CHAPTER FOUR: DANOVAN tel’DARIAN

By the Gods, but she was beautiful. When my mother suggested that she borrow one of her dresses for my sister’s commitment ceremony—or quel’niarcht in Galatean—I assumed she would swim in it. But the gown flattered her wonderfully, and I admired how it hugged the fleshy parts of her breasts and backside. I barely remember the ceremony—I just remember the scent of her skin when I leaned in to translate the exchanging of the vows.

My sister looked lovely in her red dress, and I couldn’t help but smile at my good fortune that I happened to be in town during her commitment. But Ara couldn’t seem to understand that a Galatean commitment ceremony wasn’t the equivalent of a human wedding: a bride didn’t spend a year planning it, picking out the perfect ensemble, choosing the food and the music. In Galatea, a woman wore her mother’s dress, if she had it, and her best dress if she didn’t; her mate wore something in complimentary colors. And everyone from the village, except for the families of the cora and the cirash—the bride and the groom, respectively—brought wine and food to be shared in the town square. In cities as large and populous as Pyrathas, a ceremony such as this one would happen nearly every night of the week, and it was accepted that only the close friends and family members of the couple would attend. But Hiropass was still small enough that the entire village turned out for the ceremony.

It began with dancing. It was representative of the great circle of life, how the community gathered around the cora and the cirash to show their support, to show that they would help to protect this new unity. Then, the cora spoke her vows to the cirash, and the cirash to the cora. Finally, their hands are bound with straps of silk, tied by the families. And that’s pretty much it—then everyone eats and drinks, and the couple returns to their dwelling to start propagating the species.

In Galatean society, people celebrate their commitments in this way early and frequently. Being as it is not legally binding, any two people can commit, for all they’re committing to is to love and raise and support whatever progeny comes out of their joining. In fact, the commitment ceremony is more for the future child than it is for the cora and the cirash.

“It’s all ritualistic nonsense anyhow,” I mumbled to Ara as I refilled both of our wine glasses. We were drinking Pyrathan Plum Wine, and it was sweet and tart and very alcoholic.

“I think it’s nice,” Ara countered, before raising her glass to her lips to take a sip. The imprint of her lips was pink on the edge of the class. “I think it’s a nice ritual. And besides, ritual is important.”

“But why is it necessary to declare your intention to commit to someone, to a family, when that commitment doesn’t even really mean anything? If my sister, Dinervah, were to decide she wanted to leave her mate, she could. And there is no real consequence. Just…poof. Gone. Over. Done.”

“It’s better than our system,” Ara grumbled, reaching forward to pluck a few sweet meats from my nearly empty plate. She used her fingers to scoop them into her mouth. “We make it super easy to get a marriage license but like basically impossible to leave. So sometimes people are stuck in just the crappiest situations for, like, years.”

“And everyone is so fickle,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “who knows how long it will last?”

“Exactly,” Ara echoed. “Who knows?”

We looked out together to the bonfire that had been built in the center of the square, where a smattering of people was dancing cheek to cheek in the flickering firelight, Dinvervah and my parents among them. “But,” Ara went on, sensing my thoughts, “it’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

“Hm?”

“Love. Look at them,” she pointed with the hand holding her wine glass, which she then drank deeply of before setting it down on the table between us. “They are so…beautiful in their love.”

And she was right. They were beautiful. In that moment with the music of crackling embers, they saw only each other. Their bellies were full of food that their friends and neighbors had prepared in celebration of their joining; their mouths were tangy with the taste of plum wine; and their eyes were locked on their lifelong companion.

I thought, looking at her, mine might be, too.

But I gave a sharp shake of my head to disavow myself of the notion. Christian was alive—my employer, my friend. I wouldn’t betray him.

“I’m glad we were able to be here tonight,” she quietly intoned, reaching across the small bistro table to take my hand in hers. “It was a lovely introduction to Galatean culture.”

“I’m glad we could be as well,” I said. “Though I wish you could’ve spent more time speaking to Dinervah under…more normal circumstances. I think you two would really get along.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” She withdrew her hand and picked absently at her nailbeds, her eyes clouding as she seemed to try to pick the perfect words. “Listen,” she said at length, “I want you to know something.”

“What?” I finished off my plum wine in one large gulp and abandoned the glass. But when I am about to urge her to speak a second time, I see that she isn’t looking at me. I follow the train of her gaze and I see what she sees: a man, a human man, and his female Galatean companion.

“There’s a man here,” she murmured, and rose slowly to her feet.

“Do you want to go talk to him…?” But she was already on her way. And the man, short and thin like most Human men, with a mop of dirty blond hair and a scraggly goatee, brightened immediately upon seeing Ara.

“Hello!” He said in English, and she laughed her delight. I helped her move toward the couple, who seemed to share in Ara’s excitement.

The man was wearing a traditional Galatean tunic in green and yellow, and his companion—a lovely bronze-skinned creature—wore white satin. As we approached, I could see that her belly was swollen with child, like a sail that grew full-bellied with the wanton wind.

“Hello!” Ara called out, extending her hand even before she had reached the human and his Galatean friend. Partner? Had they themselves had a commitment ceremony in this very square? “I am Dr. Araceli Cross,” she said, and she and the human man shook hands.

“Dr. Cross, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I’m Robert Welsh, and this is Ayla vel’Myracalf.”

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you both. I hadn’t expected to see another human in this village.” She was glancing between Robert and Ayla, before she remembered herself and gestured to me. “I’m so sorry, this is my friend Danovan tel’Darian.”

“Hello,” Robert said, and Ayla smiled her own greeting.

