VII. Irises Blossom
Content warning: this update contains moderately-detailed sexual content. Like, we're not talking hardcore lewds, but it definitely wouldn't be shown pre-watershed.
Leaning back, you take the chance to admire Amigere in the peace and quiet. He's knee-high in the water, the reflections of the harsh sunlight rippling over his skin.
There is a bit of you that doesn't want to leave this place. Not this ruin; this singular room. This room, lit by the reflected dappled illumination of the light that streams in through the cracks. Where harsh sunlight is softened into something quiet and green by its reflection off the life that thrives here. Gentle mosses, plump green succulents that have nothing in common with the water-thirsty dry plants outside. This place that's cool and soft and you don't have to smell the reek of the deyha hyena-women and their ugly steeds.
Sextes Jylis chose you! You were made for places like this, not the harsh deserts outside! You… you wish you were home! With your familiar fortress that has been in your family for five hundred years, and your friends, and your extensive harem of handsome young men willing to do anything for your favour.
Look at you; so weak, getting weepy again. Yes, you want to be comfortable! What's wrong with that? You got all the violent, hard, painful bits of your life out of the way before you were fifty! And now Amigere is dragging up old memories by asking about your tattoos!
You're a fool. You should have lied and said that you'd just got them because you liked the designs! But that would make you sound like someone who wore something you hadn't earned - and for all that he doesn't know what they mean to you, they
do mean things to you. Even if they come from a period in your life that you'd shunned until recently.
It's almost funny. Most people would say they had an adventurous youth and calmed down. But you reject such a tedious way of doing things. You were much more boring when you were twenty than when you were ninety.
Urgh. Such mawkish sentimentality. You've never had time for such things. Not in years - no, decades.
And yet those stupid questions are dragging out old memories. Memories of when you were young, of Chiro Koharu and Odat Rio and how you met Meruto Hayate. Your first husband. When you were young and foolish and very much in love.
You wipe a tear from your eye, and brush your thumb against your right forearm. Against the coiling viper and the roots and grass that make up a complicated pattern of knotwork. This tattoo is nearly as old as you are. You were born to a mountain family, so they'd sent you to study at a Viper school. If you'd been born on the coast, like Koharu, they would probably have picked out instruction in Osprey or Deer Style - and my, wouldn't your life have been different?
You can still pick out the first part of the tattoo you recieved, because they had built it up progressively. That first viper that wrapped around your bicep, a broad-banded adder covered with black diamonds. You had been nineteen at the time. Young. A fool. But that's the purpose of young people; to make foolish decisions and learn from them. People too scared of making mistakes never live; never learn; never love. This rule has served you well throughout your life.
The first session had been right in the depths of Descending Air. You remember it well, after nearly a century. You had been so proud that you had been recognised by the grandmaster, a prodigy whose woodblood had made itself known at fifteen. Young for House Ferem; doubly so for an Odat. You'd shown your prowess and others had been watching and judging you - and finding you exceeding them. You had been a proper lady then; someone welcome in high society rather than the woman from the north who there are dark rumours about her tastes and what happens on her lands.
You clench your hands into fists, watching your biceps curl and stretch the skin. The designs shift as you do. Like they have for so many years.
The ink has faded. You should have had it touched up, but for the past - Dragons, three, four decades? For the past while, you've been neglecting your martial arts. Focussed more on the marital arts. You… you miss the companionship. You were young and stupid and… and undoubtedly happier than you are now, stripped of your wealth and fortune and pretty boys.
Your right arm, the viper, is the more muted of the two. Well, of course it is. The Viper school knows there is a time to pass unnoticed and a time to show your power. The tattoos start just above your elbow, and cover your bicep entirely Its colours are earthy and verdant. Long grass and tree roots form the knots that make up the basis of the pattern. Between the looping curves of greens and browns and sun-dappled oranges are the black diamonds that are the mark of Cheraki adders. Look closely, and some of the roots become serpents; some of the grass has amber eyes.
Out of this tangle of vegetation emerges a single viper, which coils around onto your back before looping back below your armpit to nestle below your breast. Its eye is bright orange; its fangs revealed.
