39. The Fifth Goddess #2
Over and over, he walks her through movements—showing her how to keep her balance, how to twist her wrist to loosen an opponent’s grip, how to anticipate a counterstrike, how to wriggle out of a hold if someone has her with a knife to her throat.
Her arms ache, her fingers sting from the repeated loss of her weapon, and sweat beads along her brow. But she persists .
And after what feels like an eternity, she finally, finally manages to knock the sword from Soren’s grasp.
It clatters against the stone. Silence hangs between them for half a second before Selene exhales sharply, victorious.
Soren regards his empty hand, then her, before letting out a low whistle. “Not bad.”
Selene grins as she catches her breath, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension creeping in. Soren bends to retrieve his fallen sword, shaking his head with a smirk.
“All right,” he says, stretching his fingers. “You’ve got the basics. Now you just need to repeat that a thousand times until it’s second nature.”
Selene exhales a laugh, wiping a stray lock of hair from her face. “Sounds easy enough.”
Before Soren can reply, footsteps echo across the courtyard. Selene turns to find Dorian approaching, his eyes scanning the two of them with a faint crease of disapproval.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
Selene straightens. “Soren’s showing me how to disarm someone.”
Dorian’s frown deepens, his gaze flicking between her and the wooden practice sword still in her grip. “And why do you need to know how to do that?”
“Because I’d rather not be helpless,” she replies.
Dorian exhales through his nose, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “I see.” He studies her for a beat longer before shaking his head slightly. “I suppose it’s not the worst idea.”
Soren claps a hand against the back of his neck. “So, did you need us for something, or were you just here to critique my teaching methods?”
Dorian straightens, his expression shifting to something sharper. “I think I’ve found her.”
Selene exchanges a glance with Soren before looking back at him. “Found who?”
“The fifth goddess.”
The library is silent but for the crackling of the hearth and the slow, deliberate turning of pages. Dorian stands by the fireplace, a heavy tome open in his hands.
Selene looks up at him. Soren, Ariella and Rookwood hold their breath.
Dorian reads.
In the beginning, there were the Divine Five: the Silver Star, the Waterkeeper, the Flameforger, the Green Mother, and the Goddess of Time. For millennia, they worked together, and peace reigned across the world.
But then, as it always does, mankind grew greedy. They wanted different things, they wanted more. Factions were formed, then countries. Some took the gods with them, others created them anew. They spread to all corners of the globe and thrived in a multitude of different ways.
The story ought to end there, but it does not. Seasons and cycles turned, and mankind grew hungrier. The countries invaded others.
But when they tried to cross the mountains that divided the continents, they found that they could not.
Each time they tried, they were prevented—a landslide, an ambush, an explosion—until it seemed as if their enemies had a way of knowing the future.
They sent spies into the country via the sea, and learned of a goddess so strong that she could turn back time.
But her power was not infinite. It came from those who believed in her. When the leader of the invading country learned this, he sent more spies into the country, and one by one, they slaughtered all those who worshipped her. They burned her shrines. They buried her temple beneath stone and soil.
And when at last they were able to invade, they struck her name from the records to ensure her defeat, until no one alive remembered her name.
Dorian’s voice fades into the hush of the library. The weight of his words lingers, heavy as the dust that settles on the ancient shelves. He closes the book, the soft thud reverberating through the quiet room.
No one speaks.
Finally, Dorian groans. He crosses the room to the settee where Selene sits, and lies down beside her, burying his face in her lap. “I can’t believe the answer was here all along, buried inside a fairytale,” he murmurs. “The years I have wasted—”
“Does it make a difference?” Ariella asks. “I mean, it’s certainly nice to understand, but would knowing her origins have altered what you’ve already done? ”
“Maybe,” says Dorian, turning around in Selene’s lap to at least face everyone else.
“It’s the part about her power coming from those that believe in her that has me most curious.
For the past several cycles, it’s been, at most, four people who believed in her—five now—and perhaps that’s why she can only send us back a year.
If there were more people, if we could convince others…
” He runs a hand down his head. “Although… I’m not sure I’d want to experiment, would you? ”
The rest of the room lapses into silence.
