His entire body was uncomfortable. He felt wounded where there was no blood. There was an emptiness inside of Him where He was certain there was supposed to be something. For long periods of time, He fell into a sort of trance where the things He made were inspired by something beyond His own reckoning, coming out grotesque or unviable. Plants crossed with beasts, doomed to drown in their own sugars; dryads brought to life lacking their trees; reborn ancients, missing the expansive total of their memories, lost in madness.
These things proved chaotic, surely, but it was not His Chaos…
“--ing! My King!”
He looked up from aiding a poor neglected patch of thyme spilling out a planter box. His second, Tamlyn, was pointing to His project, face grim. He’d turned the thyme’s tiny blossoms into little mouths and now all of them were clambering to bite and tear at one another, or at bees that attempted to pollinate them. He sighed, changing the thyme into decaying plant matter better served as mulch.
He took stock of Himself and wiped moisture from His forehead. Wait, was He… damp? He wasn’t supposed to sweat. Gods didn’t sweat, but here He was, burning up like seed time had already given way to green.
He shed His outer furs for the dogskin jacket beneath and shook His head at Tamlyn, but said nothing of His condition. A beast wasn’t uncomfortable in His element. This garden was His own making and it had been made for Him! How could He be uncomfortable in His own element?
He diverted His and the steward’s attentions to their previous conversation with ease. “I still don’t understand why she picked the first talking elk that approached her… So Fionn left her. Then what?”
Tamlyn gave his King a chiding expression, but he knew not to press Him unless he meant to invoke His wrath. “She went to court on her own, with Cairne Cora in tow. She spoke out against You, You know? I suspect she went to the old crow out of familiarity. Not many others offered so much hospitality. And not many would have tolerated her blasphemes.”
“We know how hospitable the old crow can really be,” He said airily as He started summoning vines from the soil, weaving them into beds for any tree brownies. Fuck, it really was hot! He pulled at the collar of His jacket. “What of Jarl Toor?”
“Thorny, as always,” Tamlyn said, and He could feel the shapeshifter’s eyes on the bead of sweat that slid down the side of His face. “He thinks he can leverage this new queen, but he got a cold shoulder from the girl when she encountered him at the mess instead. Probably thanks in part to Fionn’s issues.”
“So, Gaylord was right. She’s not totally stup--Wait, Toor met her?” He snapped in irritation, wiping again at His face. The two of them walked a way away and came upon a brook that He had made that morning. He bent down and scooped cool water into His face as Tamlyn leaned against a nearby tree and lit up a roll of harsh-smelling blackleaf. He shook the water off His hands after rubbing some on the back of His neck. He looked over at His second accusingly. “Why didn’t you assign her a guardian? And where was Gaylord in all of this? Is no one watching after her?”
Tamlyn gave Him a crooked smile. He gestured with his smoking roll. “See? You would have me glue her to Your hip just so You knew from where her sting would come! Almost like what you’ve done with me.” He shook his head with an exasperated smile. “It’s like You’ve forgotten what having a queen is like.” He took a drag and let it out. “I’m certain she appreciates her independence, considering last night.”
“What happened last night?” He demanded icily.
Tamlyn actually looked surprised. “You didn’t stay with her?”
“No! Why do you think I retain this imperfect form?!” He demanded, just as exasperated, but when Tamlyn gave Him an expectant expression, He added, “She was--Look, I’m working on it.”
Tamlyn raised an eyebrow. “And how does continually fucking up the sanctity of Your garden fit into Your master plan to woo Your wife who, may I remind You, has Your powers as long as she remains a virgin?”
“Virginity has very little to do with it. It’s all about sacrifice. You know that, better than anyone.” The Spice King then added defensively, “And you may not remind Me. I feel sick everytime I remember Gaylord chastising Me. She’s always seen Me as some brute. And now she’s treating Me like one.”
“Well, to be fair, you are,” Tamlyn said amiably.
“You know what I mean: a mindless quagmire of wild lust,” He said, gesturing crudely and making his steward hiss a laugh. “She thinks she knows best for Me, like she forgets that she was made to serve the ones who made Me… Like she forgets that she and I are bound to the same destiny.”
“Maybe she works through You to change it,” Tamlyn suggested.
He narrowed His eyes at the light fixtures on the walls. It was too bright in the garden. He would have Gaylord dim them later, but He didn’t want to commune with her now, even silently. Out loud, He said absently, “I know why we brought the maiden back. I just don’t understand why it had to be that maiden. Star’s foresight perhaps… Still, see a billion years of the world and you’ll still have seen more nothing than everything. Still… she is… more a sight than her mother was.”
