Is It Wrong To Crave Love (In A Dungeon?) Chapter 22 - Reason

Where is the safest place in all of Orario?

Many adventurers had posed the question. While she waited tables, often terribly, or washed dishes, often suboptimally, she had heard that question. In between Mama Mia’s tugging of her ears and Ryū and Anya’s subtle attempts to help her with the finer tasks of work, she heard, now and again, someone bring up that question. Often, it was in casual conversation, sometimes, it was as a drunken inquiry, and other times still, it was a serious debate started by the paranoid who were prepping themselves mentally and physically for a worst-case scenario.

There were often hundreds of varying answers, each one possessing differing merits. Accessibility, security, ease of access, the ability to defend it from attacks and invaders, amongst others, were the top criteria. Yet, what it came down to was having the guarantee that even should a worst-case scenario happen, the location could be used as a last bastion. To no surprise of hers, one such place often came up in those discussions, standing out as a location that met varying criteria.

The top of the Babel Tower.

The Fiftieth Floor, overlooking the entirety of Orario. There was no safer place, many argued. Some, jokingly, as they would, would jibe, “Well, of course, there isn’t a safer place! Ottar’s there!” 

Ottar is there.

The collective opinion was that anywhere the Strongest Adventurer was could only be a place unequivocally and indisputably safe. 

“So long as you’re not against him!” 

Some adventurers would laugh.

“Oi, Oi, come off it! Who would be mad enough to go against him?” 

Others would jeer.

“What if an enemy somehow managed to sneak past him?”

Some, having imbibed too much to drink, would suggest.

“As if that can happen! There’s no way in the world anyone can sneak past him! If anyone does…  it means he probably just let them.”

Those little arguments, those little comments, those little idle tidbits of conversations she heard whilst within the Hostess of Fertility often were amusing. They were entertaining and a way to connect to the esprit de corps of the Adventurers of Orario. 

Then, Mia would remind her there were dishes to wash, and her wrists would go back to scrubbing as she would feel slightly less connected. She was always the one who tired the quickest amongst all the girls working there, because she worked as a normal person would, and did not, in fact, have a Falna augmenting her capabilities to superhuman levels.

It was why she always needed long, relaxing naps afterwards. Soaking in warm water to ease away the aches and pains, to relieve the physical discomforts that were part and parcel of the role she had chosen to play. 

The large, indoor, private bath at the top of Babel Tower was not constructed with the notion in mind that she would be moonlighting as a mortal girl. Yet, its extravagance and excessiveness were merely a result of it being, after all, the top of the tower. One at the top of the world, quite literally and figuratively, needed every iota of space to encapsulate the sensation of being at the pinnacle.

Yet, calling the indoor bath a mere bath was performing a disservice as crass and crude as calling Ishtar a second-rate whore. Though to a degree, both sentiments were true, they failed to capture the complete nuance of both situations. For at the very top of the Babel Tower, the bathroom was more comparable to a private indoor onsen.

The ‘bathtub’ would rather be called a pool, for it almost completely encompassed the entire room, and had a width large enough for ten, if not twenty Mia Grandes to lounge comfortably without being cramped. The depth of the water, on the other hand, was enough to fully engulf a woman of average height, and outright submerge certain barefoot goddesses of less-than-average height. 

Sitting at one edge of it, her body obscured by steam and the rippling, gentle bubbles of the heated water, she had her eyes closed in partial slumber. 

Unknown by none, feared by many, loved by all, and hailed for incomparable beauty, she was a goddess that thousands, if not tens of thousands of men would surrender their souls for an opportunity to catch a glimpse of her bare, naked, flesh.

It was not vain to admit this, nor was it conceit to acknowledge this. It was simply the truth. Her beauty enraptured men and women and monsters and beasts, and gods, yes, gods, even the deities of war and peace, trade, and craftsmanship and art were not immune. Those whom many feared and others adored, she could have, making fools of themselves in an attempt to please her, or be pleased by her.

There was nothing she could not have if she truly wished.

