Chapter Text
In the aftermath of Phainon’s departure, Castorice stays behind in the Vortex of Genesis to watch the stars swirl. The rest of them – Chrysos Heirs and travellers from beyond the sky both – remain for a while, but the only one to stay with her the entire time is Aglaea.
Castorice traces the stalactites that hang like a curtain in front of the stars, watching for any sign that the tidal pull that had absorbed Phainon into its grasp will relent and spit him out.
Specifically, there’s a spot close to the centre of the vortex with a cluster of stars that looks just like the sigil barely visible in Phainon’s eye, and Castorice can’t help but imagine that it’s the spot that he’ll walk out of when he’s completed his trial.
Castorice hopes it’ll be soon.
Aglaea doesn’t make a sound, but Castorice knows that she’s there, just behind her, somehow. Perhaps it’s those golden threads that wrap around everyone in Okhema, like loving fingertips roaming over her skin. She can’t feel them, but at the same time they’re always there, and the certainty of that is reassuring.
Castorice had been so worried. Even without Oronyx’s whispers of warning, even without knowing Gnaeus, and in turn what awaits a mortal set on embodying Strife. She had been worried since she’d seen that steely look in Phainon’s eyes when he’d talked about the Coreflame – the same she’d seen in so many soldiers before charging to their death.
Castorice hears Aglaea sigh from behind her. When she turns, she sees Aglaea’s heels dug into the ground, her body tensed, and her hands clenched on something invisible, but clearly there. There’s a tension in Aglaea’s bones, and with her eyes closed, the woman seems to look out into the distance. With another frustrated sigh, Aglaea lets the tension go. Seamlessly, she flows back into her normal stance, though not without the trace of a frown lingering on her face.
“What were you searching for?” Castorice asks her.
Aglaea – to Castorice’s shock – jumps slightly. She stumbles for a beat, though corrects herself immediately. When she looks over to Castorice, her gaze sits just a bit to the right of where Castorice is standing.
“Ah, Cas. I wasn’t aware that you were still here.”
Castorice tilts her head. “I didn’t think that was possible for you, Lady Aglaea.”
Aglaea straightens herself out and brushes off her dress. She sharpens her gaze – still just a bit off from Castorice. “I suppose I must be more tired than I thought. We have had a long day, and a longer campaign, what with our new visitors. Then again, some of us have spent it communing with Gods for far longer than anybody could fathom.”
“I am quite tired,” Castorice admits.
“Perhaps we should head back. The onus falls on him now, and no searching through the golden threads can alleviate that, nor will staring into the stars. It would not be a trial if the opposite were true.”
Castorice nods. When Aglaea doesn’t respond, she takes a careful, quiet step to her right, followed by another. Aglaea’s gaze doesn’t follow her.
“You’re right, of course,” Castorice says.
Aglaea’s head snaps to where Castorice had spoken from. She stares confidently, though Castorice knows her too well to fall for the façade. One of Aglaea’s hands goes to a strap on her dress to adjust it, and Castorice knows they both know Aglaea is always dressed perfectly.
“Come, Cas. We cannot afford to be still while one of our own fights. Okhema depends on us.” She speaks confidently.
Aglaea turns, heels clacking against the floor. Castorice follows, though only after watching her step effortlessly over a slight incline on the floor.
Castorice closes her eyes and takes the same steps that Aglaea did. Even with the knowledge that the incline is there, her foot still snags on it. She’s forced to catch herself from falling by flailing her arms forwards.
Aglaea turns when she hears the noise. Once again, her eyes stray to the left of Castorice. “Everything alright, Cas?” Her voice quivers just barely enough to be audible.
“I’m fine. Lead on.”
-
“Selective blindness?” Dan Heng asks her later over lunch. Between them, Stelle is feeding the little pink… thing she has with little cuts of meat held between fingers. Castorice chooses to ignore her.
“Is it possible?”
Dan Heng leans back in thought. “While there have been similar phenomena documented, I’ve never heard of selective blindness being a thing. There are no archive excerpts on the subject either, though it has been a while since I’ve last checked over it.”
