19. Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAVEN
Uneven patches of ice greet the soles of my boots as I stumble home. The clouds hang low and heavy above me, pregnant with the promise of more snow.
Five days since Ash pulled me back from the roof’s edge. Five days since I felt his solid form beneath mine as we crashed to the concrete.
Five days of…whatever this is. I don’t know. Everything feels upside down.
Each evening follows the same pattern. I return from work to find him waiting, sometimes by the window, sometimes perched on the edge of my bed.
Always watching with that intense focus that makes my skin prickle.
He speaks, and I listen—absorbing details of a world I still can’t quite picture.
He tells me of my past lives, though his endless stories are a discomfort.
He’s been waiting for me for so long. So long.
Last night, he described his palace gardens in such vivid detail I could almost smell the flowers he cultivates there.
His voice grew fond as he spoke of blooms that change color depending on who observes them and leaves that chime softly when brushed by a passing body.
He tends them himself, this God of Longing—something I’ll never get over.
Perhaps I’ve read too many books of people who live in palaces, but I’ve never heard of the owners managing the housework.
The image of him kneeling among otherworldly flora, those long fingers working the earth, sends an unexpected heat curling through my abdomen.
“The family garden was your favorite place,” he told me, his voice soft with memory. “In your third life, you would spend hours there, naming each plant in a language you created just for them.”
I said nothing, as I always say nothing during these one-sided conversations. But my silence isn’t rejection anymore. It’s…processing. An attempt to reconcile the impossibility of his existence with the undeniable reality of his presence.
The wind slices through my coat, yanking me back to the present.
My fingers have gone numb despite my gloves, and my face burns with cold.
I should have taken the metro all the way home instead of getting off early to walk.
But lately, I crave these moments alone—space to think without Ash’s presence filling every corner of my awareness.
A pressure builds behind my eyes, familiar but strange. The world tilts slightly, dull colors bleeding at the edges of my vision. My steps falter as vertigo grips me, the sidewalk rippling beneath my feet. Am I dying?
No, I cannot be dying here—not yet!
My hand shoots out to grab a lamppost for support, the metal hungrily gripping my glove. The pressure intensifies, a vise tightening around my skull until—
The sun warms my face as I sit by the riverbank, legs crossed beneath me on a smooth, flat stone.
Water rushes past, catching the light and fracturing it into a thousand glittering fragments.
I pick up another stone, testing its weight in my palm before flicking my wrist to send it skipping across the surface.
One, two, three bounces before it sinks.
Hmm, still not close to my goal.
“You’re improving,” a deep voice remarks from beside me. “Last week you couldn’t manage more than two.”
I turn to the man sitting next to me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.
The white veil obscures his face, its presence softened by the waning light.
I picture him clearly, though. Strong jaw, full lips curved in a smile, eyes dark as midnight but warm as they regard me.
His hair falls in loose waves to his shoulders, black as a raven’s wing.
“Perhaps I’ve been practicing,” I reply, my voice light and teasing. “Or perhaps I merely wished to impress you.”
He laughs, the sound rich and full, vibrating through the air between us. “You need not try to impress me, Maven. Everything you do already does.”
Warmth blooms in my blood, a feeling so good my breath catches. Happiness. He makes me happy.
If only I could touch him.
I pretend to lean against him, my head hovering over the hollow of his shoulder as if it belongs there. His arm wraps around me, solid and secure even if I cannot feel it, anchoring me against the darkness of the world.
“Will you tell me again about the palace?” I ask, my fingers playing with the hem of my sleeve. “About the room that will be mine?”
His chest expands with a deep breath. “It overlooks the eastern gardens, where the twilight is deepest. The walls are mauve.” my brows scrunch, and he clarifies, “Your favorite color. The bed is carved from wood that grows only in the deepest groves, wood that sings when the wind passes through the windows.”
“And we’ll be together there? Always?”
“Always,” he promises, pressing phantom lips to the crown of my head. “For as long as the stars burn.”
I sigh, content in a way I’ve never known. “I wish we could go now.”
His body tenses. “You know we cannot, my flower. Not yet.”
“I know.” Regret colors my voice. “My father needs me still. Just a little longer.”
