His hand traced God’s cheek.
Fingertips rolled over the beautiful black markings. He traced a finger over the one under their eye. It trailed down their jawline. Over the two on their chin. Drawing upward over their lips that was still wet with mead. He moved his hand to their other cheek. As gently as he could muster, he brought God’s face to look at him. And their eyes met. Both stared with masked feelings. Vacant expressions met one another as the Mortal smiled at what was his, and God would frown at knowing it was his.
He beheld the beauty of his most beautifully dressed God. The black cloth that held its body. The gold that draped over their shoulders. And especially the crown that sat on top of its head that matched so wonderfully with his own. Like a doll made to be dressed for him. To show everyone in this party that he owned it.
Everyone saw how he would stare at his God.
The affection.
The possession.
The greed.
The want. Need. Kill. Taste. Touch. Prayer.
The way he touched God made Alfonse sick.
The prince stared at them from across the ballroom. Dread laid her heavy weight over his soul as he watched Fáfnir touch his God. The way he would grasp its body. Touch their hair. Bring it closer to him as though to consume it clearly for all to see.
Alfonse wanted to kill him. His fingers clenched the goblet so tight in his hand that he feared he would break the glass.
When Fáfnir’s eyes would wander away from Kiran’s, the most beloved God of Askr, he would stare at Alfonse through the crowd. Their eyes would meet. Fáfnir’s gaze would be challenging, whilst Alfonse kept a tight-lipped frown. And Fáfnir would always keep a smile in reply. Two groups separated by an ocean of people, and still he begged the challenge for Alfonse to take. Try as Alfonse might, he could not break away from the gaze as he continued to talk to the party goers. His eyes would always turn towards the couple.
Those cold gloved hands would continue to touch Kiran. Flesh draped in the leather bindings. Cold. Begging for the holy touch as God would look up to him prepared to receive his prayer. Was he too scared to touch his God?
Alfonse always was sure to touch God with his bare hands. Sometimes they would be covered in blood, but all for his God to admire.
Fáfnir’s hand tucked under God’s chin as he forced it to stare at him.
He leaned into it.
It leaned into him.
But how was it behind closed doors?
Was it the same?
Was it… the… same?
Alfonse could only watch. Watch as their mouths touched in a kiss that not chaste.
His Mortal lips would receive God’s tongue. He would receive God’s taste. He would receive God’s body. And more… and… more… and...
Those lips wet with mead.
The thing he desired the most.
He tried to drink more to hide the anguish that laid bitter in his body. He tried to speak to others to try to ignore Fáfnir’s stare. He tried to hide away in another corner of the castle so he would not pray for the delights that Fáfnir gave himself.
But it was never enough. Never enough.
The alcohol did little to satiate his appetite. That envy was ravenous. Crawling up his spine and scraping the back of his neck to be let in to completely take him over. Pressure was building inside of him. Cradling his heart with hate. A rabid dog bidding to tear into the flesh.
He thought of the nights he laid in bed alone. Praying.
“Alfonse.”
A heavenly melody rang out to him. It cut through the white noise of the crowd and entered the deepest part of his heart. A name turned into a hymn. A word preached as a parable. Joy overtook him as he turned to the voice. Stood before him was God. Close to him now, Alfonse was able to admire their beautifully dressed body. The black satin that so perfectly clung to their body. The beautifully stitched lace that curved over their hands, neck, and shoulders. Golden jewelry with inlaid purple jewels perfectly polished so that it would glitter even standing still. Every piece of their body so perfectly manicured for this day. For it to be presented to Alfonse.
He could not help but stare at his God with elation. That it would notice him over everyone else at this party.
It would have looked better dressed in blue.
Fáfnir stood close behind, wearing similar colors that Kiran dressed. But not as heavily decorated.
That disgusting grin on his made Alfonse seethe. But he tried to ignore the man who stole away his God.
“Divine Summoner Kiran.” Alfonse bowed deeply to his God. And when he looked at the King of Niðavellir, he forced a smile. “King Fáfnir.” He returned his gaze back to his God. “I am glad to see you tonight. When I received the invitation from the Jötnar, I had hoped you would come, too.”
