Author Note: Welcome to the fourth chapter of In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You! Thank you for reading!
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.
Chapter Four: He Who Stands His Ground
He does not know what to expect. He only knows that he must be ready for whatever comes.
The denizens of Erkalla look at him with hooded eyes, secrets hidden in their gaze, anger in the tilt of their heads, power in their steps. They are different from the gods and mortals he has known in the upper world—more serious, more somber, and infinitely more controlled. They're not the wild, tempestuous beasts the younger gods would whisper about when speculating on what the land of the dead was like.
"Savage things," they would mutter. "Even Inanna couldn't conquer the Underworld; what uncultivated brutes they must be, to hold oaths to She Who Rules Alone."
Enjolras wishes his peers had been right; a brute was a mindless force of nature. These were thinking, rational beings that looked like they had a grudge to bear and the means to attain their revenge very shortly. They were viciousness leashed and fury tempered, and far, far more dangerous because of it.
Still, he stands and faces them, because he is a god equal to any here in this hall of the Queen of the Dead.
Grantaire strolls into the hall, as indolent as ever, and walks over to chair placed at the right hand of the massive, imposing throne. He takes his place and smiles coldly at Enjolras.
"This is gonna be good," he says, and several of the other gods chuckle in anticipation.
Neti swoops in quietly, appearing to materialize out of thin air, and he takes the seat to the left of the throne.
"Where's Sumuqan?" he asks Grantaire.
"How in Anu's name am I supposed to know? You know that kid hates ceremonies. He's probably hanging out in the Ever-Dawning Fields with Aurore and his other cattle. He can come and piss on the corpse when it's over," Grantaire drawls, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling.
Neti sighs and shoots him a mildly cross look. "Stop trying to scare our guest."
"Scare him?" Grantaire laughs. "Kid's got ice in his veins—look at him, he isn't even trembling. Our Lady will fix that, of course."
Neti only shakes his head, and the hall falls into a restless, anticipatory silence.
They don't have long to wait.
The doors to the hall are thrown open with a bang, and instantly every person in the room gets to their feet and sweeps into a bow, gods and spirits of immense power bowing to the one who rules over them all.
It's a sight to behold, and Enjolras keeps half an eye on them as he turns around to face the queen he challenges.
The sight of her knocks the breath out of his lungs, freezes the blood in his veins, and stops his heart in its tracks.
She's perfectly formed, limbs long and shapely, breasts high, waist curved, hips sweetly rounded. She's taller than most women as well, the top of her head perhaps coming to his nose. Her smooth skin is a warm, deep golden-brown, and her mouth a bold, passionate red, as lush and full as ripe pomegranates. She has hair as black as shadows, eyes as dark and cutting as an obsidian blade.
She is dressed in robes as red as blood, made from cloth so finely woven it's almost transparent. They cover her from her shoulders to her toes, though they give tantalizing hints at her body underneath, the suggestion of nudity more erotic than any inch of bare skin she may have chosen to reveal.
She wears strings of agates between her breasts, carnelian stones at her ears, and lapis lazuli on her fingers. Beautifully-wrought leaves made of silver dust her hair, copper bangles engraved with words of power adorn her wrists and ankles, and a golden crown rests upon her proudly lifted head.
She strides forward with a sinuous, elegant grace, confidence in every step and the hint of danger in every movement.
She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, but it is not her beauty which shakes him to his very bones.
It is the fact that he knows her. It is the fact that she is his every desire come to life before him. She is the woman from his dreams, the woman he has waited centuries to meet.
For a moment, just a moment, he is tempted to go to her, press his lips to hers, laugh loudly with relieved joy at his discovery that she is no figment of his imagination, and tell her softly that he is here, he has come, he is sorry for having kept her waiting for so long.
But in his dreams, her eyes were always warm and welcoming, filled with teasing, bold desire as she runs her hands over his body, her touch as familiar and loving as it is sensuous. In his dreams, she knows him better than he knows himself.
The eyes of the woman before him hold no warmth, no welcome, no desire at all except perhaps a longing to see his blood spilled upon the floor. There is no recognition, no intimate knowledge in her dark, sultry gaze, and he is abruptly reminded of who it is she truly is.
She is the goddess he insulted, merciless Death who cares not for mortals or gods, his enemy in this game of theirs that he entered so blindly—and if he wishes to see his family again, he cannot succumb to the urge to fall to his knees and offer himself to her.
