Chapter Text
Snoegeim yawns and stretches, then rubs the bridge of her nose. She’s made good progress on the translated text that Deryk lent her, but surely it must be lunchtime by now. She looks around for the satchel she’d packed that morning, and realizes with a start that the sun is low in the sky and the clouds have started to take on a peachy-orange hue.
“Lose track of time?” comes a deep, warm voice from behind her. Snoegeim yelps and whirls around. Lounging comfortably on the grass of the Omphalos is none other than Azeyma Herself, head propped up on one arm, smirking.
“Oh!” Snoegeim squeaks.
Azeyma chuckles and stands up in one fluid movement. The last time Snoegeim saw her, she had been a towering, massive figure, but between then and now she seems to have altered her height: the top of Snoegeim’s head is level with her chin. Still tall enough to be grand and imposing, but on a much closer-to-mundane scale.
Azeyma holds out a hand, and Snoegeim stares at it dumbly for several seconds before she realizes it’s an offer to help her stand up. Cautiously, Snoegeim puts her hand in the goddess’s. Azeyma’s skin is warm, and—oddly—there are calluses on her palms and fingertips.
Belatedly, Snoegeim realizes that Azeyma has been speaking. “What?” she says. Then she blushes. “I mean, uh—I beg your pardon?”
Azeyma doesn’t seem offended, though. She just laughs again, and with the hand that Snoegeim isn’t still holding (Snoegeim drops it like a hot coal, blush intensifying further) she reaches up and plucks a stray blade of grass from Snoegeim’s hair. It flares brightly and then burns away to ash between her fingers, but when she brushes the strands of Snoegeim’s hair back into place, there’s no pain or smell of burning. “I said, I would offer to watch over you as you make your way home, but it’s late, and surely you’re tired from spending all day so hard at work.” Her eyes are golden, and sparks dance in their depths. “Why don’t you rest a while somewhere a little more convenient instead?”
“Here?” Snoegeim asks, baffled. She looks around. “I beg your pardon, um, but there isn’t exactly a bed in the Omphalos…”
“Not here,” says Azeyma, and raises one arm in a sweeping gesture. A fire-wreathed portal forms beside them. “It’s been a long time since I last brought a mortal to the Heaven of Fire—well, for something other than fighting, anyway—and I thought you might like to see it with your own eyes.”
Snoegeim’s heart leaps in her chest. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh, I’d love to!” Snoegeim hastily scoops her satchel off the ground and stuffs the book inside with as much care as she can muster. “Is it all right if I take notes?”
Azeyma laughs at that, for some reason. “Of course you may,” she says, and they step together through the portal into her domain.
******
Snoegeim had heard the Warrior’s description of the Heaven of Fire, of course, but she still somehow didn’t expect it to be as lush as it is.
Azeyma leads her through a succession of torch- and bonfire-lit courtyards, each more elegant than the last. The architecture appears Ul’dahn at first, but seems to get older the further they go, passing through Sil’dihn and then Belah’dian styles, and then several that Snoegeim doesn’t recognize. The chamber they end up in is a lavishly-appointed bedroom, all gold and dark wood and colorful draped tapestry, with an archway opening onto a riotous garden full of sweet-scented hot-weather plants. There’s a low table and two cushioned chairs arranged on a green mosaic patio in the center, ringed by delicate golden braziers for light. A single perfumed candle flickers on the table, illuminating a variety of small dishes, each holding some beautifully-arranged delicacy.
“It’s so pretty!” Snoegeim gushes as Azeyma leads her to the table and pulls out the chair for her.
“Thank you,” says Azeyma, settling on the other side of the table. “I thought you might be hungry, since you worked straight through your usual lunchtime.”
Snoegeim blushes. “I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”
“Why wouldn’t I notice?” Azeyma asks. She picks up a filigreed golden fork, spears a stuffed olive on it, and offers it to Snoegeim, olive-first.
“Well, you’re a goddess, and I’m just, you know…” Snoegeim hesitates, but Azeyma just smiles and holds the fork a little closer. Hoping she’s not misreading the situation, Snoegeim leans forward and takes the olive between her teeth. Azeyma delicately withdraws the fork and peruses the dishes before settling on a piece of soft, fruit-studded cheese.
“A mortal?” Azeyma asks. “We goddesses can be very attentive to mortals that we like, you know.” She holds out the fork again.
