Is It Wrong To Crave Love (In A Dungeon)? Chapter 14 - Deceit

I must… endure…

“Blasphemy! This is… Blasphemy! Blasphemy!”

Within Folkvangr, the home of the Freya Familia, there was a large heart-shaped, Queen-sized bed with red satin sheets, and a softness and comfort that could allow one to melt in sheer bliss upon sinking into its bosom. There, in a room emblazoned with the luxuries of wealth, fine chandeliers, animal skin rugs, and expensive ornaments, the sole denizen of the room, its sole inhabitant, ‘Freya’, was encountering a trial the likes of which she had never confronted before.

The doors were locked and barred with chairs as a needed precaution. She lay draped across the bed, curled in a fetal position, then stretched out in an eagle position, then turning and twisting, and buckling and crumpling. As though she were a misshapen, distorted pretzel unable to decide on form and shape, as though she were a restless old coot unable to find it in her to remain stationary. Her breath was labored and came in rapid gasps. Her face was red, the red of roses; her ears were pink, that of peaches, and her body was hot, flushed, and drenched in sweat. She clutched her chest, swearing and cursing, and with each cry of ‘blasphemy’ her voice came hoarser, raspier, deeper. The fire burning within her grew stronger and hotter, and her fingers moved faster and defter.

I must… endure!

‘Freya’ never envisioned a day when Vana Seith would become the bane of her existence.

Her Magic, that unique Magic which allowed someone as unworthy and filthy as her to be able to be elevated to the level of a Goddess, to become as pure, pristine, and beautiful—

It had met a fatal enemy. 

A blasphemous enemy.

She felt it the first time, at the Orphanage, when he made contact with her Lady. She was fortunate to not have been in public, performing then, when that jolt had come, as though a needle had pierced her buttock without warning. 

Her Magic made it so that for one to be as a Goddess, things could be shared: feelings, sentiments, thoughts, emotions, and sensations. As such, she, too, had felt that drain. As though something was being taken from her, as though someone, some fool, had latched on to her with tight, rough hands, and started to suckle on her, as though every single inch of her body was an areola adrift in a sea of tongues. 

Such sensations were not new. However, one was a goddess, while the other was human. One had tasted the heights of pleasure that could be endured, whilst the other had not. Shared as things were, connected as things were, there was a fundamental difference in their respective resistances to sensual, venereal agitations. Alas, Moses Vanderzee’s absurd greed for love drew upon the Divine; what hope was there that the Mundane would be spared?

It was there and then she discovered the act of blasphemy, the greatest sin a mortal could commit, which had made even her own foibles seem like a child blindly tipping over fine tableware in comparison. She had sought to be one Deity, but Moses Vanderzee’s own blasphemy would seek to make him many. There were, at the time, only two other such Authorities lingering within him, one of his own Goddess, and the other, that of a God of War. Yet, in touching her Lady, at that moment, such was the sin committed that a third was added. 

A portion of her Lady’s Authority, her Divinity, bequeathed, nay, stolen. Yes, it lingered within him. Such a thing was a burden too heavy to bear. Had he not already possessed an endless craving for love, it would have been his undoing. A skill, no doubt, one that took the term Blasphemy to its utmost definition. Sacrilege! Irreverence! Impiety! To covet the love of a God and in so doing inch upwards to Divinity! 

She had almost believed that blasphemer would burn from within for his act of acquiring even that fragment of her Lady’s Authority, but he had not. To her dismay, he had not. He held no weakness in that regard, in being able to withstand a desire for love. On the contrary, his weakness, his weakness, lay in love’s corporeal enactment… in lust.

It was why, when taking a negligible portion of her Lady’s Authority, rather than gaining her Lady’s Charm, which should be able to ensnare hearts and minds, all he attained was a lesser, baser version of Charm which could only ensnare flesh and blood by transferring his own desires. The heretic could indeed use Lady’s Charm, but she hesitated to call it such, as it was so weakened, barely a fraction of a fraction of the true might, that it would be of no cause for concern for her Lady. Her Lady would never fall prey to such a thing and would never be affected by it, for indeed, how could she be affected by a power born of a mere fraction of her beauty? It was simply inconceivable.

The same could not be said for her. 

