sorry. sorry it's pissing me the fuck off that people are assuming i didn't put olive oil on this. you think im putting unseasoned tomatoes on my bruschetta. do you genuinely think i didn't pour oil on that toasted bread the moment it came off the pan. of course i added fucking olive oil and salt and stuff like who the fuck do you think i am do you think i was raised by fucking wolves. i didn't mention it because it's obvious. automatic. implicit. did i add olive oil. did i. i'll tell you more actually not only did i add olive oil but my olive oil is extra super virgin in a way your oil will never be because it comes directly from my olives. you cunts
so fucking done with this post SO fucking done. no i didn’t toast the bread in the oil you’re insane if you think i’m cooking my extra super virgin olive oil besides that’s just not how you toast bread so literally seek professional help. second no i did not add garlic or balsamic vinegar you are once again insane. you only use those when your other ingredients are LACKING something and my ingredients are simply not LACKING anything. my tomatoes are perfectly balanced my mozzarella is rich and creamy and my olive oil as already discussed is superior. don’t you ever fucking come into my house and suggest or insinuate in any way i should use garlic and vinegar because i know exactly what im doing unlike you fucks
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
aight its time to clock out for a bit. im tired, this has me tired. im gonna draw some dragons getting their heads stuck in things. someone give me some ideas
I know it's no longer Saturday but hey, time is a construct! So happy storyteller Saturday, and I'm curious what is your favourite genre to write and why? Have a great day!!
Hmmm let's see. I like fantasy, it's fun to come up with all the little magic details, but I think my absolute favorite is ghost stories, which I suppose is a very specific brand of horror.
It's just something about the vibes, the whole spooky but kinda quiet and kinda sad all at once sort of thing.
Hello! Happy Storyteller Saturday, if you'd like to play.
What's the strangest thing that has inspired your writing?
Thank you for the ask, and let's pretend it's still Saturday and I didn't forget to answer this yesterday! 🙃
The strangest thing to inspire my writing is probably the weird dreams I have lol but I did once write an entire story just because I saw a bird outside. It wasn't a particularly interesting bird either, and the story ended up not being about the bird at all...but it did start and end with the bird cause I'm a sucker for a circular ending!
Some kind of eldritch entity has taken human(ish) form and is genuinely trying to befriend you. However its ideas of “hanging out” are just terrifying, and its gifts are worse.
It's ridiculous and shorter, but I hope it's still decent. Part 3 tomorrow, maybe? Hopefully? ...if there is interest?
The space consisted of a singular room, sparsely furnished, dimly lit by a large brazier right at the centre of the room. A low cot sat at the back, covered in plenty of warm furs and blankets. Then a table, with some coins, a large water basin and other mundane objects on it that Mila could barely distinguish in the low light. The figure standing in front of the table had the longest hair Mila had ever seen, red as the embers burning in the brazier, and Mila’s eyes followed its fluid movement through the air dumbly and helplessly as the figure turned around. It was a woman, a good deal taller than Mila, dressed in hard leather and fur, but her strong arms were left bare to show intricate blue and black patterns. In the low light, Mila could not be sure, but it seemed to her the paint stretched across her collarbone too, before cascading down her chest, out of sight. Their eyes met, and Mila swallowed thickly. Curious, hazel eyes bore into hers, shimmering with the spark of the burning embers nearby, but she did not say anything. A lock of auburn hair fell across the woman’s sharp features, and her slender hand rose to push it back. Mila looked away, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. Silently, she approached the table, and put down what she had come so far to bring. She unwrapped swords, knives and daggers, all forged by her father’s careful hands, and offered them to the woman in front of her, still not daring to meet her eyes. The woman reached out, almost caressing the steel, before picking up a sword with both hands to examine it. Mila’s eyes fell on the flex of the muscles in her arms, under the soft, painted skin. Then she gasped, as the point of the sword gently pushed under her chin, making her look up.
“Who are you?” the chieftain asked, her face closer to Mila’s than she had anticipated, her voice low, calm. Mila wanted to step back, away from the blade, away from her, but she did not move.
“I came to help. The weapons – my father made them, at the Fort. I brought them to you.” Her own voice sounded low, but not scared. The woman’s face, still too close, was confused. Mila could not look her directly in the eyes. “I stole them.”
