"If I could speak falsely to spare you that hurt, I would have," Cladissa says gently.
”It is fine. And you are not at fault,” Argor replies sadly. ”I long ago accepted my fate of solitude.”
Cladissa moves gracefully to him. She touches his chin to lift his head up to face hers. She leans over and places a cool kiss upon his lips.
"You have far greater control over your fate than I ever had," she whispers.
Argor closed his eyes with the kiss. He had long wished for this moment. But now it was like grasping at air. ”Perhaps once. But now we both seem to be ensnared by our destinies.”
He looks her in the eyes and brings a hand up gently to the side of her face, pulling her in for another kiss, this one more passionate than the last.
Cladissa yields, allowing herself to be pulled closer into the kiss. Her skin, initially smooth yet hard as marble, softens and warms as she converts her avatar to true flesh and blood. Life surges from a suddenly rapid-beating heart and she breaks the kiss to draw air into her lungs. "My destiny," she says breathily, "has come to fruition. This is a choice I may make, now."
”Good,” the usually verbose Argor pants as he leans into her more earnestly, pressing her back into the loveseat, his lips moving to her neck as his hands drift to her waist and ribs.
Her head tilts back while her eyes close. She arches her back as she feels his hands wrap around her. These were sensations she had denied herself; pleasures in which she had failed to partake during her mortal existence. The lingering doubt of whether it was by choice or design that she'd never taken part in the carnal act now driving her to experience it fully. She forces her divinity as far away as she can, wanting no part of it.
Argor’s lips and hands continue to wander for several moments before he is arms slide behind Cladissa. He scoops her up with surprisingly little effort despite his small frame. He lays her down on the black fur rug beside the fire. His eyes lock with hers as his hands begin unlacing her dress.
Cladissa revels in the thrill of her dress coming undone and her body becoming revealed lace by lace. She could disintegrate her garments with but a thought, but instead she closes her eyes and focuses on the feeling of his hands as they move lower and lower. Somewhere in her diffused consciousness are echoes of her mortal self's doubts and worries, but she banishes them far away with the rest of her being. Here, in this moment, she is pure sensation.
Likewise, Argor loses himself in the moment, the passion, and her body. He focuses on nothing else as he uses both his body and his magics to make this moment as amazing for the both of them as possible.
Thought eventually creeps back into Cladissa's mind, allowing her to savor this last gift she had given herself. Sleep was denied her despite the marathon lovemaking she and Argor had indulged in, so she lay entwined in his arms while holding her godhood at bay for just a little while longer. It presses upon her but stays distant, far enough away that she can entertain a fantasy of holding it off forever.
She turns her head slightly to look at Argor's face, resting quietly or deep in his own thoughts, she decides not to know. Instead, she wonders if he has the skill or wherewithal to bind this aspect of her; to sever her from the goddess. She wonders if it would even be possible for such a thing to happen. Maybe she herself secretly knows the way.
Knowledge starts flowing in, but instead of a controlled trickle it is a blast. Answers pour into her, unbidden, information she had refused to acknowledge in her rebellion against herself. Violet energy spills out of her eyes and her body goes rigid. In a blink she's across the room, fully clothed in a somber regalia. The small speck of her that had enjoyed hours of passion with Argor fights to remain, but is washed away and subsumed in righteous outrage. The knowledge once held at bay could no longer be denied.
A corona of deific might surrounds her as her eyes blaze violet fire. "Argor Carzienson Constantine Blakros," she says, her voice containing a multitude of voices layered upon each other, resounding in his ears and in his mind. "How you take it upon yourself to exact revenge on my behalf! I am the Goddess of Forgiveness!"
Argor sat up at the outburst in his mind. Seeing Cladissa across the room, fully clothed and a sudden demeanor directly opposed to what they had just shared, caused Argor to be quite aware of his own nakedness and with a wave of his hand his robes began flowing around him as he stood.
Uncertain as to what she was saying, he narrowed his eyes and asked ”Precisely to what transgression are you referring?”
"Citizen Alric of Halvon. Lord Daveren Ulay Carmoste. They suffer through your actions," she pronounces.
Argor tightens the belt of his robe himself as he answers ”The Raven dared attempt an assassination of me. He only succeeded in the destruction of a valuable asset and raising my ire. His punishment is a direct result of that action. As for Lord Carmoste, I have enacted no retribution against him in your name. I did, in action on behalf of the nation and people of Absalom, cease all trade with the nation of Galt due to their continued desire to maintain instability. If they can prove themselves stable and reliable, then those trade agreements can be reinvestigated.”
Cladissa levels a deeply unsettling gaze upon Argor. Her face is a porcelain mask, rigid, fixed in a mix between anguish and fury. Light begins suffusing her body, making her painful to look at directly. "By the oaths I made in life, I cannot interfere in the affairs of Galt. Your actions taken against Galt or its countrymen shall not be undone by me."
She leans forward, her power becoming truly terrifying to behold. "Think upon your true motives, Argor Carzienson Constantine Blakros. Look deep within your heart. If you cannot find forgiveness there, you will not be able to find me, either."
Argor’s face also became a stoic mask, despite being in the presence of a furious goddess. He extended his arm and his staff floated to his hand. He looked her in the eyes and let out a breath before commenting ”Then this truly is goodbye, then.”
He turns and faces the fireplace once more. Without looking back he adds ”Just because you have ascended to divinity does not give you the ability to impose your will on a mortal. And the actions I took were in part on behalf of the people of this city-state. But you are correct, a large part of it was my friendship to you. And I do not regret those actions in the slightest.”
