The Only Stars

Chapter Index 

Prologue - Let Me Give You Everything

1. My Ghosts Cannot Follow Me Home, But The Gods Can

2. Of Drugs, Dread, Desperation and Daralin

3. The Days Slip By Faster Than Any Years I’ve Lived Through

4. Catharsis Is A Stranger To Me

5. Anything Except Acceptance

6. When The Earth Betrays Me, Let Me Fall

7. Clinging Onto Everything I Know, And Everything I Don’t

8. What I’d Sacrifice For A Moment Of Belonging

9.  Coming To Terms With The Idea Of Tomorrow

10. The Crack In The Crown

11. I Will Be The End Of Your World

12. My Cruel Head and My Withered Heart Meet In My Hands

13. Second and Seventeenth Chances

14. The Only Stars To Light My Path

15. The Difference Between Destiny And Fate

Epilogue - And In The End, The Futility Of It All

Prologue - Let Me Give You Everything

Before he was ruined, stained with the eternal dust and dirt of centuries lived in vain, he was just Landor. Landor the farm kid, Landor of East Tully, Landor Elias Wairen if Mother was angry. He soaked in the glory of the great, golden spotlight in the sky, and drank in the starshine of late evenings herding the rumbling cattle home. That was something Landor missed the most about his past life, the thundering sound of hooves on the well-worn dirt paths of East Tully, his beloved hometown. 

East Tully was a small village nestled deep in the Eastern mountains, poured alongside the Oaranoe River, which created the central valley and split the rugged peaks in two. Landor remembered the small merchant ships that came up and down the river, carrying goods to sustain the outreaches of Welven. Most of the time, there was farming equipment and bolts of colorful fabric, but occasionally Father had brought home a bag of candied walnuts for Landor and his little sisters or a new necklace for Mother. And while his sisters devoured the walnuts, fragments of their childhood in their mouths and sticky fingers, Father would tell a story.

Once, long ago, before King Azmoria and his forefathers, there was a tall, mythical mountain called Mount Karanis. Her summit was cloaked in shadow and mist, and no human ever dared to make the trek up her treacherous slopes. But if they did, they would behold the home of the gods. Ruling Karanis were two beings, Merillius and Daralin Tourney. Twin gods, cloaked in their shining power and crowns, Merillius and Daralin were the clear sky and the solid earth. They were the raging storms and the burning blaze. Merillius drew his power from the sun, and Daralin drew his from the moon. Because he made the crops grow and the day arise, Merillius became very popular with the human farmers and craftsmen that roamed the lowlands. Daralin, however, with his floods and darkness, was not.

But Daralin became jealous of his brother’s popularity with the humans, with the halo of light that seemed to surround him wherever he went. So, he hatched a plan with his most trusted advisor and champion, a minor god called Quarien. Quarien was the god of victory, but more importantly the god of conquering. He was as clever as a fox and as ruthless as a ram, and Daralin knew that to overthrow Merillius, a long, bloody battle would be in due course. And with the god of victory on his side, Daralin was sure that there would be no way he could lose. 

Daralin gathered his forces, preparing for an attack that was to take place on the day of the solar eclipse, when Merillius would be at his weakest. 

“But Father,” one of Landor’s sisters had asked. “If Merillius was the god of the sun, then wouldn’t he have been able to prevent the eclipse?” 

Father shook his head. “The gods are strange beings, Leighla,” he said. “There are supernatural forces that control the basic mechanics of our universe, far beyond the powers of the gods. It would be irresponsible of the universe to give so much power to such selfish beings.” He placed his big hand on top of Leighla’s head and smiled. “Let me finish.” 

The solar eclipse fell and the world was shrouded in darkness. The human civilians were alarmed, calling out to Merillius, “Merillius! Merillius! Help us!” 

But Merillius, powerless and weak in his high-turret towers, could not answer their cries. Daralin burst into his brothers’ rooms, gleaming broadsword behind his back, and said, “My brother, I understand that you are feeling unwell because of this blanket of night that has engulfed our world.” 

“The people, Daralin,” Merillius answered feebly, still faithful to his beloved humans even in his helplessness. “Go to the people and reassure them, brother. Tell them that I will return, and comfort them in their panic.” 

Daralin scoffed at Merillius’s pitiful plea. “I think it is my time now, Merillius. Why must it be you to comfort the people? Do you have so little faith in your own brother?” 

“Of course not,” the sun god said. “But the people need the warmth and the pride of fire, Daralin. Not the craze of the thunderstorm.” 