“That’s what I thought.”
“The rest of the Divine Four have plenty of other followers,” Rookwood interjects. “They don’t tend to perform miracles. Maybe there’s nothing in the number of followers at all.”
“Maybe they do, and we just don’t notice,” Ariella counters. “Father Asherton is always talking about how water itself is a miracle, birth and release, the changing of the seasons, etc.”
“All true,” Soren says. “I think, at the end of the day, we are going to have to content ourselves with the fact that we may never know the will of the gods, and it is likely unwise to experiment more than we have. We, thus far, have used our knowledge relatively altruistically. There is no telling what someone else might do, if we try to increase our numbers.”
“I concur,” says Dorian.
“I think we should conclude, however, that if it’s divine will sending us back, the goddess knows that Ashvold’s invasion is not a future worth seeing.”
“And we won’t have to,” says Ariella firmly, reaching for the books. “So let’s see what else we can find.”
Everyone clambers upright. Most of them select another book of folklore or fairy tales, searching for another story that might provide insight.
Selene, however, decides to find a volume on Ashvold.
Perhaps, she reasons, the way to safeguard their future is by learning more about them—to see why the Duke might ally with them in the first place, and why others are determined to carry on the mantle in his stead .
She finds a book on Ashvold history and starts to read. She’s a couple of chapters in when she notes Dorian leaving the room. Initially assuming he’s just gone to the water-closet, she doesn’t think much of it.
Except he doesn’t return.
She waits a little longer. No one else seems to have noticed anything. They’re all busy researching. Rookwood occasionally reads out one of the slightly saucier tales to Ariella in various silly voices.
It isn’t like Dorian to shy away from work.
As carefully as she can, she tiptoes out of the library and heads back to the room she shares with him. He’s lying on the bed, fully clothed, as if he couldn’t even rustle up the energy to take off his jacket.
Selene sits quietly beside him, watching him with a steady gaze, her heart aching as his temples twitch.
It’s been weeks since the incident, but the poison has claimed far more of him than he lets on.
She can see it in the tremble of his hand, the way he flinches with every slight movement, and the hollow tone of his voice when he speaks.
“Something troubles you, my darling,” she starts softly, reaching out to gently touch his back. “You did promise not to lie to me about your health.”
Dorian shuts his eyes tight, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’m afraid of upsetting you,” he whispers, the words nearly breaking in his throat. “Or worrying you.”
Selene rubs his back in small, soothing circles, trying to ease the tension that coils around him. “I am going to worry more if you don’t speak,” she tells him, her voice as steady as she can make it.
He hesitates for a long moment, as if the very act of sharing this burden is too much.
But finally, the words tumble out. “The physician gave me a list of possible after effects,” he tells her.
“He said most would ease up within days, but… he said some could take weeks. Headaches, sensitivity to cold, fleeting weakness, aches…” He pauses, like merely describing them makes them real.
“I thought I’d be fine. I didn’t think…” He swallows.
“He also… he also said that some of the damage could be permanent.”
Selene pauses, taking a long, slow breath. She was afraid of this. Gods, she ought to have expected it. After what the poison did to him, she’d been a fool to expect he could just walk away unscathed.
No wonder he wanted to find out more about the Goddess, to understand about the rules of time travel.
“I… I don’t feel right, Selene,” Dorian continues. “And I know that the effects can take time to heal, and perhaps that’s all I need, but…” His voice falters again.
Selene leans in slightly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead as she waits. “But?”
Dorian’s words are barely a whisper. “What if I’m this way forever?”
Selene fights back the lump in her throat. She’s seen the toll the poison has taken on him, seen the way it’s left him weaker, more vulnerable than ever before. And it terrifies her. Terrifies her to think of a life with him like this, terrified her to think of him even questioning his own future.
She refuses to let that fear overwhelm her, though. “You’re thinking of going back again, aren’t you?”
Dorian looks away for a moment, his gaze distant as if he’s seeing something far beyond their chamber. “I am thinking,” he admits quietly, “that I do not want to leave you—and us—for anything.”