Snoegeim glances down and realizes that there are no utensils on her side of the table. “Is this a ceremony of some kind, or a ritual?” she asks, once she’s done with the cheese. “It’s not one I’ve heard of.”
The lights in Azeyma’s eyes dance. “Of a sort. Comfortable?”
“I’m a little warm,” says Snoegeim sheepishly.
Azeyma laughs. “Of course. Would you like some help with your coat?”
Snoegeim doesn’t really need help, but Azeyma seems to want to play the role of host, so Snoegeim stands and allows Azeyma to undo the buttons and slide her coat off her shoulders. Snoegeim marvels one more at how warm Azeyma’s hands are as they trail down her now-bare arms.
“So what’s it called?” she asks, as Azeyma settles down once more on the opposite side of the table.
“Hm?”
“This ceremony, or ritual?”
Azeyma laughs. “I’ll tell you once we’re done.”
“Well… all right.” Snoegeim accepts another olive. “Can I ask you other questions, then?”
“About what?”
“Well, this place—I don’t recognize the architecture. I mean, obviously, we’re in the Heaven of Fire, not a house in the mortal world, but some of the rooms before looked like they could have been real. Or—” She gulps. “Sorry, I don’t mean they’re not real, I just—”
Azeyma just smiles and reaches over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Snoegeim’s ear. “I understand what you meant, my dear.” Snoegeim’s stomach does a little flip for some reason. “To answer your question—”
“Why do your fingers have calluses?” Snoegeim asks. Then her brain catches up with her mouth and her face flushes so hard she thinks she might actually catch on fire. “I’m sorry!” she squeaks. Making a fool of herself in front of an actual goddess twice in less than fifteen seconds: that has to be some kind of record.
Far from annoyed, though, Azeyma looks delighted. “Curious little thing, aren’t you? Well, I suppose I knew that already. Our—us, the Twelve—our forms are malleable, reflecting the beliefs and preconceptions of our followers, but also our own preferences. I have calluses because I am said to drive the sun across the sky in a chariot, and charioteers’ hands are calloused—but also because I like having them. They can be… useful.” She brushes her thumb across Snoegeim’s cheek.
Snoegeim’s breath catches in her throat.
“Are you still hungry?” Azeyma asks, voice low.
About to answer yes, Snoegeim hesitates. She hadn’t taken more than half a dozen bites all together, but somehow, she feels pleasantly full. “No,” she replies, but it comes out almost as a question.
Azeyma chuckles, deep and throaty. “Forgive my impatience, but I found I wanted to move on to the, ah… the next step of this little ritual of ours. You’ll suffer no ill effects, I promise.”
“Okay,” says Snoegeim, transfixed by Azeyma’s gaze, by the warm hand still resting on her cheek.
Azeyma withdraws her hand (Snoegeim makes an involuntary little sound, to her own surprise) and leads Snoegeim back into that lovely bedroom. From a dresser, she removes—vestments? It looks more like a delicate silken nightdress with an open back than any priestly robe that Snoegeim has seen.
“Is this an initiation, or some kind of anointment?” Snoegeim asks.
“After a fashion,” says Azeyma. “There is oil involved. This is something I would do from time to time with my favorite high priestesses, in times gone by. Or with particularly faithful devotees I took a shine to. But don’t worry,” she says, laying a finger across Snoegeim’s lips with a playful smile. “I won’t make you beholden to me. Not unless that’s what you want, and certainly not tonight. Now.” She shakes out the nightdress. “Will you wear this for me?”
The gown is the lightest, softest thing Snoegeim has ever worn, but somehow, she feels even warmer once it’s on. Azeyma directs her to lie on her front on the bed, and then dips her fingers in a bowl of flower-scented oil on the nightstand and begins to rub her hands firmly on either side of Snoegeim’s spine.
“Ohhhhh,” Snoegeim half-moans.
“You were bent over that book for so long, I felt sore just watching you,” Azeyma says. “And I don’t even get sore.”
Snoegeim makes an incoherent sound. Azeyma’s hands are so warm, so strong, so big.
“I’ve wanted to touch you like this all day,” Azeyma murmurs. “Not just all day. Yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, too. And even earlier. Do you remember, three years ago, when you got lost in that underground dig site?”
It’s not exactly a pleasant memory. “Mmm hmmm.”