The point of the sword slowly lowered, away from Mila’s throat. The woman took a step back, and Mila felt like she could breathe a little more easily. Uneasy, she was trying to look at anything but the woman’s stunning face. Then, the chieftain burst out laughing, and Mila could not help it. She watched as the other woman threw her head back a little, and listened silently as an unexpectedly joyous laugh filled the small room. She only realised she had been staring when she met the woman’s hazel eyes again. Her gaze was amused, but still alight with a spark of suspicion. It felt like she was being searched, but she had no idea what for. The intensity of it made her blush. The chieftain broke the silence first.
“What’s your name?”
“Mila.” The woman raised the sword again, pointing it idly in her direction, a dangerous smile on her face.
“Mila.” She repeated slowly, almost testing it out. Then she lowered the sword in one fluid movement, and put it back amongst the others. Again, Mila’s eyes could not help but follow the flex of her arms.
“You will go home tonight. And you will remember that you have been spared by Rhiannon. If anyone should try to touch you, you will say I have spared you, and they will respect it. You will not mention to anyone at the Fort what happened here, nor the location of this camp. Is this reward enough for your help?”
She was staring straight at Mila, and this time the girl did not look away. She nodded, and Rhiannon smiled at her. Mila consciously tried to fix the memory of that smile in her mind, as brief as it had been.
“Now go.”
Mila turned. She walked to the entrance of the wooden house. Then she stopped, and looked back at the chieftain, who was now examining the weapons with more attention.
“I didn’t do it for a reward.” Rhiannon looked at her again, surprised, then frowned slightly.
“Then why?”
And Mila simply could not tell her. She could not tell her how she had followed the other youths to the hills overlooking the Wall a few days before, how they had sat on the grass and waited, watching the Legion slowly trickle out of the fortifications and march tidily towards the nearest village. How they had seen the crows and ravens begin to circle, how the boys had counted them, trying to read a sign, and the priest’s daughter had shaken her head and said they were coming from the wrong direction, anyway. She could not say how all of them had fallen silent, when Rhiannon’s soldiers had come out of the forest like ghosts, rushing towards the already-tightening Roman lines. She wanted to, but she could not tell Rhiannon that she had stood up, almost involuntarily, when she had seen her charge ahead, a blur of blades and dark auburn hair, from the top of the hill. How she had not been able to look away, even through all the blood and violence of the battle. How she had seen her leap and strike with mortal strength and precision, armed with only an axe and a broken wooden shield. The other youths had dragged her away eventually, back behind the safety of the Wall, but she had not forgotten. And she had mourned, for days, not for the battle but for the risk, for the impossibility of knowing what had happened to the foreign goddess of war she had glimpsed on the battlefield. Mila looked Rhiannon straight in the eyes, and wanted to tell her the reason she had stolen her father’s swords and risked her life, that night, was simply for the sake of her beauty. Because, against all reason, she could not tolerate the thought of it being wasted. Of Rhiannon perishing. But she could not say it, so she turned her back, and left.
So this is Part 1 of a little story inspired by living in Scotland and, as often happens, by a fun conversation I was having with my girlfriend.
I'm no historical fiction writer so it probably won't be very realistic, but it will definitely be very fluffy ;) Part 2 coming later today unless I forget
Enjoy!
Somewhere along the Antonine Wall, Scotland, 167 AD ca.
Mila had never been a disobedient girl, but she had always been stubborn. Her father used to joke her head must be harder than the anvil he beat his iron on everyday, and playfully threaten to test his theory whenever she would try to win him over with a pout. Despite his antics, he would often relent to his little girl, to the disapproval of his wife. He was a simple man, who loved his forge and his family, and generally avoided reacting to any other topic with anything more than a shrug. Mila had always loved watching him work. There was something fascinating in the dance of the flames in the furnace, in the brilliance of the dark lumps of metals as they turned to liquid and then again into solid, and there was something reassuring in the slow, rhythmic beating of his precise strokes on the anvil, turning shapeless rods into tools, finished objects ready for so many uses and purposes. She had seen him make axes, hammer-heads, short and long knives, even brooches and nails and locks sometimes. Mostly, though, he made swords. Long, straight gladii so sharp he would warn her not to get too close as a child. When he had gotten over his reluctance to teach her about his work, she had learnt to recognise the finer traits of their craftsmanship, the features that made them durable and reliable and that had made him a treasured blacksmith of the Legion for most of his life. The soldiers treated him with a respect Mila had rarely seen shown to the other traders at the fort, as they knew their life could very well depend on the strength of his steel. He had followed them from his home village in Spain to the Wall almost twenty-three years before, forging weapons and repairing armour in his silent, reliable ways. And there he had settled, like they had, in that cold and wet land, a land of sprawling green and intensely blue skies. And there he had met his wife, whose eyes were of that same breath-taking blue, and whose hair reminded him of the dear golden fields of his father’s land. And there she had given him Mila, a wonderful, strong, stubborn daughter. So stubborn she had managed to convince him to let her help out at the forge. So stubborn she had not listened, when he told her not to follow the other youths who had gone to watch the battle from the hills. So stubborn she did not think twice about stealing his key to the weapons chest and silently sneaking out of their small house that night.