Despite taking on the form of holiness, the appearance of utmost beauty, and despite possessing the same abilities, there was still a gap, and a gulf. Something deep ‘inside’ of her, her soul, was still not a ‘goddess.’ Other Divine Beings could and would be able to detect it as such. It was why she could not use her Charm on the Gods, and why her Lady always personally attended any gathering that had Deities present. 

Thus, she was not immune to the effects of Charm.

Not even to that weakened, enfeebled, eroded, and diluted version that the blasphemer had stolen. Not even to one which could only stir the flesh rather than the heart through the means of imbuing his own depraved appetites.

By touching her Lady, through their connection, through the Vana Seith, whilst her Lady was unaffected, she was not. Moses Vanderzee had charmed her, afflicted her with a yearning that could not be controlled. She had thought it, at first, to be a saving grace that the heretic’s weakened, stolen Authority could only afflict her body and only transmit his own lust, rather than afflict her heart, which was dedicated entirely to her Lady…

However—

I… am going… to die!

She let out a raspy breath, clutching the sheets, biting her lips until she tasted her blood, until her vision saw the countless stars, until her hips trembled violently for the thirtieth time in mere minutes.

It was fathomless. Endless. An ocean so deep that the depths had even yet profound depths, and the bottom was but a new cavernous opening hiding an even greater bottom.

It was too much. The blasphemer had too much desire. More than she could withstand, more than she could endure, so much so that she trembled with terror at the sheer thought that such a man was walking around with such a thirst and yet retained his sense of lucidity. He was clearly not a sane person, for she herself understood that had she not locked and barricaded the door, she would have pounced on the first person who approached her, be they male or female, be they inclined or not.

Just as his craving for love was unending, his craving to unleash that love was equally inestimable. Just the bit she had felt transmitted through a fleeting touch had her legs quivering, her eyes rolling, her hips jerking, and her toes curling.

Mind-numbing ecstasy was the result. Bliss the likes of which she feared would put a stop to her beating heart or permanently rewire her brain, but even then, she had not been satisfied.

Then came the dread. A fear that she would never be satisfied. Afflicted with a burning lust akin to his eternal craving for love, such that no matter how many times she reached the crescendo, there would always be a demand for an encore. There would be no end to this performance. The desire would keep burning, forever, and ever, and ever—

I… I must endure! I must!

As she was connected to her Lady, as such things were shared. No doubt, her Lady, too, had felt that unspeakable, sudden, and ravenous lust. Her Lady was far more resilient to such things by her Divine Nature, yet, even then, there were limits.

Her Lady was, at that moment, feeling the exact same desire she was, but she could, without a doubt, endure it better, and mask it flawlessly.

I have to endure… I have to en-DURE!

Every time the heretic touched her Lady, his maddening lust flowed into her, and the feeling of this scorching desire, unable to cease, was outright torment. She could not relieve herself of this maddening lust with the aid of anyone, as though she represented her Lady in many matters; using her image to do such things was an act of utmost sacrilege.

She had only her fingers to aid her, which she had never before considered so woefully, horrifyingly insufficient.

Hah… hah… My Lady… My Lady… For you… I… I will… endure…

She knew such torment had only just begun. There had been none, none, who had ever truly been able to satisfy her Lady before, and none who had ever been able to make her feel such roaring passion. It was an absurd claim, that the Goddess of Love had none, none at all, who had made her ever burn afire with the intensity of a thousand suns, none who had ever truly her loins aflame and had her breasts stiffen, yet it was true.

For her Charm was superior to all others, her beauty without equal, and thus none had ever been able to make her truly reach the peak of sexual desire.

All those who had ever lain with her would be filled with despair if they were to learn that bitter truth; if they were to know she much she faked for their benefit. 

Moses Vanderzee was the first, and only one, to whom such burning had come. Her Lady was experiencing for the first time pleasures to which she had only been a giver of, but never a receiver. Pleasures to which she had only ever imparted on others, but never truly felt. Passions to which others had indulged, but she alone had been exempt. 

Her Lady was starting to understand how potent just a mere portion of the Charm she used on others was, and such an experience was precious to her Lady.

Thus, she had no choice but to endure. For the sake of her Lady, for the sake of the happiness of her Lady, she had no choice but to endure.

The thought had come, at first, to seek to kill Moses Vanderzee for his blasphemous nature, but she was aware that should she do so, it would be a sin so unforgivable that not even death would be a mercy. Her Lady would likely chase after his soul and condemn hers to cycles of ceaseless misery that could only ever be enacted by one channeling the wrath of the Divine.

