Chapter 5
Fog set in, like the carefully placed holes in the theater’s walls illuminating the artfully dusted stage, it flowed in one direction as though beckoning, leading. Gabrielle had not really been sleeping, as much as she wished she could, for it had been an endless day, and it will be an early morning, the gift of paralysis and emptiness eluded her, her restless body feeling each and every second pass, her view unchanged except for flicker of flame and swaying of green, and as the heavy rising of her companion’s shoulder as she slept, and breathed, and slept, blessed to miss all of this, except now (and she was already awake so she might as well…), the fog, the call, natural enough to not wake her friend but too mesmerizing to not investigate (and after all, I’m the one here for it, she thought). Toes digging so gently into the dirt she steps as though under a spell, hypnotized, but only in movement—her mind, exhausted but lucid, conscious, all-too active—like a dance first choreographed centuries ago, from before one even considered performance as a means of expression, and only knew expression, and only knew expression and the desire to perform, twirling and screaming and knowing that something about them shone beautiful—she stepped toes first, landing on the balls of her feet, metatarsals crackling little thunderclaps as she rounds in mechanical motion the foot down onto her heel, her head rising and falling in the slightest bounce, shoulders in sync, but chin still, not turning nor tilting, somnambulist-like; the mist calls beyond the trees, beyond the light of fire, beyond the warmth of sleeping women, toward a raised hill, much like where they had originally descended when entering this cursed region—how sweet it had been and now—I’m not so sure—and here it finally hit her, the exhaustion, the need to rest amid this cold. No more flaming aura.
Past the glow, Gabrielle lay herself upon the ground and immediately felt the groping hands. Too tired now to fight, and not quite galvanized by fear, she let the anonymous hands rip the beading sweat from the slight cavity in her chest, tearing cross-strap over the breast into the armpit, another soft hand filling the webs of its fingers with her hair, gently pulling her head back, forcing her to exhale, pulsing light grabs so to mimic homeostatic breaths, inhale and exhale (on cue). A third hand, more calloused, like the earthen roots rising from beneath her mirror-flipped and sunk into her thighs as fingers, returning home to the dirt, another set of textured fingers tracing lines in her abdomen before strongly holding her waist to the ground—here she felt strangely comforted, her head and chest pulled in dreamy surrender while the rest of her body pressed into Gaia’s warm embrace (in the past, before she had known for sure, she imagined this was what death would feel like past the moment of surrender, the warm release from pain while feeling heavier than she’d ever felt, but now she knows, she knows for sure that
death feels like hanging)—kisses on her neck from lips molded to meet her every touch of skin like golden chokers heat-sweat-stuck to fiery flesh, nose inhale by the ear removing sound from the world, leaving only anonymous breaths, the possessor and her own, matched, one sound in unison like perfect fifths rising and falling (like her companion’s chest, still lying there, am I still lying there? am I dreaming?)—am I breathing?—(was it that oil-muddied chime that she heard? was her prayer being answered [INHALE] could she write down that name and deliver it to those gods or was it true [EXHALE], was her overfamiliarity with her own kind enough to damn the message? [INHALE] but who is to say who is of her kind anyway, and who is to say who needs forgiving [EXHALE], for surely the damned will be amongst the gods one way or another…) that sound—clear and polished as the amphorae of the kuwanowokoi—icicles in her ear, crystal-whistling a curled finger to tilt her head to the side, just slightly, unconsciously releasing a streak of clean saliva, running warm, wet touches down her cheek, past the jaw and onto the neck, into the mouth of the enigma of silver curls and breaths. ([INHALE.])
“Heyy,” the singsong voice by her ear whines.
“What are you whining about?” the gravelly voice above her.
“My hair is not silver, it’s golden all the way through!”
The man above scoffs. “Who said it was silver?”
“She’s thinking about it!”
“I’m sorry,” Gabrielle whispers, feeling the trail of spit cool in the air with the movement of her mouth. “It’s so dark, and your hair is light.”
“Light gold, sweet one.” She says, not quite absent of venom.
“I’ve always preferred silver, it looks stronger, like hot steel, like ichor.”
The man (out of breath, bothered, panting, body overheating, melting against the cold of the aether) answers for the woman. “Ichor is gold.”
The woman teases, “Are you thinking about our blood, doll?” A heavy finger touches around her opening, forceful at first, then trembling on the recoil, leaving with it a needle-thin trail of arousal. ([EXHALE.] And he exhales with her, louder maybe than the voice in her own head, than the breath at her ear.) “Well?”
“She’s hard… and wet.”
Gabrielle feels a kiss at her neck, “Like a shell at the beach!”
Gabrielle feels a touch at her— (and she rises to reach it), “Like a bleeding stone.”
Gabrielle feels light, soft fingers enter her throat (and she weaves her muscle through to worship those fingers; the fingers in turn stroke at the tongue as though it were the finest fabric), “Like a comet.”
Kisses on her chest, rumbling voice, “Celestial fire.”
The woman giggles, “That’s beautiful, you old softy.”