“This is the problem at hand,” Daralin replied, brandishing his broadsword and placing it lightly, even carefully at Merillius’s neck. “The pride, the glory, the arrogance of the sun. There is never time for the moon, is there? There is no time for the coolness of night.” 

“Goodbye, Merillius,” the moon god continued. “It takes a lot to kill a god, but I suppose that for once, the earth and the night will have the upper hand.” 

And with a swift, lethal swipe of his blade, Daralin slashed open Merillius’s exposed, bronze throat, leaving a long, crimson smile in the god’s jugular. Merillius slumped to the floor as his divinity poured out of him with his blood, and quickly passed away as the sun began to emerge from behind the moon. 

Daralin and his forces fled away from Mount Karanis into the Eastern mountains, where they encountered a relief party sent by the bigger cities to help the small farming towns. The captain of the relief force, a foolish man called Ehren Loyrin, saw the scarlet, god’s blood on Daralin’s hands and assumed the worst. He ordered his men to attack Daralin’s troop, and was quickly shown the power of a darkness god in a slowly diminishing solar eclipse. After seeing what they had done to the people whose approbation fueled every one of his furies, Daralin, Quarien, and their forces disappeared, never to be seen again. 

“But Father,” Landor’s other sister, Lyrilene asked. “How do the sun and moon still rise if Daralin is missing and Merillius is dead?” 

“The hidden forces, darling,” Father said. “They are to keep the world in balance, because the universe knew that the gods would not always live in peace and--” 

Father was cut off abruptly by a hacking cough that sounded like an ax chopping viciously at one of the big pine trees in Landor’s yard. 

Lyrilene and Leighla missed the worried glance that Mother had shot at Father. Landor, however, had not. 

Father cleared his throat. “The gods would not always live in peace and harmony,” he finished, pounding his chest with a faint, but pained smile. 

The next morning, Landor heard a shout from outside the barn where he was collecting eggs from the chickens, an errand for Mother. He ran into the misty afternoon, where he saw a group of men with what looked like a hastily made stretcher over their shoulders. Mother came running out, the girls clinging to her apron skirts. 

“Lilith!” One of the men shouted. “Help us get him inside.” 

Get who? Landor ran after them, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears like hundreds of footsteps heading toward a battlefield. Surely it can’t be. Please let it not be. 

Mother shooed his sisters away and helped the men get the stretcher through the door and into the house. The children trailed after them, straining their necks to see who was in the handbarrow. When he saw the pale face peeking out from underneath a thin, grey blanket, Landor wished that he hadn’t looked. 

He had never seen his father look so small. 

Landor remembered running. He ran from his father’s deathbed, up the dusty path, through the town, and then into the sparse woods that bordered the foothills. Growing up on the farm had made Landor slim and strong, and he felt that he could run forever with the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins like thick, iridescent oil. 

Father was dead. He was as dead as the most insignificant cicada that had withered away after its time in the early summer, and as dead as the mighty sun god that he’d been telling Landor about the other night. Oh gods, was it just last night? Just last night, Landor’s father had been regaling his family with tales of divine wonder and war as the fire crackled in the iron grate and his sisters stuffed their faces with sweets. Hands shaking with tears unshed and fury at his own cowardice, Landor rummaged through his pockets to find some lint covered walnuts, still glistening with sugar. He dropped the nuts on the leafy floor and ground them into dust with the heel of his boot. 

“Those were some perfectly good walnuts,” said a voice behind him. 

Landor whirled around to find a young man with dark hair and bright eyes standing in the deep undergrowth a few feet behind him. “Who are you?” he demanded. 

“You look like a person with a problem,” the man said. “And I am a person with a solution. Let me guess, my boy, someone you love dearly has just died?” 

Landor’s breath snagged in his throat. “How did you know that?” 

“Without warning, a teenage boy runs out into the woods alone and seems to have a huge problem with a handful of candied walnuts.” The man shrugged. “You figure things out.” 

“Well then,” Landor said miserably to this man who seemed to think that he knew it all. “What’s your solution, mister?” 

“What if I told you,” the man said idly, twirling a small twig in his long, pale fingers. “That I can bring people back from the dead?” 

“That’s impossible,” Landor scoffed. “No one, not even the gods can bring someone back from the dead. What’s gone stays gone.” 

“Oh, my boy, if only that were true,” the man said in mock grief. 

“What do you mean?” 

The man rolled his eyes, two blinking stars in the dark forest behind him. “You do want your father back, don’t you?” 

“Of course.” 

“Say the word, my boy,” the man offered. “And I’ll make it happen. But, of course, there’s a price. There’s always a price.” 

