Let's check in with Atria and Akhel in B.C.... ;)


Scene 3: Bad

2020 B.C. 

The sun smiled on the Nile as it rose, casting the riverside reeds in a warm, lustrous gold. And the Fate of death awoke from the most perfect sleep she'd ever known, entwined with a man who she wished was her own.

Though in a way she owned him, just as she owned every soul on earth, Atria mused as she stayed still and silent where she'd slept against his chest, his heartbeat drumming through the sun-bronzed skin to which her ear was pressed. For every soul was sure to meet its doom, whenever she cut short its path upon the Loom. All mortals, no matter how fearless or how strong they might appear, were fated to fall victim to her lethal shears. This was a sort of ownership, she knew, and yet she didn't own Akhel the way she wanted to.

But it was so damned wrong of her to want him in that way, or honestly in any way that lasted longer than a day. This was the second time in a row that she had chosen to wake up in the same place. Letting herself drift off into blissful slumber by his side last night, without questioning him about his morals and the motives behind some of the choices that he'd made, had been an unforgivable mistake.

Now of course she had to stay another day to learn the answers, to those questions that she'd failed to ask. For now, deciding whether or not Akhel deserved to die was her most important task.

She had fully intended to ask him about it last night, after kissing him just one more time, or maybe a few thousand more times as their raging hormones had demanded, and after letting herself feel some stupid shıt, because she stupidly enjoyed it. That was totally what she had intended. Needless to say, that wasn't how the night had ended.

Part of her blamed the human body's asinine design, which was obviously not her fault at all. But seriously, why the fυck were orgasms always followed by the two most seductive and counterproductive urges in the world: the desire to fall asleep in an exhausted heap, and — at least for Akhel and herself — the burning need to keep on fυcking more and more? It was such bullshıt, as if whatever evil idiot had come up with this design got a laugh out of watching people act like lazy asses and insatiable whores.

But part of her blamed herself, in full, and always would, because at this point she'd lost count of all her flaws and figured that whenever something shıtty happened, she was probably the cause.

"How long have you been awake?"

Atria stirred, startled by the sudden words, and also pissed off at herself for being so aroused at something as silly as the vibration of his vocal cords. She told him that she'd only just woken, wondering whether he would buy the lie. The knowing smirk that spread across his sinfully delicious lips suggested that she'd been stupid to try.

And then he shifted slightly where they lay among the reeds in dewy bliss, drawing her in toward him for a kiss, and it took every freaking ounce of strength that her immortal soul could summon to resist. Somehow she managed it, and the confused look on his flawless face was so goddamn adorable that she was almost glad she did.

She blinked softly up at him. "I wanted to ask you something."

He brushed his thumb slowly across her lower lip. "I don't think this pretty mouth was made for talking."

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