My dress is a work of art. I am lovely. I shroud myself with my magic and slip out. Ruins and monuments dot this place, but I know where I must go to find what I seek. I flit over a fractured landscape as I head toward my destination. Tumbled monuments and shattered buildings, leveled in some forgotten battle, are everywhere. Even the land itself seems to have been tortured into humps and hillocks that hint at even more things buried here. This is a sad and dismal place.
Coming here is always full of melancholy. Perhaps it is the aura of this place, now, so much loss and destruction that it seems to permeate the very air. It is also home to roving hunters who seek to snack on the unwary. I am wary of the hunters that prowl here, but my magic renders me all but undetectable. I am cautious as I flit through this, but not overly frightened. I pass by all the crumbling remnants of times long past, heading toward an ancient edifice that still stands, proud and as yet unbroken.
The towering columns mark the portico and entrance, but I won’t be using that. It’s too well guarded, and I don’t want to disturb the guardians of this place. That’s a fight I don’t want to take on unless I must. I am skilled at staying hidden, and stone is no obstacle for me. Instead, I slip through the wall and into the swirling mists inside. These mists serve many purposes. They conceal the guardians of this place, who patrol constantly. They also keep many of the things entombed here quiet and dreaming.
For stronger entities, they are just a sedative. It slows reactive responses and dulls the senses. I shake off these effects as I start looking for what I need. Mostly, I hover above the mists. Why take the risk of exposing myself when it’s not necessary? As I hover, I watch for the roaming sentinels while weaving tendrils of magic. Tendrils of my magic go searching, trying to see if any of the ancient heroes here might be willing to give me what I need. I slip through the mist unnoticed by most when I sense the guardians patrolling this place are coming.
If I can feel them, then they will surely feel me if they get close enough. I do not want to face them, so I must hide. I pull my magic back into myself and wrap it tightly around me. I dart into one of the cells and hover quietly, high up in a corner shrouded in darkness, while the demon, trapped and entombed here, paces below me, muttering mindlessly – an endless rant about what he’ll do when he gets free. I watch it warily, but remain hidden. I’ve spent a long time hiding from things just as terrifying and his magic will disguise my own.
I can sense that the guardians have moved past my hiding spot, still patrolling, and the demon is still unaware of my presence. I slip out quietly just before it senses me and starts to turn in my direction. That’s not anything I want to face, either. With the patrolling guardians gone, I can be a bit more inquisitive. I send my questing tendrils back out to see what the mist obscures. I find one, but he seems to be… distant, sleeping. I start to pass by, but he senses me. The tendril of my magic curls around his hand as he catches it. He tugs on it and calls out. “Ho, Seeker.”
He seems to be able to sense me in return. His thoughts rush past me, and I feel a mixture of awe and amusement. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” “Too fragile, too delicate. “It’s not safe.” “Not what I expected.” “Why are you here?”
My need spills out through this shared connection. “If there’s something this old war horse can give you, then come and take it.”
As I hesitate, trying to decide, he continues, “Freely offered. Freely given. No oaths need be exchanged nor bargains struck.”
It’s an enticing offer. Beneath the words, the sentiment is that there’s not much left and someone should be able to put it to use, instead of lying moldering on a bier for eternity. There is a deep kindness and gentleness in him that seeps through our shared connection. This is perhaps even more enticing than his initial offer, so without a second thought, I pull back the other tendrils and follow this one. He's laid out on his bier in his armor, beneath his shield. Everything about him is clad in iron and, thus, somewhat inimical to my kind.
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Iron dulls us, slows our reflexes, dims our magic. The old stories, where it burns us or destroys us if we touch it, are wrong. It does make it easier to kill one of us, but not for the reasons the stories give. He tugs on the tendril of my magic. “Come here. I can shelter you under this shield. The guardians won’t spot you here. I’ve been quiet for so long that they don’t really look at me anymore. What is it that you need? What brought you here, Seeker?”
I have come to learn how to keep going when all seems lost.
The slings and arrows of fickle fate have left me devastated this time. My heart is broken and full of doubt. Worst of all, I no longer trust myself. This most recent betrayal has driven me to my metaphorical knees. Instead of only what I came for, my own loneliness seeps out with it and is met with such a rush of tenderness that I’m nearly brought to tears. I am undone, and something I hadn’t planned on pushes me forward. I settle quietly astride his hips and immediately sense his confusion, which is quickly replaced by surprise and delight.
“That? That’s what you wanted? Oh! Not what I was expecting. But, yes. Of course. A thousand times, yes. Gladly. Willingly.”
The shield shifts, and I slip beneath it, my tendril of magic still wrapped around his wrist. I’m nose to nose with him, nestled here against him, and sheltered by his shield.
I catch a thought, “I never wed, but I’m no virgin, either.”
This thought is quickly followed by his next, “I can help you. Let me ease your loneliness.”
He gazes at me and smiles tentatively. “Gods! You’re even more beautiful than I thought.”
He looks at me in my more corporeal form with wonder and amazement. I reach up to run a finger along his well-sculpted jawline, and he claims my mouth with an achingly sweet kiss. His hands are gentle and roaming, but their touch on my skin ignites a need I have long denied. I lean into this and thread my fingers into his hair. His fingers find the hem of my dress and cautiously slide beneath it. Slowly, giving me a chance to object, his hand moves higher.
I sigh and keep kissing him. He shifts slightly, and his fingers find my core, and I moan into the kiss. I get a mixture of a chuckle and a rumble of male satisfaction. I can sense that he is pleased with himself, that he still remembers how to do this. I shatter and come apart even as I am impaled. His hands guide me unfailingly as another wave of climax hits. Then a third, nearly wringing a cry from him, and we're both spent. I am covered in small, gentle kisses and caresses as I recover.
We talk for a while, and he shares with me who he was, what his life was like. “I wish I had met you in life. I would have found a way to wed you.”
Hmm… I might have the right kind of magic to make that happen. Thoughts and words weave together over our shared connection. “I never thought I’d feel the touch of a woman again. You’ve been a gift from the gods.”
Finally, he says, “I’ve recovered enough of myself, thanks to you, that maybe we can finish this damned battle and be done. If I can be reborn, perhaps I can find you in my next life.”
My tendril of magic still connects us, and he senses my sadness at his departure. “I don’t have to go yet; there’s still time. What would you have of me?”
My desire and longing seep over the bond. “If this is all the time we get, why waste it?” “As my lady wishes,” he rumbles in reply. This time it is slower, far more deliberate, and agonizingly sweet. It’s like floating in a cloud of spun honey. I am cradled against him as he moves inside me, his mouth never leaving mine.
Many of the split, bent, broken pieces of my soul are bathed in his tenderness and made whole. I get everything I came here to find and more. Each climax is more intense than the last, and I am shattered, reformed, and shattered again. It is a delicious, timeless agony, and it ends far too soon. I tag him with a bit of my magic, and he looks at me with curiosity. “I would know what becomes of you.”
He considers this for a moment before nodding his permission.
He picks up his sword and shield, preparing to leave, and pauses briefly. “You have given far more than you have taken. Take some of this back.”
I feel a surge of energy pushed down through our shared connection. “You are too kind, too giving, too willing to share,” he tells me, “Take better care of yourself.”
The unspoken message is “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”
Gently, he loosens the tendril connecting us, and it’s all I can do not to weep at the severed connection, but I won’t mar this moment with tears.
A final kiss, and he’s striding away, proud and confident, toward his ancient battle and the fulfillment of an even older oath.
Iron will. Iron spine. My iron lord.
- Would you trust her instincts—or second-guess every move?
- If you were in her position, what’s the first thing you’d do differently?