Immediately, Gabrielle feels the face against her chest warm even brighter than before. Her own head swimming from touches, she’s rocking away. Her brain resting upon the ship of the hero Theseus, kept in its harbor, lulling her into gelatin, the mouths and fingers dissolving the border between the brain and the fluid surrounding it, replaced, and kept in place by the adoration of her body until she hardly recognizes herself. Relinquishing control until the point of total release. Stirring static shock, butt rising and falling to charge Gaia with orgasmic battery, a sweat-slicked part of the machine. Rise, rise, rise, rise! And fall, and fall! And on the third fall—gasp, shudder, the fingers enter and curl and strike fire with her—the furnace of Hephaestus burning grass to ash fuck to fire fuck to fire, burn fire, fuck twist and curl throat hand choke fill full gag rise fall INHALE shudder tremble RESIST fog whimper whine
[AND HE EXHALES WITH YOU AND YOU THINK YOU HEAR HIM MOAN AND YOU HEAR HER LAUGH AT HIM BUT HE IS TOO OBSESSED WITH YOU TO STOP OR FEEL SELF-CONSCIOUS. THE TASTE IN YOUR MOUTH IS PINK CRYSTAL SALT AND IT IS DELICIOUS AND IF SHE JUST TASTED YOU, YOU WOULD SCREAM HER NAME SO YOU BEG HER, MUFFLED, GARBLED]
, “Dite, please…” maneuvering her tongue around those perfect glitter-shimmering fingers, turning her plosive alveolar ‘D’ into an implosive, retroflex sound, cutting short her own breath by suffocating the airflow with a tongue-press further back down the palate; suicidal adoration to just say her name (and it feels so good to say a familiar name).
“Say my full name,” she responds with an unusual sternness that chills the night colder than before. The fingers retreat, and Gabrielle takes her minute to return to herself, to truly see the two before her; the God first, serious and hard but blushing, averting his gaze to look at the Goddess, soft and perfect, but with a pale direness she hasn’t seen in quite a while.
The girl obliges, “Aphrodite,” with a sincerely raised ultima, trying to please so hard it comes out like a question—the ever-unsure nature of pleasing just to please is always phrasing one’s speech in questions, and soon questions dominate one’s thoughts, and thoughts dominate one’s actions, and actions dominate one’s history, and a history dominates one’s life, acting toward it or against it, and she would know (she would know) this to be true (why am I so eager to please HER?)—to which Aphrodite breathes a sigh of relief.
“That’s right.”
The God of war groans and punches the ground, “This whole idea was stupid.”
“Take a chill pill, psycho! She hasn’t said your name yet, you didn’t have to stop.”
“She said it earlier today, I said it earlier today—do you even understand what the problem is here with…” he scoffs and fists the ground again.
“Ares,” Gabrielle offers.
He looks at her quickly and darts his eyes away even faster. “No. I mean,” he gestures toward the fire, and makes a weird half-movement with his hands, as though casting a spell at himself, “I mean yes, I…” and a quiet moment passes (interrupted only by an under-the-breath “oh brother” from Aphrodite) before, “thank you.”
Aphrodite applauds lightly. “Congrats Gabi, you broke his poor brain.”
“My brain is fine, you’re the one who came up with fucking a mortal just to hear your own name—when, might I add, it was completely unnecessary, because if your name was gone, Aphrodite, none of us would be able to say it.”
“That’s true,” Gabrielle says, now rising to a sitting position, dirt and plant debris clinging to her back desperately trying to hang on, to move with her, before collapsing to be left where it was and will be for all eternity.
Aphrodite stands, following Gabrielle’s movement, and crosses her arms, “So you’re like, the expert on this now? You know all the rules?”
“No, I’m sorry.” She felt like she did, like she’d experienced enough, but really it had only been today, and it hadn’t really happened to her, she was just taking it on, a spectral malady she had to solve and suffer, and everyone from the victim to the gods had to be her witness.
“Listen…” Ares says, with some care, “I’m here because I want to tell you, as much as I…” he decides against it, and continues, “despite our history, if you don’t solve this thing, I will have no choice but to kill you, and with you burn every story existing of her, without remorse or ceremony, and I’ll make it so no one who knows my name ever visits this land ever again. I know what I said earlier, but the more that ties me to her, the more likely it is that I’ll disappear along with her. And with her in the state she’s in, and if you all are weakened by your failures…” he chuckles nervously, “it still won’t be easy, I bet, but it will happen, and I’ll have thousands on my side.”
“I’d like to see you try.” But those words ring hollow without her friend’s full force. She stands, and Aphrodite puts a hand on her shoulder, immediately making her feel small and soft, like there’s no fight in her at all. I could have been one of you, she thinks, if you didn’t frighten me so much.
“What do you want most, Gabrielle?” Aphrodite asks, familiar sweetness returning. If it’s manipulation, Gabrielle doesn’t notice. But she can’t answer, she looks up to the stars and thinks a million things that she wants; but so many of those things include her. Aphrodite pats her shoulder now, leaving the wind to whistle. “Go back to her.” and she releases her hand.
Feeling all alone, Gabrielle takes the first steps back, but turns and asks Aphrodite, “Do you agree with him? Are you going to let him kill me?”
Aphrodite smiles a pitying, perfect smile, eyes already flashing back memories of touch, fingers twitching into a fist, and releasing, uttering, “I love you dearly, Gabrielle.”
A hot stone swirls in her chest—she turns and slowly marches back to camp, where her beautiful friend lays, snoring lightly. She sits and lays down beside her, ending her little journey, as brief as a blink, and masturbates quietly, coming quickly, and finally gets her first bit of sleep.