once, gut Gorance with it. Now… Now she’d use it to protect her from a different monster.

She stopped a few paces away from the sword. It was practically a flourish to walk towards it, she realized. She could feel that power coursing through her. Wonderful, unspeakably vast power, where only a hint of it expressed through Seeker had made her shiver and giggle before. The sword would come to her if she wanted it, and to pick it up herself was a charade.

“Come,” she said, speaking the clipped tones of the divine language with as much ease as she had since the first time, loading the words with her desire to have it.

The sword lurched into motion, spinning so fast on its way into her hand that it whistled through the air. She caught it with ease, then turned around, returning her attention to that dreadful woman.

She could feel that barest hint of power still connecting them. It repulsed her, made her skin crawl just to think about what she’d used it for, and she was going to excise that feeling no matter the cost.

Briefly she looked up at Seeker, still atop the dais, her eyes flicking back and forth between them. Seeker was… so much better than this woman that had dared to call herself Ishara had ever been. Seeker hadn’t forced herself on Lanri, had done her very best not to let her get hurt or taken advantage of.

She moved up the stairs, slowly. Her eyes moved down to Seeker’s sword, and back up to the woman several times. She took in the engraving on the blade, forged with passion, wielded calmly, then the woman’s face with dull eyes that stared up at the ceiling. She wasn’t dead… yet. But doing this might practically be a mercy.

“What are you doing?” Seeker asked, softly, as she reached the side of the bed. She thought it was obvious, looming over the naked woman with a sword in her hand. She steeled herself, tried to flare up that hate, tried to sharpen it into enough of a point to do what needed to be done.

She reversed her grip on the sword, raised it to stab it down like a dagger, if only she–

A tug on one of the strings of power gave her pause. It vibrated for a moment like the string of a lute, seemingly getting louder and stronger until it peaked and Mischief manifested from nowhere. “NO!” They yelled at her, even as they staggered back onto the bed, and clutched the woman protectively, covering her naked body with some of the sheets.

She swallowed, and tightened her grip on the sword. “No?” She softly asked.

They nodded, and said it again. “No! D–don’t. Don’t kill…”

There was something heartbreakingly desperate about that plea. Though… they weren’t convincing her. She’d seen them put the collar on Seeker. They’d helped the woman do this to her and Seeker. Looking at them made her almost as angry as she did. “Why?” She growled, the sword trembling in her hand. “Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I put her down like the fucking monster she is? You know what she just did to me.” She paused, and leaned forward, tapping the Heartwarden in their chest. “You know, because you helped her do it.”

They nodded without meeting her gaze. “I–I know,” they stammered. “B–but–”

“But what?” She demanded, cutting them off. “Seeker warned me about you, about all of you. She told me most Heartwardens just take people, abuse their aura just like your Lady did to me.” She paused, and they swallowed. It looked like they were about to speak, and she prepared to talk over them.

“She–”

“She raped me,” she spat. “My goddess, my patron, your Lady. She fucking raped me, Mischief. And you helped her, served me to her on a silver platter, made sure Seeker couldn’t protect me. She corrupted me, took my wits, my inhibition. I couldn’t think, couldn’t say no, couldn’t even remember I had Seeker. She took my fucking name away from me!”

“Ishara,” whispered the Heartwarden.

“What?” She asked softly, as the implications of her own feelings and their words came together. Lord Daray had taken his predecessor’s name when he killed him, and he had become the new god of war. She shook her head, as if to banish the thought so she wouldn’t have to realize where it led. “Don’t call me that. That… I… I didn’t even kill her.” She left the word yet unsaid.

“Y–you’re right,” Mischief continued. “What she did to you was… was terrible. She is terrible. A terrible person, a terrible goddess. And… A–and you’re right that I helped her. But I had to.”

She kept the sword raised, still trembling, as she tried to muster the courage to cut down the half-dead woman. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be the one left deciding. Didn’t want to have to face who she was, now.