“We have all the time in the world,” he says, his voice a low rumble I swear I feel. “Plus, I can wait a few more years. I’d wait forever for you”
My head lifts in his direction as I raise a hand to trace the line of where his jaw should be. “I love you.” The words are simple and true and complete.
I imagine his eyes darkening further, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of brown remains. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Aakanksh,” I repeat, using his full name, the one he’s shared only with me. “I will always love you.”
He shifts to capture my hand in the ghost of his, and I go along with the ruse as he turns it to press a kiss against my palm. “And I you, my flower. Beyond death and time. Beyond the end of all things.”
The happiness in my chest expands until I think it might crack my ribs; might spill out and flood the river valley with its intensity—
A horn blares, yanking me back to reality. I blink, disoriented, to find myself standing in the middle of a crosswalk. A taxi driver gestures angrily through his windshield, mouth moving in what I assume are curses I can’t hear through the glass.
I wave before rushing to the opposite sidewalk, heart hammering against my ribs. What the hell was that? Not a dream—I was awake. Not a hallucination, either; it was too detailed and specific.
A memory?
The pressure behind my eyes builds again, and I press the heels of my palms against them, willing it to stop. I can’t do this in public. I need to get home before someone calls the police.
I force my legs to move, one foot in front of the other, focusing on the mechanical process of walking to keep the dizziness at bay.
A metro entrance appears before me, and I sigh, thanking…
the gods? I don’t care because this means I can ride the train home after all.
Stale air surrounds me as I hurry down the stairs, through the turnstile, and onto the platform.
The routine motions ground me, pulling me back into my body.
By the time the train arrives, my heart rate has slowed to something appropriate, though my skin remains clammy beneath the winter layers.
I collapse into an empty seat, leaning my head against the window as the train lurches forward. The glass vibrates against my temple, the sensation both irritating and grounding. My eyes close. How do I even begin to make sense of what just happened?
If that was a memory—one of my past lives, if I had to guess—why am I remembering it? And why that specific moment? It felt…important. Significant. A turning point of some kind.
I seemed happy. Not just content or momentarily distracted from misery, but genuinely, deeply happy. I’ve never experienced that. In this life, at least. It’s doubtful that I’m even capable of experiencing it.
And I loved him. Not the cautious, tentative attraction I feel now, but a complete, unconditional love that filled every cell of my body.
Yet I still said no. Chose to remain human; to live and die and be reborn rather than join him in his world. Why? Because of a father who needed me? What kind of love could compete with what I felt for Ash in that memory?
The pressure builds again, and this time I don’t fight it—
Snow falls in fat, lazy flakes, coating the world in pristine white. I stand at the window of a small cottage, watching as drifts build against the fence that marks the edge of our property. Behind me, a fire crackles in the hearth, filling the single room with warmth and the scent of pine.
“You’ll wear a hole in the floorboards if you keep pacing,” I say without turning.
His footsteps pause. “The storm worsens at my home. If I am to go, it must be now.”
My feet whirl me to face him. He looks almost mortal without his jacket and fancy trousers, almost ordinary. If one ignores the otherworldly stillness of his posture and the ancient knowledge in his movements, perhaps he could be mortal.
“Then go,” I say, though the words taste like ash on my tongue. “You’ve stayed longer than usual already.”
He crosses the room in three long strides, his hands hovering over my waist. I wish to feel him so badly. “Come with me,” he urges, not for the first time. “Leave this place. These people fear what they don’t understand. They will burn you for your knowledge of herbs and healing.”
I place my palms above his chest, imagining the steady beat of his heart beneath my fingers. “They’re just frightened. The winter has been hard; the sickness worse than usual.”
“They search for someone to blame, Maven,” he counters, his voice tight with frustration. “And you, with your solitary ways and your remedies they don’t understand—you’re an easy target.”
“All the more reason I can’t abandon them,” I argue. “Who will tend the sick if I go? Or deliver the babies and set broken bones?”
“Let them fend for themselves,” he grits out. “They don’t deserve your compassion.”
“Everyone deserves compassion,” I counter with a gentle tone. “Even those who fear what they don’t understand.”