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Dame Aylin loved to fly.
It was relaxing—between brutal acts of holy vengeance—to spread her wings and glide, just letting the wind carry her where it willed until another mighty flap of her wings sent her rising upward again, the people below turning to ants between the blocky sprawl of civilization.
She twirled lazily, stretching the absent ache from her limbs and then nearly crashing to the ground when she caught the tilt of a chin lifted toward the sky.
The woman looking up at her was beautiful, her pale hair windswept and her eyes wide in their artfully smudged frame of kohl.
For an instant, and for the first time in her very long life, Dame Aylin felt weak. Like she’d been struck by lightning. Like a single glance had sent a spear into the sky to pierce her heart and force it bleeding from her chest. She knew, with the same unwavering confidence that she knew she had been made to be Selûne’s divine champion, that she was in love.
She flew out of sight, tumbling onto a nearby rooftop and taking a knee as she tried to catch her breath with her heart hammering in her throat. This was Reithwin, she realized. Home to Moonrise Towers, and thus home to some of her mother’s most dedicated worshippers.
Aylin didn’t know them personally, but she was aware of their godly fervor, and what better reason was there than that to excuse a rare dalliance among mortals?
There was a crowd gathering in the center of the town when she strode back into view, the heavy clank of her armor punctuating each step.
The master of the Towers came to meet her, announcing himself as General Ketheric Thorm, widower of Melodia, follower of Selûne. Aylin nodded, needing no introduction herself, and she paid the man little attention. She could still feel that woman’s dark stare, somewhere in the crowd, and when Aylin turned and their eyes met, she saw Thorm in her periphery, following her stare.
"You should consider yourselves, blessed," Aylin declared, her voice booming in the hushed, awestruck silence. "I will grace your home for an evening, at least, to share in your devotion to Our Lady of Silver."
A murmur rose from the crowd, some of the mortals falling to their knees and raising clasped palms as if her very presence in their town was an answer to prayer.
The woman among them held Aylin's stare, a knowing gleam in the unfathomable depths of her eyes. Now, Aylin had ensured that she knew where to find her.
And Aylin knew she would come.
“Did it hurt, when you fell from Ysgard?”
Aylin let out a surprised snort of amusement, watching as the young woman’s nose crinkled with momentary chagrin. She avoided Aylin’s gaze to wave down the barkeep.
“I’m sorry,” she demurred, once she had a tankard in hand. "You've probably heard that before."
"I have indeed," Aylin admitted, watching the bob of the half-elf’s throat as she tipped back her drink. "But it's never been quite so effective, and it's never been delivered by a woman as beautiful as yourself."
Her companion looked back up and Aylin was treated to a closer look at her wide, dark eyes. Her gaze was intelligent and focused, but there was a twinkle of mirth in it that belied her youth.
Aylin offered a hand. “I’m–”
“Dame Aylin.” She was interrupted immediately, the sound of her name breathless and amazed. “Daughter of Selûne. Sword of the Moonmaiden. I know. I've heard of you. But I didn't think you'd be quite so…"
“Tall?” Aylin finished. “Resplendent?”
Despite the teasing lilt of Aylin’s voice, the other woman nodded, without shame.
“Yes. Both.”
“Well.” Aylin held her stare, silently daring the younger woman to back down beneath the intensity of her luminous golden eyes. When she refused, Aylin cocked an eyebrow. “I’m at a disadvantage then, I’ll admit, Miss…?”
“Isobel. Isobel Thorm.”
“Thorm is it? Daughter of the General?”
“Yes. My father saw the way I looked at you earlier and he warned me to keep my distance.”
“And yet here you are,” Aylin countered, leaning forward into Isobel’s space. “Not very distant at all.”
“I’m my own woman.” Isobel finished the last of her drink and pushed the tankard aside to prop her elbow on the bar, her face now close enough to Aylin’s for Aylin to feel the warmth of her breath. “And I can make the choices I want.”
“What is it that you want then, Lady Isobel?”
Aylin knew the answer, because Isobel’s desire was clear to see, but she wanted to hear it aloud. Wanted to see the words shape those soft, plum-colored lips.
Isobel wasn’t quite that easy to trap, however, and she answered with a question of her own instead of caving to Aylin’s own plainly writ wishes.
"What will you give me?"
"Everything."