“Dear?” Whispered Seeker, as she put a hand on her wrist. “Do you remember what I told you the day we met? You had to remind me what it was on the day we left Cerene.”

She turned to look at Seeker, and the hand she had on her wrist. She’d seen how easily Ishara could throw Seeker across the room. She could feel she was strong enough to do the same, now. She doubted Seeker could actually stop her from doing this. But… Looking into those tired, blue eyes gave her pause.

She nodded. “A victim shouldn’t be judge, jury, or executioner.”

Seeker smiled, and finished the sentence. “Let alone all three, Dear.”

“I… I don’t know,” she quietly said, even though she was already lowering the sword. “How many others has she…”

“Thousands,” Mischief said, ruefully. They weren’t looking at her or Seeker anymore, instead gently stroking the cheek of the woman, even as they didn’t offer even a hint of a defense of her actions. “Gods, I thought… I knew you would…”

“You knew what?” Demanded Seeker.

“That I’d take her place,” she – Ishara – said, answering the question for Mischief. “You knew.”

Mischief smiled sadly, and nodded before they returned their gaze to the catatonic woman, whose eyes had stopped glowing completely. The sigil on her chest, once glowing just as vibrantly as those eyes, was now a mass of raised scars, slowly rising and falling as she breathed. “You… Ishara is the goddess of love and lust, and for centuries, I’ve watched her sabotage one in favor of the other, in herself and others. When I heard Seeker describe that you’d been willing to die to protect her, I had to meet you for myself. So, I let some more of the vault’s contents leak out from time to time, so I’d get the chance.”

Ishara swallowed, and looked down at herself. Those glowing markings she’d posed for were all but gone, save for the sigil, now as sharply defined on her chest as any rendition she’d ever seen. It glowed that beautiful pink and golden light, announcing her to the whole world, whether she was ready for it or not.

“And you were perfect, Ishara,” Mischief said. “Devoted, loyal, reserved. You impressed me every time I’ve seen you. Your time with your husband meant you appreciated love and lust both. The dress awakened your potential. Seeker’s grooming–”

“My what?” Hissed Seeker.

Mischief raised their arms in surrender. “Your time together. The Lady was corrupt, but you’ve always been better than her and most of us, Seeker. You taught her how things should be as much as you taught her how they were.” They returned their gaze to Ishara. “And now those might be a lot closer to the same thing.”

Ishara sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She… she had so many mixed feelings. She felt wrung out and overwhelmed by destiny shaking her like a dog might shake a rabbit it had caught. She started to pace along the dais, walking around the bed a few times.

The lull in conversation let her feel her own mind, hear her own thoughts, and others beyond. She could hear a soft murmur of voices, projected into her head like the sounds the augury made. Prayers, she realized. Some of them were louder, carried along the strings of power that connected her and the Touched. Others were fainter, spoken without a connection, solely expressions of faith.

Boys appealing for help making sense of their first crush, married couples beginning to realize they’d conceived a child on her birthday a month ago. She couldn’t help but smile at it. She felt… good. Hells, she felt great. She felt like she stood on a stage before the world, and the prayers of its people were her applause.

If only Faron were a part of it.

She sat down on the foot of the bed, facing away from Seeker, Mischief, and the catatonic woman as she wrestled with that thought. She reached into nowhere, imagining exactly where Seeker had left her wand as she did so. She pulled the artifact free, and looked at it for a moment, sitting there with the sword in one hand, and his wand in the other.

Faron. He… He’d be so proud of her, she knew. Of all the souls reaching out to her for guidance, strength, or blessings, his would be the loudest. But he wasn’t, at least not in any capacity even a goddess could perceive.

That grief still influenced her every thought. It walked alongside her like an old friend sometimes, stalked her like a predator at others. Faron hadn’t been perfect in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t been without fault, had probably earned someone’s hate at some point. But that didn’t matter to her, and…

And when she looked over her shoulder, at Mischief stroking the catatonic woman’s cheek, she could see something similar. Mischief knew her flaws, knew about her crimes. They’d even helped her commit a lot of them. But Ishara couldn’t bring herself to take her from them anymore.

