Chapter 35 Even a God Can Forget
Even a God Can Forget
The woods did not look normal. Even in the darkness, Aurora could tell that something wasn’t right. The trees were bent at odd angles, and they didn’t move freely in the wind. There were no animals bounding through the brambles or scurrying up the trunks; there was only silence.
The snow deer went faster than usual, sprinting down the trail as if they were being chased.
A few of them whined as they went. There was a biting cold in the air that made Aurora’s skin crawl; it was an unnatural cold, and she knew it was the Frost taking over the forest. She only hoped that she wasn’t too late and that Caspian’s burial would push it back again, away from the village, away from the people, and away from her family.
If not, there was always her blood; she would make things right one way or another.
Aurora was relieved when they came out of the woods and glided around the village center, down to where the glacier waited.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the memories that flooded her mind of the last time she was here, bent over Caspian as he took his last breath.
She wondered if her life would be long enough for those memories to fade, if one day they would not be the first thing she thought of when she saw this place. She wondered if she wanted that.
The snow deer came to a stop where they always did, at the start of the glacier.
It seemed the time away had not disrupted their routine, and Aurora ran her hand over their fur as she passed them and walked toward the lamppost. The glacier creaked as she trudged over the ice and snow, but she trusted it, just as she always had.
She moved deliberately toward the post; it was nothing more than a shadow in the dark morning, but she knew the route well, and she could find it in a blizzard if she had to.
She thought she would feel lonely or detached from her duties, but instead she felt more emboldened with each step she took.
She wasn’t forgetting Caspian’s life, but rather extending it by continuing to do what he had always done.
She did not care for the Sun, not the way Caspian had assured her she would, but she cared for him and his legacy.
She cared for Reverie and this mountain.
And she cared for herself. She knew what kinds of stories she wanted told about her, and they were not ones of failure or defeat.
They were ones of boldness and adventure and love.
She’d had those things with Caspian, and she would create them again on her own.
As the lamppost came into view, something didn’t look right, and she narrowed her eyes in the darkness, trying to see more clearly.
The glacier was uneven around the base of the post, and Aurora quickened her steps.
When she got closer, she knelt to inspect what had happened, and she was stunned to see a rose lying before her.
And not just one rose—dozens of them, their vines rooting down beneath the ice, surrounding the lamppost in an impossible garden.
Aurora remembered the single rose she had left behind after Caspian’s death. This was a more beautiful tribute to his life than she ever could have imagined. In a field of ice, somehow his roses had taken root and bloomed.
She stood back up, laughing as she pulled the fresh bundle of roses from her cloak.
They were his favorite, and she had wanted a piece of Caspian with her as she began the next chapter of her life.
Little did she know she would get an entire field of them, beautiful in the snow, surrounding the gold metal of the lamppost as if they had always been there.
Aurora set the roses at the base of the lantern and took a deep breath. It was time.
She turned to face the peaks of Reverie, the jagged rock faces looming large in the distance.
It was as if she was greeting an old friend, and for a single breath, she took in the view—mostly shadows, but still shimmering with magic.
She closed her eyes, held out her arms, and began her conversation with the Sun.
Caspian had said that Aurora would come to love her, that she wouldn’t have a choice, but so far he had been wrong.
Aurora respected the Sun and had a deep appreciation for her role in keeping Reverie safe, but love it was not.
And so she decided to be honest. Perhaps it was a bad idea, telling the divine that she did not love her, but the Sun would surely know if she wasn’t being sincere.
Before she could speak, though, she was surrounded by the Sun’s voice.
I’ve been waiting for you. The voice filled Aurora’s head with its sweetness, made the mountain come alive with its melody. The Sun did not sound angry or impatient, but calm.
“It was not easy for me to lose Caspian,” Aurora said, reaching for the light, but it seemed the Sun wanted to have a conversation before letting Aurora take anything from her.
Clearly. You put all of Reverie at risk because of your grief.
“I know,” Aurora said. “And I will have to live with that shame for the rest of my life.”
You are the Starmaker, Aurora Finch, and with that comes immense responsibility. You cannot let this happen again.
“I know,” Aurora replied more forcefully. “I am here, and I am ready to right the harm I have caused. I will be here tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that; I swear it.”
I certainly hope so. This mountain of yours is built on a delicate system of light and magic; it is not strong enough to tolerate such disruptions.
Aurora scoffed and opened her eyes, staring into the darkness.
She wasn’t sure why the comment made her so angry, but it did; the Sun had spoken as if Reverie and all its people would simply perish if the wind blew in the wrong direction.
“It is still here, is it not? Our mountain is strong and dares to survive even when everything is against it.”
It survives because my love for a human compelled me to save it.
Aurora shook her head. “Then you more than anyone should understand what it is to grieve and the great strength it requires to live in the midst of it. I would have thought you would offer some sympathy or encouragement, but instead you have only reprimanded me. If you are quite done, I would very much like to bring in the light.”
There was no reply, and when Aurora reached for the light once more, she was able to grab hold of it.
She closed her eyes and pulled, heaving it through the peaks and letting it pour over Reverie like rain, touching everything.