Castorice raises an eyebrow. “Similar phenomena?”
Instead of answering, Dan Heng turns to Stelle. “What’s Kafka’s current bounty?”
“10.89 billion credits.” Stelle answers without turning away from the pink rabbit-dog-thing.
“Who’s the next character releasing in that phone game you play?”
“Evelyn Chevalier.”
“What did you have for breakfast today?”
Stelle stops. Her mouth hangs open for a little longer than would be appropriate, but Castorice doesn’t judge. The pink thing hovering in front of Stelle makes a few rude sounding noises, but Stelle just shakes her head.
Dan Heng turns back to Castorice. “Selective memory,” he inclines his head towards Stelle.
“So, you think this hypothetical person could’ve been experiencing something similar?”
Dan Heng closes his eyes. “No. Stelle and Aglae-“ Dan Heng clears his throat. “This mystery person seems to have a very different personality than Stelle. However, Amphoreus has many quirks. Before Stelle and I crashed here, I never thought one could witness the past so vividly. Yet, now I’ve lived it. I don’t think precedent holds much weight here.”
Castorice wonders about that. A woman wielding a tool for sports as a weapon who can speak to the Titans better than the most devout priests crash-lands on the outskirts of their city. Within a few days, Nikador is defeated, Phainon is gone - far too soon for him to have resolved anything - and Aglaea is unable to see Castorice.
She thinks precedent doesn’t hold much weight for her either.
“Hey, Dan Heng. Have you seen this?” Stelle holds out her phone towards him.
Dan Heng takes a look at the phone. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Since when are you connected to their ‘World Wound Web,’ Stelle?”
“Since just now. Do you think they’d understand one of our memes?”
Dan Heng sighs. He looks as if he’d like to put his face through the table. “I still don’t think Sunday appreciates you using his photos like that. He’s probably just too polite to say so.”
Stelle shrugs and continues happily scrolling.
Castorice cranes her head to get a look at her screen. She’s been hoping since Aglaea failed to see her that everything that’s been happening recently could be explained away as coincidence, or just tiredness on both her and Aglaea’s parts – but this is the nail in the coffin. On Stelle’s phone, as she’s scrolling a page of the World Wound Web, Castorice sees a blurry mess of colourless images, shimmering on top of each other countless times until they’re completely indecipherable.
Castorice can’t see the page, just as she couldn’t see it on her own device when she’d checked earlier.
Which makes sense, because Aglaea – or specifically, her golden threads - control the World Wound Web.
Castorice sighs. “Oh no,” she whispers, and her voice comes out cold and sickly and a little higher than normal.
Stelle changes the page on her phone to a text history between the Astral Express – not connected to Aglaea’s threads. The image immediately clears up, and Castorice is worried.
Castorice looks at the world around her – golden, beautiful, and clear.
If her eyes are fine, and everybody else can see the Web, and Aglaea can see everything but her, then what could this possibly be?
She doesn’t know, and she thinks if Aglaea knew she would’ve contacted her – or maybe she’s trying to, but the threads connecting them won’t work, and-
Castorice’s hand brushes the side of the table as she moves to stand. From the carefully molded ceramic blooms a dark purple flower that secretes a heady toxin that stinks of death and rot.
“Castorice, are you alr-“
“Please don’t touch it,” Castorice urges. She pulls the flower out of the table just before Stelle can reach out for her, tugging necrotic purple roots out as they’re still forming. “That could’ve been dangerous. I have to go and take care of this immediately.”
Castorice jumps up. She runs away from the table and then turns back.
“Thank you for all of your help. I do appreciate it a lot.”
Castorice runs away in the other direction before she can hear anything Dan Heng and Stelle say, clutching the flower so hard it could snap.
-
The flower, she finds, is beautiful.
It takes her a bit of time to properly look at it, but after a jaunt through the slowly growing fields of stone tombs lining the mountainsides closest to the Black Tide, Castorice feels as if lying it to rest at the foot of a random grave seems… wrong.
