Shards of the One Pt. 03

She raised her hand, curious, to her lips, tasting the clear fluid. It was oily, saline, but not unpleasant. She sucked at her fingers, moistening them further in her mouth. When she returned them to her clitoris, they rolled smoothly, softly over it, sending shivers of ecstasy through her, her thighs tensing and quivering.

"Oh!" She could not help it. But Mama could hear nothing over the driving rain, beating like a million tiny hammers on the anvil of their home. Her head fell back against the pillow, her eyes closed tight. Again she bit her lip, the intense pleasure almost overwhelming her. Perspiration mingled with rainwater, running down her face, her chest.

Leto, inside her. Inside her, inside her.

Her nipples stood hard, bouncing with each buck of her hips, each spasmodic twist. Overcome, she grasped at her chest, squirming as the pleasure at her fingertips became almost unbearable. Flashes of light through the shutters grew more frequent and the terrible percussion of thunder melted into a single, tormented churning sound. Her fingers gyrated erratically, now sopping. She felt an intense, rushing sensation building deep within her. Mercilessly it forced her on, blood thumping urgently throughout her body, her skin flushed and hot. She writhed against the wet sheets in a paroxysm of unbridled fervour.

And then, it was upon her. She felt it coming, surging. Pleasure wracked her tiny frame, her sex spasming intermittently. Gasping, she hunched her abdomen as if in the throes of a sneezing bout. Between her thighs, the pale flesh was soaked, her muscles tensing and jumping like stays in a high wind. The walls shook with the tempest's relentless violence.

The storm within her felt every bit as furious and unstoppable as the one bearing down outside. Her orgasm came suddenly as lightning, impossibly total. She tumbled in the aftershock, swallowed in the waves of her climax, utterly unmade. A yelp escaped her lips, blooming in the sudden silence. Her chest rose and fell in deep, desperate breaths. It was unlike anything she had ever felt, and still it held her, supine, in warm, coiling tendrils.

Beyond the room, beyond the house, leagues and leagues above, the storm had vanished, instantly. All of its vitriol and chaotic energy dissolved in a clear and cloudless sky. Emylia, though, was only dimly aware of the sudden abatement. Still mesmerized, she began the slow, heady swim, up, up, out of herself. Back to her senses. They returned one at a time; her vision flecked with stars, the jubilant chorus of birdsong fading warmly in, the rough, saturated sheets beneath her sodden shoulders and buttocks. Utterly exhausted, her head struck the pillow and like a snuffed candle she fell to sleep.

*****

The next day, no sign of the storm remained, save for a few strewn timbers and the trees, bowed like drunkards, their leafy crowns a little worse for wear. It was St Dorion's Day, patron demigod of voyages, and Emylia found herself temporarily freed from her duties about the house.

Given the excellent weather, she had decided to visit the baths, thrust out of the rock just clear of Castle Cadus' shadow.

The rocky path wending over the shear cliffside of Kortini's southern reach was warm beneath her sandals, blindingly bright in the midday sun. Gulls careened in the mild air, their calls lost on the gentle breeze buffeting the cliffs. In the bay, Emylia could make out the skiffs mopping the inlet for fish, hither and yon, a pail or speartip glinting briefly despite the distance. Kites made brilliant dives and proud leaps, gullfeathered and magnificently dyed. They gleamed against the water as their counterparts raced the length of the beach. A smile played across Emylia's lips, the salt breeze tugging at her skirts, redolent of summer and of life itself. She thought of her father, somewhere beyond the horizon, his crew toiling above decks, sweating, shadeless. Leto, his muscular arms working the ropes, flashed across her mind. She blushed, grinning to herself, last night's ecstasies still fresh in her memory.

Reaching the wide, flat promontory into which the castle and its flock of outbuildings were hewn, Emylia paused a moment to regain her breath. The climb was steep, and especially arduous in the heat. The thought of the cool, clear baths spurred her on. Crossing the horizon, she could just spy a large ship, its broad sail a dim red, making for the bay. Likely she bore traders from one of the neighboring isles, and yet Emylia did not recognize the colours she flew. She would not linger on this heat to better make it out.

