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It’s been a long time since Okhema has known true peace. They are constantly under threat from Nikador’s forces and the Black Tide. Having to endure the brunt of forces that would see this world come to an end. Yet even when those outside forces see fit to have a day of rest, there is also internal strife to contend with. The growing upsurge in refugees whose homes now reside within Thanatos’s embrace inevitably end up clashing with the locals whose customs and beliefs occasionally clash with their’s. Helping ensure everyone can peacefully coexist in one of the few remaining bastions of civilization is also part of the Chrysos Heir’s duties.
Yet today has been uncharacteristically uneventful. So much so that it’s making Aglaea feel uneasy. Tribbie brushed off her concern when she voiced this to them. Each of the three individualy tell her that she can consider it a long overdue break. Aglaea knows better than to argue with her teachers when it comes to whether or not she overworks herself.
They are the ones who can see the prophecy, so Aglaea trusts their judgement when they say there’s nothing to fear. But at the same time it’s difficult for her to get into the proper headspace to be idle. For so long the Goldweaver has been defending Okhema from any and all that would try to undermine this prosperous city. In her mind a moment spent idling is time that could be spent preparing for the next inevitable threat.
Aglaea sighs, bringing a hand up to rub her forehead. Kephale’s light warms her skin. The Garmentmaker she had been checking floats before her, silent. Nothing more than a mannequin when before its creator. It's in perfect condition without so much of a thread loose. Aglaea knew this beforehand but it was something for her to do. A distraction to keep her thoughts from delving into all the ways their enemies could be making preparations to attack.
“Is something wrong?” An aloof yet soft voice calls out. A presence coming close that sets most on edge, but brings a smile to the Goldweaver’s lips.
“Nothing more severe than a bout of pessimism.” Aglaea turns to face her fellow Chrysos Heir. “What brings you here, Cas?”
“I sometimes like to check on the chimeras if there’s nothing else taking up my time.” Castorice gestures to the small, quadrupedal creatures napping throughout the garden. Their mewling snores mere background noise to the Goldweaver.
Aglaea debates teasing her over her love for animals when something about the Daughter of Styx catches her attention. The Goldweaver cannot see in the traditional sense. She makes up for that defect with the millions of golden threads scattered throughout the city. Okhema is wrapped in a web invisible to the naked eye and she is the spider that can detect the slightest disturbance pulling at its threads. Whether that disturbance be movement, a shift in a person’s mood, or subtle creases in the shape of something that weren’t present before.
“There’s a tear in your dress.” Aglaea points out. Now that she’s paying closer attention, that’s not the only fault she can detect. “And a faint whiff of blood. Did something happen?”
“Just someone running past and I tripped while trying to move out of their path.” Castorice brushes off her concern. She steps back, putting more distance between them. “I’m fine.”
Aglaea doesn’t need to feel the quivering of her threads to know there’s more to whatever took place then that. The Daughter of Styx might be one of the Chrysos Heirs but she is also a bringer of death. Capable of killing with her touch alone. Thanks to that the people of Okhema cannot help but fear Castorice more than they revere her.
“Shall I mend that for you?” Yet Aglaea keeps that observation and her suspicions to herself. She can pry the full story out of the Daughter of Styx later, after tending to her.
“There’s no need for you to do that, Lady Aglaea.” Castorice’s heels clack as she shifts the weight of her feet. Likewise fabric shuffles when she pulls at her dress. “I can patch up a hole this small myself.”
“Let me rephrase that then. I want to mend it for you.” Aglaea has to bite back a sigh. Instead she smiles. “Besides, I’ve got too much free time at the moment. You’d be doing me a favor.”
Castorice says nothing nor do the threads give anything away. They remain still, undisturbed by whatever thoughts are running through her head. Aglaea wishes she could see what sort of expression is on her face.
“Alright.” A heel clacks louder this time when Castorice takes a step back. The threads pull around her as she turns around.