It faces its rival that sits upon the left side of your chest; a royal blue peacock that stares back at the hissing snake with grace and tranquility. The bird's neck mirrors the snake, but as you trace it back up its feathers explode out in vibrant blues and greens and reds and oranges. The many eyes blur into a dappled, bright pattern. But the masters of the Cheraki schools knew their art; rather than let too many feathers dominate your arm, they merge with wind-tossed cherry blossom and willow branches that frame and emphasis the bright whorls.
It's funny how memory works. You see the patterns of feathers on your left arm so often, but they have been a been a part of your body for so long that the thoughts are muted; that they're part of who you are. But now, seeing them - once again - in reflected light is enough to bring back old thoughts. Old sights from a mortal lifespan ago; old smells foreign to this parched land; old tastes that somehow have wriggled out of a span of decades to sit again on your tongue.
The warmth of Kuma's mouth as you kiss him under a snowy tree, the scent of pine and woodsmoke filling your nose, icy rivers bubbling. Your laughter as he chased you through the snow, and into a convenient hayloft. Rain lashing against roofs overhead, as your muscles burn from practice throwing knives time and time again. The pain as they worked on your mastery tattoo for the Peacock school, a feeling that's always linked to the smell of the inks and the sandalwood they'd been burning in the braziers. That night with Hayate in the mountaintop retreat, and the taste of his tears on your lips as you kissed away his grief for his barbarian-slain fiancee.
Memories from before Amigere had been born. Memories lost to the years until they emerge back into the open. Maybe memories never really leave you. Maybe they're just dormant, waiting for the seasons to turn, like a hibernating bear greeting the return of warmth or a monster trapped in the ice.
Music draws you out of yourself, away from memories older than the naked man who's bent over in front of you. Amigere is singing to himself. You think he's doing some manner of religious thing; something he is entirely welcome to do if he provides you with such a fascinating view.
Dragons. Fuck these memories. They're making you feel old. You haven't felt this way since your mother died. Or maybe since Kuma passed away, an old grey man while you still looked young enough to be his granddaughter. It sickens you. You have better things to do with your life than feel old. Ah, Amigere. Yes. He's a better thing to do.
In the reflected light, you admire him. His head is avian from the front, yes. A hawk, though the white and brown is interspersed patches of rainbow gleam that mark the touch of chaos. But the back of his head is more rounded, more human. And there's hair under the feathers, though it's shorter. The feathers thin to downy fuzz on his neck, shoulders, and upper back and chest. They're soft and fluffy, as you know quite well.
Yes, that's a good arrangement. The feathers add a taste, exotic note - but too many feathers would be bad. This way you get to see his tan skin flex over his muscles and bones as he washes himself. You want to run your hand along his spine, and count the little knobs of his spine. His ribs, too. Yes, kneeling like that, you can count the ribs. He's missed meals recently, but he started from a good basis. And maybe it's only his bird heritage that's keeping his shoulders as broad as they are now. His blood knows about flight muscles, but he's too heavy and wingless. His meat doesn't shed muscle like a human would when they're going hungry.
Such a brave sacrifice of his body. You silently salute it.
Still, missing meals at least leaves him wonderfully triangular, you think as your eyes trace their way down. There are old scars on his lower back, but they're not whip marks. They're too irregular, and angled wrong. Some accident, maybe. Could just be that he fell on a joist with nails in it. Not all scars come from valiant-yet-tragic backstories.
From the navel down, he's entirely male and human. No hint of any bird about his legs, and the downy feathers on his chest transition purely to hair by the time they reach his pubes. Still, his calves are nice, and his broad thighs frame his satisfactory groin. Oh, of course, if you need to spur him on you'll tell him that he's so big and filling you completely, but in truth he's pretty average. Most men are. That's what average means. It's not that well-endowed men don't have a place - they do, and it's under you - but it's just not enough to keep you happy in the long run unless they have something else to interest you.
And speaking of that, you watch with amusement as he lies down on his back in the shallows. No, no, this can't do; if he's going to be a keeper, you're going to need to make sure he can swim. It would be awful for one of your lovers to drown in your bathtub. It would quite ruin things. You'd probably have to replace the bath and that's just a hassle you don't want to go through again.
Careful not to make a noise, you take off your belly wrap and your breastband, and while he washes you arrange yourself on the moss-covered seats like it's a chaise longue, head propped up on one arm. Next time he looks your way, you give him your most innocent smile and enjoy the spluttering and the way he rises to attention.