The bathhouse, carved from smooth, dark stone, jutted squarely out of the plateau. At regular intervals along its walls, large, rectangular portals were cut, screened with white sheets that lifted slightly in the warm air. It rested on the seam of an ancient aquifer, long prized for the pure, sweet water it delivered from the peak of Mt Kor. Approaching the buildings, the gravel path became tiles of stone, and then cobbled pavement. Trees were planted in tiny oases of greenery about the open square. As Emylia strode, with purpose, toward the squat shape of the bathhouse, they offered momentary relief from the burning sun.

Soldiers, guards of House Cadus, stood dutifully still at the steps, so brilliantly sunlit as to appear aflame. They were like sculptures, meticulously shaped, shadows blooming in each muscled cleft. Their bare chests glistened. In dark recesses, in cracks and gutters, yesterday's stormwater escaped the wrathful glower of the sun. Children gambolled about, dressed in the airy cloth of summer, mothers trailing hastily. The steps to the bathhouse loomed, shallow and long, cool where the banisters gave shade, scorching where they did not.

Wine-coloured banners streamed from the path to the castle, carved serpentine downward to the square. Lady Protya Cadus, borne in her litter, appeared, coming to bathe as was her daily wont. Four men, garbed in the same burgundy cloth, made the delicate descent, the litter bobbing like driftwood as they negotiated each step. The sky was a mirror to the dauntless blue of the sea below, each unmarred and unmitigated by cloud or whitecap. The sounds of splashing, of water pouring, and merry talk all burbled forth from the dual arches of the building. The stout, oaken doors opened inward, invitingly. Red pennants, sunbleached, framed the door to the women's baths.

Emylia entered, rounding the dog leg of the dividing walls. Slipping off her sandals, she approached the nearest wall, studded with diamond-shaped holes. She let her dress slide from her shoulders, bunching it roughly and squashing it into one of the primitive shelves. For a moment she stood, nude, alone, enjoying the warm breeze against stretches of her skin seldom bared to its refreshing tongue. The tiled floor boasted a magnificent mosaic porpoise, the sigil of House Cadus, spanning from wall to wall. It was cool with the wetness left by outgoing feet.

She passed through the pink veils that separated the atrium and the pools, stepping lightly into the sun again. A long, sloping pool formed the centre of the room, a meticulous rectangle. It was framed by pillars that supported the ceiling, with a matching rectangular oculus that let in light and fresh air. Three smaller, circular pools were hewn out of the stone at the far end, which steamed pleasantly. At the shallow end, nearest the door, children kicked water, or ran, skittish, tumbling inevitably when the water reached their knees. Further along its length, women clung like limpets to the edge, their breasts against the cool stone, or hunched, gossiping. Purple-garbed servants milled about the poolside, bearing jugs of wine. Girls swam, flashing like fish in the deep end, pale skin brilliant under the sun's eye.

Emylia caught sight of Senna, standing against the pool's wall, her arms extended atop it like gull's wings. The water lapped at her navel and her right hand held a goblet of red wine. The water shimmered and warped, folds of light looping and breaking endlessly. Senna turned her head and smiled as Emylia descended the shallow end, the most dignified entry to the water. Children-boys of a certain age being permitted into the women's baths-, apparently less preoccupied with propriety, leapt and dived all about the shallows; some with a gannet's grace, most with the bombast of flung flotsam.

Silently, smoothly, Emylia dove beneath the surface, her slender form wrapped in crystalline, collapsing shimmers. The coolness enveloped her. The relief was astounding, each of her senses momentarily silenced, save for the refreshing touch of the water flooding each stretch of skin, every pale pasture and cloven valley of flesh. She held Senna in her mind's eye, moved gracefully beneath the rippling water toward her. Sharklike she broached, gasping and blind, laughing as she shattered the surface just before her friend's stomach. The other girl rocked backward, her long blond locks swaying as she threw back her head. Senna gave a throaty laugh.

"Oh! They've let an eel in here now!"

They embraced, each grinning brightly, Emylia fumbling for a retort. Their bare skins touched and separated, a strange sensation just brief enough to escape awkwardness.

"That's rich! You're so pale I can barely-"

"A talking eel!" Senna feigned awe.

Emylia slapped the water playfully with one hand, sending a slice of water at the Noviran girl. Flinching, Senna jerked her cup, it's contents spilling darkly over the smooth stone.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, pouting. Without a sound, a purple-robed servant appeared with a fresh pitcher, setting it down near the edge.