“How do I know that you’re not scamming me?” Landor asked incredulously. “A random stranger in the woods who claims to bring back the dead? And I’m supposed to trust you?” 

“You don’t have to,” the man said cheerfully. “But then your father will stay dead. And you’ll lose the one chance you ever had to bring him back to life.” 

Frustratingly enough, he had a point. Landor didn’t exactly have any other options. “Name your price,” Landor said through gritted teeth, fingering the few gold coins in his pocket.

“Oh, it’s not money,” the man said. “All revival practices need a sacrifice. One life for another, as it would be. Otherwise, the god of death would have the practitioner’s head.” He let the small twig fall from his hands and snap as it hit the earth. 

“You’re telling me that if I want Father back, you’re going to have to take my life instead?” 

“That does seem to be the case, my boy.” 

The choice was made before the words left Landor’s lips. The odds of survival for his family with him versus the odds of survival with his father were far from the same. “Let’s do it,” he said, holding his hand out to the strange, starry-eyed man. 

The man intertwined his fingers with Landor’s and squeezed gently. “If you really want to do this,” he mused. “I wouldn’t want this fate on my greatest enemy, let alone a poor farm kid in the woods.” 

Before Landor could change his mind, the man’s grasp became as hard as stone but as fluid as a running stream. He thought he heard the man mutter a quiet apology or perhaps a prayer as they were engulfed in a blinding light. Landor felt like he was burning, being branded with the painful mark of suffering, and then he felt instantaneous relief and then an awful, crawling soreness as his skin began to turn white and blue with ice. The cold bore into him like icicles plunging through his flesh, and Landor knew that this was death. 

And then there was the world again. He felt like he was falling back through the blinding void of fire and cold, hurtling back to reality. 

Landor opened his eyes to see the man standing over him. No, this was no ordinary man. Landor was staring at the most elated man on the earth. 

“I’m free!” the man shouted, crazed with pure ecstasy as a drunkard is with fine whiskey. “I’m finally free!” He bent down and offered Landor a hand, which Landor took in a daze. 

“I’m not dead,” Landor murmured to himself, but the man caught it. 

“I know!” The man laughed. “And your dad is at home, alive and well.” He clasped Landor’s hand and grinned from ear to ear. “Thanks for doing business with me, my boy. Thank you so, so much. This means the world to me.” 

“What do you mean, you’re free?” Landor asked, coming to his senses. “And I thought that you had to take away my life!” 

“I did!” 

“But I’m alive.” 

“I know!” The man pumped Landor’s arm up and down. “That’s the fun bit!” 

Landor felt like his head was spinning like one of Lyrilene’s toy tops. The man wasn’t making any sense. “What did you do?” he asked. 

“Oh, my boy.” The man let go of Landor, not answering his question. “You will find your father at home, free from the shackles of the grave, as promised.” He started to walk giddily away but turned back to throw Landor a soft smile. “Pleasure to meet you, my boy,” he added. “Have a long, long life.” 

The man threw his head back and laughed as if he had just made some great joke that Landor didn’t understand yet, if he even was a man. Landor wasn’t sure exactly what the man was. One of the fabled sorcerers, maybe. A minor god perhaps, overridden by the spotlight of remarkable deeds committed by his more famous, more capable brothers. But for a minor god to hold the power of resurrection?  And that whole thing about him being ‘free’…

Landor didn’t care. He ran home to find grey tendrils of smoke curling out of the chimney like fingers grasping at the sky. There was no crowd of onlookers and mourners, huddled at the front door. He checked the stable, and the priest’s chestnut mare was nowhere to be seen. There were no signs of the tragedy that had befallen his family just hours before. He came in through the backdoor to find his sisters sitting at the kitchen table while his mother bustled around the stove and in the cabinets, occasionally stirring a pot of this and adding in a pinch of that. 

“Where’s Father?” he asked tentatively, with bated breath. 

“What do you mean where’s Father?” Mother replied. “He’s washing up, as you should be doing right now.” 

Without waiting for another word, Landor dashed to the washroom, where he was greeted by a wonderful sight. His father, his father, drying his big hands on the blue towel hanging from the rack by the washstand. 

“Father!” Landor wrapped his arms around his father and buried his face into his shoulder. 

“You haven’t been that happy to see me in years,” Father remarked. “Did something happen today while I was out?” 

“I just really missed you, that’s all.” Landor breathed out a sigh and let go of him. “Mother’s going to have our heads if we don’t hurry up.” 

“You’re right.” Father smiled, and Landor was glad that his father was still alive to smile. “Let’s go, Landor.” 

Father put a hand on Landor’s back and they walked into the lamplit kitchen together. 