Tamlyn’s lips disappeared as he pressed them together. He remembered who The Spice King was in that moment. His King could see it on his face. Tamlyn was only a man made beast and beast again. The shapechanger knew the fathoms that lay between them.
Beastmaster said, “I was wrong. I was very wrong. I was cruel, even… and for a long time, I thought I knew what frustration was. My own shaman, killing maidens before I could die crossing over and have my way with them… You remember receiving my fury, but you’ve never felt it yourself, Tam. You don’t know what it feels like to be thwarted by your own creation--rebelled against! You don’t know what it’s like to be shackled once more, as a victim of your own hubris.” The Spice King shook his head tiredly. “I was… overconfident. Gaylord’s idea was foolhardy, but I was desperate. And now, here I am, paying for my trust, and the loss of so many lives, with my very divinity.”
Tamlyn, wisely, said nothing.
So The Spice King said to him, “You’ve heard nothing from me today but bitching and complaining, Tamlyn.”
Again, Tamlyn wisely said nothing.
“I want you to know that I appreciate your friendship.”
The shapechanger only nodded.
“And that if you have any other questions, I will answer them…”
Tamlyn nodded understandingly.
The Beast growled, “Fucking say something constructive, would you?”
“I don’t know what to say when You’re being melancholic. I’d much rather contend with Your anger,” Tamlyn said. “It’s not like You to apologize for being what You are.”
The words wounded the King’s fragile ego, but the god simply sniffed and wiped at His face. “Well alright, I’ll just be a big, pissy prick then, with no amount dedicated to introspection. I’ll just be the lustful brute Gaylord thinks I am.” He picked up a dirt clot from the edge of the brook and slung it toward the shapeshifter.
Tamlyn’s shape took on that of a giant, black snake smoking a cigarette and it slithered towards its god, dodging and rolling to avoid incoming projectiles, losing its little butt of blackleaf in the process. At long last, Ouroboros pulled itself onto His back and wrapped itself down and around its King’s chest. It hissed, “That’sss probably for the bessst, Sssire,” then began to eat the end of its own tail.
The Spice King meant to say something sarcastic in retort, but then the snake about Him coiled tight in anticipation.
He knew what He must look like to Jarl Toor: just another foolish human in the wrong grotto. But Jarl Toor would have a rude awakening if he tried anything on His holy ground. “You approach without course,” The Spice King intoned.
“I approach with cause and a wish for an audience,” the jarl said, his fairy politeness coated with so much poison. “Anyone can seek counsel with the trees in Your garden, can’t they, King?”
“Seek your counsel in some other grove,” He said softly, turning to face the thin, spider-handed beast.
Jarl Toor smiled serenely. “In that case, I’ll settle for an audience with You, God. I wish to con--”
“I didn’t say you could speak,” The Spice King said numbly. When Toor simply waited, ever so patiently for Him to give him leave, The King decided against it. He would deal with Jarl Toor when He didn’t feel like He had a swamp in His trousers and His head didn’t hurt so much.
He turned to leave the little brook behind, but He saw that Jarl Toor had brought along some friends to their impromptu meeting. A minotaur missing one of his horns snorted gruffly in greeting while his counterpart, a gore-clad treeblight gargled up a mouthful of blood and spit it into the stream. The Spice King hissed over His shoulder, “Don’t make me kill you prematurely, Jarl Enri Toor. The Game hasn’t even been set yet.”
“It’s not my season, King. Or have You forgotten Your own Laws? If You kill me now, it will bring You no satisfaction. I’ll simply be back by tomorrow’s end with not a scar to show for it.”
“I don’t think You know the first thing about satisfying Me, Toor,” his god said. “I made you to be destroyed by Me. You’re a toy.”
“You and I both know that’s not even the half of it,” Toor snapped, finally losing his polite bearing. “And how do You expect me to take You seriously when You look so damned pathetic? If it weren’t for the wards around this place, I would have reached out to the Others long ago! Why do You keep this shape? Why not transform into a dragon? Or what about a great cat?!” His animated face suddenly went painfully neutral. “Or can’t You?” The fairy glanced over at his henchman and The Spice King sighed tiredly as the unicorn minotaur and the bloody treeblight both brandished cudgels of variant size and slowly approached him.
“How do you always manage to convince the big, dumb ones that they can kill God?”
“Because they’re big and dumb,” Toor said with a saccharine smile.
“I would have prefered to slit your clever throat.”
“But that’s not much of a challenge, is it?” The fairy snapped a couple fingers together and his form disintegrated into a cloud of moths which scattered in all directions.