"Compliments of House Cadus. In honour of Dorian's Day." she spoke flatly, her eyes downcast. As the girl bent to refill the goblet, their benefactress entered the room, a servant at each elbow, her long, lavender robe translucent, silver clinking at her neck and wrists. The room silent, heads bowed and gestures of deference were made. Lady Protya dismissed them graciously, inclining her head.

"May our riches be yours," she intoned solemnly, the motto of her house. "Let this be a day of leisure and libation, and may our husbands, fathers, and sons find fortune across the sea."

The room resounded with cheers of "Hear, hear!" and similar sentiments. Lady Protya bowed again, as another group of servants, freshly laden with wine in casks, trays of sweetmeats and fruits, and musical instruments appeared, milling amongst the lounging women.

"Generous..." murmured Senna, to Emylia's left. "Though, none could say they haven't plenty to share."

Emylia said nothing, a grin tugging at the sides of her mouth. The servant returned with a bowl of red grapes and a chalice, brimming with wine, bestowing it gracefully upon Emylia.

Theatrically, the room's attention yet thoroughly on her, Lady Cadus let slip her robe, baring a body that was certainly the envy of many among them. Above her breast, the skin was a burnished olive, the hue for which Khyrrini women were prized the Continent over. As the eye traveled downward, drawn by a force inexorable as gravity, it became lighter, regions of her body for the most part roamed exclusively by the Baron now exposed. Emylia found herself, to some surprise, examining her liege-lady's womanly virtues with undue interest, seeing her now as an object of desire - not hers, of course- rather than merely a person. As she stepped to the water's edge, pale and sinuous and potent as a snake, she noted the perfect proportions, the immaculate posture, the precise gait. If the Baron had designed her himself, he could not have created a more compelling bride, she thought. The Lady's breasts swung softly, hypnotic, as the water made its conquest of her. She did not flinch at its coolness. Below her neck she was completely hairless, her sex unadorned, her skin deliciously smooth, unblemished. The water closed over her with barely a ripple, her hair floating in dark whorls like some malign river-plant.

Emylia tore herself from the mesmerizing sight.

"So," she began, turning to Senna, gazing detachedly at the lutist, whose lilting tune picked, birdlike, at the swollen silence.

"I suppose I shall have to wait for winter to be a bridesmaid?"

"Hmph," came Senna's flat reply, the Noviran girl's flat chest, beaded with droplets, deflating.

"It'll be longer than that. I told him- it must be a summer wedding. And here we are. He drags his feet on everything." She took a long draught.

"But you love him. " Emylia teased, sipping from her own glass. The wine was warm, and deliciously sweet. She gave a sigh of contentment.

"Don't start. I'll not be chided by an old maid!" Senna replied, quick-witted as ever. "Indeed, what are we to do about that?" mock-seriousness flooded her tone. "You really ought to find yourself a husband, Emmy, " She threw back her head, gloating; "There's so much you're missing..."

"Please." Emylia protested, raising both hands in exaggerated disgust.

"Well... " Senna murmured from behind her cup. The servant appeared again, bending dutifully to refill the glass. Smoke, sweet-smelling, drifted in the air, wafting gently from censers that hung in clusters from pillars. Senna's cup clanked as she set it down abruptly, cleaving the water knife-like as she took off. Emylia watched her turning in the water, the light playing on her skin. She felt giddy, setting down her empty glass. Senna twisted and rolled in the water, artful as a fish, her toes flashing above the surface here and there, coiling serpentine on the floor before surging topside again. She swam well for a mountain-girl.

She had arrived on Kortini a few weeks after Emylia's ninth birthday, and they had been friends ever since. Her father, a much older man than Emylia's, had died a few years after they had settled, of some unfamiliar disease. He had been an expert tailor, held in high respect in Am Novir, the Noviran capital, and certainly wealthy. Wealthy enough to afford the voyage to the northern isles, where he had hoped the more temperate climate would help assuage the illness that ravaged him. It had bought him time, at least. Time enough to pass much of what he knew on to his only daughter. She had been a keen student of the needle, and seldom did she attend any event at which she was less than best-dressed. Now, she made a decent living, spinning gowns and robes for the Baroness, and occasionally clothes for the Baron.

Out of the water, leaping like a seal, she smoothed back her long, blonde tresses. Deftly she hoisted herself above the poolside, her slender arms inverted against its edge, water coursing down her lifted length. Turning, she reclined in the sun, daubed skin against the warm stone, still and shallow-breathing as a lizard, a wet umbra blooming about her. Emylia clambered up to join her.