She wanted to hate that heretic with all her heart—

But she could not.

He was simply too piteous a man to hate. His craving was so wretched and lamentable that indeed, he was the sort of person even she would lay with, if only out of a sense to rid him of an iota of that patheticness.

Yet, it was that very piteousness that he was the first and only person to grant her Lady experiences which were novel and unique. It was that very nature which could make her Lady finally attain what she had been searching for.

Thus, as much as she hated him, another part of her was filled with appreciation towards him, gratitude towards him, possessiveness towards him.

What would it feel like… to take him in myself? No… no… such a thing would earn my Lady’s wrath… I can’t… not until she does…

But after… after… after… my Lady… surely… my Lady… she’ll let me…

Driven to the extreme brink with a craving beyond compare, her thoughts drifted to a place none would expect, and her mouth opened, traitorously, for the first time, to cry out the name of a man utterly unaware of her existence, as her fingers sought to uncover deeper, untouched corners of herself she had never known.

“Ah~! Moses… Mo-ses… Moses… Moses… Moses…!”

Due to the Vana Seith, the desire she felt for Moses Vanderzee connected to her Lady, and her Lady felt it, and sent it back to her, which she in turn sent back, over and over again.

Yes, this feeling, this torment, for the sake of her Lady…

She would endure.

=====)+(=====

Syr was calm.

She had no reason not to be calm. Rather, she was the calmest she had ever been, and had ever managed to be. Despite the series of repeated unexpected events spoiling her plans and evening, from Loki’s unnecessary interference to Ryū attacking Moses Vanderzee due to an internal problem created by her connection, Syr remained calm.

Fortunately, control over her body was something she had long mastered, and it was only due to surprise that there had been that prior… accident. She ensured there would be no further mishaps to come by numbing certain parts of herself, but, even if she did, the evening had become unsalvageable. Moses had come to the Hostess of Fertility expecting perhaps a meal and perhaps her company, and all he had gotten was one goddess who used him as a chair to his chagrin, and a waitress who attacked him due to a misunderstanding.

He’d neither gotten the chance to eat anything nor drink anything, and was already departing. It was without a doubt a sour experience, one which meant it was unlikely he would return in the future.

Syr was calm.

Escorting him out the door, moving away from unnecessary prying ears, but not all prying ears, as they were currently watching her, Moses Vanderzee held that staff of his in his right hand, and lightly ran his hand through his hair, turning his gaze skywards, towards the darkened sky, and the countless stars.

“I’m really sorry about—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he cut her off, shaking his head. “Misunderstandings happen.”

As his gaze lingered on the stars, softly, under his breath, she caught a tiny mutter, one not meant for her to hear. “Even the stars are different…”

Syr wasn’t quite sure what he meant. She turned to them and saw that the stars, to her knowledge, appeared as they always had been.

“The Gods really created everything in this world, didn’t they? All of it. All of creation, everything beautiful. The sky, the sun, the stars…”

Under the moonlight, Moses Vanderzee turned to her.

“You.”

Syr was calm. An unusual flush filled her cheeks. “I don’t think I’d compare.”

“You do,” Moses Vanderzee chuckled. “At least, in my eyes.”

Truth.

Moses Vanderzee’s gaze was a knife. A dagger and a screw, slowly being driven deeper and deeper into her.

“I’m sorry.”

He was… apologizing?

“I’m not the sort of person you think I am.” 

Truth.

“What sort of person would that be?”

“When I was a coachman, I used to carry about all sorts of people. I’d ask them one question, and they’d all give me different answers. One such man fashioned himself a… guru of love. He said he had proven methods, tricks, and ways to win a person’s heart. He gave me a book called the Art of Seduction, telling me that if I followed it, I would succeed.”

His gaze lingered on the sky. “I remembered thinking as I read it, thinking as I listened to him… is seduction inseparable from deception?”

Moses Vanderzee turned to her. 

“You’re asking… me?”

“What do you think?”

‘Syr’ should have no knowledge on this topic, because knowing too much would paint a picture that was not… the best. She knew how valued women who had little experience were, yet how contradictory it was that many men desired women with otherworldly skill. It was possible Moses Vanderzee, with that insane desire, would not be the same as most men, but it was also possible that…

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve never needed to seduce anyone.”

“I see,” Moses Vanderzee chuckled. “I suppose that was an odd thing to ask.”