She pulled it closer and closer, and when it finally crawled over the glacier and into her hands, she turned and stepped up to the lamppost, opening the glass door and hanging the light from the hook in the lantern.
She closed the door and hopped off the step, turning to look at her village.
She heard cheering in the distance, and she tried not to let the sound drown her in shame. She was here. She was making up for her transgressions. She was making it right. Aurora wasn’t sure if she would ever forgive herself for abandoning Reverie when it needed her most, but she wanted to try.
She sat at the base of the post, surrounded by roses, and watched the village soak up the light, watched the snow sparkle and the buildings glimmer, everything coming back to life as if waking from the deepest sleep.
Aurora replayed her conversation with the Sun, wondering if the other Starmakers had ever conversed with her the way she just had.
Caspian had always made it sound like he was the speaker and the Sun merely listened, but that certainly hadn’t been the case today.
There was something gnawing at her mind, and Aurora couldn’t figure out what it was.
She closed her eyes and focused, but the thought was just out of reach, and every time she felt as if she was getting close, it slipped away again.
She replayed the conversation over and over, but to no avail—each time left her more frustrated than the last. She had spoken with the Sun, had a real, honest dialogue with a god, and instead of feeling awestruck or overwhelmed, she was terribly sad.
Why was she sad? The Sun had been harsh with her, but Aurora had deserved it. And though she would have appreciated some compassion or grace, she was owed neither. But there was something about the way the Sun had spoken that had left her feeling hopeless.
Aurora stood and walked across the jagged landscape, her boots crunching on the ice beneath her. She tried her best to avoid the roses, not wanting to crush them, and made her way to the snow deer. It was time to check on the phlox.
When Aurora had boarded the sleigh and the deer had taken off at a run, she thought back to all the research she had done in the past fortnight.
It hadn’t given her the answers she sought, but perhaps deep down she had always known there was no defying death.
She wondered if all of the reading and panicked research had simply been an attempt to avoid grief, a way to fill the hole that had opened in her chest when Caspian had died.
She realized then that what she had done wasn’t all that dissimilar from what the Sun had done with the original Starmaker.
The Sun had come up with a plan to keep him alive, had poured herself into finding a way to save him as well as his home.
The only difference was that the Sun had boundless magic, so her plan had worked.
Why hadn’t she recognized that same reaction in Aurora, that all-consuming panic that had made her determined to find another way?
They weren’t so different, Aurora and the Sun. Aurora was no god, but she had simply wanted the same thing the Sun had wanted: to save the person she loved.
The snow deer came to a stop just outside the row of phlox, and Aurora stepped out of the sleigh.
Over breakfast, she had asked Ina to schedule Caspian’s burial for two days from now, and she hoped that giving her blood to the mountain would help keep the Frost at bay until then.
She knelt on the snow-covered ground next to the plants, pulled a rose from her cloak, and pricked her finger with a thorn.
One single drop of blood fell to the earth, and just as she had come to expect, the phlox turned vibrant and bright, as if it had never been touched by the Frost at all.
She repeated the process in several places, and the candy stripes regained their color.
It eased some of the tension in her shoulders, and she took a deep breath.
With the village illuminated and the phlox bursting with lively pinks, Aurora knew that the mountain was going to be okay.
She walked deeper into the trees, remembering the last time she had been here with Caspian and all that had happened since.
The texts she had read over the last fortnight had all emphasized that the mountain was built upon a relationship: the Sun and a human who would become the first Starmaker.
Companionships of every kind were celebrated, the village itself built upon love and respect and longing.
But Caspian had written that he’d forgotten what it was to be alive. What a tragic outcome for the one who’d brought life to the mountain. Aurora had to believe that the Sun hadn’t wanted that.
She stopped walking, understanding in a rush why her conversation with the Sun had upset her so much. It was because nothing in the Sun’s words had implied that she knew what it was to love, what it was to be desperate to change things. It was almost as if she had forgotten, just as Caspian had.
“You don’t remember,” Aurora whispered, looking up to the sky.
She thought about how she had never seen the northern lights, the result of the Sun’s tears, and how Ina had said that the Sun’s grief came from the depth of her love.
If Aurora was correct and the Sun did not remember, it was very bad indeed, for the whole of Reverie’s survival depended on the Sun’s magic.
If the Sun could not remember why she had saved the village in the first place, then there was no guarantee that she would continue to grant Reverie her light.
No, Aurora would not allow that.
She knew the stories of the mountain well, had grown up with them and fallen asleep to them and taken comfort in them. They had been her constant companions all her life, and if the Sun could not recall her own story, then Aurora would tell it back to her until she did.
A plan began to form in her mind, slowly at first and then so fast that Aurora struggled to keep up with her own thoughts. By the time she had let go of the light and journeyed back to the castle, she knew exactly what she was going to do.
Helping the Sun remember wouldn’t bring Caspian back or undo Aurora’s failures, but it would ensure the safety of her home, ensure that there would be many more love stories to come.
Caspian had once told her that she would find meaning and purpose in lasting things. As the snow deer came to a stop and Aurora stepped from the sleigh, she thought to herself that this was a very good place to start.
After all, there was nothing that lasted quite like a story.