She isn’t sure what makes her stop, or what makes her hold the flower closer. All she knows is it feels right. Castorice cradles the flower, holds a petal close to her cheek, and loosens her grip on the rotted stem.
Castorice has never studied flowers – whenever she’d tried, she’d feel fear grip her, like it once had in her childhood, and everything would freeze – so she can’t name the flower or even know where it comes from. All she knows is that it doesn’t feel like it belongs with the dead, despite the fact that it looks like it’s in a perpetually dying state.
-
It’s perhaps a little over the top to journey across Okhema for the sake of a single deathly flower. It feels worth it, to see Kephale’s blinding light touch the flower from where it rests on the railing overlooking the hills.
“Cas?” Aglaea’s voice from behind her spooks Castorice into jumping.
“Lady Aglaea! Forgive me, I didn’t hear you approaching.”
Aglaea’s steps are soft as she leans against the railing beside Castorice, just a little closer than necessary.
“Quite alright, Cas. Garmentmaker told me you had been standing here for quite some time.”
Castorice sighs. “The past days have been… worrying, I suppose.” She tries to look into Aglaea’s eyes, but finds they’re fixed just behind her. “Perhaps we could speak about it?”
Aglaea tilts her head in Castorice’s direction, and just for a moment, she feels short of breath. “Not here,” Aglaea whispers, the focused look on her face a mask for any other emotion.
Castorice lets out a deep breath. She nods, and then when she remembers, she says, “of course, Lady Aglaea.”
There’s a slight breeze blowing from behind them. It touches Castorice’s skin in a way that reminds her of Aglaea’s golden threads. Castorice tilts her head back and leans into the sensation.
“May I tell you a story, Cas?” Aglaea asks her, after a long moment.
“Please do.”
“In a time before the holy city was the last city on Amphoreus, on a street hidden from Kephale’s light, there was a grate with a hole in it that led to the sewers below Okhema. Parents were afraid of what could be lurking in the darkness, so they told their children countless horrible stories about a monster whispering from the sewers. Their efforts worked, of course – the stories spread, and the street remained barren for an age.”
Castorice turns away from Kephale’s light. She holds the flower to her chest and watches as Aglaea speaks.
“However, curiosity got the better of a young girl living around the area, and as she had no living parents to warn her against it, she ventured near the hole in the grate. The girl was surprised to find no monsters slithering out of the sewer, but rather, a lonely caterpillar that had made a home in the hole.”
Aglaea pushes her hair out of her eyes. Her hands gesticulate as she speaks, and Castorice watches, watches.
“The lonely caterpillar spoke to the girl of its old home – a city from beyond the black tide, where it had a plentiful garden all to itself. However, in its gluttony, it craved something more. It came to Okhema to taste golden fruit and ambrosia in abundance, but found itself missing its home and the loved ones it had left more and more as time went on.”
The golden threads that wrap around Aglaea’s skin look like the stems of a flower, Castorice thinks. She traces their imprint from Aglaea’s arms to her throat, to the cleavage peeking out from under her dress.
“The lonely caterpillar tells the girl that all it wants is a flower that reminds it of home. The girl searches far and wide through Okhema, but none satisfy the caterpillar. That is, aside from the last one – a flower she took from the tomb belonging to her parents.”
Castorice shakes herself – these thoughts must be terribly embarrassing for Aglaea to hear. Then she remembers that Aglaea seemingly can’t use the threads on her anymore, and the sinful whispering from beneath her skin returns.
“When the girl returns, the caterpillar has become a butterfly. It takes the flower from the girl, and so much more. It disappears into Kephale’s golden light, and when the girl goes to apologize to her parents, she hears them forgive her.” Aglaea smiles ruefully when she’s finished.
“You tell the story beautifully,” Castorice whispers. Her heart, withered and dying, still beats.
“Do you ever miss it? The days when you were whole?”
“Of course I do, Lady Aglaea.”
Aglaea sighs. “Nostalgia plagues us all, Cas. Like a homesickness that lingers like a disease, every Chrysos Heir is destined to wish for something they can never return to. Yet, I find myself humbled. I do miss how my threads wrapped around you, dear.”