The Prince opened his arms to receive his God.
He imagined himself taking Kiran in his arms. Drawing its body close to him as he swept them away from the clutches of their spouse. Ah, how he would furl his fingers into Kiran’s hair. Whisper prayers into their ear. He wondered how his God would receive his prayers spoken unto them. And how their lips would feel with his own.
Kiran did not move from their spot. It stood and stared at Alfonse.
“Is Henrietta here?” Kiran smiled.
Alfonse’s stomach sunk. The weird drew over their body.
He lowered his hands and hoped that everyone was much too drunk to notice the blunder.
“She…” Alfonse swallowed hard. “…remained in Askr with Sharena.” Every word felt strange. Every word felt unnatural. “I was sent.” He tried to hide his embarrassment with another drink from his goblet.
It was incorrect. He was not sent. He came in vague hope that God would take notice his Mortal flesh. He came in vague hope that God would come back to him. He came in vague hope that he would run his blade through Fáfnir’s body and—
He kept his eyes on Kiran. Kept his eyes on his God.
“My dear…”
The words were needles pressed against his spine.
Fáfnir stepped forward. Those beguiling eyes kept to Alfonse. Was he testing him? Was he testing his faith?
“The Lord Prince seems preoccupied with his own ailments.” Every word dripped with a poison. He played the part of a caring King. But Alfonse knew it was far from the truth. Kiran’s fear was obvious.
He wondered how often Kiran would pray to Alfonse to save them from their jail. How often God would pray for their Chosen to bring them home.
“Not at all.” Alfonse’s reply was sharp. “I only wish to serve my God.”
Kiran’s expression darkened slightly.
Did it need to be saved?
“Whatever our Divine Summoner asks of me, I will obey.”
Kiran glanced away.
“It is as I promised I would do.”
Do you remember?
That night when we clasped our hands together. It was the day you died. You stared at me so affectionately as you tucked my hair behind my ear. You leaned into me as I leaned into you. And I promised to you that I would do all to protect you. That I would become your sword and shield. And that I would lay my life down to protect you.
You held me that night.
And now you turn away from me.
Why?
“I suppose so.” Kiran whispered, “But that was a long time ago. A lot has changed since then.” It took a drink of its mead.
Alfonse stood there. He could only stare as Kiran could not meet his eyes.
He wanted to feel that embrace once more. The night of that promise when he uttered that prayer to Kiran. That promise to his God.
He needed to feel its flesh. To touch it like it once did back in Askr. When he would receive its Divinity as a blessing.
“I was sincere in that promise.”
Kiran was quiet for a moment. And it felt entirely strange that his God did not know what to say to him. Surely it couldn’t have been ashamed of him— of its Chosen?
He took a step forward and reached out his hand to touch Kiran’s wrist. He wanted to feel their skin. Wanted to feel what Fáfnir was so scared to touch. Wanted to embrace his God as he used to before all this. And when his hand glanced Kiran’s, God stared up at him with a wild expression in its eyes that Alfonse was surprised to see. There was shock, anger, and disdain.
Before he was able to completely furl his fingers into Kiran’s hands, he felt another’s tightly grip down on his wrist. The strength of the grip was overwhelming and pain struck him. Pulled from the trance of God, Alfonse let out a gasp as at the touch. Eyes trailed from Kiran’s face downward to his hand that still reached for Kiran’s own.
Held tightly over his wrist was Fáfnir’s hand. The leather was tight over his hand as he latched himself onto the prince as a tick does.
Slowly, Alfonse’s eyes traced up the arm draped in finely woven fabric. Over his shoulder. Then to his face which bore down on Alfonse with a not-so-gentle smile.
Kiran said nothing to this.
“You would dare sully it with your touch?” Fáfnir tightened his grip on Alfonse. He pulled Alfonse’s hand away. And Alfonse was powerless. “To lack restraint in the face of God is rather sinful.”
Alfonse’s heart quickened. He glanced to his God and watched as Kiran could only avoid staring at the altercation.
He did not expect God to save him. But his stare remained on Kiran. Even standing still, it felt as though they were drifting farther and farther apart, with Fáfnir standing at the epicenter of the schism.