Almost nothing.

A flash of blue hair strayed into her mind’s eye like an errant arrow from Skaði’s bow. At it, she sank deeper into the water, her breath slowly bubbling the steaming liquid. She had been in the water for hours, now and while others would be worried about becoming pruned and wrinkled if they stayed too long in the bath, it was not even a thing that registered on her radar as a concern.

Pruned? Wrinkled? 

Those words did not exist in her dictionary. 

What were imperfections of the flesh to a being whose essence was beauty incarnated?

If he truly saw me as I truly am… would he still…?

She closed her eyes again, trying and failing to fall back into slumber.

Seduction without deception…

She had never before considered her act as an overt form of deception. At best, she considered it no different from putting on makeup. Appearing as a different side of herself, a more playful side of herself, a more honest side of herself. It was a light mask, the type one was expected to wear at an appropriate masquerade ball. Roleplaying, she would term it. Larping, some of the other Deities would call it. It had, in her eyes, always been harmless. Fun. Nothing to think too deeply about. 

Yet, there was something about the words that made her uncertain about the nature of her actions.

Deception.

It sounded like a filthy word. 

Deception. 

She lied every time Chloe and asked her if she had no problem getting home, worrying about her safety because she purportedly lived in a ‘rough area.’ She made half-truths when Lunoire asked about her parents, artfully bluffed when Anya probed about her family, made up false tales when Ryū once asked where she grew up and where she came from, and remained silent when the girls collectively spoke of their goals for the future, their plans for old age, their likes, dislikes, her hobbies, and preferences.

Despite how little the girls at the Hostess of Fertility could say they knew of her, they treated her and cherished her all the same. Yet, every second she spent with them, she spent it doing her hardest to ensure they would never truly know her.

Deception.

Could any relationship born out of deception ever have any true value?

If he were to approach her, pretending to be someone else entirely, saying the right things, the right words, the right sentences, and somehow managed to ensnare her heart by doing so, only for him to reveal that his words were hollow, his sentences were all regurgitated, the signals he presented were false and he was a different beast, in totality than the one she thought… 

She would, without a doubt, loathe him.

But this is different.

It is scarcely the same. 

What she was doing wasn’t the same.

A small voice whispered that even if it was…

So what?

She was a Goddess.

Consideration for the feelings of others had never been the strongest point of any of them who descended here to partake in this Game. Only recently did she grasp how it must feel for the majority of her Familia members, each of them desperate for her attention, yet it was like the wind, blowing on all, but belonging to none.

Only recently did she come to truly sense just how frustrating it must be, and that understanding had come because she felt, for the first time, that frustration.

The vast majority of Deities were egocentric by nature. They wanted what they wanted, and nothing would stop them. They did what they wished, and no one could tell them otherwise. Rightness, wrongness, those were appellations mortals would try to put on their actions afterwards, but to the deities themselves,  that distinction held no water.

Even if it was cruel to Ryū, to Anya, to Chloe and Lunoire, she would lie to them about who and what she really was, she would continue to do so, for as long as she could, and as long as she wished. Until either a day came when the secret was revealed, or she had grown bored with the act.

Perhaps, only after Ryū was an old, wrinkled elf, lying on her deathbed, would she appear beside her, undo her transformation, and reveal her true identity. 

…Deception.

She opened her eyes, staring upwards at the ceiling, partially obscured by steam and fog.

Seduction without deception…?

She laughed.

It would be beautiful if it were possible.

A small crack occurred in the ceiling above. The crack grew rapidly, as if it were a lightning bolt with varying tributaries, before the ceiling, above her, caved in. 

A long, familiar iron staff fell out of the ceiling and slammed into the water, before something else followed, splashing into the bath with a force that created a sweeping wave.

Someone, somehow—

Had just dropped out of her ceiling and into her bath.

=====)+(=====

Only one more thing on the list Lilly needs to get…

Lilly hefted a large, oversized backpack with scarcely any effort, humming and cheering. “Lilly’s shopping spree is almost done! Lilly can’t wait to show the Mister…!”