So he stands his ground and does not bow before her, the only person in the room to meet her eyes. There's not a flicker in his expression to give away his instinctive longing—she is a goddess like any other, worse than some, he believes, and if he will not bend knee to Anu, he will not bend knee to her.
"Welcome to Erkalla, Nergal, god of death, Harbinger of Plague, Bringer of Oblivion," she says, her voice low and husky. "Welcome to my realm."
He bends his head, just the tiniest bit, and she takes note of the motion and quirks her mouth.
She walks around him, circling him, eyes surveying every inch of his body, and he wonders if this is how prey feels, in the last seconds before the predator pounces. She stops right in front of him, and though she is a little less than a handspan shorter than him, the way she holds herself makes it seem as if she is looking down on him.
"It's an impressive kingdom," he says cautiously. That seems neutral enough.
"Have you nothing else to say for yourself, boy?" she asks, and he bristles slightly. He's a second-generation god, has lived for dozens of mortal lifetimes, and is far more mature than anyone else his age—he isn't some "boy."
"No," he gets out through gritted teeth. "It seems unnecessary. You already know what I think about you."
She steps closer to him, and he catches the heady scent of pomegranate and jasmine. "Oh, I know," she says.
Then she slaps him full across the face.
"How dare you?" she thunders. "How dare you stand there and judge me? I am your liege lady! I am the Queen of Death herself and at the very least I deserve your respect!"
He spits blood onto her floor and the gathered crowd gasps, first in shock, then in anger.
One did not dirty the hall of death lightly—but then Enjolras was never one to back down from a challenge.
"I see nothing to respect; merely a goddess who would rather stay in her realm and be worshipped by souls too weak to do anything else than use her power to help those still living," he says coldly.
She gives him a wide-eyed, incredulous look, and he feels a moment of satisfaction at having shocked her—at least until she throws her head back and laughs in his face.
"Oh," she says, reaching out to lay her hand on his jaw, "what spirit you have. I shall so enjoy breaking it." She leans forward and strokes her thumb across his lips—and this is the chance he was waiting for.
He turns his head and bites down hard on her thumb, his mouth filling with the coppery taste of her blood.
She pulls back and hisses, and the entire hall erupts in a cacophony of outraged screeches and shouts, Grantaire unsheathing his sword and Neti summoning his spear.
"Silence!" Ereshkigal yells. She holds her hand to her lips and sucks on the cut; when she pulls it away, the wound is healed as if it never existed.
He swallows heavily, the heady taste of her divine power burning his throat as it goes down.
"Do you know what you have done?" she asks, voice low and terrible to behold.
"Bartered myself a bargain, my Lady," he replies. "I've tasted your blood; I'm a full citizen of your realm now, by the laws of the dead, and as a god of the Underworld, I'm entitled to leave it if I survive the tests."
"Those are the ancient laws. No one knows of them any longer. How did you even—" She cuts herself off, eyes narrowing in furious realization. "Enki."
He gives her a sharp, single nod.
"Ha!" She strides away, her red dress trailing like tongues of fire in her wake, and she seats herself on her throne, leaning back on it almost languidly, one arm tossed over the back, the other resting on her crossed legs. "Ha! So you seek to play games with me, do you, godling?"
"Play them—and win," he says.
"You really think you can last a year and a day in my realm without eating or drinking or partaking in any aspect of my hospitality?" she queries.
"I'm a god. Food and drink isn't necessary."
"How little you have known of hunger, then, to dismiss it so lightly," she states, eyes dark with some indefinable emotion. She strokes the arm of her throne lightly, staring at him speculatively. "Very well, godling. We'll play it your way. Self-torture is penalty enough." She waves her hand, smirking. "You're dismissed, my people. Out little captive has chosen the means of his punishment himself—would that all our prisoners be so accommodating."
The crowd chuckles lightly in amusement and slowly they begin to leave the room, until none are left but Ereshkigal, Neti, Grantaire, and himself.
"Neti," Ereshkigal says. "Give him a room and show him the way so he can refresh himself before dinner. It wouldn't do for our latest pet to get lost."
And with that, he is led away, and he must force himself not to look back to catch one final glimpse of the red-garbed goddess on her silver throne, dark eyes watching him as he leaves, the touch of her gaze heavy as a secret.
The room set aside for him is spacious, decorated plainly with dark colors and low furniture to suit masculine tastes. It's also oddly familiar, and Enjolras runs a questioning hand over wooden carvings whose design he definitely recognizes.