"Don't let me distract you," you blatantly lie. The scent of pine and alpine flowers wraps you as you pose to demand his attention. "I'm just meditating."
His eyes dance over you. Water cascades from his head as he sits up, dripping from his feathers. "Meditating," he says, swallowing.
"Oh yes." You look at him with your big green eyes. "I'm very spiritual, don't you know?"
"Is there a husband I have to worry about coming after me?" he asks.
You laugh. "No husband. Or wife, to ward off your next question." You arch your back. "Is that a common problem?"
"I've had problems with both," he admits, running his hands through his feathers as he smooths them down.
"Aww. Poor little darling." You rise, and carefully, slowly pick your way over to the water's edge. Hopefully he's looking at the seductive sway of your hips, rather than the fact that the wet plants are slippery and the last thing you want to do is faceplant into the broken floor. "So many cruel things getting in the way of enjoying such a handsome man."
He scoots himself to sit in the shallows, staring up at you. "What am I to you?" he asks.
You pause. "Hmm?"
"Me. To you. Because this has been a very strange… gods, a very strange day. I only really talked to you the first time yesterday evening. Then the deyha attacked, you somehow got them to let you go - and give me to you as your slave - and now you're," his hand gesture takes in you, your nakedness, his nakedness, and what he thinks you're planning next. "Am I your slave? Your lover? What are you planning to do to me?"
You consider this, and consider what he wants to hear. With a wince, you sit down, feet in the water, and waggle your toes. "If you want the truth, I'll tell you the truth," you lie. "The slave thing is just to keep us both safe from the deyha. But I barely know you. I don't think I'd call someone I just met my lover." You stretch out your stronger leg, and rest it on his groin, up against his warmth. "As for what I'm planning to do to you - do you want the short term or the long term?"
"Long," he croaks, his blood clearly leaving his brain to go to other, more useful places.
"Oh, I like
long things too," you say, just to emphasise your short-term plans for him. "Well, once we're free of the deyha, we'll see. I need someone who knows more about the South, so we might be able to come to," you start to stroke him, "an arrangement. At least if you're as satisfactory as you were last night."
His head is drawn down to your foot, as if drawn by a lodestone. "I think… I think I could live with something like that."
"Only live?" you tease - but it might become serious if he gives the wrong answer.
"Like you said, once we're free of the deyha. They're brutes. Things might change." He drags his gaze up to your face. "You might be interested in funding an expedition of mine - I lost the copies of the maps on the sandship in my baggage, but I have the originals back in Gem. Someone like you could be very interested in those things… and by the looks of it, you certainly have the resources..."
"Maybe," you say. "Now…"
After a bit of negotiation he's in a pool of sunlight where the water is warmer, right on the edge of the water, and you're straddling him. He's fully upright, and pressed against your belly. Leaning in, you kiss the downy feathers of his neck, inhaling. The smell of horses is nearly all gone, pleasingly. His strong arms wrap around you, fingernails brushing against the curve of your spine, and your breasts tickle against the feathers and hair on his chest. The sunlight on your bare skin is hot, but the coating of water takes off the edge of the heat.
"Did those hurt?" he asks, brushing the scars. "Getting stabbed like that?"
What kind of stupid question is that? But you don't let your annoyance at such a self-evidently stupid question show. "So much. But I don't want to think about it." You trace a finger down his chest, reaching the trail of hair. "You wanted to know about the tattoos, didn't you?"
"Mmm." He opens his beak, and his long tongue licks your chin.
"Well..." you bear him down, until he's flat on his back, your hands pinning his shoulders. Your hair falls over your shoulders, to brush his face. "Do you have a better view now?"
His beak parts in a gasp. "Better. Snakes on your… on your right arm." His soft fingertips brush the inkwork. "And peacocks."
"Well done," you say. "They're marks of my ranks in two fighting schools. Viper Style, on my right arm," you lean in, for him to brush that long tongue against the snake-head on your chest, "and Peacock Style, on my left arm." You shift, for him to pay the same favour to the bird head.
"They're beautiful."
His words bring out a warmth inside you. "Well, aren't you the darling boy?" you say, shifting back slightly as you lower yourself onto him. It's a good feeling because you're certainly ready enough, and you let out a slow moan to spur him on. "Mmm. Doesn't this feel good?"