There had been many, many distractions going on, something about an explosion, and another thing about an attack, and the elevators were down, and people were not in their shops. So many things tried to foil Lilly’s plans, but they had not succeeded. They had failed, for Lilly had remained singlemindedly focused on Lilly’s task of being the greatest supporter. Lilly had, despite distractions and interruptions, focused purely on procuring the necessary items, gear, equipment, potions, and necessities needed for adventuring and delving into the Dungeon. 

Lilly would not fail the Mister!

The last thing Lilly needs… are potions.

Finding her way into one of the many, many potion shops, Lilly’s eyes scanned the items on the shelves, and scanned the expression of the elderly man who sat behind the counter.

“You’re not running some shady deal here, are you… Mister?”

Lilly scrunched her nose at a collection of vials and bottles, all put on a shelf with a sign that said, ‘50% off! Buy One, Get One Free!’

“I’m trying to clear out my inventory, girlie. Either buy it or don’t…” the aged shopkeeper grumbled. “I wouldn’t need to put them on sale if it weren’t for the Hestia Famila…”

Lilly’s ears twitched. Lilly turned to the shopkeeper. “What’s your problem with the Hestia Familia?”

“What, you haven’t heard, girlie? The Captain of the Hestia Familia just became the Record Holder. The Guild is partnering with them, too. Those damned campfires of his are going to put all of us out of business. Might as well empty out my inventory before these things go to waste on my shelves. At least selling it at half price, I’ll still recoup some losses…”

Lilly couldn’t argue because Lilly had been under the light of Moses’s campfire and experienced its effects firsthand. There was no contest. No comparison. It was far better than any potion Lilly had ever had. Lilly had not thought of it, but it was true that if more and more of those campfires were set up… the need and demand for not just healing potions, but ailment-curing potions would rapidly decline.

If demand declined, then there would be excess supply.

When there was excess supply, the prices would fall.

“I used to be an adventurer, before I retired and opened up shop…” the old shopkeeper continued to grumble. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve encountered dead bodies in the Dungeon that still had entire bottles of unused potions on them. Folks buy potions and hang on to them because, what if I need it for later? Some of ‘em are smart to use it when necessary, but others never use it. They die, still saving it for when it’s important. Yet, those idiots are the majority. Now, imagine if they know for certain there’s gonna be somewhere on a floor where they can go and get healed for free without having to use the potions they’ve got…”

He sighed.

“Potion Market’s going to crash, I’m tellin’ you. All of us can see it. I even heard this morning that Lord Dian Cecht is raring up to gather all the potion-crafting Familias in Orario and file a collective complaint to the Guild… Don’t know if any good’ll come of it.” 

“File a complaint?”

“Something about mandating the regulation of healing and restorative services…” The old shopkeeper waved his hand. “They’re hoping they’ll get the Guild to get the Hestia Familia put some restraints on those campfires… cause if they don’t, that Record Holder is going to find himself in the crosshairs of lots and lots of different pissed off Familias. Wouldn’t be surprised if one or two of ‘em even challenge him to a War Game…”

Lilly’s heartbeat was deafening. 

“Well, word is there’s only one person in the Hestia Familia, so it seems the easiest way to get rid of the problem directly is just… hmm? What’s with you?”

“Y-you! Mister— Moses is trying to help people in the Dungeon! H-how can you all just t-think about your own pockets?!”

“There’s not a man alive that likes to get poorer, girlie. You think that’s any different for Gods?”

“Even so… t-that— that’s just—”

“There’s just some things you can’t do in Orario if you’re not powerful enough,” The shopkeeper mumbled. “Maybe if he had the backing of one of the bigger Familias… but good luck with that.”

Lilly bit her lip.

Big names…?

So, either the Freya Familia, the Loki Familia… or… maybe the Hephaestus Familia.. 

Mister… Mister said he was going to speak with Lady Hephaestus…!

