Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Above all else, may you know joy.

It became a simple decision. In her mind she pictured the bundle of negative feelings and set them ablaze with imaginary fire, burning them quickly into ash, leaving nothing but those things that were sacred to her. Kyle hira . “Yes,” she said, watching his face begin to glow with the happiness she had not seen for half a year. “Yes, I think you taught me that. It’s enough. In fact, it’s more; it’s something to be humbly grateful for, and I am.”

“Then you will take me back?”

Rhapsody laughed. “I don’t think I ever gave you away, but of course I will. I may even forgive you for making me Lady Cymrian someday, but don’t count on it.”

“Well, lest you forget, you made me Lord, or planned to, so we’re even.”

“Wrong. We will never be even.” Rhapsody paused, then she smiled at him. “You will always be much taller; I admit it.”

“Just as long as you are clear in your understanding that I am your devoted husband; there is and never was anyone but you.”

“I’ve got that, I think.”

“And there is one little comment you made that I have felt the need to clear up for the last six months.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Do you remember, on the night of our wedding, after I proposed but before I went all scaly on you, that you were telling me about our time in the old land? Not knowing who I was yet?”

“Yes.”

“And I believe you referred to our lovemaking under the starry Serendair sky, our first time, our mutual deflowerment, as ‘one night of meaningless sex in a pasture’; is that right?” His eyes twinkled as his face set in a scowl of mock annoyance.

Rhapsody laughed even as her own face colored in embarrassment. “I believe that was the term I used, yes; I think you’re right.”

“Oh, I am right,” he said, amusement threatening to drive away his pretense of irritation. “That was a beautiful, sacred moment to me, Emily.”

Her laughter diminished into a serious smile. “It was for me, too, Sam,” she said sincerely, speaking with her lore. “It felt like the consummation of a marriage that had already been blessed.”

“Exactly! Exactly what I felt. I don’t even remember proposing to you; it was as though we just mutually decided that we were to be married.”

“Yes. I agree.”

“Well, since that is the case, I believe I hold the record for marital abstinence, having gone approximately a hundred and forty years between episodes of carnal knowledge with you; vastly more if you count it in your time. Then it would be calculated in centuries; millennia, even.”

Rhapsody laughed again. “Congratulations! Now, there’s an accomplishment to be proud of.”

“And now, now that we’ve been married, with vows and rings and everything, I have waited six months, six months , Rhapsody. No man who has ever seen you or heard about you could believe that kind of connubial celibacy was possible.”

“And no one who knew me, unless they also knew I was unaware of the opportunity. It isn’t easy for me, either, Sam.”

“But I am becoming the Lord of Forbearance, don’t you think?”

“Definitely. I’ve already admired your restraint; what else do you want?”

“That is a silly question.”

“Let me guess; you’re going for a new abstinence record?”

“That’s not funny.” Despite his statement, he chuckled.

Rhapsody grinned at him. “Does this mean you expect me to somehow make this up to you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t think mathematically it is possible for me to do so tonight; I’m sorry.”

He leaned over her and rested his forehead on hers, his eyes looking deeply into her own. “You could at least try.”

“I suppose. I don’t have to be anywhere until sunrise.”

“Forget sunrise. The Cymrians are still drinking to us, even now. They won’t be able to move until noon or later.”

Rhapsody’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, all right.” She put her arms around his neck.

-

Gwydion stayed nose-to-nose with her; he climbed up onto the bed and positioned himself over her on his knuckles and knees. “And, after this blasted council is over, your dance card is completely filled for the next six months.”

“Six months? I don’t think so, Sam. Two weeks, maybe. I’ve been away from Tyrian an awfully long time.”

A dragonlike growl came forth.

“I’m sorry; if you want me to yourself, you’re going to have to marry me publicly; otherwise—”

“Say no more. It’s done.”

“Good.”

“Then you are mine exclusively for as long as you can stand me. Right?”

Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “Right.”

A dazzling smile spread over his face. “Good. Now give me back my shirt.” bonfires had spread throughout the Moot and the surrounding fields; there were tens of thousands of them now, with one vast inferno blazing in the center of the Bowl’s floor. The billowing flames lighted the night sky, making it gleam orange through the thick waves of black smoke that turned from gray to white as they wafted to the stars.

The considerable stores of wine and spirits that Achmed had provisioned for the gathering were exhausted within the first hours, leaving a very inebriated, very happy populace still in the frenzy of glorious celebration. Loud choruses of drunken singing swelled over the mountains and foothills, frightening the Bolg in Canrif as the anthems grew in volume.

When the moon set, Achmed, who was watching the festivities with sober interest, offered to replenish the alcohol from his stores near Griwen Post, a recommendation that was seized upon gladly. Faedryth and his aide-de-camp, Therion, began rounding up volunteers to assist in the transportation of the new supplies, finding the Nain to be one of the few groups among the revelers still able to stand erect, let alone locomote or carry anything valuable.

Within a few moments a small squadron of the volunteers accompanied the Firbolg king out of the Bowl, gathered wagons, and lurched unsteadily across the steppes toward where the king had directed, following the Bolg Cymrians in charge of the detail.

Achmed stood at the entrance of the Moot as they disappeared into the night, absorbing the screeching of the wagon wheels, the sound of singing and music of a thousand different types and origins, all playing simultaneously, the roar of merry laughter thundering against his skin-web, the sensitive network of exposed nerve and vein that made up his epidermal layer.

It was a clamor the like of which he had never experienced before, even in war. Grunthor had once said that the most frightening thing about battle was the sound of it, the thunderous noise of horses and mounted weapons being positioned, the murderous sound of fury and destruction, the wailing, the sound men made when they were exploding inside.

This noise was different; there was something far more fascinating and disturbing to him about it. It was an amalgamation of shrieking laughter and song, crackling flames, splintering wood and shouting, the sound of jubilation and years of pain mixed into one unholy roar. It had an effect on him similar to that of the sea, masking individual sounds by blending them into this hideous anti-symphony that was as ugly to his ears as Rhapsody’s song had been beautiful.

The inconstant light of the bonfires swept over him, flickering with blinding brightness one moment, going dark with smoke and flying cinders the next. When the darkness lingered for a longer-than-usual moment Achmed looked up and saw his Sergeant-Major standing beside him; the din had been enough to mask Grunthor’s pulse, which until this Council had been one of only two he still could perceive. Now he was drowning in the noise of all of the heartbeats of the First Generation; it was a surprisingly comfortable sensation, and made him feel almost nostalgic.