Mara - The Lady Grief (Completed)

28 Love's Lover

2651 B.C.E., City of Tmari-on-the-Euphrates

Late Fall, Month of Arahsamnu, One Year and Eight Months after Mara's Rebirth

Thelios

I give Poppy to Postite Banio before I stumble into the garden and sit heavily on one of the stone benches overlooking the tomb city below. A warm body curls into my lap, a raspy, dry tongue licking my fingers.

"I can't be this male, Alnue," I tell the gargoyle. "I am not capable of hurting my Fated, my Sprite. Not like that."

He makes a soft noise of contentment as I stroke his smooth ears.

"You don't think that I'm him, right?" I ask, feeling slightly foolish asking a stone creature such a question.

He looks up at me, black eyes blinking. Chattering solemnly, both his front paws cup my cheeks. His tail spins, poking at my tattoo of the Recondites.

"I am Thelios," I tell him.

He nods, then settles back into my lap, nipping my fingers when I don't start petting him immediately again.

"I need a plan," I sigh. I'm terrible at plans.

He purrs.

---

The statue of the god is ominous without my Flame next to me.

"Nateos," I fall to my knees, so much to say, but not knowing how to put my erratic thoughts into words.

"I am not him. I swear it isn't true. I am not her betrayer.

I am Thelios. I am Mara's Fated male. Not... not him."

I lurch to my feet, anger taking over the uncertainty. "I know I am not him! It doesn't matter what that female says, I am not her bonded. I am not a son of that House. I am not a liar, a betrayer, a murderer." I take a deep breath, agony digging into my heart and lungs like tiny daggers. "I would never hurt my Flame. I couldn't hurt her."

I stare at the god's face in the statue. Silence weighs oppressively. Heavy, meaningful, but I don't know what it means. Does the god disapprove of me? Is he indifferent?

I kneel by the pool. "I never thanked you, Nateos, Death, Lord of the Underworld, for giving me your daughter. I pray that I will be worthy of her."

I feel the shove on my back as if the hands of a giant pushed me. I fall into the pool face-first, undignified, with the water rushing up my nose. I fight instinctively to the top of the pool, to take a breath, but I'm sinking, heavy as a boulder.

I am too warm and something is tickling my nose. The hellfire in this place is ungodly after the coldness of the pits.

When I open my eyes it's to a confectionary of a bed in a room that is white and far too pink to be anywhere near my own blankets.

"Fuck," I curse out loud as I push the layers of gauzy lace quilts off of me. Above me more organza floats as the canopy of the bed that I am on.

It's elevated, with white painted stairs leading down to the travertine tile floor. In the corner there is a sunken pool lined with balt salts in glass jars. It's tempting to bathe, just a quick one, to wipe my skin clean of the scent of sex and female. I don't bother, I don't want to linger here. I can wash myself in the river.

It's a beautiful room, if you like feeling as though you are immersed in a high-end prostitute's boudoir. Too fancy and too fussy for my tastes. I want blood on my teeth and my blades, the chill of the cold dark, the silence of the hunt. Instead I am nude of my blades, and of clothes, and trapped in a luxurious cage.