J. Ward - Lover Enshrined

When he was finished, the marble underneath was streaked with the green tears of the weeds’ demise, but the majesty of the form was undeniable.

A male in his prime with his young in his arms.

Phury looked over his shoulder. “What do you think?”

Cormia’s voice was all around him, in stereo, even though she stood right next to him. “I think he is beautiful.”

Phury smiled at her, seeing in her face all the love he had for her in his heart. “One more.”

She swept her hand around. “But look, the last one’s already done.”

And so the final statue was; its weeds gone, along with any stains of neglect. The male was old now, seated with a staff in his hands. His face was still handsome, though it was wisdom, not the bloom of youth, that made it so. Standing behind him, tall and strong, was the young he had once cradled in his arms.

The cycle was complete.

And the weeds were no more.

Phury glanced back at the third stage. It too was magically clean, and so were the youth and the infant statues as well.

In fact, the entire garden had been righted and now rested beneath the warm, dulcet night in full, healthy bloom. The fruit trees beside the statues were heavy with pears and apples, and the walkways were bordered with neat boxwood hedges. Inside the beds, the flowers thrived in graceful disorder, as all fine English gardens did.

He turned to the house. The shutters that had hung cockeyed from their hinges were righted, and the holes in the tile roof were no more. The stucco was smooth, its cracks having disappeared, and every glass pane was intact. The terrace was free of leaf debris, and the sinking spots that had gathered rain were level again. Potted arrangements of thriving geraniums and petunias sprinkled white and red among woven wicker chairs and tables.

Through the living room window, he saw something move-could it be? Yes, it was.

His mother. His father.

The pair came into view, and they were as the statues had become: resurrected. His mother with her yellow eyes and her blond hair and her perfect face… His father with his dark hair and his clear stare and his kind smile.

They were… impossibly beautiful to him, his holy grail.

“Go to them,” Cormia said.

Phury walked up onto the terrace, his white robing clean in spite of all the work he had done. He approached his parents slowly, afraid of displacing the vision.

“Mahmen?” he murmured.

His mother put her fingertips to her side of the glass.

Phury reached out and mirrored the exact position of her hand. As his palm hit the pane, he felt the warmth of her radiating through the window.

His father smiled and mouthed something.

“What?” Phury asked.

We are so proud of you… son.

Phury squeezed his eyes shut. It was the first time he’d ever been called that by either of them.

His father’s voice continued. You can go now. We’re fine here now. You’ve fixed… everything.

Phury looked at them. “Are you sure?”

Both of them nodded. And then his mother’s voice came through the clean glass.

Go and live now, son. Go… live your life, not ours. We are well here.

Phury stopped breathing and just stared at them both, drinking in what they looked like. Then he placed his hand over his heart and bent at the waist.

It was a farewell. Not a good-bye, but a fare… well. And he had the sense they would.

Phury’s eyes flipped open. Looming over him was a dense cloud cover… no, wait, that was a lofty ceiling made of white marble.

He turned his head. Cormia was seated beside him and holding his hand, her face as warm as the feeling in his chest.

“Would you like something to drink?” she said.

“Wh… at?”

She reached over and lifted a glass off the table. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

“Lift your head up for me.”

He took a test sip and found the water all but ephemeral. It tasted like nothing and was the exact temperature of his mouth, but swallowing it felt good, and before he knew it he’d polished off the glass.

“Would you like more?”

“Yes, please.” Evidently that was the extent of his vocabulary.

Cormia refilled the glass from a pitcher, and the chiming sound was nice, he thought.

“Here,” she murmured. This time she held his head up for him, and as he drank, he stared into her lovely green eyes.

When she went to take the glass from his lips, he clasped her wrist in a gentle hold. In the Old Language he said, “I would wake like this always, bathing in your stare and your scent.”

He expected her to pull away. Get flustered. Shut him down. Instead she murmured, “We cleaned up your garden.”

“Yes…”

There was a knock upon the temple’s double doors.

“Wait before you answer that,” she said, looking around.

Cormia put the glass down and padded across the marble. After she took cover in some yards of white velvet draping across the way, he cleared his throat.

“Yeah?” he called out.

The Directrix’s voice was kind and respectful. “May I enter, your grace?”

He pulled a sheet over himself even though he had his pants on, then double-checked that Cormia wasn’t visible.

“Yes.”

The Directrix pulled back the vestibule’s curtain and bowed low. There was a covered tray in her hands. “I have brought you an offering from the Chosen.”

As she straightened, the glow in her face told him that Layla had lied, and lied well.

He didn’t trust himself to sit up, so he beckoned her with his hand.

The Directrix approached the bedding platform and knelt before him. As she lifted the gold top, she said, “From your mates.”

Lying on the tray, folded as precisely as a map, was an embroidered neck scarf. Made of satin, and inlaid with jewels, it was a spectacular work of art.

“For our male,” the Directrix said, bowing her head.

“Thank you.” Shit.

He took the scarf and splayed it out in his palms. Citrines and diamonds spelled out in the Old Language Strength of the Race.

As the gems sparkled, he thought they were like the females here in the Sanctuary, held so tightly in their platinum settings.

“You have made us very happy,” Amalya said with a tremor in her voice. She got up and bowed again. “Is there anything we may get you to repay this joy of ours?”

“No, thank you. I’m just going to rest.”

She bowed once more, and then was gone like a gentle breeze, departing in a silence that was tragically full of anticipation.

Now he sat up, but only with help from his arms. On the vertical, his head was a balloon, light and full of nothing, bobbing on his spine. “Cormia?”

She stepped out from behind the drapery. Her eyes went down to the scarving, then returned to him. “Do you need Doc Jane?”

“No. I’m not sick. It was the DTs.”

“So you said. I’m not clear on what that is, though.”

“Withdrawal.” He rubbed at his arms, thinking it wasn’t over yet. His skin was itching and his lungs were burning as if they needed air, even though they had it.

What they wanted, he knew, was red smoke.

“Is there a bathroom through there?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Will you wait for me? I won’t be long. I’m just going to wash.”

It will be longer than her lifetime before you return cleansed , the wizard said.

Phury closed his eyes, abruptly losing the strength to move.

“What is it?”

Tell her your old mate is back.

Tell her your old mate is never leaving.

And then let’s get over to the real world and get what will take care of that tight feeling in your lungs and that itching all over your skin.