Private A Fever You Can't Sweat Out

[Vatrës Dhalis]

the Champion stood unhidden, vast and sure
he knew his effect, of that all could be sure
she thought of women and of what he took
then felt a darker gaze behind her look​

"I -- " The Avatara stammered, heat rising in her throat.

There it was again: that queer, prickling sensation beneath her sternum, a sort of fierce sense of covetousness -- of ownership. It accompanied a throb of anger, but it took a moment for Vatrës to grasp why. Her black eyes were locked to the Champion -- partially in shock, partially in appreciation. She was aware of his body -- all of it -- with an iron-clad understanding that she was seeing what she ought not. That she was spying what she knew to belong to someone else. A subtle guilty thrill of prowling in someone else's private museum, ogling someone else's prized art, made her stomach twist.

And worse. Appreciating it. Hasuras Na-Gerra knew what he was to women, clearly. Perhaps he did not fully appreciate what he was to the goddess Vahl. Yet.

There was anger, too, Vahl's anger, unmistakable and raw and painful.

You presume to speak for Me? You use My name in jest? Vahl's voice was a poisoned whisper in her mind, and the Avatara could feel the goddess' presence expanding in her mind, with all the pain that came with Her approach.

"Forgive me, my lady," Vatrës gasped, and she took a half-step back, groping for the door frame. Gerra would feel the spike of fear -- no, not fear, terror -- as her vision narrowed and her fingers went slack on the doorstep. "Please -- I meant nothing by -- " She choked on the rest of the sentence.

Blackness enveloped her eyes and Vatrës went slack for a moment. When she spoke it was in that other voice, the voice of the goddess. "I demand nothing more than what I am owed," Vahl declared, lifting Vatrës' delicate chin with a defiance unsuited to the Avatara. "The faithful service of My Avatar without distraction. Discipline on the part of My Champion. I know thy heart, Hasuras Na-Gerra, I can see it as plainly as I can see thy breathing. A man of appetites indeed. But not all women belong on thy plate. Remember to whom belongest thou, and she, and know that retribution will fall on those who trespass."

for anger rose, raw, ancient, close to pain
envious pressure tightening round her brain
a whisper, poisoned, slid through thought like smoke
the veil grew thin and then suddenly broke​