“Can I help her?” She asked, quietly.

Mischief looked up at her. “Help?”

Ishara nodded. “You said that my time with Faron means I appreciate love and lust. And you’re right. But losing him taught me something, too. It taught me how awful it can be to be the survivor. I… I can’t stand by and let you learn the same lesson.”

Mischief’s eyes lit up with hope, and they nodded. “You can do what she tried to do to you, my Lady. Give her enough of your power to sustain a soul.”

Seeker raised an eyebrow, still a marvelous expression on her face. “You want my–” She cut herself off. Ishara could see in her eyes that she was considering whether she could still speak so possessively about her. Whether she was still her Dear.

Ishara decided to resolve the matter for her. She got up from the bed, and moved towards Seeker as quickly as she could, then took the Hearwarden, pulling the much taller woman into an embrace. Despite the crust of blood in her hair, she still was so very beautiful. “Things are different, Seeker. But they’ll never be that different. I’m going to honor my vows to you.”

Seeker smiled at her, despite the doubt her eyes betrayed. “Dear, the promises we made. They… They don’t make sense anymore. I can’t ask you to… You just can’t–”

Ishara leaned forward, silencing her with a kiss that was eagerly reciprocated. “We’ll figure it out, Seeker. Don’t you dare give up on us because you think this’ll make things harder.”

Seeker nodded, and the doubt drained from her eyes. “Okay, Dear. You’re right. We’ll figure it out.”

Ishara smiled and pressed Seeker’s sword back into her hands, then turned, facing Mischief. “So. How do I help her? Help you both?”

“The power of Ishara is yours, my Lady,” Mischief said. “You only have to give her enough power to live, rather than just exist.”

Ishara considered that as she approached the bedside, and Mischief made room for her. “Won’t that make her a Heartwarden?” She asked, as she considered the image of the subdued goddess taking out her frustrations on people weaker than herself. She couldn’t allow that, couldn’t trust this woman with the power of an angel.

Mischief nodded, and Ishara frowned. Perhaps she couldn’t help her after all, then. “But,” they said, “she’ll be bound by whatever mandate you impose on her.”

Ishara smiled when she heard that. This woman had done so many awful things to her and thousands of others, if Mischief was to be believed. She’d tried to bend her to her will, destroy what she and Seeker had built. But it hadn’t worked. Ishara had taken her power from her, and this catatonic woman would soon learn that all she would ever be was a relic.

________________

Ishara sipped on a glass of sweet red wine, as she settled onto the large bed that doubled as her throne. Mischief was pacing around the dais, and the sun was rising rapidly outside of her palace, heralding a new day.

She’d taken the time to get cleaned up already. She’d donned the dress Seeker had made for her again, the white fabric still a lovely contrast from her darker skin, and not quite opaque enough to block the glow of the sigil on her chest. Her brooch kept her hair pinned up as it had for several months now, though the enchantment hardly did anything in the face of the powers she now commanded.

Seeker stood by the foot of the bed, a glass of wine of her own in her hand, once again wearing her customary cardigan and trousers, her sword sheathed in the bracer on her wrist.

“How do I look?” Ishara asked. “Good enough to meet a new Heartwarden for the first time?”

“Positively radiant, my Dear,” Seeker assured her, before she scowled at the unconscious form of the woman beside her. “Not that she’s worthy of the effort.”

Ishara shrugged as she took another drink of the wine, and she eyed the woman on the bed next to her. She hadn’t moved a muscle in the handful of hours that had passed, only lying there and breathing.

“Are you sure you want to be here for this?” Ishara asked, looking up at Mischief.

The Heartwarden stopped and nodded. “I do, my Lady.”

