Chapter 65
Written by Bayzo Albion
The alcohol and nicotine finally bled out of my system, dissolving into nothing the way all poisons do in paradise. My thoughts sharpened immediately, as if the fog that had wrapped itself around my mind was never real to begin with. Here, even the traces of earthly vices couldn't cling to me—heaven simply refused to let corruption linger. And for the first time in hours, I felt genuinely clear, aware… myself.
"Why did I end up with a second personality?" I mused aloud, staring at my reflection in the water, which stubbornly refused to fade, its edges wavering like a mirage in the lingering steam.
"Maybe because we're Gemini by horoscope?" my double smirked, his voice carrying a teasing lilt that bounced off the tiled walls. "Coincidences are the real magic of life, my brother."
"Ah... well, that explains it," I shot back with a crooked smile, the absurdity of it all bubbling up like the bath's remnants. "Pretty quirky, if you ask me."
"Enough philosophizing," he snapped suddenly, his tone shifting to something sharper, more urgent, like a blade unsheathed. "I've decided to dive into capitalism."
"What pulled you into the world of money all of a sudden?" I arched an eyebrow, the steam still clinging to my skin like a second layer, warm and slightly sticky.
"Because the world's changing. Quietly, stealthily. And it's better to face those shifts with a full wallet than an empty pocket," he said firmly, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that cut through the haze. "The world's getting harsher, and even we can't control everything. You're a god, sure, but not the puppeteer of it all. Don't forget that."
"There's this old paradox," I pondered, my voice drifting thoughtfully as I traced patterns in the water's surface with my finger, sending ripples outward. "Can an omnipotent god create a stone he can't lift? If yes, he's not omnipotent. If no, same thing. It's a trap."
"Exactly. We're forever stuck between all-power and utter helplessness." He snapped his fingers with a crisp click that echoed. "So, where's my cash?"
I summoned a handful of gold coins from my storage, the metal clinking melodiously in my palm, their weight solid and reassuring, though they stirred no deeper satisfaction in my soul. The coins gleamed with a warm, buttery luster, catching the dawn light and scattering it like tiny stars.
"If it weren't for taxes, this would be a mountain. The empire takes more than I fuck."
"You ought to fuck harder, then," he snorted, a wicked grin splitting his face. "Kidding... but every joke's got a kernel of truth."
I let out a heavy sigh, the exhalation stirring the steam into lazy swirls.
"All this money—it's from hard work. My work. I film adult movies. Every encounter is a scene, every climax the grand finale of a performance. Sex has become my art, my business, my weapon. The more passion I pour in, the more views it racks up. And that means more income."
"People crave bread and circuses," he nodded, leaning in closer, his breath warm against the cooling air. "So give them the spectacle. Amp it up with special effects, sets, location changes. Turn sex from a simple act into cinema: with drama, comedy, thrills. Make the viewer feel like each scene is a little universe unto itself."
"I'll do my best. Hands never idle."
"Now that's the spirit." He grinned wider and clapped me on the shoulder, the impact sending a jolt through my still-sensitive muscles. "I hope you don't let me down. I'm betting on you... on us."
"Well, if I screw up, at least we'll have one bankrupt between the two of us," I quipped, raising my glass for a sip, the wine's tartness a sharp counterpoint to the lingering sweetness of the night.
"Ha!" His laughter erupted, rich and booming, reverberating off the walls as if we were a crowd instead of duplicates. "Don't forget: we've got one ass between us. If we go under, we'll be peddling it together."
"You're way too optimistic." I smirked, the humor warming me from within. "You sure anyone would buy?"
"Positive. Market it right, and you can sell anything. Air in a jar. Silence in packets. Even your philosophical ramblings as an audio course: 'How to Fuck and Ponder Life's Meaning.'"
"Hmm... not a bad idea," I mused, the concept sparking a genuine intrigue. "An 'Introduction to Metaphysics via Kama Sutra Poses.'"
