The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 173

The next morning, when Myra returned to the antique shop, the air still hummed with a fragile tension, a lingering echo of the previous night’s revelations and the shadow Sarah’s visit had cast. Myra moved towards Freya, her steps soft on the aged floorboards. Without a word, she leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Freya’s lips—a kiss that spoke of love in a sea of worry, a fear that still settled like a cold, heavy stone in the pit of her stomach.

Freya’s crimson eyes, usually so adept at masking her own emotions, were keen to read Myra’s. She returned the kiss, then drew back slightly, her brow furrowed with a tender, almost painful concern. “You still carry a shadow of worry, my love,” Freya observed softly, her cool thumbs tracing the delicate skin beneath Myra’s eyes. “Tell me what troubles your thoughts so persistently.”

Myra sighed, a small, almost imperceptible sound that seemed to release a fraction of the weight on her heart. “It’s just… the thought of you going there. To Amelia.” Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper, as if speaking the name too loudly could indeed summon the very presence she so desperately wanted Freya to avoid.

“Freya, you've explained Amelia wouldn't resort to physical harm, but what you've revealed about her character shows just how manipulative she is. She knows how to twist things, how to forrow under your skin with words that sound like silk but feel like ice.” Myra’s voice faltered slightly. “I’m afraid she’ll try to… to unravel what we have, to make you doubt, to remind you of all the darkness and make you forget the light we’ve found.” Her own eyes, usually so bright with light, were clouded with the imagined scenarios of Freya facing Amelia’s cunning assaults upon her spirit utterly alone.

“Having your love, Myra,” Freya said, her voice firm yet gentle, her hands framing Myra’s face, her touch a cool anchor in the storm of Myra’s concerns. “It has changed everything. Amelia always knew how to exploit the smallest crack of loneliness, the faintest echo of despair, the weariness of an existence that stretched too long in solitude."

"But you, my dearest, have filled those spaces with so much light, so much unwavering warmth, that there is no room for her shadows to take root in the same way. Amelia’s shadow doesn't loom as large as it once did. I face her not with the fear of the past, but with the strength of our present, the hope of our future. She no longer holds that kind of power over me.” Freya’s gaze was unwavering, trying to impart the shield forged in Myra’s pure, untainted affection.

Myra remained quiet for a moment, Freya’s words washing over her, like a calm settling over the troubled waters of her anxieties. As her gaze softened, her mind absorbed the depth of Freya’s reassurance, the unshakeable strength she drew from their bond. The vivid, chilling mental images of Amelia’s manipulative power began to recede, replaced by the steady, unwavering light in Freya’s eyes and the resonant conviction in her voice.

A flicker of something almost playful—a rare and precious sight—danced in Freya’s eyes. Wanting to see Myra’s bright smile return, to banish the persistent clouds, Freya attempted a change of subject, a lightness she rarely initiated, feeling almost clumsy in the effort. “I was… recalling some mortal customs from… well, let us say centuries past,” she began, a hint of a wry, almost hesitant, smile playing on her lips. 

“There was a saying, ‘To kill two birds with one stone.’ A rather efficient sentiment, I suppose, though one wonders about the proficiency required with said stone. And why precisely two birds? Were they a matched set? Perhaps they were particularly irritating birds, deserving of such a singular, tidy end.” She tilted her head, a genuine, if slightly perplexed, academic curiosity in her eyes, her tone more academic than playful.

The earnestness of Freya’s confusion over the irritating birds, delivered with her usual thoughtful gravity, finally broke through Myra’s worry. A genuine laugh, light and warm, bubbled up from her chest, a sound that seemed to physically lift the oppressive atmosphere. “Oh, Freya,” she chuckled, reaching out to squeeze Freya’s hand, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “That was… adorable. And yes, perhaps a little rusty on the delivery, and a bit too literal. But thank you. For trying. It actually did make me feel better.” The sincerity in Myra’s voice was a solace to Freya.

Freya’s heart swelled at the sound of Myra’s true laughter, a warmth spreading through her, she drew Myra into her arms, holding her close, burying her face for a moment in Myra’s obsidian hair, inhaling the scent of sunshine and wildflowers that always clung to her—a fragrance that was pure life.

“That sound,” Freya murmured against her hair, her voice softer than usual, “is a melody that has awakened parts of me I believed were dormant forever.”

