The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 14: Lovers: Section II: Aurelius

Aurelius: The Palace: Qemassen

A month had passed since Dashel's death in the Eghri, but it felt longer.

Aurelius was no longer confined to his rooms, though he'd spent most of his time secluded anyway. He didn't receive many visitors, but that didn't reflect the number of requests to be received. His reply was always the same, that Ashtaroth would be king, and that they should visit Ashtaroth if they wanted someone to bribe so badly.

Aurelius had no taste for it. In fact, he had little taste for anything. Fish, or fruit, or fine wine—it was all gristle on his tongue.

Qirani claimed Aurelius should be healed and well from his injuries, but he didn't feel well. A constant pressure clouded his mind, and his heart swam with dark thoughts he couldn't banish. So many times, he stood up to sneak to Bree's chambers, but when he remembered how narrowly she'd escaped punishment for their treachery, he'd sit himself back down again, a great and terrible silence overtaking him.

Silence shouldn't make a sound, yet it roared like the ocean inside his skull.

And underneath it all, the ache of his own accusing barbs: Dashel had died for him and Aurelius had done nothing. Dashel had loved him, and Aurelius hadn't given him an inch. Dashel had trusted him, and all Aurelius had ever done was ensnare him, play with him, destroy him.

Sitting on his bed, Aurelius balled his hands into fists. "I have no right to love."

His own voice was that of a stranger breaking the dim quiet.

There was no time for sitting, not today, when he was due to make his first appearance at the war council.

Aurelius stood up and approached his bronze mirror, staring into it.

If his voice had been that of a stranger, then how much the more so the face that gazed back at him? His hair was unkempt, his beard unshaven, his robes dishevelled and stained. He hadn't washed himself in a week, and it had been stuffy and hot in his room.

He'd dismissed all his slaves and servants, even freed some, just to piss off Hima. It would never be enough to make up for what she'd taken. She could have saved Dashel and had chosen not to. She'd weighed Dashel's soul and found it wanting.

Hima had come to Aurelius the night after Dashel had died. She'd told him everything Dashel had said to her in his cell, every detail of Dashel's plan to save Aurelius from Eshmunen's blade, along with her reasons for abandoning him. Then had come her rant, her accusations. How many more people, Hima had asked, had to die for Aurelius eq-Eshmunen? He was leaving everything to her, shutting himself in his room, acting the coward. She needed him, she claimed, and he'd thrown her to the wolves.

He'd yelled back in denial, but she'd been right.

If Aurelius had died all those years ago, none of this would have happened. Dashel, Eshmunen—even Samelqo—would still be here.

All of them, Ashtara too, for this face.

"Perhaps the face should match the heart." He smiled bitterly. The expression made his guts churn. "What are you so happy about?"

His smile widened to a grin, and he reached for a knife, overcome by the sudden desire to widen it permanently.

He pressed the dagger to his cheek. Blood welled where iron met flesh.

The door opened.

"What are you doing?!" Bree marched over and snatched the knife away. Her eyes were wide with shock.

"Shaving," Aurelius offered with a smirk.

"Then have a slave do it." She scowled, turning the blade over. "Your sister gave me special permission to visit you; she told me you were in a state. I thought she was exaggerating, but now I see it was the opposite."