“I should make it clear, dear prince.” Fáfnir stepped in front of Alfonse so that he forced him to look at the King. Although the two met in height, Fáfnir’s stature seemed to engulf Alfonse. “I know it to be so that the Askrans had a fondness for laying their hands upon God to seek its Divinity. But your ‘God’ is no longer yours to claim. It is a gift that I allow you to speak to it now.” Fáfnir lowered his voice as he neared closer to the prince. “Don’t squander it.”
He let go of Alfonse’s wrist with a smile.
Kiran looked to the floor.
“Y… You…” Alfonse grit his teeth as he stared at Fáfnir. “They are not something to be claimed—”
“The Divine has seen it fit to give itself to me. It is as we wrote in the treaty.” He stepped to Kiran. With one hand he curled it around Kiran’s waist, bringing it close to him, and with his other he swept it over Alfonse. “If you have any grudge against it, you should defer your animosity to another. Holding a grudge for something that your sovereign agreed to is not befitting for a Crowned-Prince.” He chuffed. “Perhaps it is a good thing that your mother has kept the throne from you. Boys do not make good Kings.”
“You dare—?” Alfonse grit his teeth. Before he was able to bite back, another voice rang out between the two of them.
“Enough.”
The melody rang from Kiran.
It was a welcomed reprieve from Fáfnir’s snide remarks, but when his attention turned to Kiran, Alfonse saw that God stared down at him. The savior he craved was not there. Instead, the blame was placed upon Kiran’s most trusted disciple.
Why?
“I’m not in the mood to see you grovel.”
…
Grovel…?
The stage he was placed on spun. Everything swayed strangely around him. Was it the alcohol? Was it his own emotions? Was it God doing this to him?
It swirled. The blinding lights of this beautiful castle bore down on him. The gilded steps. The beautiful stonework. He remembered when he had traveled here with Kiran to bid for the Jötnar to assist in their defense against Niðavellir. He remembered its lustrous voice as it pleaded with the Princesses to assist their kingdom as it echoed through the sacred halls. He remembered the blood sprayed over the stonework. He remembered the fear in his chest when his God had been kidnapped in this very place.
It was all the same as it was now.
Those memories and thoughts crawled all over him as insects do. Scuttering. Their tiny legs leaving a ghostly impression over him. It did not stop. His body felt strange.
His lungs felt dry.
“Divine Kiran.” Alfonse pleaded. “I am merely—”
Kiran raised their hand and shook their head. Their expression was pained. Their teeth were grit together in annoyance. “I am not here to be defended. Nor am I here to defend you.” It glanced at Fáfnir, as if gauging his mood. “I am your God… But I am… not…” Its voice trailed away as Fáfnir turned to look at it.
His smile was wide as he peered towards Alfonse. That look was knowing. That look could kill. It never said what it wanted to say.
But Alfonse had a good idea of what it meant.
He could only stand and stare at Kiran. His entire world began to crumble.
Had he been deluded?
No. Of course not.
His God needed to be saved. That was all. That must be it. There was no possible way. It must be Fáfnir compelling them to speak in such way.
“Kiran…” Alfonse took a step forward. To his surprise, Kiran took a step back.
The gap continued to widen between them.
And Fáfnir raised his hand, gently pushing away Kiran’s strands of hair as one does a doll. The markings over their face, the Divinity that laid bare for all to see, so vibrant against their copper skin. He kept staring at those markings. At those beautiful red eyes. At Fáfnir’s touching fingers as he continued to indulge in its MORTAL flesh.
“It is not a good thing to rely on Gods.”
The voice pressed into his skull.
“I am sure you can learn to survive without.”
For who said that, he was unsure.
But he only stood and watched as Fáfnir took Kiran by its arm and drew it away from their Disciple.
It did not look back.
And Alfonse was left to stand there and wonder for what it meant to be without a Lord. To be without his friend.
He stared down at the goblet in his hand.
Perhaps his mother was right. Perhaps his sister was right.
Regardless of what he knew, he would be sure to continue to pray that someday Kiran would return home. Even if it meant it would have to be him to bring it back.
Surely that is what it would want.