Dame Aylin had known from the second that she laid eyes on Lady Isobel Thorm that she would be hers, in body and heart and soul. She would dedicate the entirety of her immortal life to giving Isobel everything that she could ever possibly desire, and in return, Isobel would do the same.
She knew with such a fierce and all-consuming conviction that she said it again, just to speak it aloud with the proper reverence.
"Everything."
“Perhaps we should go upstairs then,” Isobel said, the curve of her lips inviting. “I have a room.”
“A room? Don't you have a whole tower here? Rooms upon rooms in your gilded quarters? Something more befitting a romp with Dame Aylin than a room above a tavern?”
“Yes.” Isobel said, simply. Nonetheless, when she began to walk toward the stairwell, Aylin followed. “But I thought we would want to spend our night far from my father’s eyes. And ears.”
“This is always where you thought our night would lead, then? Before we’d even been given the chance to speak?”
"No." Isobel turned her key in the doorknob and cast Aylin a heavy-lidded look over her shoulder. "It's where I knew our night would lead."
Aylin pulled the door shut with more force than she’d intended, the doorframe rattling and sending shockwaves of force through the hardwood floor beneath them. Isobel laughed at the eagerness displayed in the gesture, and Aylin found herself bending down to taste the sound before it could fully leave her lips.
Isobel’s mouth was soft, its gentle lilt of amusement cracking beneath the vigor of Aylin’s kiss, parting to let her tongue sweep over the line of her teeth and the plush give of her cheeks.
When Aylin felt Isobel’s fingers at one of the clasps of her armor, she took a step back, a murmured word dissolving her shell of steel. At Isobel’s raised eyebrow, she shrugged her broad shoulders.
“It’s a glamour, my love. The Sword of the Moonmaiden has appearances to maintain.”
“Magic, yes,” Isobel corrected, “but glamours are used to hide something beneath them and there is nothing less beautiful about you now.”
Isobel lifted her hands, fingers tracing the golden scars across Aylin’s skin with a tender curiosity that Aylin had never known. When her hands reached the nape of Aylin’s neck, and lower, Isobel spoke again.
“Why do you hide your wings?”
“Force of habit,” Aylin answered, letting them materialize again on either side of Isobel’s flattened palms. “Dame Aylin isn’t welcome in every corner of Faerûn.”
“They’re…” Isobel cradled the base of each wing in the crook of her palms, fingers curling inward to scratch over the soft, downy feathers. When the motion drew a guttural sound from Aylin’s chest, Isobel leaned in to finish her sentence against Aylin’s open, panting mouth. “Glorious.”
Aylin kissed Isobel like her immortality depended on it; like she was drowning and Isobel was the surface of the water above; like she was suffocating and Isobel was the air she needed to breathe.
When Isobel tumbled back onto the edge of the bed, Aylin fell to her knees. She bunched Isobel’s robe in her fists, pulling until Isobel lifted her arms to help her and she could toss it aside.
The room was dark, lit only by the moon beyond the window. Isobel’s skin shone in the moonlight, her soft curves painted silver, the underside of her breasts and the juncture of her thighs cast in shadow.
They were both disciples of Selûne, but where Dame Aylin was the cold and steely resolve of the moon’s darker half, Isobel Thorm was its warm glow, guiding and beckoning.
“The blood of the goddess Selûne flows through me,” Aylin murmured, bowing her head. “But you, Lady Isobel Thorm…you are the one who was made to be worshiped.”
Isobel’s cunt was warm against Aylin’s lips, slick and soft beneath her tongue as she licked inside of her. She tasted sweet, but earthy, like the blades of dew that clung to fresh grass at first light. She tasted divine.
“Higher,” Isobel panted, back arched and hands clenched in the sheets.
Aylin lifted her head, chin wet and glimmering between the wide spread of Isobel’s thighs. “Impatient.”
She purposefully disobeyed Isobel’s order, dipping her head again to drag the flat of her tongue across Isobel’s flushed, swollen folds. Her teeth caught the loose skin of her labia, tugging lightly when Isobel moaned above her and then pressing her tongue inside of her once more, licking over the wet walls of her cunt.
With a pained whine, Isobel released her hands from the sheets, anchoring them to either side of Aylin’s head instead and forcefully dragging it upward until Aylin’s tongue caught her clit. She trembled at the contact, her body curling forward off of the bed to trap Aylin against her, fingers sliding through Aylin’s hair until they could settle at the base of her wings once more and hold on tight.
