Teller of Fate
Seventh Movement: What Came After
Chapter Seventy-One
* * *
Dævara tip-toed up the spiral steps to her sleeping chamber, not wanting to wake Brad. She wasn’t kidding when she said he’d exhausted himself. The first days of his transformation had done to him what hers had done to her.
The elf had made him Leannán just as she was, complete with the legendary libido that entailed. The memory of the previous days’ adventures actually made her blush. Her lover had been so energetic, forceful, and creative.
He still slumbered. The sheets twisted around covered only a part of one leg. The other was flung out, calf overhanging the edge of the bed. One hand rested on his belly, the other supported his head. She moved quietly to the bedside and spent a few moments just admiring him.
His shape hadn’t changed appreciably. He was still tall and leanly muscled. At first, Dæv had thought the iridescence was a temporary stage; that his skin colour would change. She was almost sure now that it was permanent. All his scars were gone. His hair was lighter than it had been, lighter even than it was when she’d left an hour ago. It was probably heading for white, or maybe silver.
He shifted and drew a deep breath as she watched. Fists punched the air and his back arched as he stretched. His penis began to engorge, randy thing that he was.
Still clothed in her travelling togs, Dævara climbed on the bed and sat astride one leg at the thigh. Taking his member in both small hands, she started stroking it. “Time to wake, lover mine!” she said in a sing-song voice.
Bradwold cracked an eyelid and a smile. “I’m already ‘up’ as you can see.”
“That I can! Can I do something for ya before breakfast?”
“Just keep on as you are, if you like.”
She did so, adding a bit of spittle to grease the way and using both hands to good advantage. He felt noticeably bigger in her hands than he had. That made her grin.
Five minutes later she was in the bathroom cleaning a lot of semen off her coat while Brad laughed. “How’d ya manage to have that much spunk left in you, ya randy bastard ya!”
Brad’s laughter doubled in volume.
After a couple of minutes, she was almost sure she had it all. Then she checked the mirror. “In my hair?!”
She heard a thump—Brad falling off the bed. The gales of mirth renewed.
Mock furious, the elf stomped back into the bedroom after getting Brad’s spend out of her hair—it had required a bit of the ol’ elf magick. His mirth had subsided, and he was munching on the leftovers of last night’s feast. He gave her a smile full of wicked mirth, a match to her own she realized, and she couldn’t keep up her pretense anymore. She exploded in giggles and ran to Brad, landing on him in one bound and smothering him with kisses.
After they’d laughed some more and kissed some more and just held each other awhile, she broke the silence, “Get cleaned up and dressed, my well-endowed lover. Today’s the day we go honeymoon.”
She tidied up the room a bit while he showered and dressed.
The Syrat, returned by her father’s own hand less than a week ago—she paused as a wave sadness advanced and retreated—had been used by her Pretty Man in one of his more creative sex games last night. Consequently, the cards were scattered all over the bed…
and the floor…
and…
and…
“Go ndéana an diabhal dréimire de cnámh do dhroma ag piocadh úll i ngairdín Ifrinn,[1]” Dævara muttered and drew upon her bond with the cards to summon the last seven bloody things. Two of them came flying up the stairs. “Dia ár sábháil[2]…?”
Brad came out squeaky clean, shaved and dressed for a long trip just as she was slipping her cards back into their bag. “Dæv?”
She turned.
“‘Bradwold’ isn’t a very elvish name, is it?”
“No, I suppose not. Did ya want to change it, then?”
He nodded. “Any suggestions?”
She had been thinking about it, actually. “There’s a name that’s close to yours that might do: ‘Brandær’.”
“‘Brandær’,” he tasted the word. Smiling, “I like it. What’s it mean?”
With a smile, she answered, “‘Good Husband’.”
He started a humorous retort, but something stopped him. His face became quite solemn as he moved to her and gathered her up in his arms.
* * *
Sometime later they redressed, gathered backpacks and other oddments, and left the suite, locking the door behind them.
They found the rest of the crew, plus Braddley, at their old table wondering why they were late—though likely not very hard.
News that they were to wed garnered the expected reaction. After accepting good wishes and safe trips and saying goodbye—the last being almost as hard as Dæv’s leave taking of her family had been—the lovers left hand-in-hand and headed for the Plaza of Dying Suns.
It was a bright morning kind of day, thanks to the spheres. Not many people were in the Plaza. Even the Hermetists and the mysterious Myr were gone. They’d already decided on their immediate route and headed to the Consilium Gate, which was closed.
They spotted a Hermetist in the gloom of the high walls at the far end of the Avenue. As the pair approached, they saw him complete a spell that caused the gate to open. When he turned to face them, she recognized him as her old friend Abram. “Long time, luv.”
The Hermetist’s delighted smile was unaffected, “Dævara! I was hoping to see you before I left.”
She rushed into his embrace.
“Where are you off to?”
“Back home to get married.”
“Wonderful.”
“This is Brandær, my fiancé.”
Bran and Abram shook hand and exchanged greetings.
“Well, mustn’t linger. Fare thee well, old friend.”
Abram replied with a wink and a tip of his hat.
Deep, clear blue light flooded the space, washing over them. The light knocked colours off kilter and flattened contours. Everything looked like light paintings, including them.
Dæv had been to Consilium before and was familiar with the peculiar effects of that world’s sunlight. She had resisted giving Bran a head’s up and now she was glad. The combination of surprise and delight on his face was priceless.
They linked hands again and stepped out into the Multiverse.
The first things Dæv looked for were the suns. They were on the right and quite high. She pointed them out to Brandær and explained that the larger one was a blue giant that had ignited only half a billion years before. It would go hypernova and vaporize this planet and everything within a hundred light year radius in only thirty or forty million more. Its smaller companion was an exceedingly rare ultraviolet dwarf. Appearing almost black, it was what gave the light its peculiarities.
They hiked over the rolling turf using walking staffs—Dæv, her red metal one—occasionally talking but mostly scanning the incredible mountains in the distance.
Once, Bran asked, “You really want to have that ceremony on Ælfen?”
She answered, with a tender smile, “Oh, yes! I’ve only seen it once, but it’s so beautiful, it is!”
He smiled back. “Let’s go, then.”
She squealed and hugged him, dropping her staff in the grass.
As she pulled away, she said, “I can’t wait for you to meet my father!”
“Uhm…didn’t I do that already? I’m still a bit confused about that whole thing.”
“Oh,” she answered, still smiling. “Well, Tathar is my foster father, he is. He raised me ‘til I came of age at fifty. The Templar is my, I guess you could say ‘spiritual’ father. It’s because of him, that I became an elf. You know I was born human, right?”
He nodded. “I remember. So, the Templar caused you to change! That clears that up, I suppose. What’s your foster father like?”
“I can’t describe him. He’s so wonderful! And he’ll adore you; I know it. Oh—and I so will my children!”
“Children?!”
[1] “May the devil make a ladder of your back bones while picking apples in the garden of hell”.
[2] “WTF?”
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, September 2026
© Gideon Jagged
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