Myra’s arms wrapped tightly around Freya’s waist, her own heartbeat a steady, reassuring rhythm against Freya’s still form, a vibrant, living counterpoint to her own timeless, often silent, existence. “And your attempts at jokes are becoming my new favorite thing,” Myra whispered back, a lingering smile in her voice, her breath warm against Freya’s cool skin.

“No matter where you go, Freya,” Myra then whispered against her shoulder, her voice earnest and saturated with emotion, a promise whispered from the very core of her being, “even into that darkness… my light, my love, it will go with you. Always.” She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the cool curve of Freya’s neck.

A shudder, not of cold but of profound, overwhelming feeling, ran through Freya’s ancient frame. “That promise,” she murmured, her voice thick, almost breaking, “it is a light I will carry with me.”

For a long while, they stood locked in a comforting embrace, punctuated by soft kisses and whispered reassurances. The world outside the shop, with its looming threats and ancient sorrows, seemed to recede, pushed back by the simple, profound power of their connection. A fragile calm settled over their hearts. 

The storm of emotions hadn’t entirely dissipated, but their love for each other served as a steadfast anchor, holding them steady for the moment. Freya thought of the life thrumming within Myra, so precious and so fleeting, and knew this was what she would protect, fiercely and unequivocally, against any shadow from her past.

The need for deeper sharing, for understanding, hung in the air between them, unspoken that the immediate fear had been soothed. Freya gently drew back, her crimson eyes soft as they searched Myra’s. “I think,” she said softly, “some tea might be in order. A warm cup often soothes a troubled mind, or so I’ve observed through many an age.” She offered a small, hopeful smile, the gesture more natural now. “And perhaps… some stories, if you are still willing to hear them.” 

She knew Myra’s curiosity, her desire to understand not just the present joy, but the past pain and beauty that had shaped her. To give Myra that understanding felt like another way to bridge the vast expanse of her centuries, to make her past less of a barrier and more of a shared landscape.

Myra nodded, her expression earnest and beautifully open, her eyes shining with anticipation. "I would like that very much, Freya. The tea, and the stories. I want to know everything that made you… you. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the sorrowful. All of it."

Soon, they were seated at a small table in Freya’s private chamber, the antique wood worn smooth by time, its surface reflecting the dim light like still water. With quiet grace, Freya prepared the tea, her movements economical and precise, the delicate clinking of porcelain a soft counterpoint to the shop’s usual silence. The fragrant steam of a herbal blend she favored – chamomile, lavender, and a hint of rosehip. Freya took a deep breath, the scent mingling with the familiar aroma of old books and beeswax that always permeated her sanctuary, before her crimson eyes met Myra’s with a soft intensity. 

“Myra,” she began, her voice a little wistful, the sound like old velvet, rich and deep, “would you like to hear about that young, cherished mortal girl who bore the name Freya? The one I was centuries ago, before shadows and sorrows reshaped my world, before immortality became both my curse and my companion?”

A spark of anticipation lit up Myra’s face, chasing away the last traces of her immediate worry. She leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped on the table, as if to catch every word before it faded into the shop’s ancient dust. “I can’t wait,” she replied eagerly, her voice sincere. “Tell me about her. Tell me everything.”

Freya reached across the table, her cool fingers intertwining with Myra’s. The contrast of their temperatures was a familiar comfort now, a tangible link between their two very different existences, a reminder of the warmth Myra had brought into her cool eternity. “But first, my love,” Freya said, her gaze earnest as it searched Myra’s, a need for Myra to truly understand the depth of her commitment before she delved into the pains of the past. 

“I need you to remember that my heart, now and forever, belongs to you. What I share is of the past—a shadow, sometimes painful, sometimes a memory so distant it feels like another’s life. You are my present, my future, my light. Nothing from that distant era can diminish what you are to me, what we have become together.”

Myra gently lifted Freya’s hand and pressed it against her chest, right over her beating heart, letting Freya feel its steady, strong rhythm—a vibrant, undeniable testament to her life and love. “I know, Freya. I feel it. Here.” Her own eyes, mirrors of her soul, were full of unwavering affection and trust. “And I’m ready. Tell me your story.”

A faint, melancholic yet exquisitely beautiful smile touched Freya’s lips—a smile that held the immeasurable weight of ages but also the fragile, incandescent lightness of new hope, a smile that was purely, entirely for Myra. “Then,” she breathed, her voice a soft invitation into the mists of time, “let me show you… me, centuries ago.”