“No,” The Spice King admitted, letting Ouroboros drop to the ground to disappear into the treeline. He called after the snake, “Leave some hummus out for me! I’ll make this quick!”
“No, you won’t,” the snake hissed, confirming its reason for leaving.
The Beast in Man’s flesh took a stance just as the two creatures assaulted Him. One-horn swung up with his cudgel while Red-leaf swung down. The King twisted and sank below their weapons at the last second, letting the cudgels glance off one another. Both His assailants cried out in marked irritation. Then He swept out a heel to un-foot the treeblight. Too slow! He remarked internally as His foot only managed to make Red-leaf stumble back in surprise. One-horn took that opportunity to swing down while the god was distracted with His own bewilderment.
The cudgel made its mark on the back of His shoulders, but it was dampened by the dragonscale hide loosely wrapped about His neck. Still, He should have sensed the blow coming, but hadn’t.
He rolled away from the bull to make it appear like the swing hadn’t connected and got to His feet. The minotaur and the treeblight both exchanged a thirsty look with each other. They thought they had a chance. They had him on the defensive.
What is wrong with Me? He demanded of Himself. His vision swam for a brief moment and He only just managed to deflect a swing meant for His head. One-horn’s cudgel smacked into the grass and left a sizable divet there. The King slammed His foot down and the big stick snapped. But before He could enjoy the minotaur’s startled expression, Red-leaf’s club hit Him in the side and then the stomach, winding Him.
One-horn, roaring away his sense, charged at Him and The Spice King was thrown from His feet and into the treeline, falling into a bramble bush and getting trussed up in its grasp. The treeblight abandoned its club and outstretched its twig hands to forcefully accelerate the bramble bush’s growth in order to try and trap The King
“Use My own against me?!” the god barked in indignation before He forced the bush to let Him go and push Him to his feet instead. Feeling like the fight had turned from His favor, He pulled the Wand of Eves from the grieve sheath on His forearm and then unceremoniously dropped it with a grunt of surprise as the sliver of bone burned the pads of His fingers. He was still staring at the wand in shock when the fist of One-horn hit Him in the side of the face and His pelt of many colors was knocked from His horned head.
Red-leaf made a startled sound like rock grating on bark and the one-horned minotaur faltered in delivering another blow.
Beastmaster met their gazes, then wiped the very red blood from the corner of His mouth. He smiled at the hesitating bullman. Then He clasped His hands and brought them down on top of the beast with a ferocious shout.
The minotaur’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.
The tree blight looked at the beast at the feet of his god and then at the animated bramble bush forming behind The Spice King into a much larger blight, glistening with the spilled blood of their deity.
Red-leaf took a knee before Him and held up its hands in submission, but instead of showing mercy, The Spice King only watched placidly as His bramble blight came forward from behind and enveloped the cousin, shredding the other blight into kindling and red-stained bark scraps. After the bramble blight consumed and assumed those pieces into itself, it turned to The Spice King for further direction, but the god shook His head and turned to retrieve His things.
His hands were screaming fury at Him. He picked up His pelt and shook it free of sawdust and grass. He threw it over one shoulder instead of donning it, making a dissatisfied clicking noise when He noticed that the throat broach had been busted clean off. He shakily went to stand over the Wand of Eves, studying the angry redness surfacing on His fingerprints. The bramble blight retreated into the shade of the trees, grunting salutations. The King didn’t even look up.
Why would the wand reject me? Does it not recognize this shape? Of all His artifacts, the Wand of Eves had never failed Him until now. Men can’t wield the wand, He thought with sudden bitterness. He wiped again at the corner of His mouth and still the back of His hand came away red.
He left the wand in the grass and went over to the minotaur still laying inert near the brook. The Spice King pulled on the nub of its broken horn and forced its head back. He dragged His claws across the bared throat of the bullman and red sprayed the grass and polluted the waters of the creek. After He dropped the minotaur, He put both hands to His face and drew blood down the sides of His visage, trying to forge some kind of satisfaction in the killing, but feeling only frustrated and tired by the act.
He turned to see if He couldn’t use His pelt to handle the wand back into its sheath, but then His eyes caught on the two figures who had entered the clearing. Or, perhaps they had been there for a while now, watching Him, as Rowena’s face was stuck fast between worry and fascination, but the lady crow standing at her side was wearing a look of abject disgust.
He stood up straight and the world swooned about Him like a craft wracked by the waves of a wild sea. He asked, “What brings you to My hunting grounds, Wife?”
