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October 14 - October 21, 2025
her. He pushed his hood back a little, so that she could see a bit of the Face. He tilted his head so that his cheekbone caught the light. His cleft chin clefted majestically. Who wouldn’t want to heal this?
Her type was, evidently, not dark and dangerous. He knew a lost cause when he saw one,
“Am I persuading you?” “Persuasion would require an iota of something like charm.” This vexed Osric. “I’m not charming?” “No,” said Fairhrim.
“You’re calm about all this,” said Osric. “I’m trained to keep a cool head in times of crisis,” said Fairhrim. “Though my subjects are usually haemorrhaging blood rather than absurdities.”
The Wardens will make short work of him.” “Ask them not to damage him too much,” said Xanthe, eyeing Osric as though he were a slab of meat. “We could use another corpse in the anatomy lab. We’re running low on adult males.”
The sardonic mouth said, “Rude to stare.” “Assessment requires observation,” said Aurienne. “Or would you like me to attempt it blindfolded?”
a request for an update on Mordaunt, whom Xanthe had taken to calling Onion Boy.
“Onion Boy, the Eternal Optimist.”
“I’m a genet,” said the cat-weasel. “An albino genet. Aurienne was right. You are stupid.” “Insult me again and I’ll have your head.” “You’d be in possession of at least twice the amount of brains, then,” said the deofol. “Perhaps I should let you. It would be the charitable thing.”
She fixed him with a Look. Osric developed a new understanding of what gimlet-eyed meant.
Mordaunt, seized with sudden liveliness, leapt to Aurienne’s side. “Let’s tit about. I love titting about.”
The man nodded in friendly understanding. He had the largest penis that Aurienne had ever seen. It nodded, too. Mordaunt steered Aurienne towards the rightmost corridor. The penis all but waved goodbye at them.
“We’re here for the baths, not your breeding kink,” said Mordaunt. “That man was remarkably well-endowed,” said Aurienne. “They call him the Clydesdale. Since he’s so fascinated you, you can go have a play with him, but only after we’ve done the healing. Business first.” “Thank you, but no,” said Aurienne. “No?” “Two words for you: bruised cervix.”
“What do you suppose he does with it when it’s not erect?” “Drapes it round his neck, like a ...
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“Did it make your skin smooth, at least?” “As a baby’s bum.” “Like your brain, then.”
“She doesn’t. She’s hostile about it. I’m never sure whether she’s going to heal me or knee me in the spuds.”
“Aegri somnia, that’s what she is. A sick man’s dream.”
“Obstinacy and hope,” said Fairhrim. “What a foolish combination.” “I prefer strong-willed,” said Osric. “I’ll mention that in your eulogy when I attend your farewell barbecue.”
Fairhrim asked when would he stop being a Menace to Society.
Osric called her a Self-Righteous Plague. She called him a Foppish Crouton.
“And, of course, bastard, but you’re well acquainted with that one, boy, being such a stellar example yourself.”
“Perhaps you should; I’d rather be dismembered than deal with such an uptight little fusspot.” “Perhaps I will—it’d be a relief to no longer suffer such a useless ganglion of a man.” “Ganglion?” repeated Osric. “Fusspot?” said Fairhrim.
There was a flush across Fairhrim’s cheeks. Osric felt himself swallow. Suddenly, the eye was not satisfied with seeing; suddenly, the mouth wished to taste.
There was such witchery in a pair of bright eyes. Pity they had to be hers.
This was the price—the curse—of being the Best. Everyone wanted a bit of you.
Mordaunt looked provoked. Aurienne blinked at him with all the innocence in the world.
Mordaunt did not take the hint. He was both clingy and thick, like a tenacious mucus.
He looked at her as one who wished to worship, and one who wished to defile.
They sat for a long time, leaning against each other, existing in two states at once. Hate could feel strangely like something else.
We must give them a chance.” “You’ve already given them a chance,” said Mordaunt. “Besides, they threatened to kidnap you.” “And? You threatened to kidnap me.” “Exactly: only I can do that.
“You’re utterly unhinged.” “I’m perfectly hinged,” said Mordaunt.
“You, on the other hand, have got the survival instincts of a crumpet.” “I beg your pardon?”
“Might we,” asked Aurienne, “go anywhere without subtracting from the population?” “Would you prefer,” asked Mordaunt, “that we add to it?”
Mordaunt, his eyes riveted to the hem of her dress, said, “A foot. An ankle. Put it away. You’ll stir my loins.”
“That was downright smutty,” said Mordaunt.
“You’re right, Haelan Fairhrim. And so we must remain to one another—Leverage and Means, on this side of eternity.” “We must only endure one another a little longer.” “The dose makes the poison.”
“Besides, isn’t forgetting you preferable to continuing to hate you?” “I’d rather you hate me than not think of me at all.”
The threshold must not be crossed. That was what they were doomed to: standing upon a threshold. On the verge and only ever on the verge. An almost. He was what he was; she was what she was.
He hated that he had come to the waystone whole but left it having lost a piece of himself in two star-brilliant eyes.
“Nice girl, this Haelan,” said Leofric in a whisper. “Bit uptight, though. She could do a Kegel and snap your cock off.
“There’s fuckery underway,” said Mordaunt. “Have you got the time? I hadn’t the room for a watch in this stupid armour; it hasn’t any pockets.” “Should’ve put it in your codpiece,” said Aurienne, consulting her pocket watch. “My codpiece is already full.” “Of what?” “My cod.”
“Don’t look so grim. It’s the monster you need tonight, not the man.”
Aurienne rolled her eyes so hard, she saw her frontal cortex.
“He’s more important to me than I would wish him to be,” said Aurienne. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re more important to him than he’d like you to be, too.”
“—but I’d really rather be suffocated by your thighs.”
“Ask me no questions and I shall tell you no lies.”
Thank you, and I would like to die suffocated by your thighs did not seem an appropriate response at this time.
He was an extraordinary combination of monster and man, of villainous and meritorious, base and noble—and, on occasion, he did good.
The brush of his arm against hers gave her a thrill. It was clandestine; it was wrong; it was the pretty foretaste of a kiss. Her heart skipped a beat.
Mordaunt could be a fine conversation partner if one set aside what he was. It was like setting aside gravity—doable, but only for brief moments.
