“Gottfried.” Iris said with a warm smile on her face, the crowd downstairs had finally slowed down in their applause and was trailing off. She waved congenially to Xagen and his brother as the orc pair left the room with a hardy grunt to take up their positions as guards outside the private space. She approached the powerful Prince and allowed his embrace.

She turned her head to the side and allowed his warm, somewhat rough lips to touch her soft cheek, and then she returned the gesture. She was clad in muslin wraps of black and white that hung loose around her body when she was still, but flew around her when she danced on the stage. He was clad in a rich ruffled shirt of bright scarlett with a white V shape ruffling out above the laces. A beard was slowly growing around his face, though his clothes were magnificent, right down to the purple belt, he himself was in less than excellent form.

She put her hand to his face, “Is it done?” Iris traced her hand over the prickly stubble of Gottfried’s dark beard.

“The mourning period?” He asked and covered her hand with his, he looked down at her, when she nodded, he did also. “Yes… with their ashes in the sands two weeks ago, and our beards cut today… it’s over. Their faces were added to the stone along with their names.”

“So quickly?” Iris asked.

“I paid for it.” Gottfried said immediately.

“Did you cut the beard too?” She asked, “Or someone else?”

“I did.” He said, and she took on a tiny smile.

“You did a terrible job. You missed most of your hair.” Iris pointed out and rubbed the black fuzzy face.

He laughed deeply, his chest rose and fell, but he explained. “I usually have it done by one of the servants at the hotel, but I chose not to call for them. You look beautiful today, by the way.” He said and let her take his arm and lead him to the booth where they’d spent many hours.

“Thank you, at least one of us does.” She teased, and reaching up to his shoulder, she gently pressed down so that he was seated in the booth.

He let out a little “hmph” at her gentle taunt and rubbed the stubble of his beard, “I’ll have a slave shave it when I go back to the hotel.”

“The White Stag has one who could do it for you.” Iris pointed out.

He glanced up at her, and followed her face as she sat at his side, “You do?”

“I’m sitting right here.” She said with a flippant wave of her hand. “Assuming you-” She snapped her mouth shut, ‘can trust an Abacleon whore.’ She cut off the words but couldn’t stop them from rising to her mind, “...think I could do a good job of it.” She covered a half second too late, and for a moment the silence hung between them.

As she looked at him, his distant eyes, his firm features, she braced herself, her heart stilled. ‘Did I go too far, to expect the nephew of the emperor to expose his throat to the hand of a traitor’s daughter? Is he even thinking of it that way?’

“Do you have the things you need?” He asked, somewhat incredulous.

Iris thought it over, “Perhaps nothing suitable for a prince. But if it pleases you, inform Lady Lyrica that you want me at your hotel and I can see to it for you.” Briefly, her professional smile was on her face so that she could bury the implied insult by her own unspoken thought, ‘And you’ll have your bodyguards watching.’

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Gottfried inclined his head, “Alright, we’ll do that.” He answered, and she brightened a bit.

‘That seems to have made her happier… for some strange reason.’ He thought, then chose a change of subject, “Are you feeling better today?” He asked, laying a hand on the bare skin of her inner thigh, “My last few visits you ate very little.”

“Silphium Tea has that effect sometimes, Gottfried, and it has to be consumed every day.” She kept the bitterness from her laugh and chose her own change of subject. “Did you enjoy my dancing tonight?”

“I did.” He said with an enthusiastic nod, she felt his hand squeeze a little, though she didn’t feel intent, but rather an almost boyish enthusiasm.

“It’s a shame there’s no way to do Abacleon Blade Art.” Iris said with a wistful sigh, “I loved watching those.”

“A what now?” Gottfried asked, suddenly intrigued and Iris leaned back in the booth, her arms spread out and her legs opened ever so slightly with her excited remembrance.