Aglaea follows each step she takes. Maintaining a fixed distance behind Castorice despite how easy it would be to catch up with her longer legs. Best to take all precautions when moving through areas that are alight with activity. Wouldn’t want a tragedy to occur over something as benign as walking side-by-side.
Castorice leads her through the bathhouse. Yet rather than going to the pools reserved exclusively for the Chrysos Heirs, she turns towards where the private rooms can be found. Taking a path that is all too familiar to Aglaea. To the room the Goldweaver has claimed for when she cannot be bothered to make the walk back home.
Aglaea makes sure the door locks behind her before shuffling to where she keeps a needle and thread on hand. At the same time Castorice starts loosening the various ribbons that help keep her dress secure around her figure. She draps it over the edge of the lounge- telling Aglaea that she is doing so- and shucks off her shoes as well. The Goldweaver listens intently to each crease as Castorice sheds her stockings.
Since becoming a demigod, Aglaea’s humanity has started to slowly chip away. Things that were once sources of joy and revelry and despair are now no more significant to her than the passing wind. Growing increasingly numb to all the wonders and sorrows that come with life. Yet there are still aspects of it that she has managed to stubbornly cling to and not always for the better.
It’s human nature to crave that which they cannot have. Something about the forbidden has a tendency to draw them like moths to a flame. And just like a flame, it will inevitably burn them if they are unable to restrain those dangerous cravings. Castorice just so happens to be an especially tantalizing forbidden fruit. Gentle in ways unbeffiting one who walks alongside death. Possessing such a vibrant and beautiful heart beneath that aloof facade.
How terribly Aglaea wishes she could walk over and press her ear to Castorice’s chest. To be able to glide her fingers across the length of those legs and soothe the scrapes that must be marring them. But alas, they cannot risk testing if Castorice’s “condition” works on demigods or not. So all she can do is keep a certain distance and imagine what could be.
“Would you like some ointment? I have one that can help with swelling.” Aglaea starts reaching for it before waiting for an answer. If only she could rub it onto the Daughter of Styx’s wounds herself. Feel the softness of her skin against her fingertips.
”It’s really not that bad.” Water sloshes when Castorice steps into the bathing pool. She crouches down, cupping that water within her palms before splashing her face.
“Cas, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you complained a little.” Aglaea picks up her dress, searching for the tear. It’s bigger than she expected which serves to further her suspicions.
“I know.” Again, Castorice’s tone gives nothing away while the threads offer no answer. As if she truly does not care what happens to her.
She has always been like this. Never complaining, always doing whatever is asked of her even when it’s obvious she doesn’t want to. Both of them know that Aglaea is aware of the doubts she carries yet they both pretend otherwise. The Goldweaver wants Castorice to be more open with her, to willingly voice her dissent when it arises rather than have it be called out. As for Castorice’s own reasons for biting her tongue time and time again…
Aglaea can read emotions, not minds. Why the Daughter of Styx choses to go against her own heart, only she knows for certain. It’s not as if she’s an innocent or naive person either. Castorice is clever and Aglaea has come to trust her judgement, even when she doesn’t voice it aloud.
This unwavering obedience of hers often leaves Aglaea conflicted. On one hand she treasures the amount of trust Castorice has in her and her judgement as a leader. On the other she finds herself wondering if she’s done something to make the Daughter of Styx think she won’t take her opinions seriously. A fault that needs to be corrected if true but how, Aglaea hasn’t the slightest clue.
At the same time, such loyalty deserves to be rewarded. This she knows exactly how to do. It is a little something Aglaea has been rolling around in her head for a while. Idea after idea considered, discarded, until eventually she found one that is satisfactory.
She waits until she’s finished sewing the tear shut. Castorice remains in the bath, sitting against the edge of it with her legs stretched out. Her back turned to Aglaea. The Goldweaver sets both the dress and her needle down. Then she closes the distance between them. The invisible threads draped around Castorice’s shoulders grow taut. Her fingers that had been idly playing with the water still.
