11. Chapter Eleven #3
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. I suppose that is understandable. “You will find them.” The words carry more certainty than I feel. “The Bright Gods may be manipulative, but they would not break a promise of such magnitude.”
Seyr’s form blurs at the edges, features becoming momentarily indistinct before resolving once more.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps they knew exactly what they were doing when they sent our counterbalances to mortal wombs. What better way to keep the Dark Gods in check than to make us dependent on creatures who fear and reject us by nature?”
The thought has occurred to me more than once over the centuries.
The timing of the ‘error’ was suspiciously convenient, coming just as the Bright Gods sought to establish new boundaries between our realms after the Great War.
What better insurance against future conflict than ensuring each Dark God’s happiness depended on a mortal soul’s willing embrace, and forcing us to find them?
“It changes nothing,” I say aloud, pushing the conspiracy from my mind. “Whatever their motivations, Maven is mine. Has always been mine. I just need to help her remember that truth be—”
“And how many lifetimes has that plan taken so far? A hundred? More?”
I stand abruptly, shadows swirling in agitation around my feet. They’re not sentient beings, nothing here truly is, though it does not stop things from reacting to my emotions in unnatural ways. “Was there some purpose to your visit beyond reminding me of my failures?”
Seyr rises as well, his height still impossible to fix precisely in my perception. “Merely curiosity. And perhaps a warning.”
“A warning?” The palace trembles slightly as my pulse increases. “About what?”
“The Bright Gods are restless. There are…rumors. Concerns about boundaries being crossed. About Dark Gods spending too much time in the mortal realm.” His eyes, now decidedly pale, fix on mine. “About certain gods appearing physically to their claimed souls.”
My blood chills. “What do you know?”
“Nothing specific.” He adjusts his cuffs, a bizarre, mortal gesture from a being who exists beyond physical constraints. “Just whispers, but I thought you should be aware. The Bright ones do so hate when we don’t follow their rules.”
Before I can demand clarification, he steps backward, blending with the shadows until his outline becomes indistinct, then vanishes altogether. His voice lingers a moment after his body has gone, a final thought delivered from the void.
“Good luck with your Maven, Aakanksh. May she finally see the truth of her nature.”
And then he is gone, leaving me alone in the vast chamber with only his warning echoing in my mind. Already I struggle to recall his features, his name slipping from my grasp like water through fingers.
The Bright Ones are watching. Of course, they are. They have always kept their eyes fixed on the rest of us, fearful of what we might do if left unchecked. But their concern suggests they know something—perhaps about my attempts to manifest physically in Maven’s presence.
Abilities I should not possess in the mortal realm, but want all the same.
I will need to be careful…more than I have been. But I cannot—will not—stop visiting her. Not when she is finally beginning to sense my reality beyond her dreams.
I return to my chamber, to the books strewn across the table. My fingers trace the spines, seeking the volume that chronicles number 638.
I open the book to the preserved specimen—a peony with dusky pink at the tips, fading toward the center. Perfect in its preserved state, exactly as it was the day I plucked it from the garden after watching her sit for hours writing in a journal.
Its darkness is exquisite.
This is the flower I will bring her tonight. A connection to a past she doesn’t remember, a life she has forgotten.
My heart quickens at the thought of seeing her again.
Of speaking to her—truly speaking, not just in dreams but in her waking reality.
Will she be frightened? Likely. Will she reject me again?
Possibly. But with each interaction, the layers between us thin.
With each token and visit, she ventures closer to remembering who she truly is.
What we are to each other.
The giddy anticipation that floods my chest is unfamiliar—not an emotion I experience often in my endless existence. I allow myself to revel in it and savor the rare taste of hope that sweetens my thoughts after centuries of patience and disappointment.
Tonight, I will tell her more of the truth. Not everything—her fragile mind couldn’t bear the full weight of it yet—but enough to plant the seed of recognition. Enough that she begins to question not just my existence, but her own.
I press my lips to the dried peony, a blessing and a promise, before carefully closing the book. With the flower cradled in my palm like a living heart, I approach the veil between worlds, ready to cross once again into the realm where my flower blooms, unaware of the vastness of her own nature.