“Forgive me for being so bold,” Ara said, and I could see her scientist’s eyes twinkling as she spoke, unable to stop herself from asking a series of questions anyone else would find rude and obtrusive, “but…the baby.” She gestured to Ayla’s belly, and Ayla rubbed it affectionately with one hand. “Is it yours?”

“Oh, yes,” Robert confirmed, slinking an arm around Ayla’s waist. Ayla was petite by Galatea standards, but she was still nearly a head taller than Robert. It would have been exceedingly awkward for him to try to put his arm around her shoulders.

“Tell me,” Ara went on, leaning forward as she spoke, “what doctor assisted you in this conception? Was it Dr. Willis, at the GenOriens base?”

Robert and Ayla exchanged glances, chuckling quietly. “Ah,” Robert went on, “We didn’t exactly require a doctor’s intervention to conceive.” He grinned, and I could see his cheeks reddening if only just slightly. “All the equipment is working just fine, thank you very much.”

“But…” Ara’s expression was beginning to shift. Slowly, at first, then all at once. “But Humans and Galateans can’t conceive naturally.”

“All evidence to the contrary, Dr. Cross,” Robert said, his tone losing some of its warmth.

“Ara,” I interjected, “maybe we should get back to the party.”

“No,” she shrugged me off. “I’m sorry, Mr. Welsh, was it? But…I’ve built my career trying to fuse a human and Galatean genome in order to usher in a hybrid species. And all of my research suggested that it was not something that could happen naturally.”

“Then you have bad data, Dr. Cross,” Ayla chimed in. Her tone was as serene as her words were direct. “I’m not the only Galatean woman who bears a hybrid progeny.”

“What about a human woman carrying a Galatean child?” She asked, ever the scientist. “Have you seen that?”

Ayla and Robert exchanged glances, and he hesitated somewhat before he responded. “We knew one such woman,” he said. “But she perished in childbirth.”

Ara nodded somewhat sadly, as though she had half anticipated this response. “And the Galatean women—have any of them successfully lived through a live birth of a hybrid? Have any of their babies lived?”

Ayla smiled then, her face lighting up with what she was about to disclose: “We will be the first.”

Ara gave a quick nod of her head and thanked the couple, before they excused themselves to go back to the dance. We could see them, two dark silhouettes against the glow of the firelight, one round with new life.

“I don’t understand,” Ara was muttering, drawing my attention back to her. “In all our clinical trials, we were not able to get a human and a Galatean to procreate naturally. I personally oversaw over a hundred couples before I developed my treatment.” She looked up at me with wide and desperate eyes. “This isn’t supposed to be possible. GenOriens spent a fortune because this wasn’t supposed to be possible.”

I crossed my arms in front of me and looked back at the couple, now swaying in unison to the music. I wondered what they knew of GenOriens, and the treatments Dr. Cross had been developing. Probably very little—Robert Welsh was probably some rich tourist who decided to set up shop in a small Galatean town, fell in love, and let nature take its course. He didn’t know that what they had done was supposed to be impossible.

“Well, it’s good news, then, isn’t it?” I asked, trying to draw Ara out of her scientist’s brain a little. “To see that it is possible.”

“Yes, yes,” she agreed, but her tone was almost absent, like she was simply trying to silence me. A sight caught itself in the back of my throat.

“At any rate,” I went on, taking her by the elbow in an effort to direct her back to the party, “I’m sure Christian will have all the answers you need when you see him.”

This snapped her back to me in an instant, and she pressed her hands against my chest. “That’s what I wanted to tell you, Danovan,” she said. “Before. I wanted to tell you that I don’t want that life anymore. When I see him again, I’m going to—” she stopped dead and looked at her hands. One was covered in my mother’s painted vines, the other bore no decoration at all. “My ring.” She peered up at me with a panic in her eyes. “My ring!” She repeated and staggered back toward the house.

I turned on my heel and caught her by the arm, helping her to move across the cobblestone. Snaking an arm about her waist, I essentially lifted her up the steps to the front door, and she burst in, her eyes darting furtively around the room. “I hope I didn’t lose it at the bonfire,” she was saying as she crept over the wood floors. Then something occurred to her, and she pointed up the staircase. “Would you help me?” She asked, and I went to her side and lifted her into my arms.

“Your mother put all these wonderful oils into the hot water,” she was explaining as I climbed the flight of stairs. “Maybe it slipped off while I was bathing.”

Sure enough, there it was, against the metal grating of the drain. She plucked it out of the basin and held it in the palm of her hand so that it glimmered in the low light.

“I’m going to give it back to him,” she murmured, clutching it in her curled fingers. “When I see him again. I’m going to give it back.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice a hushed whisper. “Don’t you love him?”

I saw those piercing blue eyes grow glassy with the onset of tears, and she could only shake her head. “I don’t know,” she choked out on the crest of a sob, and I gathered her to me and squeezed her tight.

I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything. I just held her and let her cry against the fabric of my tunic. After a few moments, she pulled away, and I could see smears of gold across her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, self-conscious as she wiped at her eyes. “The wine…”

I grinned a little, chuckling under my breath. “It’s fine, Ara. Why don’t we go back to the party?”

She peered up at me, and I saw her make a decision. Her expression softened and she stepped back, unclasping the golden belt around her waist and letting it clatter against the stone floor. Then, she tugged the gown up over her head and tossed it onto the counter. She was wearing nothing underneath it.

I allowed my gaze to rove hungrily over her exposed form, and I felt myself salivating at the sight of her.

“Be careful,” I warned her. “I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t want you to.”