A moment passes where Argor can still feel the overwhelming presence of the goddess. Then in an instant, she is gone and an intense quiet descends upon his study. In that heady silence, he hears -- or perhaps imagines -- Cladissa's voice in his mind. ::Argor? I can wait.::
Uncertain if he had heard a lingering fragment of Cladissa’s psyche or his mind was working overtime, he sighed and turned to begin traversing the manor towards where he had led everyone to believe his private office resided.
Palos Kendrosi studied the small symbol in his hand as he walked. It was a simple piece of craftsmanship; resin-coated threads in the shape of a spider's web with a bit of red lacquer depicting a bleeding heart in its center. He'd seen far greater depictions of the motif; but this simple piece was all he needed this day.
He didn't look up as he made long, purposeful strides. He wanted to see for himself the strange phenomenon when it happened.
He spotted a mote of dust on the symbol and instinctively ran his thumb across the red lacquer to clear it off. Unfortunately, that action caused the red heart to detach from its setting in the middle of the web. He turned it over, noting that the spot of glue had loosened its grip. He tried to replace it, but he pushed too hard and the whole thing collapsed.
He looked up, to take note of where he was. Yep. I'm in Galt.
He dropped the ruined holy symbol to the ground as he seethed inwardly. Cladissa's oath, her agreed-upon exile from the nation, had extended into her godhood. The moment he crossed the borders into the country, her influence, her power, and yes, even her holy symbols, were ineffective or wholly absent.
He looked around at the people going about their day, passing through the Gate of Exile, the westernmost point of Galt where Cladissa had paused, and spoke, before leaving the country forever. It had grown up over the intervening years, as trade flourished thanks to an arrangement with Cheliax. Mysteriously, trade to the south, to Taldor and the nations touching the Inner Sea including the City Absalom, had dried up entirely after Cladissa's departure. Cheliax had stepped in and filled that void readily.
Palos didn't think Cladissa would approve, but he didn't have much say in anything these days. He had smuggled Weaver out of the country well in advance of the queen's departure, promising to keep her safe. He had done as he was bade, but as news reached him about her eventual ascendancy to godhood, he couldn't help coming back to Galt to reminisce.
He was sitting in the mud, but he had long become numb so he didn't care about the moist cold that was seeping into him. He plucked away at the strings with his two remaining fingers, not heeding the stares he got of his maimed left hand and his absent right. All that mattered was coaxing music out of his mandolin that the Grey Gardener had let him keep in her cruelty after removing the means by which to play it.
Occasionally a coin would drop into the mud near him, but rarely. Charity in Galt was a lost concept. But he didn't play for coins, so much that he played to keep his black thoughts at bay. Despair threatened to overwhelm him, but as long as he could focus on getting his maimed hand to generate a few notes on his mandolin he could stave it off for another night.
He was concentrating so hard that he didn't notice the person sitting down next to him; his mind just assumed another beggar or someone looking to pilfer the random coin or two that was tossed down to him. But he eventually felt the stranger staring, so he looked up from his instrument and into the kindest eyes he'd ever seen.
"Don't stop. I liked what you were doing," said the woman. She was human, plain of face, dressed in simple clothes.
He shook his head. "It's not... not compared to what I could do." He lifted his right arm, showing off its stump.
She smiled at him. "Well, I haven't heard what you could do. So all I heard was what you were playing just now. And I liked it."
He suddenly grew very uncomfortable. She seemed too unreal for his situation. "I-- I'm cold. I should be going." He pushed himself up, not wanting to be lifted out of his depression.
She rose smoothly to her feet, and placed a hand on his left arm, just above the elbow. "I'm sorry. I truly liked your music--"
He shrugged away from her touch roughly. "Yeah, well, you're the only one. I don't even like it anymore." He turned his back to her, tucking his mandolin under one arm, and strode away with rapid strides in case she decided to follow. When he had crossed the street, he spared one glance back to see her standing in the same spot, looking sad.
He fought off tears as he kept walking. What was her game, anyway. Kindness? For a maimed musician who could only pluck at strings? The spot where she touched him still burned, and he couldn't shake the lingering sensation of her fingers on his arm. Fingers. It was like she was mocking him, with hands still possessing their digits. He could almost imagine his own hands clenching into fists. He could almost-- He could feel--
He looked at his hands. His left was almost complete, with his three severed fingers regrowing and rejoining the two he still had. His right was still small, with stubby nubs where his fingers should be, but as he watched they stretched and extended into fully articulate digits.
He screamed in disbelief and delight, bringing up his hands to his face, touching them and feeling their sensation on his cheeks and sensing the feeling through his fingers. His mandolin slipped, and instinctively he reached out and caught it before it hit the ground -- caught it with his right hand!
He raced back to the spot where he'd been sitting, looking for the woman who had touched him. He looked around and around, but she was gone.
Palos blinked the memory away as he realized he was looking at the statue set up signifying Cladissa's departure from Galt. Set just on the Andoran side of the border, the thirty-foot-high statue shows her as she must have looked when she turned around and spoke to Galt just after she left. Inscribed upon the dais was her speech on that day that she departed Galt and set on her new destiny, which was apparently divinity.
He wiped away a tear as a series of emotions welled up. She was the Goddess of Failure, the failed queen of a failed state. That Galt hadn't torn itself apart after her departure was a minor miracle, but at least she may have gotten what she truly wanted. For all its current flaws, it was still better than before.
Palos flexed his fingers and looked up at the statue's head. Huh. They got her nose all wrong.