Chapter 71 #2
Her shoulders straightened, stubborn to the end. “What about James Cullen’s sperm?”
Elliott met her eyes. “If we can’t talk to them, we can’t get it back.” Anger rolled through him, uncoiling like hot metal. Erik lied. Violet lied. All of them lied. The fury burned through logic, leaving only exhaustion. “We’re done here.”
Braham and David, who’d been sitting on trunks by the door, rose and stepped out, Meredith close behind.
As Elliott’s hand brushed the doorframe, a sudden cold surged through the room—not a draft but a presence—lifting his hair as the massive door slammed shut of its own accord.
The sound reverberated, deep and final. His heart lurched against his ribs, and then the light he’d been waiting for burst to life.
“Dr. Fraser,” a woman said, her voice—gentle, melodic, terrifyingly familiar. “What do you want?”
Elliott’s chest constricted. A thousand words came to him—pleas, demands—but what escaped was raw. “I want a goddamn face-to-face meeting,” he snapped. “Now.”
“Profanity is unnecessary, Dr. Fraser,” the voice chided softly. “Walk into the light.”
His breath came quickly. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Yet dread traced stiff fingers up his spine. For a fraction of a second, he thought of Meredith outside that door, and something in his chest twisted hard. But he couldn’t stop now.
So, he stepped forward.
The light engulfed him fully—not in a violent rush, but in the inevitable pull of gravity drawing him toward the center. His stomach turned once, like dropping half a flight of stairs, and then stillness returned. He blinked. For a long second, all he could do was stare.
Color filled every inch of his vision—shades that shouldn’t coexist, greens and blues so vivid they seemed to vibrate with life.
He recognized stalactites and flowing water, but they shimmered under impossible light.
It wasn’t sunlight or lamplight. It was something alive, pulsing through the air itself.
He inhaled cautiously. The air was cool and fragrant, carrying the faint sweetness of rain on wildflowers. His chest hitched.
This wasn’t the world he left. Not even close.
Elliott walked forward with careful steps, boots grinding softly against the damp earth and rock. His hand brushed the trunk of a tree—or something like one—its surface smooth, faintly warm beneath his fingertips.
A flicker of awe, then a surge of unease. “What in God’s name…” he whispered.
He moved deeper along the narrow path. Around him, luminescent leaves whispered against one another, bits of gold dust falling like soft rain. Strange birds trilled melodies that felt both alien and familiar. One sound reminded him of a flute, another of an infant’s cry muffled by wind.
The rational part of his mind—the pragmatist, the leader—pushed back. But his chest still trembled with a quiet sense of reverence he wouldn’t admit out loud.
A stream cut across his path, glowing faintly blue. He crouched, hand outstretched. The current was cool against his skin, and before he could stop himself, he raised it to his lips. The taste startled him—clean, impossibly pure.
Tears stung his eyes. He wasn’t sure why.
For the first time in years, the weight on his shoulders—leadership, family, duty—eased. The silence welcomed him—no demands, no expectations. Just allowing him to be.
A narrow brick path wound ahead through thick brush, ending at what looked like a natural amphitheater cut into the cavern wall. Half a circle of massive standing stones waited there, old and solemn as time itself.
Elliott hesitated at the edge of the clearing, pulse thundering again. He wiped his palms on his trousers and stepped forward. A semicircular stone bench sat opposite the monoliths. He took a seat.
Time stilled.
He didn’t know if minutes passed or hours—maybe neither. The strange peace in the air dulled his sense of it. He only became aware again when a deep, resonant boom rolled through the cavern—a single gong that vibrated through his ribs.
Elliott stood instinctively.
The shadows between the stones thickened. Then light stirred—not blinding, but subtle, folds of brightness peeling themselves into shape. Five-robed figures slipped into existence within that glow, their edges blurred by radiance.
Elliott’s vision darted between them, his breath held tight, until it landed on the figure in the middle.
Violet.
Except… not. Her presence was unmistakable—but there was something ancient behind those same eyes, something that stripped away the woman he knew. His chest tightened with confusion.
“Welcome, Dr. Fraser.” Her voice carried tones both warm and distant. “What brings you here?”
Elliott swallowed, his throat dry. “I…” He steadied himself. “I’ve come with questions. And requests.”
Violet—no, Vivica—tilted her head with slow precision. “Ask them.”
He drew in a breath that trembled slightly at the edges. “I want my son’s sperm destroyed.”
The faintest twitch crossed her features. “We cannot do that.”