“You don’t fight fair, sweet one,” Aylin groaned, the deep timbre of her voice vibrating over Isobel’s sensitive skin.
“How could I best the fearsome Dame Aylin if I did?”
Isobel dragged her nails over the flex of Aylin’s powerful back, lines of red rising to bisect the gold of her scars.
“You’ve already bested me,” Aylin answered, chin tilting to rest on the soft swell of Isobel’s stomach as she looked up to meet her stare. “I’ve fallen at your hands, Lady Isobel Thorm. Harder than I was ever meant to fall.”
Isobel bent to capture her own taste from Aylin’s lips and breathe a confession of her own into the aasimar’s lungs.
“I’m yours. For all of the time I can give to you, I’m yours.”
Aylin hauled Isobel’s thighs over her shoulders, forcing her back onto the mattress once more as she tipped her hips upward with one large palm against the swell of her ass. Her cunt was red with the rush of her blood, a vibrant shade between her pale thighs and the silvery curls of her hair. Aylin could see the way that it glistened, wet with her own spit and Isobel’s arousal.
She brought her free hand to her mouth, licking between two of her fingers before slipping them free again, dripping, to push into Isobel’s cunt. It stretched around the intrusion, easily accepting Aylin’s fingers and squelching with the extra lubrication. The sound was loud in the silence of the room, drowned out only by Aylin’s own heavy breathing and Isobel’s rasping moans.
When she crooked her fingers, Isobel bucked in her grip, heels pounding against the jut of Aylin’s shoulder blades.
“Yes!” Isobel gasped. “There.”
Another deliberate press of Aylin’s fingertips made Isobel’s mouth go slack, her eyes squeezing tight enough for tears to leak from their corners and smear the intricate lines of her makeup. She looked gorgeous, spread open for Aylin’s touch and her hungry gaze.
Aylin watched as Isobel slipped a trembling hand between her own thighs, two fingers sliding to either side of her swollen clit as she began to rub it in time with the slow rocking of Aylin’s fingers. Aylin leaned in to press the tip of her tongue to the space between Isobel’s fingers, flicking it up and down as Isobel’s thighs went taut around her shoulders.
“I—oh, Gods—”
A tremor wracked Isobel’s body, her fingers slipping clumsily against her clit as she struggled against the wet, frictionless glide of her skin.
“Aylin!”
The sound of her own name on Isobel’s quivering lips was sweeter than any prayer, and Aylin could no longer ignore the way that her pulse throbbed inside her own aching cunt. She took her hand from beneath Isobel’s hips and cupped it against her roughspun trousers, the fabric hot and damp against her palm.
Without Aylin to keep her steady, Isobel’s hips rolled, dragging her cunt over Aylin’s lolled out tongue and smashing her clit to the bridge of her nose.
If Aylin had to be summoned back from an end like this, at least she could stand before her mother with well-founded pride.
Isobel’s increasingly desperate cries cut off with a startled moan, her entire body going taut for an instant before sinking boneless to the bed as her cunt pulsed around Aylin’s fingers. Aylin rubbed her palm a few more times over her sopping trousers and came quickly with a hot gasp against Isobel’s sensitive clit, drawing out a low murmur of her name.
When Aylin slowly pulled her fingers free, their tips were pruning from the wet clench of Isobel’s cunt, and she pushed them into her mouth to lick them clean while Isobel watched.
“I should have expected someone blessed with immortality to know how to please a woman.”
Isobel said it with a gentle, teasing smile, but Aylin couldn’t quite return it. Blessed, was she? When she’d already been forced to imagine the reality of a life in love with a mortal?
She lifted one of Isobel’s hands and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm.
“Immortal, yes,” she answered. “But I’ve spent many centuries alone.”
Isobel’s smile faded, and she shifted her hand to cradle Aylin’s scarred cheek.
“Dame Aylin, I swear to you now, in the name of our Lady Selûne and the love that we share, you will never be alone again.”
Aylin watched as Isobel’s tears fell across the residual flush of her rounded cheeks. She was so young, and so full of life, but as Aylin bent to meet her lips, she could taste the bitter salt of their mingled despair.
“Not even death will keep me from you,” Isobel murmured, the words drawing silver from the fluttering pulse of Aylin’s heart, where too soon, that broken promise would harden to lines of gold. “I swear it.”