“You were afraid,” Azeyma says. “But you didn’t let it overcome you. You knew you might never find your way out, but you kept looking anyway. And you prayed. Do you remember that? You prayed to me, and you asked for the light of dawn to guide your way.”
“The sunlight,” says Snoegeim, addled by the warmth of the room, by Azeyma’s strong hands, by her rich, deep voice. “From the crack in the ceiling.”
“You were afraid,” says Azeyma again. “But when I lent you that spark of hope, you let it kindle within you. I wanted to gather you up then, and spirit you away. But I had to wait, and see if you would come to me on your own.”
“Surely—” Snoegeim pushes herself up on one elbow, looking at Azeyma with brows furrowed in puzzlement. “Surely there must be thousands of people who pray to you every day.”
“There are,” says Azeyma, and tucks that one strand of hair behind Snoegeim’s ear again. (Is it usually this unruly?) “But not all of them are willing or able to see the signs I send. Not all of them are so bright as you, nor so curious. Not all of them walk between worlds to seek me out. And not all of them—” Azeyma’s teeth gleam in the low light as she grins. “Not all of them are very pretty young women.”
Snoegeim blinks. Then she thinks over the events of the evening. Then she asks, “What exactly is this ritual called?”
“It doesn’t have an exact name,” says Azeyma. “But if I were to give it one, it might be something along the lines of ‘the Goddess of Fire seduces a beautiful maiden.’” With a dancer’s grace, she lays down full-length beside Snoegeim, propping her head up on one hand. “What say you? Would you like to see it through to the end?”
“I’ve never been seduced before,” says Snoegeim’s mouth, unhelpfully, since her brain seems to have vanished somewhere between her legs.
“I know,” says Azeyma, and reaches her free hand up to brush the tip of her thumb over Snoegeim’s lower lip. “Don’t fret. It’s really quite simple, being seduced. All you have to do is say, ‘yes.’”
“Yes,” says Snoegeim.
“‘Yes, please, Azeyma,’” murmurs the goddess, firelit eyes gleaming as she shifts closer, her lips only a scant ilm from Snoegeim’s own.
“Yes, please—Azeyma—”
Azeyma’s mouth is even warmer than her hands. Snoegeim whimpers with need as she’s rolled onto her back, as those strong hands arrange her against the pillows. Between one moment and the next that pretty nightdress vanishes, along with Azeyma’s own gown and headdress, and Azeyma’s long hair cascades down her back.
Before she can think better of it, Snoegeim reaches one hand up and tangles it in Azeyma’s silken locks. Azeyma lifts her face with a throaty laugh, and then begins working her way down Snoegeim’s front, leaving a line of openmouthed, sucking kisses in her wake.
One muscular knee settles between Snoegeim’s thighs just as Azeyma’s mouth reaches Snoegeim’s left nipple. Snoegeim lets out a helpless cry, which Azeyma answers with a pleased hum. “Please,” Snoegeim wails, not entirely sure what she’s even begging for. “Please!”
Azeyma very gently bites Snoegeim’s nipple, and Snoegeim sobs. Her hips buck involuntarily against Azeyma’s thigh, and oh, that feels good, so she does it again, and again, smearing her own wetness all over Azeyma’s upper leg. There’s something glorious hovering close in the air, but she can’t quite reach it, and she sobs again, this time more out of frustration than pleasure.
“Poor thing,” Azeyma says, and pulls back from Snoegeim’s breast to look her in the face once more. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of you.”
“Please, please,” Snoegeim wails. Then Azeyma slides a hand down her side, across her hip, to the place where she’s still rutting desperately against Azeyma’s thigh, and begins rubbing her fingertips in a very precise circle over Snoegeim’s sensitive flesh, and Snoegeim screams as her back arches and her cunt clenches hard once, twice, a dozen times before finally easing, leaving her blissed-out and limp under Azeyma’s body.
“Oh, gods,” Snoegeim gasps. And then, at Azeyma’s playful raised eyebrow, “O goddess.”
“Traditionally,” Azeyma says, voice full of mirth, “prayers involve thanks or a request, or both, not just an invocation.”
Snoegeim giggles. “O Goddess of Flame,” she says, stretching luxuriously, “O bright Azeyma, lady of the dawn, thank you for, um, taking me to bed, and would you please, uh…”
“Fuck you some more?”
“Would you please fuck me some more?” Snoegeim dutifully repeats. “Amen.”