It wasn’t until about six years later that Landor noticed. Lyrilene and Leighla, now fourteen, had matured and blossomed into young adulthood. Landor should’ve been twenty-two by now, but for some reason, he still looked sixteen. It went like this for years. While Mother and Father became old and wrinkled, and his sisters grew into wifehood and then motherhood, Landor stayed sixteen. People began to talk about the boy who never aged. But then, those people died. Their children grew to take their niches in the community, and then they died. Mother and Father died in their eighties. Leighla and Lyrilene died in their nineties. They all died. Everyone except Landor. 

He had to go into hiding. There were too many rumors, too many horror stories and legends about Landor Wairen, the boy who stayed sixteen. After his parents had passed and his sisters had moved out, Landor had no choice but to move out with them. He had to go far away from his hometown where no one would know him, and every few decades he’d have to move again. Landor had had to move so many times that all the places where he’d lived blurred together in a long list of forgotten times, lives lived by a million different Landors, yet all the same. 

It was painful, the most painful thing Landor had ever gone through simply because it was infinite. There was no light at the end of the tunnel because there was no end to the tunnel. There was no satisfying slap of a book closing because there was no end to the story. There was no freedom at the end of the turmoil because there was no end to the turmoil. 

He had even been in love once. Landor had fallen hard for a girl in one of the bigger cities, several decades back. Her name was Moniveine and he called her Moni for short. She wasn’t more than pretty, but in the end, he was still a sixteen year old boy. He didn’t care for much else. And of course, Moni aged, and he had to disappear again. His love was pure, but the delicate wings of a butterfly are crumpled the most easily. 

Landor had watched Welven go to war, he’d watched it rise and fall more times than he could count on his immortal fingers. He’d watched forests go from seeds in the breeze to dense, dark woods. 

Sometimes he wondered about the strange, starry-eyed magician in the timberland all those years ago. He wondered how long that man had been stuck in the forever-changing world without being able to hold onto a piece of it for himself. The man was long dead, of course. 

Landor pondered over the magician’s words. They often echoed in his ears like church bells ringing out the time, an unceasing reminder of the fate he’d brought upon himself. 

All revival practices need a sacrifice. One life for another, as it would be. I wouldn’t want this fate on my greatest enemy. I thought that you had to take away my life! Have a long, long life. 

Landor got the joke now. It was a cruel existence, one without meaning or substance. The meaning of life came from implementing beautiful things in spite of sorrow and despair, and ultimately death. For Landor, kindness and gratitude became tiresome. A chore. Something he was obligated to do, but for what? So he could go out in a blaze of golden glory? Never, because there was never an end. He could screw up for all eternity and there would be all eternity to repent. He became bitter and stuck in retrospect, fearing and dreading the interminable, unavoidable future. 

One morning, he returned to East Tully. By now, his name was lost to the tides of time and legend, and only the oldest of the villagers remembered stories passed down for generations about the boy who couldn’t die. His sisters were buried with his parents, Landor remembered. The family mausoleum was built of cold, smooth stone, and Landor hated it instantly. The silence sat heavily on his shoulders with all his ghosts, and for once, Landor felt like a child again. Helpless. Hopeless. 

The cemetery caretaker found the graveyard gate wide open, hanging on its hinges, squeaking pitifully in the wind like a fledgling fallen from the nest. Clouds were beginning to gather overhead, and rain began to spatter against the flagstones of the stone-lined path. The caretaker sighed and let the gate swing behind him as he entered the cemetery. He noticed a figure, dressed in black, slip out of one of the mausoleums and over the iron fence that surrounded the headstones.  

“Hey!” the caretaker shouted. “The cemetery’s not open for visiting right now!” 

The figure didn’t answer, only disappearing into the night like they’d never been there in the first place. The caretaker decided that there was no use in giving chase. He was old, and tired, and the rain would only make the mud slick under his boots. 

The caretaker started to the mausoleum that the figure had left, to make sure that nothing was out of order. The sepulcher looked as he had left it the night before, as expected. He turned to go, but noticed something in the corner, by the farthest grave. Peering closer, the caretaker saw that resting beside the grave of a Mr. Lewin Wairen was a small, white paper bag of candied walnuts. 

1 - My Ghosts Cannot Follow Me Home, But The Gods Can

One evening, after another day of senseless wandering, he stumbled upon a leaning, dilapidated castle made of stone bricks. It was on the verge of collapse, mostly supported by the dense trees and shrubbery that enveloped it. The foundation was spiderwebbed with cracks and leafy ivy, but the supports were relatively intact and the wooden floor was only half eaten by termites, so Landor called it home. He found that the previous inhabitants of the castle had left all their dusty furniture and silverware, as if they had to leave in a hurry. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why. He had forever to wonder, after all. 

