Of Gods and Butterflies
By Carcassi
Chapter Three
Chloe nestled comfortably in her bed, wondering, sleepily, why her mattress was free of its usual lumps. There was something off about the sheets, too; they were unexpectedly silky and cool to the touch. She stroked them lazily, enjoying the feel, her eyes shut against the bright light.
The sun must be up, she thought, which meant she'd overslept and would be late for her morning chores. Yawning, Chloe reflected guiltily that Gabriel probably was looking for her at this very moment.
In the strangely quiet room, her yawn echoed like thunder. Her eyelids flew open, and the next instant she jerked upright, scattering cushions everywhere across the large, tufted featherbed as her memory came crashing back.
She stared, open-mouthed, at a room that appeared to be made completely out of ice. The walls were gleaming pillars, the floor smooth as glass, and the ceiling—if there was one—disappeared into the soft glow that seemed to well out from deep inside the clear rocks.
Wherever this mysterious god had taken her, she thought, it definitely wasn't Mount Olympus.
Chloe shivered suddenly as chilly air hit her shoulders, which were, inexplicably, almost bare. Looking down in surprise, she discovered that the plain, unadorned dress she'd worn to the king's court had somehow been replaced by a sleek, low-cut, crimson nightshift, held up by only the slenderest of straps. The finely-woven material was butter-soft; it was both far more comfortable, and far more revealing, than any dress she had ever owned.
Hastily pulling the snow-white coverlet over herself, she scanned the room nervously, wondering how and when she'd been undressed—and, most of all, by whom. Her stomach did a quick, uneasy flip as she remembered strong hands gathering her close and a soft voice whispering in her ear. Before she could stop herself, she began to imagine the same hands gently removing her patched homespun skirt and trailing over her naked body.
The hands of her bridegroom.
All of a sudden, in spite of the freezing chamber, the coverlets seemed far too warm, but she resisted casting them aside, anxious to keep her scanty clothing concealed, although from who or what, she wasn't sure. She shivered again, but whether it was from the cold, or desire, or dread, she wasn't sure.
"There is nothing to fear."
The booming, disembodied voice came out of nowhere, abruptly shattering the unearthly silence. Chloe's heart leapt into her throat as she searched the ghostly-pale chamber in vain for its owner.
"I'm not afraid," she lied, peering anxiously into every shadowed nook for any sign of movement, "just a little chilled." Compared to the reverberating bass of the unseen speaker, her own voice sounded small and, even to her ears, very unconvincing. Gulping down a steadying breath, she added, "Who are you?"
"I am the Keeper of this Fortress. You may call me Jor-El."
The voice was distorted by the echoing chamber, but there was something familiar about the intonations. "You spoke to me through the king," Chloe ventured, hesitantly. "About your—son."
"His name is Kal-El," the voice replied, curtly. Its tone had not grown any friendlier since she'd first heard it in King Leo's throne room. "You are here at his request—for better or worse."
Chloe could almost hear Jor-El's disapproving sniff. Whatever attraction this "Kal-El" felt for her, it clearly wasn't shared by his father.
She told herself, sternly, that there was no reason to be frightened about meeting her future husband, in spite of this chilly reception. At least he was almost certain to be kinder than Jor-El.
"When will I see him?" she asked.
"You won't," came the dry response.
His words were a pointed reminder of the strange condition he'd forced on her. "I know, but I don't understand," she replied slowly. "Why can't I look on Kal-El's face?"
"I have forbidden him to reveal his true identity to any human."
The answer only confused her more. What "true identity"? What did Kal-El have to hide? Nervously, she surveyed the icy chamber one more time, hugging the coverlets closer in an effort to control the goosebumps that had risen on her bare arms. Her breath misted in the air.
"The temperature is not optimal for humans. I will adjust it."
Warmth flowed into the room, as if the season had magically changed from winter to summer, although the chamber itself still looked like a frozen wonderland. Gradually, the coverlets became so hot that she had no choice but to push them off, exposing the scanty outfit that she'd tried so hard to forget. She cast an uneasy eye over it.
"Your clothing does not please you?"
Chloe jumped at the unexpected question. Obviously, Jor-El didn't miss much. "It's beautiful," she said to the surrounding emptiness, wearing a forced smile. "I'd just like to know where it comes from. What happened to my own clothes?"