Syr smiled. “Did someone in the Hostess of Fertility catch your eye? Is there someone you need my help seducing?”

“Yes,” Moses Vanderzee nodded. “You.”

“...A-ah?”

Syr was calm. There was a thump slowly in her chest.

“I’ve been thinking about how to go about it,” Moses Vanderzee ran his hand through his hair as he continued speaking. Speaking as though he was speaking about the most normal thing in the world. “...Thinking about how to seduce you without deception.”

Syr was calm. There was heat flowing to her face. “Ah.”

“People say to seduce isn’t to deceive, they say it’s normal to present the best version of yourself to get someone to like you. But I can’t help but think…. If I have to selectively reveal favorable traits about myself and omit unfavorable ones… am I not deceiving you?”

Moses Vanderzee shook his head. 

“Selective presentation of oneself is intentional omission, and intentional omission is deceit. Placing green flags in front and center in hopes that after all you’ve accepted is green, I can gradually spring out the red…”

Moses Vanderzee slowly reached out and held her hand. Syr shuddered. Syr was calm. 

Syr was calm.

Syr was calm.

“I don’t want to be that sort of person,” Moses Vanderzee looked into her eyes. “This sounds strange, but I feel like I can see things… clearer, somehow. In my head, I formed hundreds of plans and tricks and plots… in seconds. Schemes. Strategies. Tactics, lies, deceits, and methods. I could play a long game filled with hundreds of steps… but that’s not me. I want to seduce you, but I don’t want to do it by tricking you. I need you to help me, Syr.”

“H-Help… you?”

He gazed into her eyes with absolute solemnity.

“I need you to help me seduce you.”

Syr’s head was spinning.

“Without lies. Without tricks. Without deceit. I want to seduce you.”

He gently rubbed her palms with his thumb.

“As my authentic, unmanipulated, truest self, I want to make you love me.”

Syr was not calm.

“Will you help me?”

Her mouth opened, but she made only a rough, choked sound that had the airflow at the back of her tongue hit against the soft palate. Her brain replayed the request over and over, his words, and the honesty in his words, which were the crux of the matter, the fact that she knew he meant them, that she knew this was an earnest, genuine, true request being made—

Syr was NOT calm!

She was NOT CALM!

She would have stood there, lost in that utterly befuddled state, had she not heard someone scream, ‘Audacious!’ from afar. She knew it belonged to them, the ones watching, the ones listening. She could almost envision the gnashing teeth, as she could hear the sound of scuffles as several individuals were holding back other individuals.

She tried to speak again, opening her lips, but the back of her tongue lifted and blocked airflow from the throat, and only a distorted, strangled noise made from vocal cord vibrations followed.

Unable to use her voice, all she could do was nod her head, stiffly, slowly. Moses Vanderzee’s expression lit up with delight.

“Thank you, Syr.”

He lifted the knuckles of her right hand towards his lips and kissed them gently.

“With your help… I’m certain I can seduce you properly.”

Her top teeth lightly fell on her bottom lip and sucked in a stream of air.

“Good night, Syr.”

Syr did not know how long she stood there in that dazed state, long after Moses Vanderzee departed, but she did know, and it was only after an elf wearing a maid uniform and a cat-girl appeared beside her, their voices tinged with concern, that she was snapped out of it.

“Syr? Are you alright?”

“Did things not work out, nya~?”

Syr glanced at her knuckles, which still lingered with the feeling of Moses Vanderzee’s lips. 

“No, it—”

She turned to Ryū and to Anya. She opened her lips, thinking of what to tell them, because even she could scarcely fathom what had just happened. There was no way to explain this to them. There was no need to even explain this. How could she explain this? This would just be another thing she would keep to herself.

As that thought came, Moses Vanderzee’s words faintly lingered in her ears.

“If I have to selectively reveal favorable traits about myself and omit unfavorable ones… am I not deceiving you?”

Syr looked at Ryū's face.

“Selective presentation of oneself is intentional omission, and intentional omission is deceit.”

Syr looked at Anya's face.

“Syr?”

“As my authentic, unmanipulated, truest self, I want to make you love me.”

“Syr? Are you okay?”

“...He asked me to help him seduce me… and I accepted.”

Both girls blinked.

“EH?!”

“Let’s go inside, I’ll…” 

Syr smiled. 

“I’ll tell you girls all about it.”