“All are welcome in the King’s Gardens,” the lady crow said in a clipped voice to Rowena, but the maiden didn’t seem to pay her any mind. Then the crow sketched a cursory bow before her King, but it seemed her paid loyalties already favored the bloody-crowned girl over Him.
As for the maiden, they had pinned her hair back into a red plait full of black burs and feathers. The dress she wore was new, as glossy as a raven’s wing, and fitted to her frame. It pooled about her feet like liquid obsidian running into the grass. The sleeves only came to the middle of her arms, but her hands were covered with sheer black lace, patterned with tiny birds.
“All are welcome,” He managed to echo before He swept a hand out at the corpse draped across the brook. “Except those who manage to disturb Me, of course.”
“Am I disturbing You, My King?” Rowena asked plainly.
“No,” He replied quickly. He leaned against a tree to disguise His sudden weakness. Don’t fail me now, He bid His legs. He gestured at her handmaiden and said, “I heard you consorted with a certain ravenhag. If I’d known your loyalties were so cheap, I could have sent someone less involved with themselves to serve you.”
She visibly bristled and her red brows rested on top of her eyes. “Whosoever offers their counsel freely will be entertained by me until I see fit otherwise. I didn’t come here for a lecture about how I choose to run my court, Husband.” Out of her mouth, the title sounded like a curse.
“Then why did you come to My garden?” He demanded.
“Lunch,” she admitted dryly, the ghost of a smile touching her lips.
“Oh,” He mumbled. He thought she’d come to visit Him, though He wasn’t sure if He was disappointed or insulted by the fact that she hadn’t. He crossed His arms. “Well, if you’ll excuse yourself, I have work still to do, Bastard Queen.”
“My name is Rowena,” she said as He turned to vacate the clearing.
“I know,” He said, turning back to face her for another attack. “You insist among your inner circle to have them call you so.” When she only frowned at Him, He smirked. “You trade it like you have no idea of its power. And certain folk can’t be trusted not to trade such a thing to those with the means to abuse it. Be more careful who you keep close,” He warned her, staring daggers into her lady crow.
Rowena was quiet for a moment, studying Him, then she nodded and said, “Thank you, God. I will consider your words.” Despite her previous ire, she was entirely sincere. He didn’t know what to make of the sudden respect.
For a glancing moment, He entertained the idea that she had never meant Him any disrespect in the past, but then dismissed the ridiculous notion. She was a maiden of men, yet unmade. They built their whole lives on deceit. That was why He needed her as His queen. He had no head for politics. She clearly knew something He didn’t if she was already aligning herself with troublemakers… or maybe Gaylord had been wrong and Rowena really had no heart for such things. After all, she had made it clear in her own court that she didn’t care for His rule over her.
He said tiredly, “My words are as lawful as the Breith, Rowena.”
“I doubt all your words are so,” she replied, but then smiled companionably when He gave her an irritated expression. “Otherwise, would I not be more complicit?” He wanted to argue with her, but He didn’t have the strength.
“I suppose so,” He grumbled to her and the lady crow at her side gave Him a look like she hadn’t expected Him to admit as much. “But I’ve created dissidents before. You will probably count yourself among their number soon enough.” Another annoying droplet of sweat rolled into His dragonscale shawl, making Him roll His shoulders in discomfort.
“I don’t care for Jarl Toor if that’s who you mean,” Rowena said sharply.
He raised an eyebrow at her. Tamlyn mentioned as much, He thought. “But why not?” He asked her out loud. “Apparently you announced in court that you don’t serve Me. Who is it you serve then, if not Toor or God?”
“Must I serve anything but the court You charged me with aiding?”
He blinked at her. Then He looked away, fiddling with the broken broach on His pelt, trying to ignore the angry pain in His hands and the aches all about His body that reminded Him of the many punctures He’d sustained in the bramble bush. He eventually shrugged and said slowly, “I am grateful that you’ve taken your duties so seriously. I only criticize because…”
“Because you don’t know how to deliver a proper compliment?” When He looked up, Rowena was still frowning and smiling at Him. Her expression was almost admonishing to Him, but out of endearment rather than frustration. There was certainly no awe or shyness on her face now. She asked quietly, “Do You need any assistance, Spice King?”
He almost dismissed her out of habit, but then looked at the lady crow and asked, “Will Cairne’s spy be joining us?”
“I trust Morgan,” Rowena said. “That should be enough for You.”
“But do you trust the pyremistress?”
“I would rather have her spies where I can see them,” she said and He managed to keep His surprise to Himself. She was entirely serious, and she didn’t hide that fact from her handmaiden. In fact, Morgan seemed pleased by her queen’s admission, like she respected the girl’s honesty.