"Wait," he groans, as you to lift yourself up again. "Stop, stop… are you on tea?"
Shit! The maiden's tea is in your bags and you haven't taken any in ages because… well, until last night, you hadn't gotten laid in ages. But screw pausing. And screw pausing screwing. "It'll be fine," you say, between kisses to his forehead. "Just tell me when you get close."
That's more than enough to assuage his conscience - what a darling boy to worry about that! - and you take your time. The air is filled with gasps, splashing, and all too soon for your liking, he groans, "I'm close!"
The words interrupt your pleasure. You slip off him and finish him off with your hand. Lying next to him in the shallows, holding him tight, you watch his heaving chest. His ribcage rises and falls, breaths wheezing, as he gasps for air. It's adorable when men twitch like that. They act so tough, but they're so easily reduced to something gasping and weak and soft. All from the right touch.
"That… that was...."
"Good boy," you tell him, watching him shudder as your hand keeps moving. "Aren't you a pretty boy? A pretty, good boy who warns me when he's about to make a mess." You rest your head on his broad chest, huddled up to his warmth, one leg hooked over him. "So cute."
You pause.
"Now…" you say, when he doesn't seem to have got the hint you're very strongly making, "how about returning the favour?"
"Just… just give me a moment," he wheezes.
You huff, and pull yourself out of the water. You're getting cold now, as the sun has moved. Honestly! You find a nice patch of moss that's in the heat of the sun, and sprawl out there, propped up on your elbows, legs spread. Men! You can see that clearly you're not going to only have to teach him to swim. There are certain things you expect from men you invite into your bed, and you haven't had one yet.
"Amigere," you say sternly, crocking a finger at him. "Time to put that tongue to use."
"Yes, yes, I… I…" Shakily, he pulls himself to his feet, cascading water down his front.
Then he goes down, like something's torn his legs out from under him. The water rises up in a chilly wave that washes over you and you shriek. You can feel it pulling at you, trying to yank you back towards the deep dark pool. But you're on land, and you're surrounded by plants; you're in your element. You scramble away, muscles protesting as the water tries to cling to you like a hundred tiny hands.
Amigere has no such safety. He's right in the water, and it forms chains around his limbs. There's a figure visible only in the sparkling water droplets picked out by the sunlight; too thin, too tall.
"Take a breath!" you scream at Amigere. "Hold it!"
Then they bring their hand down, and he's yanked down into the depths. The water stops pulling at you. With a grunt, you pull yourself to your feet, hands raised in the
Snake Head Fist guard.
The water is churning, and rainbows gleam as the rays of light refract through the droplets kicked up. There is no sign of Amigere.
Gritting your teeth and screwing your eyes shut, you try to clear your mind. When you open your eyes again, you can see fat purple irises floating on the disturbed surface of the water. They waver and flicker, not quite real, but they tell you everything you need to know.
You snarl out a curse. Purple irises mean some
bastard of a god has stolen your toyboy. Your toyboy who has one lungful of air. And who can't swim. Maybe they want a sacrifice. If so, he's dead if you don't go
now. Or maybe they have a hidden god-sanctum where they've dragged him to. He might be alive, if that isn't flooded - but for how long?
If you want him back, you need to act quickly.
Are You Actually Going To Risk Yourself To Get Him Back?
[ ] No. Oh well, looks you've lost Amigere. Annoying, but you can find someone else. You're not risking your own life for someone you had a one-night-and-the-day-after stand with. Maybe you should just go steal the deyha pretty boys instead.
[ ] Yes. Well, screw that! No one steals your toyboys! How dare they! How dare they! This cannot stand!
Only vote here if you voted Yes above.
What Are You Doing?
[ ] You need to go now now now! You'll dive in and follow the irises. The god might be looking for a drowning sacrifice like some do - his life is on the line. You can't risk that he'll be dead when you find him.
[ ] You're going to quickly grab your tools and a weapon from your bags, and hope Amigere isn't dead when you find him. You can't risk going in unprepared.
[ ] Urgh. You could always… scrape to those savages for help. But that'll make you look weak in front of them. And it'll be slow as you'll need to get dressed and then talk them into helping. You can't risk doing this alone.
- [ ] Or use sorcery to enthrall their leader. But that'll take strength you would need for the fight ahead and mean falling deeper into Sei's debt.