Ishara nodded, then looked back at Seeker. “What about you? Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Seeker scoffed. “I’m absolutely not, Dear. But… you can’t leave her like this forever.”

Ishara knew she probably could leave her like this forever, if she chose. Simply bundle the vile woman up in a sheet, and stuff her in a corner to be forgotten. But she’d be better off killing her if she wanted to forget about her.

She sighed, and placed her glass on a nightstand before scooting closer to the woman. In her peripheral vision, she could see Seeker had placed her glass next to it through nowhere, and she could hear her slide her sword partially out of its sheath.

It’ll take her a while to get used to me being as immortal as she is.

She settled down on the bed and leaned in. She turned the woman’s head towards her as gently as she could, then, after a deep breath and a moment of hesitation, kissed her.

The kiss didn’t taste like anything. It was flat and lifeless, like kissing a warm doll. But it connected them for a moment, highlighted the strand of power that tethered them, thin like a string of spider silk.

Slowly, cautiously, she returned some of the power she’d taken from her. She reinforced the thread, coating it with divine power like a chandler adding wax to a wick. She could feel the woman twitch ever so slightly, her breathing picking up as she gave some signs of life again.

Once she’d strengthened the strand enough, Ishara broke the kiss, and backed away from the woman. She’d not given her much, only a tiny fraction of the power she delegated to Seeker or Mischief. But still some.

Enough that after a few moments of tense silence, she opened her deep, brown eyes, and gasped. She looked around for a few moments, confusion and anger writ large on her face. “You! Faith! What in the hells did you–”

Ishara tisked. “Oh, no. You know that’s not my name.”

“Insolent brat,” spat the woman. “What did you do?!”

Ishara turned away, and picked up her glass of wine. She gestured to Mischief as she drank from it. They’d been the one to insist on this, they might as well have the honor of illuminating their beloved.

“She,” Mischief began, uncertainly, “didn’t do anything. You did. You… You raped, and you hurt, and you defiled. Ishara rejected you for what you did. The only thing she did to you was spare your life afterwards.”

“Bullshit,” she spat. “I was there when Daray drove a sword through his predecessor’s gut. Godhood doesn’t just fucking pack up and move on from a goddess.”

Ishara forced a laugh. A small cruelty she felt no remorse in inflicting on the woman. “Look into my eyes,” she said, knowing they now glowed with the light of that pink and gold fire, like hers had before. “If you don’t believe the truth of that, look at yourself and run a finger along that scar on your chest. Try to listen for the prayers you only ever ignored. Try to use your powers.”

The woman glared at her, eyes full of defiant hate.

“I was going to kill you,” Ishara commented, with a gesture to Seeker and her sword. “I wanted to drive her sword into your chest, wanted to rid the world of a villain. Mischief’s begging me to spare you is the only thing that stopped me.”

“You should have,” the woman spat. Ishara could see her tremble with anger.

“Maybe,” said Ishara. “But I think you could be useful. A reminder to everyone here, to the mortals, to the Heartwardens, even to me, about what happens to those who abuse Ishara’s power. A… Souvenir.”

The woman swallowed as understanding dawned on her. “I…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ishara said. She put her glass of wine down again. “I promise you won’t mind once I’m through with you.” She pointed at the center of the bed, and intoned, “kneel,” charging the word with her unyielding demand that the newly minted Souvenir obey.

The woman let out a pained whine, but scrambled to the spot Ishara had indicated in an instant. That reinforced tether of power that connected them clearly making her words all the more difficult to resist.

“Now,” Ishara began. “Sit still.” She put two fingers to Souvenir’s temple, and reached out along that tether, feeling for the mind behind those defiant brown eyes. She realized this was a complicated thing to try to do with her new powers, but she didn’t see any other way.

She didn’t want to be cruel to anyone. She didn’t want to condemn Mischief to that crippling grief, and she didn’t want to force Souvenir to live an eternity full of resentment, trying to avenge herself on Ishara or venting her frustrations on bystanders. This would prevent both.