Azeyma buries her face in the pillow next to Snoegeim’s head, shaking with laughter. When she finally recovers her breath, she’s still grinning, but there’s a bright intensity in her eyes that makes Snoegeim’s breath catch in her throat. “Who am I to deny such a sincere prayer?” she murmurs, and Snoegeim shivers at the promise in her voice.
******
When Snoegeim wakes the next morning, she stretches experimentally, finding to her surprise that she’s not nearly as sore as she was expecting. For a moment, she wonders if the whole thing had been a beautiful, if bizarre, dream—but no, the sheets on the bed in her tiny apartment in Revenant’s Toll are not nearly this nice.
“Good morning, my beautiful girl,” comes a voice that makes Snoegeim reflexively squeeze her thighs together, seeking friction that’s not there. She opens her eyes to see Azeyma standing over her, smirking.
“Good morning, O Dawn,” says Snoegeim through a massive yawn. “Am I going to be late?” The prospect doesn’t bother her as much as it ought.
“Not if you get up now,” says Azeyma. “I gave you a good night’s sleep—least I could do, after keeping you up so late—but I can’t control time without asking Althyk for favors.”
Snoegeim does indeed feel shockingly well rested given the amount of time she’d spent with Azeyma’s face buried between her legs the previous night. As soon as she’s upright, Azeyma takes her by the hand and spins her as if they were waltzing, and when she stops moving, Snoegeim finds that she’s dressed in her clothes from the previous day, which have somehow been cleaned and pressed between being discarded last night and now. Azeyma bends her back in a low dip and kisses her hungrily on the lips, and then sighs.
“What’s wrong?” asks Snoegeim, dizzily.
“I’m going to miss you for the next, oh… five nights or so,” says Azeyma.
“Couldn’t we do this again, if you wanted?” asks Snoegeim, then, “Wait, why five?”
“Halone will be very offended if I don’t give her a chance to seduce you herself,” says Azeyma. Snoegeim’s eyes widen and her heart thuds in her chest. “And then if Halone gets a chance and no one else does, there will be war. Though Nymeia would probably find a way to get you into bed regardless. She’s crafty that way.”
“Wh— all of them?”
Azeyma blinks at her. “Well, all of us who are women this era. Menphina’s advice.” (Oh, says a little voice in Snoegeim’s head, and then well, in retrospect, that probably should have been obvious.) Azeyma, meanwhile, is still talking. “You can say no to any of us, if you like. We’re not in the habit of compelling worship from the unwilling, even if our priesthoods occasionally are.”
“Why me?”
“Because it has been an egregiously long time since any of us were able to reveal our true forms to a mortal,” says Azeyma, offering her an elbow. Snoegeim blushes and allows herself to be led on Azeyma’s arm back along the path through the Heaven of Fire towards the Omphalos. “Especially a mortal who is so very, very pretty. And capable of stringing together a sincere prayer in bed.”
Snoegeim squints at her suspiciously. “Do you mean that, or are you just saying it to be nice?”
Azeyma glances at her out of the corner of one golden eye, and Snoegeim remembers abruptly who she’s speaking to. But the Goddess of Fire doesn’t seem annoyed. She merely says, “If you’d lived in, oh, the Second Astral Era, there would be none of this nonsense about sharing. I would have snapped you up the moment I found you and made you high priestess of some temple, and I would have spoiled you absolutely rotten. You wouldn’t have been the only spoiled priestess of mine, of course, but you get the idea. Alas, that era is long gone.” She sighs gustily, and then waves her hand through the air, and a familiar fiery portal appears. “Back to your work, dear mortal. I shall return for you six days hence, unless you decide you like polishing Halone’s spear so much that you’d rather stay in the Heaven of Ice instead.”
Snoegeim chokes in surprise and nearly falls flat on her face on her way out of the portal. Cheeks flaming, she looks around to see if anyone else was around to notice. Unluckily, G’raha Tia, Krile, and Deryk are all giving her quizzical looks.
“Was that a portal to the Heaven of Fire?” asks G’raha Tia.
“Azeyma let me look around and ask questions about—uh—” What had they talked about? Right. “Architecture.”
Deryk’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he says nothing. The other two seem to take her excuse at face value, and begin quizzing her on what she’d learned.
And if she’s a little distracted, well—who can blame her? It’s not every evening you get invited to a goddess’s private heaven, after all.