Page 90 of Consort's Glory
No, not copper, he thought, topaz. Glory crafted her from sun-kissed topaz.
The goddess responsible for the creation of elves crafted them of the sunlight she ferried to the Earth each day, striking it against the precious stones gifted to her by her long-suffering but adoring consort, Burden, the god of all the Earth. It was the stones that gave elves their colors.
Theodore held sapphires in his veins. Kaz, emeralds. Their reclusive older brother Samuel, who looked most like their father, carried the fire of citrine. Valen and Andy’s daughter, Theodore’s surrogate mother and Delilah’s consort, Winnie, was one of the rare elves lucky enough to boast a skin tone of dark, rich garnet.
Margot — his Margot — was cut from topaz. Pure sunlight, caught in a gem so luminous, it was often referred to as Glory’s Stone.
Theodore squeezed his eyes shut. Shame bit at him from a hundred different angles.
Glory, you gave me all the signs, but I ignored them.
Was there ever a woman so clearly in the goddess’s care? A witch, a gloriana, a healer, crafted from Glory’s own stone; given to his care from the moment she was born, their link forged with her first breath.
And I failed her.
Theodore felt more than heard Margot shuffle backwards. “I’m sorry, I knew this would be bad. I should have told you before we… I’m— I can go.”
His eyes snapped open just in time to see her slim back turning towards him as she reached for the door, her shoulders hunched. Hurt soured the electric current of their bond. It filled him up, scouring his veins to wash away the worst bite of his anger. Oh, goddess, I’m making this worse.
Theodore snagged her around her waist just as her fingertips brushed the silver handle of the door. “No,” he bit out, pressing his lips against the crown of her head. “No, darling, I’m not upset with you. I’m— Glory help me, I’m furious on your behalf. I can’t even breathe through the anger. Hearing how you’ve been treated makes me want to tear this world apart.”
“Oh.” She stood rigid against him, her arms stiff at her sides. Margot didn’t believe him. No wonder, considering how he reacted.
Drawing her back under the warmth of the water, Theodore did the only thing he could think of to show her he meant it. Grabbing a bottle of unscented but very expensive shampoo from the nook cut into the marble, he poured a dollop into his hand and began to work it into her long hair.
“Now listen to me,” he growled as he worked, ignoring the stiffness of her spine as he scraped his retracted claws against her scalp. “You are a halfling, not a half-breed. That’s derogatory and I will not tolerate anyone, least of all you, insulting my consort. Hybrid is fine, I suppose, but pedestrian. Elves call their mixed offspring halflings.”
Smoothing his shampoo-slick fingers through the long strands of her hair, Theodore worked out any knots he found as he continued, “As that implies, darling, we do have halflings. They are an accepted part of our society. We banned unions with Others, but of course that never stopped people from seeking out companionship elsewhere. But without binding a consort, the chance of producing offspring with those companions is slim, so halflings are rare.”
He tilted her head back into the spray. As he painstakingly washed the suds free, Theodore gazed down at her pale face, at her closed eyes and hard mouth. He knew she was listening, but her expression was cautious, as if she expected him to bring the axe down at any moment.
Reaching for the conditioner, he continued, “We don’t advertise them, obviously, but when do we advertise anything about us? I suppose it makes sense that your grandmother would just… assume we did something horrible to our young, since she would never be allowed to see any, but that’s not true.”
Not for the first time, Theodore cursed the elvish tendency to use secrecy to their advantage. If people assumed they were more brutal than they were, if they filled in the gaps of their knowledge with horror, then all the better for their reputations as predators, right?
Except that reputation meant people like Margot slid through the cracks. If she’d been properly cared for by her elvish family, she wouldn’t have been mutilated, starved, or left to suffer on her own.
His voice taking on a razor’s edge, he said, “Family is the bedrock on which elvish society rests. We take care of our young. Goddess, darling, we don’t have the numbers not to, mixed blood or not.”
Smoothing the conditioner into the tips of her hair, Theodore watched the bunched muscles of Margot’s shoulder gradually begin to loosen. Her voice was small when she asked, “Then why did my mother leave me with my grandma? She said it was safer that way.”
Theodore slathered his hands in body wash as he waited for the conditioner to set. With tremendous care, he began to rub the tension out of her shoulders and neck. “I don’t know. Elvish life isn’t safe, but abandoning a child is unthinkable. Wouldn’t you be safer with a mother who would tear the throats out of your enemies? Who would at the very least know what to feed you when you were hungry?” He shook his head. “I don’t have those answers. What I do have is this: You are perfect as you are, Margot Goode. You are a halfling, you are blessed by Glory, and you are mine.”
She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. It did something to him to see her lower lip quiver, to see his fierce halfling look at him like he could shatter her any moment. “Do you promise?”
His voice was thick with tears when he answered, “I promise.”
