Valkyrie of Desire

15. Never Wed

Fear fails against anger

While anger bows to curiosity

And curiosity surrenders to faith

But when faith is eroded by doubt

Doubt can turn into fear

—Todd Hammertoe

Sweat drips from Hildr's brow. The jungle air filling the room may be responsible, but it still adds pressure, making her silence ruder. She must answer if she is pregnant soon, or she will shift from guest to prisoner.

Herluma, advocate from the Pale Crusade, his olympikin eyes glow like hooded lanterns and his mouth twitches. Will he ask again or demand Agastache detain her with rib-crushing vines?

Hildr licks her lips. Such a righteous man will expect pervasive sin in an honest woman. Bold lies may trick his advocacy training. Also, there is something ... ominous about his white lotus badge.

She faces the towering crusader and clears her throat. "Servant of Hierophant, I have a confession."

The thin snow-skinned man allows a corner of his mouth to curl up. "Reward my patience."

Hildr points at Apple, huddled on the floor like an old hound waiting for a bone. "It is for my husband, relating to my current state."

Agastache chuckles, making her seat creak. "Only a few days together? Child, even your fool of a man knows, he cannot be the father."

Bitch. Hildr digs her fingernails into the flesh of her palm, transforming her anger through pain into calm and boxing her heart into a slow steady rhythm. Agastache had caught her off guard by hiding Herluma's presence. But why, and what is their goal now?

"That lotus," says Hildr. "What does your badge signify?"

Herluma crosses his long arms. "Dissection." He leans forward. "If, I don't believe you."

Blood drains from her face, and her fingers tingle. "W-well." She clears her throat. "I made up being pregnant so Apple would take me in." She bows. "I seduced him into offering the protection of marriage."

Apple pops up from the floor and falls against the bed. "That doesn't make sense—"

"This isn't an apology," says Hildr. "I was alone and desperate. It was survival. Being abandoned by my demigoddess devastated me." She sniffles. "Even now depression lingers. I am a void where once divinity lived. Marrying a drunken slob twice my age and weight makes perfect sense when you account for nihilism."

Agastache crosses her flabby arms. The massive vines she controls retreat into the hovering holes to Primal World, sucked like noodles into hungry mouths. The room is spacious again. She pinches her fingers together, and the reality-tears close, cutting off the jungle sounds and the wet warm air.

Without a doubt, the druidess is a master caster. This tower serves her well as a place of power, a nexus of mystic energy dominating the region. Hildr wipes her nose. But, would the woman be dangerous without such a place boosting her mana?

"Not pregnant? Explain your ghoulish appetite and berserker temper," says Agastache. "Be convincing."

"Well—"

The druidess gestures towards her tall lantern-eyed guest. "Servant Herluma is more than an advocate of the Pales." She taps a stiff finger against her nose. "He is a talented mystic missionary and quite adept at spotting falsehoods."

"Indeed." Herluma pats his narrow belly. "Expect I will report to my prophet exactly what is possible for former hosts with pumpkin-colored hair."

Whatever his training, it cannot match manipulating others to survive as a child in a brothel. Hildr digs her fingers into a thin rug decorated with leafy patterns. Throughout the room, the plant theme is strong. Shamans like Apple may focus on animals, but most druids are vegetarians.