Now, clutching the precious bundle close to her chest, she moved as silently as she could through the dark path leading away from the fort. She knew it well enough from sneaking out to the woods with the other youths – sometimes to get drunk and dance till the morning, sometimes just to get away from the small troubles of their mundane lives. As she approached the Wall, she kept to the shadows of the last buildings around the fort, and kept walking till she saw the fortifications become lower and less illuminated. Once she was sure the soldier patrolling the border was a good distance away, she swiftly reached the wall, tossed the bundle on the other side. It clinked faintly as it fell, and she followed it, climbing over as quickly as she could. It was not hard to find her bundle again in the short grass, but as she took off towards the woods, she realised how truly dark the night was. She looked up, searching for the reassuring, pale glow of the moon, peeking through the dark shadows of the high trees up ahead. Mila stopped at the edge of the woods, still looking up, and spared a moment to send a silent prayer to Diana, promising her to visit her altar the following morning, if she made it through the night. Then she clutched her bundle tighter, and walked into the shadows.
It was difficult to follow the path through the forest in the dark, but she did not dare light the torch she had brought with her. After what felt like a long walk, but not enough for her to be worrying about dawn breaking soon, she spotted a faint light off the path, further up the side of the hill she had been coasting. It was flickering, and not very bright, but definitely placed to be visible from the path. Mila followed it, half-climbing through the mud of the hillside, her heart beating faster and faster because of the effort and the fear. The light turned out to be from a single torch, burning atop a wooden pedestal. No one seemed to be around, but the soft earth near the torch looked like it had been trampled, and Mila followed the makeshift path as best as she could. It took her further up and around the hill, in a slightly denser part of the woods, and when she turned around the faint light of the torch had disappeared. A clearing opened up in front of her suddenly, like the mouth of a silent, yawning beast, and she stepped into it with the last of the confidence her hopeless purpose could give her. She immediately felt eyes on her, though she could not immediately see anyone around her. Then the cold press of a blade against her back, and a few figures appearing noiselessly from the shadows as if they had been a part of the woods themselves. Mila barely heard their whispers, but the blade against her back pressed just a little more firmly, and she felt panic rising.
“I need to see your chief. I came to help.” She said, all in one breath, in the Celtic tongue her mother had taught her. She felt the men around her hesitate, then the ones in front of her stepped further into the clearing. The moonlight was just enough for her to distinguish their figures, and to feel their gaze on her, both suspicious, guarded, and somewhat...hungry. They spoke again, still in hushed tones, and too quickly for her to catch exactly what they were saying. But she saw their serious frowns turn into leers, and heard their muffled, half-laughs. She silently slipped her hand between the folds of the bundle she was still carrying, closing her fingers tightly around the handle of a long knife. While she had known failure was a possibility, she was not going to accept it without fighting. Her movement did not go as unnoticed as she had thought, and whoever had been holding a blade to her back moved in front of her. It was a man, tall, blonde, furs wrapped around his shoulders and blue paint on his naked chest. He gave her a long, appraising look.
“What do you bring?” he asked, roughly, pointing briefly at the satchel in her arms, the point of his blade still more than close enough to her throat. Mila shrank under his severe stare for a moment, then thought back to everything that had led her there, and straightened her back.
“I’ll show the chieftain.” The other men whistled and laughed again, but the man did not look away from her, and she held his gaze.
“I am the one you seek. Show me.” But Mila shook her head, and took a step back. He flexed his arm only slightly, and the tip of his sword followed her movement. Mila looked at him defiantly.
“You are not who I seek, and I am no fool. Take me to the chieftain.” She said resolutely. For the first time, a small smile broke the man’s frown.