Aglaea only stops once she feels the hairs on her body rise. A chill courses through her body, instincts warning her of the danger that this small and seemingly frail girl poses. She leans forward, hovering over Castorice’s seated form. Just a little closer and Aglaea’s knees would brush against her back.
“I have been thinking.” Aglaea’s voice rings out low. Echoing in the small space that separates them. “Your condition works on Titankin despite their bodies being made of clay.”
“That’s… right.” In contrast Castorice’s quivers. She curls in on herself, subtly leaning away from the Goldweaver. “You- Being this close is…”
“So I want to test something.” Aglaea straightens and then takes three steps back. She stretches a hand out, willing her golden threads to form. Not the thin, nigh incorpeal variety that stretch throughout the room. But the more solid ones that are actually visible to others.
Those threads shoot out from her fingertips and attach to a mannequin that was slumped against a wall. Once those golden threads slink inside of it, the mannequin jolts. It rises from the ground and hovers over to them.
“This Garmentmaker only has enough of my power infused into it to let me control it. For all intents and purposes, it’s a puppet with no autonomy.” Aglaea offers a hand to Castorice, and the mannequin perfectly mimics her movement. “If I am wrong and it breaks, then it has served its purpose.”
She is met with silence. Castorice’s gaze bores into the Goldweaver. The threads quiver like a racing heart. Nervous but with an excited tint. Cautiously a hand wraps around the mannequin’s. Aglaea feels the phantom of that contact against her fingers. She must suppress her own excitement as she helps Castorice stand up.
Both of them wait with bated breath. Aglaea counts the seconds that pass by with nothing happening. Her connection to the Garmentmaker remains firm and the minuscule amount of “life” she breathed into it doesn’t waver at all. Aglaea curls her fingers, the mannequin following suit. Its hand intertwines with Castorice. She experimentally squeezes it back, thumb pressing against the back of its palm.
The feedback of it makes a tremor pass through Aglaea. She has been granted the honor of sampling the juice from her forbidden fruit. Just a small sip. A single taste of that delectably sweet nectar. She wants more. She needs more.
Aglaea raises her other hand, directing the mannequin to cup Castorice’s cheek. The Daughter of Styx sucks in a sharp breath. Aglaea lightly, curiously caresses the counters of her jaw. Mapping out the counters of her face. Before she figured out how to manipulate the golden threads, this was how Aglaea became familiar with the world around her. Letting her touch paint a picture of her surroundings and the people she was close to. Nowadays she can achieve a much clearer image thanks to the web she has woven. Yet it's nice to fall back into that old habit. Intimate in a way that “looking” will never be.
“You’re trembling.” Aglaea notes with awe. No one has ever touched Castorice like this. No one could offer her any form of physical affection. Even if it's through a puppet, the Goldweaver can’t help but preen at being her first.
“You can feel through it?” Castorice is uncharacteristically breathless. It makes her voice sound far more promiscuous than is warranted for such a chaste caress.
“To an extent.” The mannequin presses its thumb against the Daughter of Styx’s lips. Aglaea cannot feel the subtle little creases or how soft she is. Only the distinct pressure of coming into contact with something solid. “This sense of touch is duller than if I were to have my actual hands on you.”
She mustn’t indulge more than this. Logically Aglaea understands that this indirect contact is where the line needs to be drawn in permanent ink. Yet it's difficult to resist the lure of more. Especially when Castorice leans into the mannequin’s palm. Aglaea slips its other hand out from hers and presses it against her chest, feeling the thrum of her pounding heart.
“Am I the first to try finding a work around to your condition?” Aglaea finds herself wondering. Before coming to Okhema, Castorice was the holy maiden for the followers of Thanatos. Living in near total isolation, only leaving their temples to perform rites and grant blessings. Or to step onto the war front as a symbol of the Hand of Shadow’s might.
“No, but you're the only one to try with pure intentions. Many of Aidonia’s enemies attempted to come up with countermeasures for me.” She suspected as much, but hearing Castorice confirm it with such a detached tone leaves a bitter note inside of the Goldweaver.