"Or: 'The Philosophy of Moans: A Crash Course in Orgasmic Dialectics.'" He beamed, clearly pleased with himself. "I can already see the posters."
I shook my head, chuckling despite myself.
"This is where your capitalism leads... Soon we'll be lounging on thrones made of empty condoms, collecting taxes in kind."
"Sounds promising." He winked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "As long as the condoms are gold-plated."
We both burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the chamber, multiplying as it bounced off the stones, making it feel like we weren't just two, but an entire revelry of selves.
– – –
Gandalf of Rivia weighed the fat purse at his hip, the satisfying clink of coins a promise kept. All that remained now was the final, most dangerous negotiation of all: a single favor from the one woman in the world who could refuse him and make it stick.
He moved deeper into the ancient forest, boots sinking into centuries of fallen leaves. The air grew heavy, saturated with the scent of wet moss, crushed pine needles, and something older—something that remembered when men still feared the dark. Shafts of sunlight stabbed down through the canopy like hesitant spears, turning floating dust motes into drifting embers. Every step produced a whisper, every breath a rustle, as though the woods themselves leaned in to listen.
"Where are you hiding, my queen?" he called softly, voice laced with genuine ache. "Every minute apart feels like an eternity of torment."
A low, amused laugh drifted through the trees. "Torment? Really, witcher, you'll have to do better than that."
She stepped from the shadow of a thousand-year-old oak as though the tree itself had birthed her. Tall, regal, terrible. Her skin held the pale luminescence of moonlit water; living vines twined through hair blacker than ravens' wings, dotted with tiny emerald leaves that shivered though there was no wind. Eyes the color of new leaves in spring burned with cold, predatory fire. A smile played at the corners of her mouth—equal parts promise and threat.
"Spare me the honeyed words," she said, voice like frost over steel. "You didn't come all this way for kisses. Speak, Gandalf, before I lose interest and turn you into fertilizer."
He took one deliberate step forward. The forest seemed to contract around them, holding its breath.
"I came to beg a favor," he said, calm but threaded with something raw. "Knowing full well you'll laugh in my face. But first… I really did miss you. Without you, this place is nothing but dead wood."
Her smile sharpened. "Lies have a taste here, witcher. Bitter. Ugly. Keep it up and the roots will drink you dry."
He reached for her anyway—slow, reverent, desperate to feel that cool, impossible skin beneath his fingertips. She flicked two fingers. An unseen wall of force slammed him backward; his shoulders cracked against rough bark hard enough to rattle teeth. The impact rang through the clearing like distant thunder.
"I said I'm listening," she repeated, voice gone arctic. "Talk."
He rubbed the back of his neck, flashed a crooked half-grin, then let it fade. "You hate the grunt work, don't you? Slaughtering drowners, ghouls, wolves—endless, mindless chores. It's not battle; it's janitorial work with claws and teeth. You do it because you must, because the curse demands it. But deep down you loathe every drop of filthy blood on your hands. You dream of one single day where you don't have to be the eternal huntress. Tell me I'm wrong."
For a heartbeat she was utterly still, a statue carved of moonlight and malice. Then her fingers curled, nails biting half-moons into her palms.
"You always did have a silver tongue," she murmured, and for the first time warmth crept into that glacial voice—like a single sunbeam piercing storm clouds. "Fine. You've hooked me. How exactly does a mortal fool propose to free an immortal queen from her chains?"
He stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of wild honeysuckle and ozone that clung to her.
"There's more," he said softly. "You're bored. Centuries of the same dance—predictable, dull, suffocating. You crave risk. Chaos. A game dangerous enough to make your ancient blood sing. Freedom from the curse is only half the prize. You want something that makes you feel alive."
Her head tilted; the vines in her hair stirred like curious serpents. A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips.
"You think you understand a woman's heart." It wasn't a question. "Very well, witcher. Tell me what you want."
"No more circles." His voice hardened into something unbreakable. "The answer to both your problems is money."