“Very well.” A chorus of dissent immediately rose from the other men, but he ignored them, lowered his sword, and motioned for her to follow. She did, also ignoring their rude gestures and offended grunts.
The tall man led her through a path she would not have been able to find alone, deep into the thick of the forest and slightly uphill. They reached another clearing, larger than the previous one and almost at the top of the hill, just as Mila was starting to pant with effort. A few wooden, circular and clearly temporary structures littered the space, mostly hidden in the proximity of tall trees. It took Mila a second to realise it was a military camp, used as she was to the tidy lines and square tents of the Roman ones. There were no open fires, and despite no obvious guards being around, she could tell they were being watched as they approached. The man pointed to one of the bigger structures, situated under a large oak. A faint light came from within.
“We shall see if you are a fool after all, girl.” He said, then turned and left. Mila watched him walk away for a few seconds, then she turned back to the wooden house. Again, it felt like the sound of her heart had become deafening. She did not let her thoughts linger, and walked inside.
What are your literary inspirations? What stories inspire your writing most?
Thank you so much for the ask 💕
Inspiration is always very volatile for me, but luckily I've found it in many different things! Sometimes it's dreams, sometimes it's conversations, sometimes it's cool places that I feel could be interesting settings
Often it's my wonderful partner eheheh
For stories that have inspired me, I would definitely say the fantasy books I grew up with and that I continue to love (check out Le Guin or Isabel Allende if you haven't already folks! I guarantee you'll love them)
And lately a lot of dnd too! I love watching campaigns and writing my own has been so much fun 😊
Because these games are so nice I wanted to try making one up!
1. How much of the world around you is reflected in your work and in what way? (Thoughts, moments, impressions, moods, landscapes, objects, people, scenes…)
2. What is one thing you absolutely can’t do without in your writing?
3. What are your favourite clichés?
4. What clichés do you hate the most?
5. You need to come up with a title for your work. How to approach the grievious task?
6. Tell us about the things you love best in worldbuilding.
7. When you choose a new book, what do you look for?
8. What are your literary inspirations?
9. What are your real-life inspirations?
10. Are you the kind of writer who overshares about every little thing or do you keep it all under wraps till it’s done?
11. What’s the easiest character for you to write?
12. One thing you are pretty proud of - your style, a work, a scene, a character?
13. Do you read out loud to yourself as you write just to gauge the feeling of it?
14. How has your writing changed throughout the years?
15. What’s the most difficult thing for you to write?
16. Share a happy memory related to your writing.
17. Is there anything you wanna share with the class? Advice? A funny anecdote?
18. How do you come up with new story ideas?
19. What’s your ideal writing space? Share all about this fantasy of yours!
20. Tell us a cool fact about one of your works or your characters.
Writing should make you happy, so stop overthinking every little thing and enjoy the process. You can always edit it later. You can always rewrite it later. But don’t allow the imperfect manuscript to take away your joy of writing.
Another story based on a dream I had! This one is more fantasy, and the style is a little different from what I usually do, but I'm trying to decide whether to continue it so any and all opinions are welcome.
Enjoy :)
(Title is from a song by The Dead South)
In Kai’s world, the existence of gods was a fact, rather than a question. In his world, beings of immense power walked the earth, worshipped and feared. They had claimed their dominions centuries before mortals had started to inhabit them. Over time, almost every tribe had had to bend in submission to them. And now, these celestial creatures, who defied death and owned the world, were at war.