Did he… would he…

Lilly recalled how Moses could be very… Moses.

Mister… Lilly hopes you haven’t done anything that’ll get Lady Hephaestus mad at you!

They were lucky enough that Lady Hephaestus and Lady Hestia were friends. As for getting the help of any other big Familias, it was as the shopkeeper said.

It was outright impossible. 

There was no reason, not one, Lilly could think of in the world, that would get the likes of Lady Freya to voice support for them.

Not a single reason.

=====)+(=====

Am I dreaming?

Freya had come to doubt the objective reality in front of her. She was doubting the hole in the roof, a roof, which, to her knowledge, should have nothing above it, as she lived on the top floor. She doubted the dust and pieces of debris which fell into the water, and what she doubted most of all was the existence and presence of a familiar flame-patterned kimono that was now floating atop her bath.

Freya closed her eyes and, after regarding the sheer implausibility of the occurrence, came to a clear conclusion. 

I must be dreaming. 

Clearly, this was the correct answer. Somehow, she’d fallen asleep while bathing and hadn’t been aware of it until just now. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Simply put, this could be nothing other than a dream, because her brain could not conceive of any scenario in which this was reality.

How odd of me to see his clothes even in my dreams…

Gods seldom dreamt. The realm of dream was a liminal space that conveyed the subconscious with the conscious, and the mortal with the divine. Sending messages through dreams, giving inspiration through dreams, providing prophecy and revelations, foretelling doom, and catastrophe were all things that concerned mortals far more than they did concern Gods. 

Yet rarely, very rarely, did Gods, too, sip of the inebriation that came from dream. When they were preoccupied with certain matters, when those matters occupied their waking hours to the sickening extents of addiction, or when other deities, those whose Authority provided them glimpses into that sleeping realm, wished to send them messages.

Her guarantee of the unreality of the occurrence in front of her wavered slightly when she felt a metaphysical pull within the water. A familiar, unforgettable attraction, which came from the water and the bubbles submerged within it.

This is a very… very realistic dream… is someone playing a prank on me? Apollo? No, he’d not dare… Mamu and Sisig, those two…? Unlikely. Who else has the Authority to…?

When the dream apparition started frantically splashing about in the water, Freya started to suspect she might actually not be dreaming. When something latched onto her ankle and pulled her under, it occurred to her that she was absolutely, positively, most certainly not dreaming.

Pulled under the water, her eyes blurry from the liquid, she caught sight of a familiar blue-haired man with stormy, muddled eyes, desperately latching her ankle for dear life.

M-Moses…?!

It was him. It was him. The same brazen man who’d asked her for her help in seducing her. The man who spoke to her of wishing to seduce without deception. The man responsible for her assistant’s current troubles, the man whom, within a mere day of meeting, had completely ensnared her every thought and suffused himself in her musings and ponderings, her contemplations and cogitations, utterly and completely supplanting himself in the consciousness of her every waking moment.

Freya’s mind reeled. Her thoughts moved as though they were covered in syrup and honey, with a viscosity of putty and thickened cream.  Her heart rate skyrocketed, her pupils contracted, and her body, divine, yet limited by mortal constraints, entered an unfamiliar state of fight-or-flight. 

How was one supposed to react if a person they were beginning to have stirrings and inklings of affection for, abruptly, and without warning, fell out of their roof into their bath, and then dragged them under the water?

Freya had never been one for modesty or chastity. Her normal attire hugged her figure such that what little was left to the imagination seldom required one with a potent imagination to conjure in their mind’s eye the full picture. She was and had never been the sort who was prudish about her body. However, there was something about this situation which brought her the desire to cover herself from his eyes.

W-wait, what are you doing?!

Moses Vanderzee hurriedly grabbed her by the waist and latched onto her as if she were some… some pillow. He latched on to her, pressing himself against her bare body so tightly she could feel every contour of his skinny, emaciated ribs. His legs wrapped around hers, his face buried into her chest, and he pressed and squeezed and held onto her as if his life depended on it.

