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Once, many, many, many years ago, in a memory that was old long before she became a god, Nerevar had gently touched Almalexia's thigh after long hours of negotiations, and she had let him. He wanted many things from her, then, when he sought to become Hortator of her house – she was young but not so naive a young queen – but this she had been more willing to give than some others.
She had liked his hands, muscled with work, his face, strong-boned and touched here and there with tiny scars. And he spoke to her so sweetly, and he carefully watched her reactions instead of pushing for his own satisfaction. So she had let him slide his hands up her skirt, then had pushed herself into his lap. He kissed her as she fumbled open his clothes, and he let her have him as she willed. It was all very calm, very quiet.
In later times, when they trusted each other properly and she had made him her husband, they had not always been so calm or quiet. But even that was long ago, and now Nerevar stands before her in Sil's damned secret city. He is not dead as he ought to be, and she can't stand for that.
Not as dead as she ought to be, perhaps, because Nerevar is wrapped in a new skin and shaped into a new form, just pleasing on the eyes and carrying herself in the exact same way he used to. Even the way she launches into her first attack is quite unchanged.
Nerevar flies at her with Trueflame in hand, and Almalexia ducks and replies with a spell, wreathed in the same fire that burns on their swords.
She laughs. How they used to love sparring with each other! Swords or axes or bare hands, any weapon had done for it. But it never captured the true thrill of battle, the rush of blood, the impetus of a hated enemy, and Nerevar slams Trueflame into Hopesfire hard enough to make Almalexia's bones jar. She has missed this!
They go back and forth to the beat of the eternal ticking that always echoes here, dodging one blow and the next before parrying another. A trickle of blood slides down Nerevar's face, and she steps sideways as she raises a hand, casting. Almalexia chases after her, trying to take advantage of the opening, only for Nerevar to slide beyond her reach again as the spell attempts to sap Almalexia's strength.
It doesn't work as well as it was meant to, and Nerevar frowns, stepping back again. And then again, when Almalexia presses her advantage, again, nearly trips over one of the raised lines on the floor, again—
There!
Almalexia lunges forward and manages to disarm her, but she is quick on her feet, twisting away from Hopesfire before its flames can do more than skim her and leave the thin line of a burn, then ducking under Almalexia's next attack to slam her head into her chin. A primitive move, startling, and it gives Nerevar a moment to wrest Hopesfire from her.
Unarmed does not mean that Almalexia is without weapons, and she lunges again. They tumble to the ground together – Nerevar drops Hopesfire – and in the mess of hands and nails and the sudden appearance of Nerevar's teeth, they fall against a support pillar.
For a moment, Almalexia feels triumphant to have Nerevar below her and ragged-looking. Then Nerevar twists a hand free for long enough to yank the dagger from Almalexia's breastplate, which she need barely move to threaten Almalexia's neck.
She has kept daggers there for a very long time. Nerevar remembers.
It's... an oddly sweet thought, despite the blade at her throat. It wouldn't kill her – how could even Nerevar, made mortal again, kill a god like her – but it would be unpleasant and a disadvantage in the fight.
They heave for breath together, glaring at each other. Almalexia makes to raise her hands, hoping to be the faster, but she gets the blade pricking her skin in return too quickly. Nerevar's eyes are like the rest of her, different but too familiar, intense with concentration.
She sits below Almalexia, propped against the pillar; her other hand curls into Almalexia's hair. Take away the desire to kill each other and it is familiar in another way.
Nerevar's eyes flick down, to her thighs. They linger on the uncovered skin. She is not the only one who has had the thought, then, and her blood begins to rush down to meet the gaze.
She doesn't need the distraction, but the thought is pleasing – they could play wife and husband one last time before she ensures a second, more permanent death. A memento of what they once were to each other before Nerevar dies as her martyr.
Almalexia smiles, the light smile that used to come to her so easily, and she reaches up. Wraps her fingers around Nerevar's. Slowly, carefully, she begins to tug the knife from her throat.
Nerevar, after a hesitation, allows her to do so; Nerevar uses the grip on her hair to pull her into a kiss.
They have to shift their position from the memory to a new angle to account for Nerevar's new shape, but it still makes her heart beat quicker to have Nerevar's hands push up her skirt, just as she undoes, more steadily this time, Nerevar's trousers. She shivers when their bare thighs touch as they move with each other by long instinct, legs opening just so, falling together. The first contact of their most intimate skin pressing against each other makes her eyes close for a moment.
It's good. Much better than it should be. And Nerevar wraps her hands softly over her hip bones and pushes up against her, and she rocks down into it, forgetting herself for a moment in the glory of pleasure. Forgetting everything she will do after this nostalgic scene has passed.
They rock against each other at no hurried pace, watching each other, both wary, both flushing. She glides her fingers over Nerevar's neck, thinks idly of strangling, but moves on to her ears, her hair, then down to her chest, which makes Nerevar's breath catch.
"What a tale you will have for your people of how I showed my devotion to you," Nerevar murmurs.
Almalexia bares her teeth and shoves herself down, grinding against her. It is satisfying to see Nerevar's eyes flutter at the electric contact between them.
When she begins to pick up the pace on instinct, the pressure inside her building quickly, Nerevar's hands tighten. But only to provide her more support, only to help them rub against each other more easily, their skin slick and hot and made more so by the delicious friction between them. And then there are gentle fingers sliding into her hair again, and Almalexia comes quietly, gasping for breath and saying nothing. She is still blinking at the surrounding room afterward when Nerevar yanks her in to shudder against her.
Afterward, Nerevar stares at the ceiling, hand still in her hair. Almalexia straightens her legs. Thinks of choking her. Lowers herself instead to lay her head to the curve of her chest, like she often did in fargone years. The room ticks around them.
She has thought, in her softer moments, about how she could use a reappeared Nerevar in her plans in other ways. How her people would celebrate their marriage again, how Nerevar choosing her could cement her status as their only god. But she is so very tired of being someone's wife, someone's consort, and despite his tragic end, Nerevar cannot be trusted with Azura meddling in the background.
A pity. The new shape is not only pleasing on the eyes.
The dagger is within arm's reach for both of them. Almalexia almost starts to the stretch an arm toward it.
A god, however, has many ways to kill someone, and infinite time with which to do it. She does not have anyone who satisfies her so easily. It would be a pity to not make use of the opportunity.
"It is not," she says, "too late to yield to my mercy."
"Oh, it is," Nerevar says breezily.
But still: she tilts her head down to kiss Almalexia again, hitches up her skirt, and Almalexia parts her legs for another go at their make-believing of memories.