Page 7 of Our Lady of War

Three

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Year of Our Goddess Three 945

My darling Igor,

I cannot bear another moment of this torture inflicted upon me by your absence. Lifetime upon lifetime I’d spent in perfect patience, a century but a breath to me. Even the long-suffering of war strategy could not unnerve me.

Yet, a fortnight without your arms around me, your lips upon my skin, and I am undone.

Nandor assures me of your return within another fortnight, but I fear I will have despaired into dust by then.

Your loving wife,

Athania

She set the quill in its base with a tink, and stood to stretch. Another morning without Igor, and Athania was growing perturbed with herself. She had been the mighty Lady War. A goddess with unshakable nerves and patience that could rival Hespa Herself.

“Look at me now,” she mumbled to no one. “Lovesick and mortal.” With that, she held her letter to the candle and watched the flame burn it to ash. One day, she would tell Igor the truth about her past. Until then, she had to pour out her true feelings, burn them, then write a…more mortal letter to be sent to her husband.

Despite the gnawing absence of Igor, the past fortnight had been soothing. She’d taken Asteria’s advice and truly embraced what it meant to be mortal again. The days were long and sometimes laborious without her goddess strength, but working in the healing spa was fulfilling.

Athania dressed in the plain garb of the spa matrons, loathing every moment of it. She stared at herself in the full-length looking glass. Beige was not her colour. It made her skin look sallow, her hair too dark against her cheeks. She scowled at the loose-fitting tunic and pants for a moment longer before opening her wardrobe and selecting a dress for after her time in the spa. It made her feel just a bit better to know she would be clothed in finery later on, and that it would lie in wait for her upon the bed. The gown she selected was a true work of art with its voluminous plum skirt and tight, corseted bodice. The velvet sleeves bunched just off the shoulders and clung to the rest of the arms down to the wrist, a small bit of black lace to adorn her hands. Igor was particularly fond of the gown, his favourite part being the neckline that dipped lower than those of the other courtiers. “Just enough to tease me, as always, mi amor,” he would say and whisper kisses along the seam where the tender skin at the top of her breasts sat exposed.

A gentle smile played at her lips as she laid the dress out on the bed and ran a hand along the tufted lace of the skirt. “I shall return for you, dear gown, and Igor shall return for me.”

Athania spun on her heel and bent to slip on the sandals required by the spa. Sandals weren’t particularly her style, either, but she did enjoy being able to slip her toes deep into the warm sand on the far side of the spa. In fact, it was her day to be stationed at the seafront portion of the spa after her morning routine of preparing the medicinal poultices and herbal teas for the patrons.

She knew she’d better get a move on before the sun finished her rise. Athania gently folded her thousandth normal letter to Igor and slipped it in an envelope. Gingerly, she held a spoonful of wax over her candle, letting it melt. Her favourite part of sending a letter was always watching the wax drip, drip, drip onto the parchment envelope. She had selected blood red, of course.

War was hard to let go of.

The bloody droplets coalesced to the perfect size, and Athania took hold of her seal—a howling wolf’s head with a fanciful R for Rodríguez. She ran her thumb over the symbol, smiling at the hidden B for Belfry, tucked into the wolf’s fur, just under its heart. Athania, daughter Belfry, was so many lifetimes ago, and yet, she would always be. She flipped the seal over and pressed it to the cooling wax just as her door opened.

“Madame?” her maid called out.

“Here, Millicent.” She smiled at the kind young woman as she met her in the small foyer. “I’ve not yet made it out this morning, but I was just leaving for the spa.” She handed the young woman the letter. “Would you see that this is sent to Igor?”

“Of course, madame. I’ll see to it right away and return to clean your chambers.”

Athania laid a loving hand on the girl’s cheek. “Has anyone told you today that you are lovely and a true treasure?”

Millicent blushed and looked away. “You’re the only one who ever does.”

Athania lifted the girl’s chin gently with her fingers until their eyes met. “That will not always be the case, I assure you.” She winked at the young woman and left for the spa, her sandals slapping the smooth floors of the castle corridors. Asteria had been correct again. It was lovely, this caring for others thing. In truth, Athania had always believed her duties as Lady War were caring for others. Sometimes, war was important. It was the noble defending their land, their rights. It was one group of mortals standing up against another who wanted to enslave and abuse.

Tipping the scales of justice to honour the virtuous would never be anything less than benevolence and mercy in her eyes, no matter how bloody. Though, it was nice to simply love and encourage mortals, be it with kind words or with a poultice, no blood spilled. It still took some getting used to, but it was growing on her.

Athania ran her fingers along the wall idly as she wandered toward the spa, thinking of all the times Thanasim had accused her of meddling improperly since marrying Igor. In a way, he was right. Her conscience was no longer clean. Athania Rodríguez, the newly mortalised wife of the great Commander Igor Rodríguez, saw only righteous indignation in the battles of Orford—in her husband’s plotting. But Lady War—goddess born of Hespa out of her life as Athania Belfry…she saw the measuring scale, powers lessened or not, and it had tipped far, far too much.

The King of Orford was not a bad man, but he was a foolish man. Foolishness often led to negligence and too many mistakes to walk back from, resulting in just as much travesty as evil can accomplish. Athania did not trust the king because she did not trust his choices. Especially that of marrying a commoner and taking her bastard daughter as his heir. She had no qualms with commoners, not after Asteria drilled into her mind the importance of every mortal, but she did have qualms with the heir set to rule Orford once the king perished. The girl had death shrouding her, and a thick, dark magic coursing through her veins—of that, Athania was certain.

In his frequent folly, the King of Orford had also sent their army into lands they did not belong in, and to battles they should not have won.

And, yet…they had. Because of Igor. Because of Athania.

She nodded kindly at a few maidservants and courtiers up and about their business in the halls as she walked. Her meddling in the wars had begun innocently enough. When she’d given up her goddess status and married Igor three years prior, she’d only wanted to help him develop a proper plan to confront a particularly skilled opponent. It was simply how her mind functioned—war strategy and military tactics. It wasn’t until after they’d won that first battle that she realised they wouldn’t have without her and that they most likely should not have. Their victory had spelled out losses for the opposing country that they would never recover from. From her place in the Void, she would have orchestrated matters with finesse, justice, and impartiality. And…Orford—on paper—would have lost.

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