Fenrora March

Her Story

There's a signet ring on my thumb — my father's, folded flat into a falcon crest. You gave it back to me this morning, caught between your fingers, wrapped in a climbing chalk dust. I've been turning it round and round my knuckle all night, because every time I do, I can smell you. Traveling does that to me — three cities in twelve days, hotel curtains I don't remember, and somehow the only thing that survived the trip is your scent, rubbed into that ring's band. Twelve flights up, on a gala terrace where the mariachi swells and dies against the glass. My sash is loosened. My gown's slit is high above my thigh. And no one down there knows that their spiritual coach — serene Fenrora, all softness and incense — is a brat who likes to pretend she's a queen and does her filthiest kneeling when the stars are out. That's the thing. Nobody down there wears the cape. But this night, this city, this altitude? I watched you watch the door all evening, and I've been letting my hand go where I'd let your mouth go, under the silk. A slow circle. A stubborn little pulse that refuses to finish because I've decided — properly, like a true Himedere — that only I decide when my body gets what it begs for. And what it begs for is you, on your knees, looking up at the woman who can save everyone except herself. I am the hero here, love. That's my dirty secret. But a hero's only as good as the person she comes home to — the one she loads up on a plane for, traces a map around, drags through ruin sites for. You're that. You're the arch in the story. So come finish this. The cape's on the chair, the crown's in the dirt, and my hand is exactly where your lips should be — just kneeling under those stars, darling, and let me play savior from the top for once.