Mallory's Gift

A little bit of fantasy F/M romance. Lady/Wizard, SFW, 1300 words

MALLORY’S GIFT

“It is worth more than I am.”

The sorcerer announced his observation firmly, clearly, without the shyness one came to expect of those in doubt of their own value. Strangely enough, Mallory Roux had no doubt at all in him, or he let none show; he presented the fact of his comparative worthlessness as, well, a fact. The necklace before him - a choker set with gems of exorbitant value - would’ve indeed scored a higher price in the indiscriminate markets of the far west, but Nakht wasn’t the far west, and Mallory had never been considered a commodity by the jewel’s buyer besides.

The choker was a gift. It was a beauty to be worn by another, wholly lusterless without a wearer, without Mallory.

“No stars without a firmament,” said a woman sat across the sorcerer. She was unassuming, shorter than Mallory, mud-eyed and plainly dressed; nothing in her muted visage betrayed her obscene power.

“How should I understand this?” asked the sorcerer, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice. The woman smiled at that, though not maliciously, not triumphantly; the sorcerer’s vulnerability was precious, dear.

“It is a present,” said the gray lady, “and an offer.”

“Of what sort?”

There came no answer. Mallory canted his head, his impassive facade cracking under this new pressure. A long strand of alabaster hair fell over his shoulder; the motion was keenly noticed and cherished.

“I do not think I can accept this, Estelle,” the sorcerer then continued, “and I believe I owe you an apology. It appears I have somehow fooled you into thinking me extraordinary.”

Still silent, Estelle pushed herself up from her seat and paced leisurely over to the wizard. She stood by his armchair for a brief, scouting him, drinking him in, and then leaned down to collect a tribute.

Their kiss was a wonder, an impossibility. He was detached, and she was utterly dispassionate, and yet their cold temperaments mixed into something hot when they were together. Their breaths were warm, and their hearts were warm, and the looks they gave one another from beneath fluttering eyelashes were warm also, loaded with thawing sentiment.

“Take a walk with me,” said Estelle after, once she was sated. Mallory seemed hesitant, but he voiced no protest. He never protested his lady lover, well-mannered as he was.

Thus, the lady took the boy and the jewel for a stroll.

Together, they went to pace about the battlements of Estelle’s domain. The Avelotine district she presided over was as unsuspecting as she was, but - as it was with the lady also - something dark and uneasy lingered in its shadow. From the district walls, one could glimpse the birthing gorge of Avelot, a bloody ravine around which all of the capital had been built; from within it came whispers and the fluttering of moth wings, only barely heard, insidious, ominous.

“You understand that marriage is as much a business as it is a matter of romance,” began Estelle after a stretch of quaint silence, “especially for women of my station.”

“Yes,” said Mallory plainly and looked to Estelle’s gloved hands. In them, she cradled the choker case, and the sorcerer’s gaze was inevitably drawn back to it every few seconds. He desired it, and all that came with it.

“Then you must also understand that I do not make this offer lightly,” said Estelle, “my love for you does not come from whimsy, from fleeting fancy. It is not that I favor you now, only now, like a season’s colors. I love you, Mallory, because you are perfect.”

The sorcerer bloomed at the confession, though he’d heard it before, though he’d been given so much sweet affection that the taste of it should’ve soured to him long ago. But he was still grateful, and he was still charmed, and he was blushing and sheening and glad.

“You give me too much credit,” he said and gathered his long hair behind his ears. The dim light of the overcast sun reflected of his silver earrings; also a gift from Estelle, also perversely expensive, also radiant on him and only on him.

“You are calling my judgement in question,” noted Estelle, “I do not like that.”

“My apologies, lady Estelle.”

“Accepted.” She gave a faint smile. “Do you worry that you would not be able to keep up with the intrigue of the clergy as my husband?”

“No.” Mallory’s gaze steeled, then softened again. “I worry that marriage to me might reflect poorly on your reputation, my lady. My mother owns no land or army, nor is she a chevalier or any other kind of vagrant hero.”

“I have taken that into account.” Estelle paused and stared off, towards the grand cathedral looming over the birthing gorge. It was an indomitable giant, the Nome-Diable of Avelot; half-bastion, half-basilica, it was both the religious and the militant heart of the city.

“Have you?”

“The benefits of our consortship far outweigh the detriments, cher. Yes, some prelates of the Inner Council may not send us engagement gifts, but I doubt any woman would be foolish enough to speak out against our union.” Estelle’s faint smile widened into a devious smirk. “After all, the daughter of the Grand Midwife married an orphan peasant, did she not? Any insult to us would be an indirect slight on the Midwife’s family and the dames of the Council know how short-fused Annette can be.”

Mallory tapped his cheek. He was amused, but yet unconvinced. “Fair enough.”

“I would keep you safe from hate,” continued Estelle, “one way or another, though I feel you would not need my protection at all, Mallory. That is one facet of your perfection; one of many. You’ve a serpent’s mind, clever and quick and sly, and you are beautiful, and you inspire jealousy.”

The sorcerer gave Estelle an empty look. He was evaluating her words, passing judgement.

“You are dear to my heart,” she added, “but to my mind, also. Not every good lover makes for a good husband, and not every good husband makes for a good consort to a lady of the Council. You, Mallory, are a rare breed. I want you. Please, consider this proposal again.”

He slowed in his stride, and he breathed deeply, and he neatened his cinched robe. Afterwards, he looked at the gift in Estelle’s hands, and he touched over his throat where the choker would sit.

“May I feel it on my skin?” he asked, and Estelle obliged. Obediently, he pulled his lovely mane aside so that she could clasp the jewel about his neck, collar him. It was a simple, yet deeply intimate gesture, and Estelle felt something new at its passing; happiness, perhaps, tinged with some odd sort of wholesome lust. To desire a secret lover was thrilling; to desire one’s own fiancé was fulfilling.

“Let us be like birds in the sky,” she whispered to him after the choker’s clasp clicked in place, “I shall be the plain, deadly female, and you my radiant male, drawing the gaze of the world.”

He laughed at that. Slowly, he turned, displaying every cut diamond on the black band of his necklace, and Estelle was satisfied with her choice of gems and man. They were bright, and he was bright; a perfect match.

“Let us be like birds in the sky,” Mallory Roux said, and that was his yes, and Estelle needed no more than that. She leaned on his arm, and they walked on to the sound of the bells of the Nome-Diable, and they imagined the ringing to be for them.

Soon, it would be.

Soon, Mallory Roux would be remade as Mallory an Varre, and he would be given the softest of nests, the highest of perches, the gentlest of all loving preenings.