The City of Sand had never taken any sides, through the almost twenty years of war. Kai had watched it all unfold, first as a young boy, then a young man. At first, it had seemed that if they reinforced their walls enough, and remained careful not to favour any god in particular, they could have stayed out of it. But as the conflict dragged on and expanded through the neighbouring lands, it had become clear that no neutrality would have been permitted. Kai had been drafted, like too many others, just when the Legions of the Goddess had reached their borders. Hordes of desperate people had flooded the core of the City, and that had been their first mistake. The inner citadel was perched on top of a canyon, its buildings developing in a series of fortified turrets both down the side of the ravine and up towards the sky. The walls surrounding the higher part, the smooth stone between each building facing the cliff, made it impenetrable to any human army. But after the Legions reached the base of the canyon, it only took them three days to force the City Guards to retreat into the main tower, while everyone else fled in chaotic waves through the Northern gate. On the first day, the celestial soldiers had flooded the canyon in a seemingly endless parade. On the second day, gigantic ivy plants had sprouted from the sandy ground and climbed up the side of the ravine with supernatural speed, wrapping the City’s defences in a thick green net. Kai had watched them rise up to the City’s upper level in a matter of hours, glowing with a golden aura of divine power. On the third day, the Legions scaled the walls up to the city swiftly and efficiently, then proceeded to lay waste to methodically gain control of each street and square of the citadel. Kai had been leading the defence of the Western Gate, until thorny vines erupted from under the heavy wooden doors and tore them up, letting the horde of divine fighters in. He did not know how long he fought for, but at some point his arms barely felt strong enough to lift his sword. He had retreated, with the few of his men that were left, to the entrance of the main tower, where he knew General Alar had also sought shelter. Once inside, he tore off his helmet, and the smell of blood flooded his strained lungs. He watched as a couple of equally exhausted soldiers closed the door he had just walked through, effectively sealing the only access to the tower. He realised they were now trapped, and looking around the circular room, his heart sank. Most of his companions were lying on the ground, dead, injured or simply too exhausted to keep fighting. As the rhythmic thump of a battering ram started to sound from the other side of the wooden door, he made his way to general Alar. He was sitting against the far wall, panting, a large red stain rapidly spreading from his left shoulder to his chest under the damaged chest plate. Kai knelt down next to him, leaning on his sword for support.
“Sir...what do we do?” the commander’s pale face was distorted in a pained grimace as he lifted a hand to point at the door.
“We wait for that door to give in,” he rasped, “And we pray she is not going to be the one walking through it.”
The thumping noise suddenly stopped, and Kai felt his own heartbeat take its place in his ears. Thin, bright green vines slipped out from under the door, almost as if probing the ground on the other side. Then they started to climb up the wooden surface, until it was completely wrapped in a thick green net. Kai heard the wood crack and whine as the vines tightened their hold, sending slivers flying as they slowly demolished the door, like a hand crumbling up a piece of paper. The doorway was slowly cleared, and a soft golden light started to glow through it. Kai felt his blood run cold.
A figure stepped out of the light, and the glow subsided until it was a mere halo, surrounding the silhouette of a tall woman. She was barefoot, wrapped in a peach-coloured chiton that fell smoothly around the curves of her body. Her hair cascaded in a fiery mass of loose curls down to her lower back, bright orange and red flowers woven into it. Kai did not dare to look up at her face, his chest already seized by divine terror. Yet, somehow, he could feel the exact moment her gaze fell upon him.
“Drop your weapons.”
Her voice was soft, but charged with a booming power that made it echo loudly in the room. Kai heard the clattering of blades hitting the floor, and loosened his grip on the hilt of his own sword. He fell to his knees, his teary eyes turning towards the General, still attempting to avoid the goddess’ heavy gaze. He could almost feel it linger on him a moment longer, before shifting to the prone figure of Alar.
“General.” This time, the voice was softer, and Kai felt the terror in his chest subside for a second. She was not trying to scare them anymore. She did not need to. “I have come to take your city. Will you surrender?”
It was not until that moment that Kai realised General Alar was the only one still holding up his sword, if somewhat shakily. When he spoke, his voice sounded immensely tired.
“This city does not belong to me, Goddess, but to its people. I cannot surrender it to you. All I have is my life, and just like this city, you will have to come and take it.”
Kai could not help but admire the defiance displayed by the dying man, despite being immediately seized by the fear of its consequences.
“Careful, General. Your people cannot hide from this war any longer.” As she spoke, the sounds of the crowd screaming and fleeing outside echoed faintly through Kai’s ears. He felt tears burn down his cheeks. Alar stayed silent, but raised his chin, looking at the Goddess directly. Kai heard her sigh deeply, and it felt as if the breath she released had travelled into his own chest. She raised a hand, ready to give an order to the two tall soldiers that had followed her inside.
“As you wish.”
“No!”
He felt himself shout and turn his head almost simultaneously, and too quickly for reason to overpower the instinct. His eyes met hers for just a few moments, before the force of her gold-speckled gaze became too much. But even as he looked away, the image of her features kept burning in his mind, a rough sketch altering itself over and over in an attempt to capture an impossible beauty. Again, he felt tears stain his cheeks, and a sob rising and settling in his throat.
She had turned to face Kai properly, her head slightly bent to the side in mild curiosity. Alar watched, on the verge of consciousness, his fatigued breath growing more and more rapid. The Goddess stepped right in front of Kai, and he felt a wave of warmth wash over him. Somehow, it did not make him feel any more at ease.