"You swim well," she grinned, "You almost put those children to shame. Almost."

"Well." It was Senna's favourite word; she leant on it often. There was silence for a moment, the group of cavorting children were being marched out. The sun stared down, tottering over into afternoon. Emylia felt the water against her feet, felt it turn and clap against the wall. Fluid and solid, at once. Her gaze fell upon her friend, quite the image of indulgence; sprawled out, eyes closed, indifferent to all the world.

"Sen, you're..." she began, blushing.

"... Yes?" She spoke, did not stir.

"Bare... as a baby down there!" Emylia giggled.

"Oh? Did you get a good look at my arse, too?" She propped herself on an elbow, proffering her posterior, plump and pale. "Perhaps I missed a spot." she said, sarcastically. They laughed.

A moment passed, and then, emboldened by the wine, Emylia jibed again;

"I suppose Attio doesn't mind. "

"Well."

Emylia lay back against the warm floor. The servants of House Cadus batted and drove the air with large fans, listless as cattle. She felt it pass over her, thickly, warmly. Closing her eyes, she took in the quiet that had fallen upon the room, Lady Cadus and her courtiers chatting in hushed, animated tones in one of the round pools, the lutist plucking dutifully, slowly in his corner. The heat was too much.

Gracelessly, she stood and lowered herself into the water. It's renewed chill pierced her, a thousand needles. It clung to her, and it let her pass through it. It held her and yet she fell. She let her head sink beneath the water. There she floated as if in the womb, her muscles relaxed, her eyes shut tight. She tried to concentrate on the sensation, the water: soft and hard; cool and warm; strong and weak; heavy and light. The dualities and contradictions puzzled her, springing unbidden into her mind. Immutable, and yet fluid. Master and servant. Obstacle, and path. Giver and taker of life. She opened her eyes, peering blearily in the depths. She saw and heard with the near-clarity of a dream, everything just beyond her reach.

She willed herself to calmness. Slowly, she released her breath, released control. She felt herself sinking, the rays that skewered the surface fading. The surface was like one's face in polished metal, warping and distending in numberless nonsense patterns. Her back, her buttocks met the floor. She willed her eyes to stay open, despite their stinging. Her arms made circles in the water. Father had taught her to master her mind, to quash panic, even in the blind and infinite depths.

Something within her spurred her on, though her chest felt tight, desperate for air. She remained at the pool floor, watching the last vestiges of breath trail from her, surging for the sky. Dizziness wracked her. Her head pounded, and yet she stayed. Her lungs screamed for air.

And then, suddenly, the water bore her up, weightless, , toward the surface. She kicked, and it seemed to part around her, buffeting her upward. Her strokes felt strong, clawing at the water. She broke the surface and sucked a deep breath, turning over her shoulder back beneath. She tried again, to swim with the vigorous energy she had just summoned, but to no avail. Chalking it up to the wine, she paddled lazily to the side once more, taking another refreshing gulp.

"Enjoying yourself?" Senna mumbled, without looking.

"Mmm."

"Oh, stop," she complained, her abdomen tensing as she wormed away, "You're dripping all over me."

Senna sat up and quaffed her wine, refilling it from the jug that sat nearby. The servant had clearly thought it easier to leave it behind.

"Well. That is good. Ho, Emmy. Come and braid my hair, would you?"

"Alright, but don't blame me if it tugs. I've no brush."

"It won't. You have gentle hands."

The warmth of the compliment, rarely given directly by the sharp-tongued Noviran, warmed her. Emylia shuffled over to crouch behind Senna. Her blonde hair, a rarity among the Khyrrini Islands, was like spun gold in her fingers, falling past her breast. Daintily, Emylia held it bunched and worked her fingers through its silky length. It felt strange, nestled so close to to her friend's nakedness. She felt Senna's warmth, felt her breasts graze against her slender shoulders as she laboured. The water slapped the poolside and the sun beat down.

*****

She awoke some hours later, alone, aching from the stone, now cold against her skin. It was dark, and the moon shone through the oculus, unfiltered by cloud. Rising to a sitting position, she heard faint splashing in the pool before her. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. It was-

"Senna?" she called, her voice a whisper.

"Come in, we have it all to ourselves!" came the excited reply.