“Blade Art.” She held up her hands parallel with one another across her chest. “Two dancers stand opposite one another, a fabric canvas is secured to a board made of cork, then those are set standing behind the dancers. Each partner is wearing long bandoleers of throwing knives here at the chest,” she then pantomimed drawing a blade from where her hands were, and her smile grew ever larger and more genuine.

“They then hurl the knives at the board as close to their partner as they can to create a very tight outline of their body on the canvas, we also call it ‘Steel Drawing’. The two canvases are then painted and brought together and made into one, the knives left in place forever.” She let out a breathy sigh and looked up at the dark ceiling, the light of the glowstones cast her shadow over the table.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.” Gottfried said, “I’d very much like to.”

She brought her head down so that her eyes were level with his own. “Gottfried, that’s impossible.”

“Why?” He frowned a little when she closed her eyes to fight back tears.

“Because when you took Abacleon, the building that housed all that art burned to the ground, before I was taken away and put into a cage, I… I saw a cart full of short throwing knives. I can only assume that the metal was melted down or the knives all sold. That means the canvases are ashes and scraps. There’s almost no chance of any of it remaining anymore.” She looked toward the open balcony, she could hear the sound of faint music down below and the clap of feet on soapstone. “Abacleon dancing is this now.” She waved a hand toward the wall where one of the slaves did such an impressive flip through the air that her shadow briefly shot up and kissed the ceiling. She spoke excitedly of her city, her hands moving to shape the contours of statues that were either rubble or plunder, her words tumbled out like rapids as if she were afraid that if she didn’t get them out that they would be entirely forgotten like a dream that faded moments after waking up.

She went on and on, her blood thrilled through her as if she could see it all again, she never even noticed when she started to cry because the endless stream of words was the far more powerful flood. She went on until her body shook as if she’d been performing such strenuous exercise that it couldn’t go on anymore… until her voice began to crack and she could say no more.

Beyond them, the lights had already faded, there was no more sound, the whole of the downstairs emptied, and Gottfried lost track of when that could even have been.

“Iris…” Gottfried said, her body’s trembling distress was no longer hidden from her own awareness. He reached for her at the shoulder and drew her unresisting, almost limp body toward himself, her eyes shut, forgetting for a moment to whom she was speaking.

She didn’t seem to register it until she opened her eyes and saw him coming close to kiss her. Her professionalism fled, and she went stiff to the touch of the destroyer. “No…” Gottfried whispered, “It’s not that kind of kiss.” He whispered, and touched his lips to her forehead.

She relaxed then and let herself be drawn into the enfolding arms. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be. He’s the one who laid that siege… his soldiers are the ones who destroyed all that… how can I let him…’ Iris wanted to slap herself.

‘Hypocrite, what does it matter, you’ve already done everything else with him.’ She cursed her foolishness and relaxed. Caught at cross purposes, drained, the heartbeat was a comfort, and weary beyond words, she rested her head and talked about the lost way of life until her eyelids grew heavy and she finally fell asleep.

Gottfried didn’t notice, not at first. Not until she started to topple and his godsheir reflexes caught her at the shoulder. He lowered her head into his lap to rest on his thighs. ‘I guess it’s my turn, is it?’ He asked himself and began to stroke the long, dark, silky hair. “Did you do this when I slept? Or did you see only a destroyer? How many times did you pray for my death before we met? Do you ever dream of it now… if I let you shave my throat, do I need bodyguards… my cohort?”

She looked so peaceful in her sleep, so untroubled, her smile was warm and innocent, a good dream was obviously going on, she nuzzled against him a little more. ‘I mourn two. She mourns everyone… maybe Xagen was right.’ He thought, and as he stroked the length of the sleeping woman, it occurred to him to wonder… ‘How many hours will I have to stay like this unless I want to wake her?’

Then it hit him, staring at the half empty bottle, the one finished meal and the one untouched, and the darkness beyond the length of their stretched out shadows, ‘I don’t care, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to wake her.’

He put his meaty hand over hers, and as she slept, she moved, clutched it, and held it against herself.

Gottfried didn’t wake her, or move her, or his hand, for the rest of the night.