Castorice flushes deeply. “Lady Aglaea, I-“
“There are ears everywhere, Cas. I suppose I just had to say it. Perhaps it’s that I’ve become proficient with this aspect of my curse. Or that I’ve grown accustomed to it. Whatever it is, nostalgia has disappointed me.”
Castorice flounders. The flower against her chest feels infinitely hotter.
Aglaea, blissfully unaware, continues. “We should continue this discussion elsewhere. Please, follow me.”
Before her nerve disappears, Castorice steps forward. “Wait, Lady Aglaea!”
Aglaea turns with a raised eyebrow. She glances at the people in the garden – all turned to look at them – before shaking her head.
“I picked this for you. I mean- I made it, I think.” Castorice puts the dying flower on the grass between them. Aglaea eyes it dubiously for a moment before picking it up gingerly.
“I had wondered what this was. I’ve never seen a flower grow quite like this – though, it does remind me of some animals. Perhaps a mouse’s ear?”
Castorice feels her mouth open in horror. “A rodent?”
Aglaea laughs quietly. “A cute rodent. It’s a compliment, Cas.”
“Oh.” Castorice smiles. “That’s good.”
“It is. In fact,” Aglaea gets a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. “The flower does almost remind me of you.”
For the second time in a very short amount of time, Castorice flounders. “That’s not-“
“Please, Cas. The pale purple would go perfectly with your outfit. In fact, as your official stylist, I might encourage you to grow a few more. They could be some lovely accessories for you.”
“I don’t really know how to do that,” Castorice mumbles. She had tested if her touch was still volatile in less public areas, but thankfully, nothing had seemed to happen.
Aglaea laughs again. “The flower is lovely, Cas. I appreciate your kindness more than you know. Now, come along, dear.” Aglaea begins moving in the direction of the elevator.
Castorice shakes her head. For good measure, she pats herself lightly in the face.
In front of her, Aglaea pauses in the centre of the garden. Aglaea puts a hand on her hip and gazes over the people wandering around the garden, who all seem to have miraculously found something to busy themselves with now that Aglaea is looking. “I hope that was enough entertainment for all of you. I trust by the time I’m back you’ll all be done with your work, hm?”
Castorice catches a few guilty looks as the people in the garden hastily move back to their own tasks. Aglaea shakes her head vaguely in Castorice’s direction before the two of them leave.
-
Aglaea’s workshop sits nestled comfortably between a jeweller and a watchmaker. Because of its position at the top of a winding path leading up a mountain, it has a view of almost the entirety of Okhema while also being accessible for anybody in the city to reach. Despite the affluent area the workshop sits in, Aglaea requires no security beyond the Garmentmakers that hover around the gates, and even that is more of a formality than something borne of need.
Aglaea sees all, after all.
Which is why it’s even more embarrassing when Aglaea strides past a group of teenagers sitting outside her workshop, the flower Castorice had given her tucked behind her ear. The group turns, and while they don’t dare to snicker in front of Aglaea, Castorice feels their stares burning her as she follows Aglaea through the golden gates surrounding the workshop.
Aglaea leads Castorice into a sitting room bathed in a delicious shower of golden light. Aglaea sits in the light, letting the threads embedded in her skin glow. Castorice stares for a moment before realizing herself and sitting across from Aglaea in the only spot hidden from the light.
“We have a guest, if you would?” Aglaea speaks over her shoulder to seemingly nothing. In response, three Garmentmakers pour out of a room off to the side, presenting empty goblets to each of them and then a large bottle of ambrosia between them.
“Thank you,” Castorice nods to the Garmentmakers. One stays to hover behind them, but the others float away with a sway in their hips that reminds Castorice of the rhythm in a dance.
Castorice shies away from the ambrosia. It isn’t because of the taste, and it certainly isn’t the cost of the liquid – The Chrysos Heirs find themselves drowned in the golden liquid more often than not – rather, it’s the opposite. Ambrosia tastes like Kephale’s light and Mnestia’s kiss, like flying high above the world and being held in an embrace by clouds, like love and affection and the caress of Castorice’s mother.