It didn’t take long to find Souvenir’s mind, sustained by her power as it was. It was a maelstrom of hate and dread. She was humiliated, afraid, angry, and even remorseful. Ishara spent a few moments scrutinizing her mind, vicariously feeling those emotions.

Then, with the slightest effort, she whispered “forget,” and sealed all of that away. She felt her fingers grow ice cold for the briefest moment, saw a cloud of frosty fog form in the humid air of the palace. Then Souvenir gasped, before her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped down onto the bed.

She looked at her for a while, then picked up her glass of wine again. This woman had been awful. She’d been vile. She’d taken whoever she fancied, forcing them to want her back. She’d been getting away with it for centuries, apparently, flaunting her duties so blatantly that her Heartwardens didn’t trust her, or even schemed against her.

And now she had been thrust onto the stage, burdened with purpose, looked to by all to do better. Could she do better? Would the reminder of Souvenir strutting about and Seeker’s guidance be enough to keep her from succumbing to the same temptations?

She didn’t know.

She could feel that fantastic power along every nerve in her body, could hear the prayers of Eitheris’ faithful, but she didn’t have faith in herself. Despite Souvenir’s abuse, Ishara had still participated. She’d gotten greedy, drank in all of that power as soon as she’d gotten a taste of it.

Could she have resisted? Should she have? Would Souvenir still be the goddess, and she only a Heartwarden at her feet, if she’d been of better character? Or would Ishara have rejected her and claimed a new soul, regardless?

Was there anything to be done to stop this, after her time with the dress taught her the divine language, and let her feel Ishara’s power?

Minutes passed, silently, broken only by the sound of her sipping from her glass, or Souvenir stirring. Mischief roused her eventually, ushering her out of the hall, off to be taught her new purpose, free of the burdens of knowledge and guilt.

Seeker settled onto the bed with her, her own glass of wine in hand and a wistful smile on her face. “I am so proud of you,” she whispered.

Ishara sighed, and laid her head on the Heartwarden’s shoulder. “Why?”

“Because of your defiance in the face of an unjust goddess. Because you were resilient against her. Because you’re so, so brave. Because Faron isn’t here to say it with me.”

“Not even a divine mantle will let me hide my thoughts from you, will it?”

Seeker’s smile grew a little more genuine. “Not as long as you’re okay with me seeing them, no.”

Ishara finished her glass of wine, and put it on the nightstand. She let the last mouthful of it linger for a while before swallowing, lost in thought about Souvenir. She questioned whether allowing her to live was the right thing, or whether time would tell that she had no right to judge her.

“I’m… I’m so happy, Dear,” Seeker confessed with a sigh.

“Oh?” Ishara asked.

“I… I told you how much it bothered me that you were mortal. That no matter how much I loved you, I’d have to go without you eventually.” Ishara nodded, urging her to continue. “But that’s gone, now. You… you’re… you’re not going to… I’ll always…” Seeker blinked away tears, and leaned away to put down her glass of wine.

“You’ll always have me,” Ishara confirmed. “And I’ll always get to look to you for guidance, right?”

Seeker nodded. “Always,” she promised, clearly struggling to keep her voice steady.

Ishara beamed at her Seeker, content that they were able to promise eternity to each other now, not merely a lifetime. That eternity would be different than either of them had expected – full of duty and obligation, rather than a lifetime of leisure and intimacy.

But… the downtime of eternity would probably add up to more than a lifetime fairly quickly, wouldn’t it? It occurred to Ishara that right now, for example, nobody needed either of them directly. She leaned in close to Seeker, running a hand along her shoulders, ushering her out of her cardigan.

“Say,” she began. “You said your powers will still work on me if I let them, right?”

Seeker smiled, and quirked an eyebrow. “More or less.”

Ishara grinned and turned around, offering the back of her head to Seeker. “Then take out my brooch.”