W-w-what is the meaning of—

Freya’s face burned with a heat she could not say she could ever recall. Humiliation and embarrassment had been concepts so alien to her heart, to her nature, to herself, her composed, controlled self, that it made the task of thinking clearly outright impossible. Logic had taken a swan dive off the nearest bridge, and the stupefying of the situation was beginning to stimulate her like nothing had ever before. Stringing together a coherent sentence, a coherent string of words, would have been, at that moment, a task more difficult than patting her head and rubbing her belly concurrently.

You— w-why are you—- how did you—

Worse, she could feel that drain as he clung to her. That absurd skill of his was running on full force and wreaking havoc on her already inarticulate thoughts.

Nothing, nothing in the world could have prepared her for a situation like this. Not only had Moses Vanderzee somehow managed to infiltrate her home, somehow bypassing Ottar, but dropped in on her while she was bathing and was taking liberties with her body?

There was a thrill at the idea that Moses Vanderzee had infiltrated here just for her… but there was, at the same time, a profound sense of disappointment, because if he had truly gone to such lengths just to cling to her flesh…

W-w-w-wait… why are you still s-squeezing?!

Freya tapped on his arms, which were strong despite his skinny nature, and in so doing, his face, prior buried into her chest, pulled away. All her thoughts, muddled, came to a screeching halt as she caught a glimpse of Moses Vanderzee’s expression.

She’d thought there’d be an expression of mischief, of triumph, of gleeful, mirthful teasing, or perhaps a sly, self-satisfied smirk.

His eyes were blank.

His eyes, those eyes, which were always like the churning sea, were eerily, coldly blank. Dark. Unfocused. As if he were staring off into the distance at something thousands of yards away. He bore the gaze of someone who did not know where he was, or even what he was doing…

Only that he needed to hold on to something.

Moses Vanderzee was absolutely not going to let her go under any circumstances. Freya could sense it. Her experience, her limited omniscience in her own Authority and domain, told her, at once, that nothing, absolutely nothing, would tear Moses Vanderzee’s grip away from her. Not unless she got through to him. 

Her lips opened, but her words were drowned by the water, coming out as a series of incomprehensible bubbles. She tried again, yet to no avail. Under the water, her voice would not reach him.

Moses Vanderzee would no doubt cling to her until they drowned together.

It was almost a ridiculous notion. An unthinkable, hilarious, laughable notion. Drowning in her own bath. It almost sounded like a tale to give children, to caution them against the pitfalls of excess and extravagance, the demerits of acquiring a bathroom so large that even a goddess had drowned within it, unbeknownst to any. 

However, such a tale would fail to have impact, because as she was immortal, divine, death could not have her, not even if it wished. She had nothing to fear from death, nor did she have any concerns about drowning. Her Arcanum would activate and save her the moment she began to truly drown, and the only true consequence would be parting from Gekai permanently.

No… if that happens here…

Returning to Tenkai was incredibly conspicuous and unimaginably destructive. The energy of an Arcanum release was comparable to a weapon of mass destruction. No mortal material could withstand it. None. If such were to unleash itself in Babel—

Freya gently cupped the rough, bearded face of the man clinging to her as though she were his sole salvation. Her hands ran through the beard, which was new, because she could not recall him possessing one just the prior night.

I need you to come back to your senses. 

She closed her eyes until her lips gently pressed against his. Softly, her tongue slid its way between a set of teeth, into a mouth. There was a slight, salty taste, as if she were kissing the sea itself, then there was an odder, steely, metallic taste, but yet, there was another taste, warmth, and filled with a lingering aftermath of… 

Potatoes…?

She laughed into the kiss, her lips vibrating within his. 

Something pulled her in. His craving drew her in. Her tongue almost moved as though it had a mind of its own, deeper and deeper, as she explored his taste. That all-consuming bottomless pit of desire drained from her as she kissed him, but even so, there was something different about kissing him. Something that could not compare to any kiss she had ever had. Shivers raced down her spine, her arms wrapped around his head, and she kissed deeper, harder, and rawer.