"This is where your father stayed when he was living here," Neti explains. "My Lady set it aside just the way it was when he and your mother and sister left."
Enjolras nods stiffly, pretending that his throat isn't closing up at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
Or is it thoughtfulness? Perhaps it is one more game Ereshkigal seeks to play with him.
"Did she choose this room for me?" he asks, suspicious.
"Yes," Neti answers carefully. "She meant to reprimand you first, of course, but as her guest you would have been entitled to a place while you found your footing here in Erkalla."
"Really?" he asks skeptically. "Was not my place in the pits of punishments? Is Ereshkigal not known for her lack of mercy?"
Neti's lips thinned. "I am beginning to see why Grantaire dislikes you so. Our Lady is not what others have painted her to be; you know nothing of the woman of whom you speak."
"Then how would she have rebuked me had I chosen not to challenge her?" Enjolras demands.
"She would have whipped you with her own hand—twenty lashes dealt by Death herself to punish the insult done to her name. A fair punishment, with no lasting damage, except perhaps to your pride, if it proved that shallow. Dumuzi certainly didn't like the scars that ruined his looks," Neti says, a touch derisively. "But then he always was a vain one."
Enjolras remembers the ugly welts left on the god of spring's back—scars on gods were rare, but Dumuzi and Inanna bore them, Inanna's curving around her left arm. Both had earned them by incurring Ereshkigal's infamous wrath.
"I could have borne it," Enjolras said softly. "I could have borne fifty lashes if that's what it took to satisfy her monstrous pride. What I could not have borne was staying in this cold, cruel realm for the rest of my existence. What I could not have borne was knowing my mother wept for me, that my sister mourned my loss, that they my family would never see me again."
Neti looks at him silently, an odd light of compassion in his eyes. "Your fate was decided long ago. Refusing to pay homage to my Lady was just the catalyst."
Enjolras scoffs. "Please. Only mortals are bound to follow Grantaire's whims—gods make their own future."
Neti shakes his head and exits the room, leaving Enjolras to his own thoughts.
And Enjolras closes his eyes as her voice whispers in his mind:
Oh, little one. You were always fated to be here—you were always fated to be mine.
Not if I have anything to say about it, he thinks grimly, and strides to the clothes chest to pick his battle garb. You will not keep me here. You will not win.
Éponine narrows her eyes as she observes the godling seated across from her.
The dinner itself is a small one, consisting of just Nergal and herself. Her young cousin has chosen to wear red to match her, stubbornly refusing to dress in less vibrant tones, as befitting a lesser god, tacitly continuing his rebellion even in his clothing.
Her cooks have outdone themselves, and servants dressed in elegant black robes bring in golden platter after golden platter piled high with delicious food: fresh fruits such as sweet oranges, ripe dates, luscious grapes, rich cantaloupe, and fragrant pomegranates as appetizers. There are earthy cheeses, light flatbreads, hearty stews, delicate soups, the finest of meats cooked to perfection—succulent roasted boar, quails glazed with sauces, roasted lamb laid out on beds of leafy greens.
He turns his nose up at all of them, stoically refusing to even let so much as a muscle twitch in response, and barely seeming impressed with the wealth of her table, the rarity of the bounty she can provide.
In return, Éponine ignores him and his stubborn silence, eating with gusto and using her hands to tear her food apart.
When she licks the sauce from her fingers, she hears a strangled sort of groan coming from his direction, and looks up to see his eyes fixated on her lips and the way she's sucking the tips of her fingers.
Ah, she thinks to herself.
She picks up an orange and peels it, then brings the flesh to her lips, biting down slowly. "Mmm," she moans slightly as the sweet, slightly tart flavor bursts in her mouth. A drop of juice trails down her chin, and Éponine can feel his eyes tracking it, can almost sense his desire to reach out and lick it off her skin.
If he will not fall prey to food, she can just as easily tempt him with her body. The sooner he yields, the better. She will not be bested by some arrogant young boy, challenged day after day in her own realm—no. She will end this now.
She spends the rest of the feast eating her meal as erotically as possible, moaning with every bite, savoring each succulent morsel, letting her lips and hands and voice seduce him by sight and sound alone, watching as his fists clench tighter and tighter, until his knuckles are white with strain.
She smiles to herself, hiding it behind a hand lazily wiping her mouth. Oh, yes, she has caught him now.
She is Death—all men desire her. All men are drawn to her, and this one is no different from any other.
He will kneel before her soon enough.
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