The feelings aren’t right. Castorice knows who – what she is, and she knows a corpse that slips from Thanatos’ grasp isn’t deserving of something like ambrosia.
Aglaea smiles as she imbibes from her cup. “Shall we get to it?” She asks. “I do prefer a direct approach.”
Castorice nods. “Yes," she adds when she remembers Aglaea can’t see the motion.
“Are you aware that I’m unable to see you, Castorice?”
Castorice gulps down a glob of saliva. Her eyes fixate on the windowsill that Aglaea has placed the flower Castorice had given her, sitting in front of another flowerpot, hidden away from Kephale’s light. “I am.”
“When did you realize?”
“After Lord Phainon left for his trial.”
“Oh?” Aglaea raises an eyebrow.
“I noticed you couldn’t follow me if I wasn’t making noise. But while we were leaving, you stepped over an incline that, if you were truly blind, you would’ve tripped over.”
Aglaea smiles warmly at Castorice. “I do appreciate how perspicacious you are, dear.”
Despite herself, Castorice flushes.
“Tribbie and I have been conducting – well, not exactly experiments. I suppose observations would be more accurate – and we’ve found no other holes in my sight.” Aglaea reaches out a hand, and Castorice knows there must be a golden thread curling into Aglaea’s palm, even if Castorice can’t see it. “It is vexing, isn’t it?”
“I can’t see your threads either,” Castorice blurts out. “Just the ones on your skin. And the World Wound Web is gone for me, too.”
Aglaea hums. “I suppose we can’t count on this problem resolving itself, then. How about this?”
Aglaea shifts backwards in her seat. She holds a hand out, and for a moment, Castorice almost rests her hand in Aglaea’s palm. She resists when she remembers the thread must be uncoiling from that hand, and that idea is confirmed when Castorice begins to feel the presence of something higher approaching her.
It only becomes visible when it hovers just in front of her face, and even then the thread isn’t exactly visible. Rather, it’s present in the same way that a person hiding in a dark room is visible by the absence of light. There’s a dark spot in her vision, a curling, blurry line that circles her like a predator.
“The threads still whisper to me. It’s as if to them – to Mnestia’s gift, you’re simply not here.”
Castorice tries to curl a finger around where she thinks the thread is. When she finds nothing, she realizes she’s looking at afterimages that haven’t properly dissipated from her vision.
Aglaea pokes and prods with the thread, discerning look stuck on her face. The threads circle Castorice, so close that she can almost feel them on her skin – and then they’re gone.
“I must admit, Cas, I’m lost.” The threads retract at Aglaea’s beckoning. “Okhema has no records of a predicament like ours, and even Tribbie admitted that she’d never seen anything remotely similar to this.”
Castorice hangs her head.
“Do you have any ideas, Cas?” Aglaea asks as she reaches for her ambrosia.
Between the journey into the past made by the will of a Titan, to the remnants of Strife that lingered in a Castrum Kremnos in its prime, or even to the jaunt her and Stelle had gone on with Gnaeus and the piece of Nikador that he held, Castorice has some ideas.
“Maybe this is a part of my curse,” Castorice tells her, weakly. “Maybe the closer we get to finding Thanatos, the more my body and soul will deteriorate. What if this is the cost-“
“Castorice,” Aglaea is stern, even with her fury contained as it is. “I know you believe that Death is where your road leads, but that is no reason to jump to a conclusion backed up by nothing, and even less reason to begin spiralling.”
Castorice clasps her hands tightly, until she can feel her fingertips press into her skin. “You’re right, Lady Aglaea.”
“Do you have any other ideas, dear?”
Castorice takes the time to sort through her thoughts this time. Her mind goes back to the idea Stelle and Dan Heng had led her to – precedent.
“The travelers from beyond the sky – what if it has to do with them?”
