Consecration

My priestess sits on the right side of the bed, her legs stretched out before her, her feet just touching the bed's foot. She is wearing the red silk garment required. It is intricately laced with symbols whose meanings have been preserved through the centuries. It extends from her shoulders to a few inches down her calf. There are fasteners down her right side. There are short sleeves. She takes a deep breath and looks at me, her hands in her lap trembling slightly.

I stand before her dressed in silken pants cinched with a hemp rope and a long silk robe, bearing many of the same symbols. I am her priest. I meet her eyes, and I too take a deep breath; my heart pounds in my chest. Tonight, at last, we will be forever united.

"You know what we must do?" I ask. Of course she does, but I must ask.

She nods, and swallows.

"Are you ready?" I ask. She takes another deep breath, swallows again, and nods, slowly lowering and raising her head.

"I'm ready," she says quietly.

"Then let's begin," I say, giving her another chance to object, and giving me another moment to gather my thoughts, my fears, and my hopes.

I walk over to her and pass my hand across her face. Her eyes close.

"Sleep," I say, softly.

Her head falls silently forward, her shoulder-length auburn hair covering her face, and she slouches a bit, but she remains seated.

I touch her head with my palm, and she falls back onto the mattress with a gentle moan. Her hands fall from her lap. Her left hand lay on the bed, palm skyward, her right dangles off the side. Her hair lays sprayed out about her. Her face is toward the ceiling.

I take a moment to look at her, at the shape of her body, at the smoothness of her face. We have been through much, my priestess and I, and I long to be joined to her for eternity. But I dare not touch her. Not yet.

I place my right fist over her and whisper "Apul." In an instant, the Liass Dagger appears in my hand. I can feel its heft, I can see its shimmering accents, yet I know it is not of this world. The point, the deadly point, is down, ready for its work.

I must act quickly now. There is no time to consider what would happen if I erred, if I struck somewhere other than her heart. A moments hesitation would mean both our deaths.

I raised the Liass Dagger and plunged it into the chest of my priestess. Instantly, the dagger vanishes in a burst of red light. I had not expected red light. Fear squeezed my soul. Was something going wrong?

My priestess gasps. Her hands clutch at her chest and her body arches up from the bed. She struggles for a moment or two. Then, at last, she sighs and falls limply back to the bed. Her head is turned away. She is dead.

Now, I may touch her. Now I must touch her. I brush my hand through her hair, kissing it, holding it against my cheek. I cover her ear with kisses. I turn her face to me and I stroke and kiss it as well. I run my hand over her other ear.

I play my fingers and lips over her shoulders and neck, tracing out the patterns which I know I must make, and make exactly. She is unresponsive, but that does not ebb my passion. I kiss her, touch her everywhere, tracing out the sacred patterns. Everywhere, that is, except that point where the Dagger's blade entered her. There is still the faintest red glow there.

I gently undo the fasteners on her garment. I then roll her onto her back, and remove the garment. She wears only black bra and black panties. It would be simple to remove them, but I haven't the time. Her hands fall lifeless to the mattress as I release them.

I cover the back of her neck with kisses. I touch her bare back, her arms, her hands, her buttocks, her legs, her feet with my fingers, palms, the backs of my hands, and my lips, following desperately the forms I have known since I was a child. I turn her back onto her back and continue with the fronts of her legs.

Finally, I take a deep breath and find the place where the Liass Dagger entered her. There is no mark now, but if I had touched it earlier, we would both be dead now. I find the spot, what must be the spot. I quickly run through the last few minutes, carefully considering if there was some part of the sequence I had missed. A mistake would be fatal.

I kiss the spot, what must be the spot. She begins to awake. She runs her hand across her chest, and then she looks at me.

As our eyes meet, intense pain rips through my chest. I grasp at my heart and desperately try not to cry out, so as not to frighten my beloved. My body tenses in reaction to the pain. I fall back on the left side of the bed.

"Only let it be over," I silently pray. And then it is, and my body falls limp.

It is now her turn to cover my limp body with loving touches and kisses, it is her turn to undress me. She does her part with care, perhaps even relish. I am surprised that though I am legally dead, I can feel her touch and kisses, the gently stroking of her hair on me, the way she rolls me over, the way she traces out the complement to the patterns I had formed on her. In a while, she is finished and she kisses that spot on my chest corresponding to the spot on hers.

I awaken, and find myself overjoyed to see the lovely and loved one looking into my eyes, her face inches from mine. We are now bound together forever, our hopes fulfilled.

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