“It’s your court,” He said stiffly. “I simply hope Gaylord’s confidence in you isn’t unfounded.”
“Well, if I’m wrong, then I will reap the consequences of my folly, won’t I?” She waited for Him to say something, but when He only studied her, she asked again, “What can I do for My King? I would like to help…” Then He noticed her glance at His hands and the tiniest crease between her eyes that hoped He wouldn’t deny His apparent weakness.
“A beast nurses its ills alone,” He said, then He turned away from them.
“Is that all a beast does?” Rowena challenged His back.
He didn’t answer her and when He passed beneath the shadowy bows of the trees, He didn’t expect her to pursue Him, but when He stumbled on a small rise of roots and pebbles, she was next to Him, bracing against His body as He fell. She grunted with effort and said between her teeth, “You’re heavier than the last time!” She’d ripped the oil of her dress up to the knees. She pressed one hand against a tree before she caught her balance and pushed Him up by His arm. “Lean on me, Spice. Morgan will take us down a private route back to the suites.”
He regarded Morgan, His mouth turning into a thin line. The lady crow was wide eyed, smiling slyly at Him. As Rowena pushed Him back into the clearing and across to where they’d come from, Morgan slipped the Wand of Eves back into His forearm sheath, winking at Him when He glowered at her for daring to touch anything about His person.
The lady crow took the lead and Rowena said to Him alone, “I remember thorns like those… I wish I didn’t.”
He didn’t think to measure His words before He said gruffly, “Gaylord was supposed to have taken that from you. Death is not for you… It never was.” It hurt to frown, and His teeth ached, and His insides were trying to get out. Still, He managed to say, “If it had been My choice, I wouldn’t have picked you, Rowena.” He could almost feel her anger radiating off her. He added morosely, “You deserve better than what this place can offer.” Her anger evaporated, replaced by something like curiosity.
“I will decide that for myself,” Rowena said slowly. “For now, it won’t do for demifolk to see You like this. Limp faster.”
“Gods don’t limp,” he mumbled.
“This god does.”
“Then He should be eaten.”
The maiden coughed on a laugh. “Such a beast!” She addressed her handmaiden then: “Is that the lift?” When Morgan motioned for them to embark, Rowena thanked her and then said to her god, “Lean against the wall. We’re almost there…”
Showing weakness was not His way. Despite that, He felt relieved when the lift’s bronze doors, covered in morning glory, closed before them and He slid down to sit against the wall. Tamlyn would have made Him nurse His own wounds in private. If Gaylord saw Him now, she would surely prove unworried by His condition. He was a god and gods didn’t bleed. They didn’t get dizzy. They certainly didn’t sweat. If any honest demifolk saw Him now, their faith would surely wayver.
But Rowena and Morgan simply pressed around Him, aware, but not shaken by His sorry state. He looked down at the pads of His fingers, blistering white and red. Then He looked at Rowena and her attention on the lift door as the palace passed by. She glanced at Him, noticing His gaze. “You should be more mindful, next time” she said under her breath. “You are only a man.”
“We’re both aware you could remedy that at any time.”
She gave Him a chastising look. “Or perhaps this lesson warrants repeating.”
“Lesson? That’s what you call this?” He snorted. “More like punishment.”
Rowena only smiled at Him, again treating Him to a look that bordered on fondness, and He wondered what He’d said to deserve even that from her. Still, her next words were sour: “Beastmaster, You are as unfamiliar with that word as with my undergarments.”
“Through no fault of My own,” he said defensively.
“Exactly,” she agreed. “So, how can One be punished for something They haven’t done?” Then she shrugged. “Perhaps, with time, You’ll come to appreciate Man’s struggle for Your idea of chaotic perfection… or perhaps You won’t, and You’ll be like this forever.”
His eyelids felt heavy. He forced them open. “I know what price I’ll extol from you to remedy all my ills.”
“I don’t think You do,” she said softly. “Not yet, anyway.”
He simply grunted in reply, the gravity of the palace settling down on top of Him. He closed His eyes for only a moment, but when He did, the moment stretched on and the world outside Him faded and the world inside spoke quietly in the ensuing darkness. Then everything inside Him turned to disorder. He was being hunted by something unseen, something that sapped His strength. To His mind’s eye, it resembled the lines of some great cat.
No… Gods don’t rest, He thought to Himself feverishly, wrestling Himself from the toothy clutches of the creature in order to return to some place outside of all His fear and His blindness.
Sleep overtook Him nevertheless, dragging Him down into the terrifying dark.
ns 15.158.61.51da2