“Were any of them close to being successful?” Aglaea wants to know for future reference. Just in case those who are against the Flame-Chase decide to employ similar tactics. The more prepared they are for any threats, the more likely their journey is to succeed.
“Just one.” That’s surprising. Then again, the Goldweaver doesn’t know how often Castorice actually took to the front back when she was Aidonia’s holy maiden. “Someone managed to catch me with a bola and once I fell another stabbed me with a spear.”
She guides the hand against her chest lower, closer to the valley between her breasts. Directing the mannequin’s middle and forefinger to a specific spot. It’s just slightly off from where her heart is. Either the attacker miscalculated the angle of their strike or their target moved at the last moment, throwing off their aim.
“I played dead and no one dared to touch me even when they thought I was a corpse.” Castorice explains before the Goldweaver can pose her next question.
The Daughter of Styx might be a herald of death, but she is not unkillable like Mydei is. Even though the blow missed Castorice’s heart, she still could have bleed out. After escaping the clutches of their enemies none of her allies would’ve- couldn’t- help her tend to her wound. The fact that she fought in wars with such a fatal handicap and still walks among the living to this day is a testament to her skills.
“Ah, so that’s where the story of you returning from a trip to the River of Spirits comes from.” Aglaea jests, trying to hide how shaken she is by this tale. Had things gone just a little bit differently then the two of them would have never met. “And the people who attacked you?”
“Not sure. Back then I helped so many reach Thanatos’s side that all their faces blurred together.” Yet Castorice herself is not at all bothered by her near brush with death. A typical attitude for those who worship the Hand of Shadow. For in their eyes dying is not the end, but merely bidding farewell to the land of the living.
A perspective that is completely alien to Aglaea. Though she can understand being willing to sacrifice yourself for a greater cause. But at this moment she is not thinking of the bigger picture. Not of their Flame-Chase journey nor of Okhema’s safety. Right now she is gripped by the realization that at any moment Castorice could be claimed by Thanatos once and for all.
“Cas, are your eyes closed?” It’s one of the few things Aglaea sometimes struggles to perceive even with the help of her golden threads.
“Do you want me to close them?” Castorice returns her question with another, indirectly answering it.
“Please do.” Anticipation bubbles within Aglaea’s chest. She gives the Daughter of Styx a moment to shut her eyes before taking action.
To be overcome by emotions to the point of abandoning all logic is such a human thing that Aglaea hasn’t felt in a long time. She moves closer, careful to keep her steps light and inaudible. Standing close enough to Castorice will trigger a fight-or-flight response among the living. Those with a strong psyche can resist that instinctual fear that attempts to overtake them. Aglaea has the added benefit of growing accustomed to it through regular exposure. It makes it easy for her to go against that intense desire to flee. Makes it easy to give into her greed.
Contrary to popular belief, Castorice’s touch is not instantaneously lethal. There is a window where she can let go and that person will be fine. Dazed but unharmed. How long it takes death to take hold of those she touches varies. The fastest instance Aglaea witnessed was three seconds, while the longest took seventeen. That’s why she can lean forward without any fear.
She means to kiss Castorice on the lips, but her lack of traditional sight makes it difficult to aim correctly. Especially since Aglaea must do it quickly, before the Daughter of Styx can catch onto what she’s doing. So she ends up pressing her lips against Castorice’s cheek instead.
The reaction is instant. First she tenses, frozen in her surprise. Then Castorice throws herself away from Aglaea too quickly for her to react. Though the Goldweaver doubts that has much to do with her speed. Not when her body suddenly feels like it's made of gelatin.
“Aglaea!” Castarice shouts out. Her normally quiet voice raised and lacking the title she usually tacks onto the Goldweaver’s name.
Aglaea can’t appreciate getting to witness her unfaltering aloofness slip as much as she’d like. Not between the taste of flowers stuck on her tongue and how her body can’t decide if it wants to go limp or not. It was such a brief kiss, lasting a second at most, yet that alone was enough to leave her in a state of such numbed bliss and it wasn’t from the kiss itself.