She lost herself in the kiss, almost, for a moment, forgetting why she was doing this. There was something different about Moses Vanderzee, that his lips, though normal in all ways and all means, were a set of lips she wished to continue to kiss, to never stop kissing. Whether it was the infectious nature of his craving, or whether it was because some part of her, some part, buried and yearning, felt a flicker of something for him that she had never felt for any other, Freya could not say.

Yet, in kissing him, Freya felt as though she had never before kissed.

As she pulled away, the arms holding her tight slackened. As she pulled away, the set of blank, vacant eyes returned into focus, as Moses Vanderzee blinked. He opened his mouth, and a gaggle of bubbles emerged, making him shut it, and rapidly, with her still in his arms, they ascended together.

They simultaneously took mouthfuls of air the moment they broke the surface. Coughing and gasping and sputtering, they made for an odd, hilarious, laughable pair who’d almost drowned together in a bath.

“Are you okay? I— I’m sorry, I didn’t—” he paused. “You’re… you're a goddess…? I’m terribly, terribly sorry… this wasn’t intentional, please believe me, I— no, before that, are you hurt anywhere? Do you need help? Is there anything I can do to—” 

Moses Vanderzee began to fret and hem and haw and panic over her well-being, in a way Freya found both exasperating, yet hilariously endearing. Wordlessly, she placed a finger on his lips, silencing his rapid-fire onslaught of apologies and concerns.

“First,” she said. “Might I know why you’re still holding me?”

His arms were still wrapped around her waist. It was nowhere near the almost crushing, suffocating bear hug he’d been giving her prior, but Freya was still very much bare, and Moses Vanderzee was still quite blatantly holding on to her.

“Ah,” Moses hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

Despite his apology, he made no motion to rectify the situation.

“Are you not going to let go?”

“I… can’t.”

Freya lifted a brow. “Excuse me?”

“This is somewhat hard to explain, but until we’re out of the water… I… can’t let go.”

Truth. 

“I… I just need something to hold… while I’m in water.”

His hands gently pressed into the sides of her waist. Holding her, as though she was his lover, with tenderness, yet lacking the insipid, blind desire she would often find in any else who would hold her, or any else who would ever find themselves in such a situation.

“...It’s fine.”

“I really am… sorry, for the inconvenience, goddess.”

“Being in your arms is hardly an inconvenience.”

She lied as easily as breathing. It was an inconvenience because of that accursed skill of his. It was an inconvenience because she could feel his very soul, screeching and roaring and desperate to engulf her and consume her and swallow her raw. She could feel his craving, raw, unbridled, and potent, an addictive, almost maddening craving that tested even the greatest of her own willpower. His lust, which he hid so expertly, so inhumanely, was flowing through her every single second, and she had come to accept defeat in the realization that it was truly bottomless and undeniably endless.

Calling it an inconvenience was a vast, vast understatement. Her nipples were already aching, burning aflame, her lips were heated such that the surrounding water felt cold, and his touch, and the longer they remained in contact, the greater the gluttonous consumption, and the greater the resulting desire.

“If we are going to be embraced like this, the least you could do is tell me your name.”

“Ah, of course, goddess. My name Moses,” he said, brightly.

Innocently. Sweetly. So sweetly, it was almost torture.

“Moses Vanderzee.”

She smiled as befit a goddess of her station, smiled, as if her thoughts were not bereft of all reason, as if her deepest, truest desire was not, at that moment, to wrap her legs around him, and kiss him more, and kiss him again, and bury him in kisses, and feel that sweetness of lips over and over and over.

She smiled with a grace and propriety and mien of modesty that encapsulated a level of class that precluded her from being any different from a common harlot like a certain Goddess of the Pleasure Quarter.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Moses.”

She smiled the silliest smile of a girl whose head was in the clouds, and the smile of a girl who went on smiling, because she had all the reasons in the world to smile, and because she had no reason at all.

“My name is Freya.”