Aglaea closes her eyes to ponder. “Perhaps. The threads would’ve detected any signs of aggression from Stelle during the interrogation.” Castorice flinches at the memory. Aglaea continues, “however, that doesn’t account for the possibility that it could be unintentional. An effect of that power buried in Stelle’s chest.”
Aglaea leans back, a pressure releasing from her chest. “Or perhaps they have nothing to do with this. Divinity is fickle, as I’m sure you know, Cas.”
Castorice can only nod.
“I don’t think we’ll get any further with this. Would you mind coming closer, dear? I rather enjoy your presence, even if I’m unable to see you at the moment.”
Castorice feels the way her body heats, even if she knows her body is much too cold to show signs of a blush. She finds herself holding onto the way Aglaea refuses to resign herself to their fates.
She wants to see me again, Castorice thinks, and the smile forms on her face before she can think of anything else.
Castorice plops herself down next to Aglaea on the silken couch. Aglaea angles herself to face Castorice, a softer than usual smile on her face. “That’s better,” Aglaea whispers softly.
Castorice shifts nervously in her seat. When she looks back into Aglaea’s face, she sees visible confusion. “Is there a reason you haven’t drank your ambrosia, Cas?”
Castorice almost jumps out of her seat. She’s been this close to Aglaea countless times before – she shouldn’t be reacting like this. Is the idea that she can’t be seen really that nerve-wracking?
“It’s not really my favourite drink, Lady Aglaea. I’m sorry.”
“It’s no bother. Garmentmaker?”
The Garmentmaker that’s been hovering behind the both of them flashes back to life at Aglaea’s prompting. It reaches for the cup in front of Castorice.
“Wait, that’s alright, Lady-“ Castorice reaches out for her own cup at the same time the Garmentmaker moves. Castorice’s bare skin touches the Garmentmaker’s arm for barely a moment.
In that moment, the Garmentmaker begins to die. Castorice can see it – at the site of contact, a purple vein begins to form and grow. From it, purple petals begin to sprout, looking remarkably like the flower Castorice had given to Aglaea. The Garmentmaker’s gentle sway becomes a choppy bounce as it loses the ability to float. The arm that the vein had grown from begins to wrinkle and then rot, like a piece of fruit left exposed for too long. The Garmentmaker collapses as the rotting spreads higher and higher, until it lies still on the floor.
“Pity,” Aglaea frowns. She claps her hands, and a pair of Garmentmakers appear to collect the corpse.
“I don’t know why…” Castorice trails off. There’s a vice grip on her ribcage. She needs to leave now. “I’m sorry, I should-“
“Please don’t leave, Castorice.” Aglaea reaches for Castorice’s arm. Castorice flinches back violently, throwing herself to the other side of their shared couch to avoid the touch.
“I don’t know, Lady Aglaea,” Castorice whispers, the words coming out pathetic even to her own ears. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know, dear. I know. Please stay.”
Castorice hasn’t cried in a long time. She’s felt this feeling – the hollowing of her chest, the deep and suffocating shame countless times, but it never makes her cry.
“I’m sorry Lady Aglaea. I don’t know why everything seems to go wrong, I just- I don’t know how to control myself around you, and I don’t know why but my powers just feel so- I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Castorice stares down at her hands and fidgets. She fidgets until Aglaea’s silence feels stifling.
“Are you upset with me?” She asks.
Aglaea clears her throat. “Not at all, dear Cas,” she says in a husky voice. “You said that you were unable to control yourself? Could you perhaps explain that? I’m not mad, I promise.”
Castorice wills herself to stop fidgeting by smoothing out her dress. “When I made that flower grow, it’s because I was thinking of you, and when I got careless, it just grew.”
“Do you think of me often?” Aglaea’s voice has gone impossibly lower and scratchy.
“Of course I do.”
Aglaea shudders. Castorice begins to think she’s been misinterpreting what’s happening. When she looks up at Aglaea, she sees that her beautiful face is decorated by a scarlet flush.
“Lady Aglaea?”
“If this is presumptuous, Cas, please tell me to stop. I’ll do so in a heartbeat.”
Castorice swallows. “I trust you.”
