Love As the Goddess
By Amber Michelle
Originally written for a prompt at 31 Days. It's kind of silly, but it was fun to write.
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Oliver beheld a heron for the first time when he was ten, and he often said that moment changed the course of his destiny. He might have scorned Ashera's service, or remained Lekain's lackey unto death, had it not been for that glimpse of such a glorious creature.
His family made their residence in Sienne most of the year, his father and elder brother visiting the country estate most summers to take care of business before returning to the fashionable center of the empire. The city was unpleasant during those months; the paved streets soaked up the sunlight and glowed with its heat long after night fell, and the tall buildings of the aristocratic quarter whittled any breeze down to a mere breath of air before it reached the Tanas mansion - which, of course, was close to the center of Begnion. For as long as he could remember, Oliver has awakened to the sight of the cathedral's minarets and the lone spire of the Tower of Guidance.
Being accustomed to his brilliant surroundings - what better casing for a jewel than the gold and silver of the capitol? - Oliver resisted his father's efforts to drag him up to the estate for heron watching. There would be mud, and rain, and bugs, and possibly even sub-humans of other persuasions. His father was a masochist.
They were returning from court one afternoon, passing the cathedral square, when his father leaned over him toward the carriage window and said, do you see that, boy? A heron. Oliver glanced out. One of the goddess's finest creations, no doubt.
It was a noble they spotted, though he didn't know at the time. He knew nothing, absolutely nothing about the sub-human clans or their attributes - but blonde hair had never shimmered so brightly, nor had he ever seen wings so purely white, like layers of silk screened against the sun. Its robes fluttered so lightly in the passage of its steps the heron appeared to walk on air, though his feet touched the ground.
Like an afterimage of the sun, its shape was burned onto the back of his eyelids, and he could not forget. He didn't even know its gender. It didn't matter. They weren't sub-human - they were more than human. Angels. The goddess loved them, and Oliver took an oath to love as the goddess did when he was dedicated to Ashera. He vowed never to ruffle a feather of those beautiful wings with his filthy human fingers unless such was necessary to appreciate their beauty.
That, he could not imagine. A mere glimpse was a feast for the eyes and manna to the body. Oliver didn't eat for days afterward.
He was not, however, discouraged from purchasing one when given the chance. The bids were insultingly low - no matter the creature on the stage was slate perfection instead of white, that the shimmer of her hair was sapphire instead of diamond, the heron was a sacred creature in need of proper appreciation. He bought her for a pittance, took her home, and installed her in a shrine decorated to compliment the shade of her hair. The silk drapery alone would have bankrupted a lesser family, but Oliver knew beauty and the attainment of it; when he inherited the estate he made all of the proper investments.
When the bird sickened and died, Oliver was heartbroken. Was the fruit he imported too exotic? Were the flowers he laid at her feet poisonous? Had there been too much sun, too little? They were rather like plants, he'd thought - if one spoke softly, nicely, watered it at the appropriate intervals, and refrained from bruising its leaves and petals, it should thrive. They must be even more delicate than flowers. He would get another, he thought, and try again.
Alas, Hetzel beat him to the punch, and the Serenes incident robbed him of the chance forever. Oliver had the forest searched, scoured even, to no avail. His men found scraps of fabric and charred feathers, bits of jewelry, and many corpses buried in the ash, but nothing alive. Lekain, blast his soul, was so smug and condescending when he revealed the assassin they purchased was also the source of the rumor. Should the blame fall upon our shoulders? he asked when they assembled. Better to fell two enemies with one strike.
The politician in Oliver understood the logic behind Lekain's blasphemy, but the humble servant of Ashera beneath that facade dreamed of different ways to kill his colleague each night. His goddess was the embodiment of law and order; she would make an exception, surely, for one messy death. There was one idea in particular he liked involving feathers and several liters of rancid wine - he couldn't possibly waste a quality vintage - but he didn't think it would be possible to part with any of the souvenirs brought to him from the forest, even to serve the cause of poetic justice. Rather, they pillowed him at night in his mattress and his pillows, and he imagined each feather as a new bird springing to life, revived through their service to his saintly body.
If only that were true. He wished, at least, he'd begotten even one child with that lovely slave. It would have comforted his weary soul to see a trace of the noble heron clan yet alive. He'd loved her, though the eyes of others mocked him for it. Her delicate white skin, her soft, silken hair, the sound of her voice. It reminded him of the deep-toned ehru or a certain chord on the cello, resonant and perfect, enough to make one choke on his own regret.
If only he'd taken better care of her - if only the goddess would give him another chance. Oliver could love unselfishly. He would gaze from afar and keep his hands tied if she would show him this mercy.
He lost a great deal of money when the slave holdings were liquidated and his share in the trade was confiscated by the throne. Oliver thought he bore it gracefully; it was the Prime Minister's hand that signed the damning bill, and it couldn't have been a more beautiful appendage if it belonged to one of his precious birds. Sephiran's countenance stirred the same awe. The otherworldly glow of his eyes beneath their long lashes, the slender frame, the shine of his hair - it was too much. Oliver had to touch him.
"Duke Tanas?" His voice was like hers too, though of course it was deeper. "What are you doing?"
Oliver turned the minister's hand over in his own, tracing the fine lines on his palm and watching the fingers twitch and curl. Alive. It almost brought tears to his eyes. "Exquisite."
Sephiran tried to withdraw his hand, and after a breathless moment Oliver released him. "I-- see." His brow furrowed slightly and he drew back, hand curved at his waist. "Thank you for the compliment. If you are quite finished..."
Oliver made his apologies with a deep bow. His superior made a beautiful image standing in front of his desk, the blaze of the window behind him, enveloping him, like the aura of the Goddess herself. He made sure the image was burned to his retinas before he let the door close so he could think on it later when the night left him alone on a bed of feathered memories.
One of the finest creations of the goddess indeed. Perhaps beauty wasn't dead to the world after all.