Aglaea always thought Castorice insisted that people keep a distance from her due to the fear-inducing aura she exudes. Now she sees the real reason behind that caution. The Goldweaver cannot recall a time she felt this weak and feeble. Nor does she know when the threads connecting her to the Garmentmaker were severed. How dangerous.
“What were you thinking? Do you crave death?” This time the panic within Castorice gets through. She almost feels bad for how much of a fright she gaver her lover. Almost.
“A bout of greed overtook me, my dear.” The haze clouding Aglaea’s body and mind is gradually dissipating. This feeling is akin to starting to sober up after drinking too much. It’s just as crippling too. “But I can’t say I regret it if it means getting to see this side of you.”
“Please do not do that again.” Castorice feeble plea squeezes at her cold heart. That allows the guilt to set in and makes the Goldweaver realize just how reckless she was being.
“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.” Maybe there is a tiny part of Aglaea deep down that craves death. Maybe that’s why she feels so drawn to the Daughter of Styx. But she can’t, not while the Flame-Chase is still underway. “There is too much to be done still.”
“You just need to be patient, Lady Aglaea.” Castorice steps closer to her. Moving to be merely a hand's breadth away from the Goldweaver. “I swear that when your time comes I will offer you a warm embrace before you depart for the River of Souls. In my arms your crossing will be a peaceful journey.”
Aglaea cannot help but laugh at that. Is this how Aidonian girls flirt? If so, then consider herself fully charmed. There are few things more heartfelt than promising someone that you will whisk away their fears and anxiety as they are on their deathbed. Such a grim yet tender vow. It is oddly soothing to hear that proclamation.
“Thank you, my dear. I would kiss you again if I could.” Aglaea unfortunately is too aware of the consequences that would unfold should she try again. She has bitten into that precious fruit and knows its taste. Now she must temper her restraint before taking another.
“I’m sorry that I cannot be a traditional lover.” Castorice apologizes out of the blue. It’s not the first time she’s uttered those words, nor will it be the last. Each time the Goldweaver will give the same response in turn.
“That’s not something you need to apologize for. We both know this is entirely out of your control.” It is admittedly frustrating at times, but Aglaea would never direct that at Castorice. Such flaws are an unfortunate reality of being a Chrysos Heir. All they can do is learn how to work around their respective conditions. “Besides, since we now know this Garmentmaker can endure your condition, that means we can get creative with how we do things.”
The golden threads draped over Castorice quiver. They sing in a way that makes it so very hard for Aglaea to keep her hands to herself. She has no doubt that if she could see, her eyes would be blessed by the sight of flushed cheeks.
“My, whatever could you be thinking about?” Aglaea curls those trembling threads around her fingers. Feeling the excitement coursing through them. Can practically hear the sort of thoughts that must be evoking such a reaction.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” The threads quiver faster, responding to Castorice’s embarrassment. Adorable.
“I’ll let you off this once, but next time don’t hold any ideas you have back.” Aglaea will admit she’s already put her touch-starved lover through enough stimulation for one day. One step at a time else she’ll end up overwhelming the Daughter of Styx.
“...I cannot guarantee anything, Lady Aglaea.” How difficult it is to not tease Castorice further. But restraint must be practiced. She cannot make a habit of indulging in these impulsive urges.
Without realizing it, at some point Aglaea had stopped feeling restless. How strange it is that a woman who naturally exudes terror and death so often calms her nerves rather than unsettles them. Perhaps this too is a side effect of her waning humanity. Gradually losing the ability to fear that which could threaten her. Though Aglaea would not consider this loss such a bad thing. It will make it easier for her to do what needs to be done.
But right now this isn’t about that. The fondness Aglaea has developed for Castorice is not to be understated. Awkward as their relationship can be at times. So what better way is there to spend her “day off” than with her lover? If only their world weren’t so close to the brink of ruin, then Aglaea would spend every waking moment adoring the Daughter of Styx. As things stand, she’ll take every moment she can to be by her side.