Sex, Drugs, and Oblivian

11/21


Maze stood on the wall. The view was the same as it was ashfall after ashfall. Her mind should be as empty as the view in front of her. It swirled and clogged like an ash storm. She couldn't even concentrate on leatherworking.

The way she'd left things with Lucifer felt like poison in her gut. But leaving had been the only thing she could do.

How dare he call her his handler? Handlers were in charge of beasts. Tiraq had been a handler. Maze didn't have a word for what she was to Lucifer. But it wasn't that.

And saying that all the sulking and cringing and refusal to look at her was her fault?

Her fists clenched. She needed to pummel something. Break something. Fuck until she couldn't walk straight. Something to work out this energy. How much worse could it have gotten if she'd stayed in the dome and continued arguing with him?

She would have used the binding cord, and the thought slithered through her like a pit slug. She didn't dare go back now. It wouldn't take much to push her over the edge, and he'd be the thing she worked this poison out on. Would she really use that cord on him, after any amount of goading on his part? Would she risk losing his trust irrevocably? Yet, thinking about him made her want to bash him in the face.

A moment from their past came unbidden to her mind, back when Lucifer was still learning to speak and recovering from being imprisoned in the Spire...

She closed her eyes. Right from the start he'd craved physical contact. He had pressed up against her in the dark of the shelter after pulling him from the fiery lake. The memory of waking up as he caressed her hair. Why did she have to think about this now?

How could he have so much faith in her?

She couldn't go back to the dome. Not until this anger had passed. He had trusted her then. He'd called her good when his feathers started coming back in. She couldn't storm in, fists flying like she would with a Lilim. He wasn't Lilim and living-angels…were frustrating, infuriating, stubborn, ignorant, delicate, troublesome beasts that understood everything wrong. But he was her living-angel, and she wasn't going back until she no longer risked ruining everything.

One ashfall became a hand of them and it became easier to continue her duties than to think about Lucifer and the fight it would take to rein him back in. One hand turned into two and then three, and still she avoided going back. It wasn't until her supervisor reminded her that the next ashfall would be her allotted free time that she realized how much time had passed. Her last encounter with Lucifer no longer brought seething anger, but cold dread and regret. How many times had she told Lucifer to just keep his head down. To keep quiet. To stop sleep wandering and waking up the other guards. The fire was still in him. She'd seen it when he shouted. She remembered all the times she hadn't seen it. All the times she'd thought he was going to move, but stood passive.

Too often, other Lilim compared Lucifer to a beast. That's all any of them thought he was at first, but Maze had known better almost as soon as she'd started interacting with him. He wasn't like Lilim either, though. Sometimes she was tempted to think of him as she would a fresh whelp newly assigned to the warrior cast. Lucifer could barely be compared to one of those. Before the debacle with Anilith, he'd demonstrated some of the appropriate insolence and offensiveness the young warriors were praised for, but she'd known it was a thin veneer of bravado. No Lilim, least of all a whelp, would ever suffer in silence the way he did.

It wasn't a weakness in Lucifer, was it? Stoicism was an alien concept, but it took strength of a kind to not bash your enemies in the face. She'd seen him wield a sword. What if the otherness of the angel could be due to his own experiences and training before landing in the fiery lake.

She'd left him without provisions or trade items for four hands of ashfalls. It wasn't only his companions who hadn't been feeding him correctly. She'd seen the thin porridge he made for himself. The tiny fires he started before looking her way and adding more hearth moss. He'd said it was enough, and she hadn't pushed him. Enough what? To stay alive? To thrive? When had he learned to avoid answering like that? She'd go to the market after her shift. There'd be enough time to go to the market and get what was needed and make it back. There'd even be time to make it back to the wall after if her anger began to flare again.

It was a good plan. She decided to go to the dome first and check what she needed to buy. Maybe she could ask Lucifer if he wanted some thistles. Or she could bring it back as a treat, just because. Or maybe he'd want to come to the market with her. He'd always liked going on outings.

The dome was quiet, a large drift of ash built up against the door flap. She brushed it aside with her foot, and untied the straps holding the door in place and entered.

"Lucifer?"

Empty.

It was clean, now. The food storage jars were full. A chunk of meat hung on the wall… Not fresh, withered away to almost nothing. She tossed it out into the lane. The hearth was cold again. Well, it wasn't like she'd expected him to sit around waiting for her to return. How long had he been gone? It took more than a few winds to build ash up in a drift like the one she found outside the door.

Part of her, a large part, wanted to go straight to the Pit and drag him back home. How dare he? But. What would that accomplish? Would it drive him further away? She had to wait. Be patient. There was no point in returning to the wall before the winds rose, so she lit the hearth, and set some water to boil and settled in.

The porridge was made, she set enough aside for Lucifer if he did come back home before the winds got too strong. The heat of the hearth and the quiet lulled her into an uneasy sleep. She was still alone later when she woke to the winds howling outside.

She sat up, unable to sleep any longer. The tiny dome had a single case with three shelves for storage. She made a habit of checking Lucifer's hearth moss and porridge jars, but she hadn't done a thorough inventory since shortly after she'd moved him here. His assurances that he'd had enough coin to buy what he'd needed had been easy enough to believe. He didn't lie. But as she began opening jars she realized that she'd allowed him to define the word 'need' without clarifying exactly what that entailed. The baskets and jars on the top shelf were all empty.