“What is your name, young one?”
“...Kai.” he tried to steady his voice, but could not stop more tears from pooling at the corner of his eyes.
“Kai.” She repeated. “I saw you, earlier. You fought exceptionally well.” She paused, and Kai was almost tempted to look up. Yet he felt as if an invisible hand was pressing lightly over his head, warning him that would not be a good idea.
“You must have seen so many of your people fall today...and now more, and your General too. I understand what an incredible pain that must be.”
The sob escaped Kai’s throat before he could stop it.
“Please.” He choked out. “Please, spare my people. They are innocent. They’re not fighters...they’re all that’s left.”
As he spoke, the screams from outside resonated again, if somewhat more quietly. He almost fell completely to the ground, feeling like all the pain of that terrible day was suddenly pressing on his shoulders, consuming his chest and spilling out in hot tears. Then, the incredibly soft touch of a hand cupping his cheek, and raising his face up. Again, he met the eyes of the Goddess, and everything seemed to fade around the infinity of their copper and gold colour.
“You are very brave, Kai. But isn’t the pain of mortality too much to bear?” with a sob trapped between gritted teeth, Kai nodded.
“I can make it stop. I can save you, and I can save your people. Do you want to save them?” the hand on his cheek moved in a soft caress, gathering the tears that kept spilling from his eyes. He nodded again.
“Yes. Please...”
His head began to spin, his vision getting blurrier by the second, a deep exhaustion pervading his body. He closed his eyes. In the darkness, it felt like her voice was filling his whole being.
“Then join me, Kai. Serve me. Fight for me, and I will protect your people. I promise you, none of them will ever have to suffer again. And neither will you.”
Kai opened his eyes, breathless. Now he could see her face better, as if it was stiller, as if she was allowing him to see her, making herself be less for his lesser senses.
“Do you promise?” he asked desperately. Her smile was blinding.
“I do. Will you join me, Kai?”
He felt a pang in his chest, defeat and relief at the same time, somehow. Then, he nodded.
“Yes. I will.”
“Thank you, Kai. I will protect your people, forever. No pain shall touch them. And forever, you will be my side. No death will touch you. I promise you. But first...” the hand on his cheek descended to his arm, raising it slowly, his hand still gripping his sword. She stepped aside, raising his arm more, until it was pointing right in front of him.
“Show me your loyalty.” She stepped completely aside, and Kai’s eyes widened. The tip of his sword was pointing straight at General Alar’s chest. He felt his blood run cold as he met the dying man’s eyes. He saw surprise in them, but no fear. Kai tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, then stepped forward. In a few steps he was by his side, and bent down on one knee.
“I’m sorry. This...it’s to protect them.” He whispered. The General nodded weakly. Kai looked into his eyes a moment longer, and knew he understood. He knew that if it meant salvation for all the others, it was a sacrifice Alar was willing to make. One he had, in fact, already made. In one swift movement, he plunged the blade deep into the man’s stomach. He closed his eyes, as a breathy moan escaped Alar before his body went limp. Kai didn’t cry as he pulled the sword out and stood up, only sparing a brief glance for the General’s bloodstained face. He turned and went to kneel in front of the Goddess again.
“I am yours.”
As she cupped his face in both her hands, Kai noticed she had stopped smiling. She just nodded at him, and he somehow felt a certain sweetness in it. Suddenly the grip on his cheeks tightened, and she bent down to kiss him.
Kai felt divine lips burn on his, and as his eyes closed, he saw an intense, white light engulfing him. The burning grew and grew while the kiss stopped, though the light, cool touch on his cheeks remained. The Goddess watched as he threw his head back and opened his lips in shock, his eyes and mouth glowing of a blinding white light from the inside, a pained scream getting lost in the blazing brilliance. Kai felt like his whole body was being consumed in flames, and gripped the cool touch of the Goddess’ hands with all he could control of his consciousness, desperately, fearing he would burn forever, till nothing of his mind and flesh remained. But then, the heat and pain slowly faded, and as fresh air filled his lungs again, he felt stronger. He felt his own scream end as the light and pain did. The Goddess caressed his cheek lightly one last time as he gulped in fast, deep breaths.
“Welcome to the Eternal Army, Kai.”
He stood, the sword now clasped firmly in his hand, any trace of fatigue washed off of his body. And he immediately knew he was no longer human.
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