Aglaea stands. With a clap of her hands, another Garmentmaker enters the room. Aglaea circles it closely, her hands soft on its shoulders and her toga flowing like water across its skin. With a click of her fingers, something invisible ensnares the Garmentmaker’s hands behind its body. Aglaea continues her circling. Castorice loses her breath.
Aglaea holds out her hand, and the Garmentmaker begins contorting. The golden threads that bend under Aglaea’s will must be circling the Garmentmaker closely. Even if Castorice can’t see the binds, she knows there’s something there by the way the Garmentmaker’s limbs are bound together, its breasts pushed closer, dress tugged in certain directions, and by the low, appreciative glare in Aglaea’s eyes.
Castorice’s throat is suddenly dry. She wants something from Aglaea deeply, carnally, but that feeling is terrifying, because she’s a corpse-
Aglaea hums with satisfaction. Before her, the Garmentmaker sits suspended by invisible threads, hands and feet immobilised and toga pulled in all sorts of directions that leave the Garmentmaker looking suitably dishevelled. Aglaea takes a moment to run a finger over the Garmentmaker’s toga, through its cleavage and down its belly until her finger is tracing down its thigh.
Castorice’s breaths become shorter.
“Where are you, Cas?” Aglaea’s voice while it’s this husky sounds utterly divine.
“I’m over here,” Castorice responds, her own voice audibly much higher than usual.
Aglaea places herself down right next to Castorice on the couch. She leans closer, encroaching onto Castorice’s personal space until Castorice has to take great care not to come into contact, and then she smiles.
“You don’t know how badly I wish,” Aglaea whispers, her voice coming out as hot breaths on Castorice’s cheek, “that it was you wrapped in my threads. That it was your skin I was feeling under my own. That I could kiss your lips until they became bruised and swollen, and show you every way I can mould these threads to my will.”
Castorice imagines it. The threads constricting against her body, binding extremities together and rendering her deliciously immobile. Aglaea’s fingers, torturous and teasing. Aglaea’s voice, heavenly in her ear and on her skin. Her lips, everywhere and everywhere, until Castorice is writhing and screaming and it’s Aglaea, all over her.
Castorice moans out loud at the thought. She clamps a hand over her mouth.
“Honesty is always appreciated, Cas,” Aglaea says with a laugh. “But as you can see, you're not the only one who can’t control themselves.”
Castorice’s body heat hasn’t been this high in years. It feels so right. “Lady Aglaea,” is all she can say, because her brain feels like it’s struggling enough already.
“I would kiss you right now, dear, if I knew you were ready.”
Castorice feels terror grip her at the thought. “You could die.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that, Lady Aglaea.”
“I am a demigod, Cas, my fortitude is far beyond what you would expect.”
“Even so-“
“I know, Cas.” Some of the fire seems to leave Aglaea. “I would do all of this to you and so much more, because you are lovely, Cas. Every little expression of yours is a treasure to me. When you smile, you are gorgeous. When you are confused, you are adorable. When you have that look like you’re on the verge of tears – I am enamoured all over again. Every little facet of you is intoxicating.”
Castorice feels it deep in her soul – she wants, so desperately.
“And yet, I can’t see you anymore. I have never touched you like I want to, and somehow I feel as if I’ve lost that too.”
Aglaea sighs forlornly.
Castorice wets her lips. “I feel so many things about you, Aglaea. They confuse me, but I know I want more of it.” The words jumble themselves in Castorice’s head, and forcing them out feels like speaking to a spirit, but she knows she has to. Aglaea has to know whatever she feels is mutual, even if Castorice isn’t deserving of it. “I don’t know why you chose me, but I want it.”
“You were not chosen, dear. Mnestia couldn’t compel this if they whispered it in my ear. You are simply you, and I am helplessly attracted to you, Cas.”
Castorice whimpers. She feels a tear drip out of her eye before she can clamp down on it.
Aglaea smiles at the sound. “Beautiful,” she whispers, her hands ghosting over Castorice’s cheek, just barely making no contact.