The smallest jars on this shelf, easily contained in her fist, were for seasonings to make the bland fungus porridges palatable. They were all empty. The next shelf was the same. Two jars of porridge powder were full. He'd gone to the market after their fight, but the dust on them told her that he hadn't touched them in a long time. A sense of dread settled on her. How long had he been gone?

The winds were still blowing, so she continued searching the shelf. The backup hearth moss basket she'd assumed was full, was not.

Was there any point in continuing? She kicked his basket and the jars in front of it tumbled over, one of them cracking. The sound of metal clinking together stopped her. Coin. She knelt. The broken jar had been full of coin. Where had Lucifer gotten so much? She checked the other two jars. Also full of coin. She glanced back up at the bare shelves. He had abundant coin, why would he buy so few supplies? She brushed her hand over the spilled coin. Something else lay underneath.

Her pouch. The one she gave Anilith for Tribute. But how? Had someone from the Spire returned it without her knowing? Who would do such a thing?

She loosened the string and emptied the contents. All the special items she'd thought lost. The warg tooth…

And, she felt a pull. Something else, something with power. Everything she'd put in the pouch was dumped in front of her. What could still be inside? She pushed her fingers through the small opening, brushed across something soft stuck to the leather, and drew it out. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. A feather. Resting on her palm, the small feather shimmered with its own light.

Lucifer got the pouch for her? When? Why would he do this? If the winds were not blowing she would go searching for him. Demand answers. Had he tried to tell her? He'd begun several times, "Maze, when we were called to the Spire—" and that was as far as he'd ever gotten. He had sulked with an intensity she couldn't bear every time she stopped him, but she also couldn't bear to hear him talk about trust and being forced to take his own feather. She remembered how he'd described having them removed—and she couldn't bear to think about her failure to stop it. She'd promised him it wouldn't happen!

No one stole from Anilith.

No whelp would ever dare. No warrior would be so foolhardy. How had Lucifer gotten into the Spire to claim this for her? Or had he taken it that ashfall? She thought back to where all the pieces had been in the chamber. He had been kneeling… Yes. Very close to where Anilith had thrown the pouch. Maze smiled. If anyone knew about his bravery in stealing this… Had he known the full import of what he'd done? She laughed. He'd known enough to keep it hidden all this time. She secured it to her belt.

It was time for the rest of the Collective to know that Anilith had lost a prize. The gossip was clear that Mazikeen had offered her trophy pouch and Anilith had still gotten a feather out of her. The gossip bragged of how wily and great a leader Anilith was to get so much tribute from a daughter of Lilith. No more. It was time to show that Anilith couldn't hold on to the prizes she took.

When the winds died, she was going to go find Lucifer at the Leviathan's Pit. She didn't care what protests he had in store for her. She caressed the tiny feather, and it glowed so brightly that she had to squint her eyes. It dimmed again when she dropped it into the pouch. He'd shared a piece of himself. He couldn't have given her a more intimate gesture of what he felt for her.

And yet, doubt surged within her. Had he done so to tell her again that he thought of her as his handler? That she only desired his feathers? She shook her head. This feather was useless for practical applications. Too small to hold enough divinity to grow anything, too fluffy to make a blade, this was a sentimental gift. The way he had stared at her with reverence as she told him the stories of the items… He wanted to be remembered.

Had he meant the gift as a goodbye? She didn't believe he could fly; not with his wings so grey and clumpy and the still missing large feather would interfere, wouldn't it? She didn't really understand how all those feathers were supposed to work to let him fly, but it seemed like they ought to each be important.

The winds slowed. Mazikeen ate her porridge and dressed in her armor and boots. He could come home on his own, but she'd given him enough space. The withered meat and pile of ash already concerned her. What he'd left behind scared her. What if he had attempted to fly away despite the pitiful state of his wings? The image of him lying broken at the bottom of the wall for scavengers flashed before her mind. No. There were other possibilities she could explore. He'd spent nearly all his time at the Leviathan Pit before the fight. That's where she'd look for him first.

She left the little dome and marched through the lanes. She only had one ashfall free from her duty, and they clearly needed a staggering amount of work. If he needed her, duty be damned. Her vow to Anilith said that no one, not even the Soverain could interfere with her caring for the living-angel. The bare shelves alone said that she'd allowed her wall duty to interfere. She turned onto a new lane, entering the throwback quarter, when she heard sandaled feet slapping the stones in the lane behind her.

Her view of the pursuer was blocked by domes. She gripped the handle of her blades, ready for anything, but what self-respecting Lilim would make such a clatter? She expected to see Lucifer round the corner, although she'd never known him to lack grace like this.

"Mazikeen?" She knew that high pitched voice. It was Squee, the tiny male nest minder.

"What do you want?" she asked as he skidded to a stop in front of her.

"You need to come to nest," he said, panting.

She loomed over him. "And why would I do that?"

"It's your angel whelp. We think he's dying!"

Cold washed over her. Dying? She motioned him to lead the way.

He took off in his noisy, awkward run.

"How did you end up with him?"

"I check on whelps when winds die down. Young ones need help sometimes. Found your living-angel in an alcove. Out for the whole wind cycle, it looks like. No clothes. Hurt. Dromos says it's bad, very bad. Says I should have brought him to you. We don't want to end up like Tiraq." He puffed, out of breath.

Mazikeen gave him a shove. Pathetic little lump. "Move faster, then."