“Why not?” His arms crossed automatically, a defensive reflex.
“Because,” she said gently, “we will need it—if you fail.”
Her words rippled through him like shockwaves. His hands clenched instinctively around his arms. “Fail at what?”
“At your purpose. Your mission. Your responsibility,” she said, each word carrying unnatural weight. “You safeguard the future.”
His heart kicked hard once. “Why me?”
“There were others who could have carried the burden,” Vivica said, her voice shifting, falling into a rhythm that felt eerily human—even Scottish in parts.
“But we chose you—for your character, your intellect, your endurance.” The hem of her white robe whispered against the stone.
“You have compassion tempered by ruthlessness… love blended with control. Strength holding sorrow. You are the balance.”
Elliott’s jaw tightened. His stomach twisted. He forced his voice to steady itself. “Ye have a female-centric world. Why choose a man? Surely there are women created for this.”
Vivica’s tone warmed, but it didn’t comfort him. “Because you are the bridge, Dr. Fraser. The point where the two halves reconnect.”
He exhaled a sharp laugh. “A bridge? That’s all I am to you?”
“A builder,” she corrected softly. “Each generation you nurture strengthens the foundation we lost.”
His pulse flickered under his skin. “Are ye even part of my world?”
“We are,” Vivica replied. “But our civilization was destroyed. We survived to prevent its destruction from consuming yours.”
Elliott’s stomach hardened. “Then why tell us ye were from another planet?”
“Because if you’d known we were still here on Earth,” she explained, “you’d have searched for us—altered fate, destabilized everything. Believing us unreachable kept you focused where you belonged.”
He took a step forward, stopping when his palms met an invisible barrier. It hummed beneath his hands, warm and alive. “And yet ye let Archibald travel forward.”
“Yes. And that will never happen again.”
Heat flared in his chest. “When will yer world be destroyed?”
“We cannot tell you.”
He stared at her—incredulity giving way to anger. Always the same. Never a straight answer. Elliott exhaled, trying to steady the boil under his skin. “Then let me at least speak to Erik—and Clay deserves to speak to his mother.”
“That is not possible,” she said, not unkindly but with finality.
“It’s always possible,” he argued, his voice rising despite himself. “Look at this place—this illusion! If ye can create all this, ye can damn well let me speak to him!”
Vivica didn’t flinch. She folded her arms, serene, waiting. Finally, she said, “We created this place for your mind, Dr. Fraser. Peace, order, beauty—things you understand. But we cannot bring Erik here.”
He glared, a guttural breath hissing between clenched teeth. The cavern’s silence pressed in around him. His heartbeat grew loud enough to drown the sound of his own thoughts. “Ye and Erik lied to us,” he said finally. “Lied. To. Me.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “And for that, we are sorry.”
He blinked, thrown off balance by the simple apology. No excuses, no justification—just sorrow. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to dissipate the prickle at the base of his skull. “Did Erik love Samantha?”
“We do not feel love as you know it,” Vivica said.
“Erik cared, but love was a casualty of our world’s collapse.
We had to conserve our energy, and in the process, we lost most of what we had, except for our intelligence, logic, and the will to survive.
Emotion was inefficient,” she said, faltering slightly as if the words pained her.
The pragmatist in him wanted to ask how such a thing could be eliminated. As a man, he wanted to rage at the tragedy of it. Instead, he simply whispered, “How empty.”
Her expression softened.
“Your daughter,” Elliott continued, voice roughening. “Why’d ye abandon Alana?”
Vivica stiffened. For the first time, her composure cracked, however faintly. “She was not strong enough to fulfill her role.”
“Maybe ye could have made Alana strong enough. Guided her instead of exiling her.”
Vivica’s chin lifted just slightly—pride or defense, he couldn’t tell. “She chose her path.”
He let that hang, anger clenching quietly beneath the surface until it faded into sorrow again. “And Clay?”
Her gaze dropped, softer now. “Barclay was always destined for more. Archibald couldn’t give him the constancy he required. You and your clan will. He will need your steadiness—and your love.”
The words landed heavily. Elliott’s throat tightened. He turned away briefly under the weight of them. When he looked back, his voice was quieter. “Do ye control our destinies?”
“There are elements beyond our reach,” she said. “Destiny among them. We’ve manipulated, yes—but we’ve learned. Cruelty has its limits.”
He laughed once, a single breath of disbelief. “Ye mean torturing James Cullen and me.”
Vivica’s head bowed slightly. “We did what was necessary.”