"You still wear them."
She was beginning to suspect that Jor-El possessed a rather twisted sense of humor. "No, I'm not," she insisted, firmly. "And you know it."
"I merely changed their appearance." This time, there was no mistaking the amusement in his tone.
However, she was far too intrigued by Jor-El's words to mind the joke. She squinted up into the light curiously. "You mean you cast a spell?"
"Hardly," the voice replied dismissively. "It was a simple matter of rearranging inorganic molecules. The same can be done with your apartments."
So her bridegroom had respected her privacy after all, Chloe thought, feeling an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. Her eyes swept the crystalline chamber skeptically. "So if I were to ask for, say, a regular-looking room, with a dressing table, a mirror, and a chair, it would just…."
She trailed off as, before her very eyes, the icy pillars shivered, melted, and reformed into a bedchamber fit for a queen. A gilded dressing-table was paired with an exquisitely-carved velvet armchair. The walls of the room were covered in brocade and tapestries, and, in one corner, the inlaid doors of a tall armoire burst open to reveal a closetful of richly-colored gowns in silks, satins, and velvets.
"….magically appear," she finished weakly.
"Is there anything else you desire?"
Chloe wrinkled her nose at the smug response, then glanced around, noting the piles of jewels on the dressing table without comment, and then realized what was missing. "Where are my books?"
There was a pause. "My son was right about you, I see." A pair of carved oak doors appeared at the other end of the room. "Through here."
Hesitantly, she rose from the overstuffed couch, slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin-lined slippers that had mysteriously appeared at the foot of her bed, and padded her way across acres of Persian carpets towards the doors. She turned the latch, pushed through, and sucked in a shocked breath.
In front of her was a library beyond anything she'd ever seen. Level upon level, the galleries rose up from the main floor, each one lined with shelves and connected by graceful, wrought-iron staircases.
Jor-El had promised that she'd receive knowledge, but in her wildest dreams she'd never imagined such a wealth of information, all in one room.
"A small but select collection," the voice commented, with impressive understatement. "Geared to your interests."
In her excitement she forgot her fear. "I didn't think this many books had even been written."
"Actually, they haven't. Yet."
Chloe was too awed by the library to pay much attention to Jor-El's cryptic comment. She stepped into the room and climbed the nearest staircase to inspect the leather-bound tomes on the first level. She recognized several books by authors like Homer, Herodotus, and Cicero—and, to her delight, one by her favorite, Lucius Apuleius—but before long, she noticed that many of the names were strange to her.
"Who are Woodward and Bernstein?" she demanded to the air around her. "I've never heard of them." When Jor-El didn't answer, she continued to walk along the stacks, noting name after unfamiliar name, until something else caught her eye.
"Some of these books are written by women," she exclaimed admiringly. Plucking one volume from the shelf, she read the title: "Ten Days in a Mad-House, by Nellie Bly. Sounds strange, but interesting. And here's another." She eased out the heavy treatise next to it and let it fall open. "The History of the Standard Oil Company, by Ida Tarbell."
What a "standard oil company" might be, she had no idea, but the book seemed to say it was a kingdom gone wrong, much like King Leo's. She leafed through the chapters with growing fascination.
"She talks about bringing the truth to the people," Chloe breathed. "That's what I always wanted to do, too."
"The truth is that humans are weak and prone to evil."
Jor-El's voice startled her so much that she nearly let the cumbersome volume slip out of her hands. Gripping the edges of the binding firmly, she snapped it shut and slipped it back in place on the shelf. "We're only mortal, but we manage."
"Human urges are destructive. Kal-El will change this."
The words finally jerked Chloe out of her comfortable mood. She looked up, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"Kal-El's destiny is to conquer the Earth."
She drew a shaky breath as Jor-El's meaning hit home. The being who'd protected her, who'd kissed her, who'd spoken words of comfort in her ear and flown her into the clouds, was destined to be a dictator. A tyrant.
A monster.
And there was no going back. She was trapped.
"He will come for you soon." Chloe stared sightlessly in front of her, too shocked to reply.
"Remember, you are here because my son thinks you trustworthy." His tone hardened. "Prove yourself otherwise, and your life is forfeit."
Grimly, she set her jaw. She'd been wrong. There was a way out, if she was brave enough to take it.