The days became more defined, even more satisfactory now that Landor had a place to return to. He had an anchor, something he was firmly tied to, something not unlike the love he felt when he had a family, and though it was crumbling and broken, so was he, and he found kinship in the way that the old castle still stood even with what seemed to be hundreds of years of neglect. In the mornings, he would wake up in his own bed and in the evenings, he would build up his living room fire and pretend he was young again. 

One of the most beautiful things about his spot alone in the woods was the night sky. Landor felt that he could see whole galaxies, swathed in silvery purple clouds and mist. Shining through the celestial mess were the stars, like hundreds and thousands of little needles tangled in a mystical shawl wrapped around Lady Earth’s shoulders, bequeathing her in cosmic glory. The crickets and the cicadas heralded her arrival as the diamond moon rose, and Landor could only sit in an amazed stupor at what he beheld. The view of the night sky never got old, just like him. For once, he thought he could make out his sisters’ laughter and his mother’s and father’s exasperated smiles without regret or heartache. Landor imagined them dancing amongst the stars, forever suspended in the beautiful place that mortals go when they finally die. The place that he so desperately wished he knew, but never could breach. 

Landor would stare up at the sky all night, not minding if the teacup in his hand went cold or if his neck began to ache. And when his neck began to hurt so much that he couldn’t bear it any longer, Landor would go inside and sleep in one of the rickety castle towers where the roof had almost completely rotted away, and all that was left of it was the patches of starlight showing through the flimsy framework. It probably wasn’t safe, Landor knew, but it wouldn’t kill him. Nothing would.

That was the one concrete thing in his immortal life. It was more concrete than the memory of his family, more solid than his ramshackle home, it was the idea that no matter what he did, he would not, could not perish. It was the most daunting thing yet the most reliable, but Landor came to know that sometimes, all one could count on was their fears. 

One afternoon while exploring the castle’s vast wine cellar, Landor came across an old, decomposing easel, complete with a disintegrating, yellowish canvas. After searching some more, he found another stack of canvases, these ones nicely preserved and only a little moth-eaten at the corners. 

He found several clay jars of paint and a set of well-kept paintbrushes, and ran upstairs to find an old wooden cutting board to use as a palette. Landor had never been as skilled in the arts as his mother and sister Lyrilene, but after a few years of practice, he felt that he was actually quite good. His first painting was of the overgrown garden that wreathed the back of the castle. Without any fussy gardeners with their pruning shears, the plants grew over their boxes and trellises and spilled out onto the cobblestone paths or climbed up the castle walls. Landor preferred to leave the garden like that. He wanted to let the plants grow as they wished, to climb as high to the sun as they pleased and to dig their roots into the soil as deeply as they fancied. 

He captured the overgrown beauty in his paints, and once he got bored of staring at the flowers and vines, he moved on to the sky. Landor drove nails into the plaster walls of his kitchen and bedroom to hang his paintings on, and whenever he looked at them, he felt a burst of pride like an opening daylily at the beauty his tired hands had created. He was at ease, at peace, and he felt that nothing could ruin his perfect little world.

And then, of course, there was something to ruin everything, like a pebble thrown into a tranquil pond. Again. 

Landor had felt them before he actually laid eyes on the visitor. He’d felt a presence, as if someone was watching him through the trees. He’d felt uneasy for days, as if tiny mice were running along his spine, making it prickle and tense. Then, the watcher stepped out of the forest one afternoon and nearly scared Landor to unachievable death as he stood in his kitchen, drying his dishes. 

Despite the sun, the figure was hooded and cloaked in heavy, dark fabric, and they radiated a thick, dark aura that reminded Landor of a midnight tempest. 

“Hello,” Landor called cautiously out the kitchen window. “How can I help you today?”

The figure lowered their hood and at first, Landor thought he was looking at the magician from all those years ago. He then felt the weight of the person’s presence, a glow of mysterious power and lethal grace he couldn’t possible glean the ends of, from the tips of his black garments to the small opal hair clip, like a miniature moon, securing his long, black hair into a half-up, elvish style. He certainly wasn’t an average human, lost in the deep woods. Landor ducked away from the light, hoping that he’d lose interest and wander away. 

“Are you Landor Wairen?” the man asked, approaching the window where Landor surreptitiously peered out. His voice was high but smooth, fluid and lilting like the sound of a clarinet. 

“I am,” Landor said carefully, scared to startle or anger the newcomer. 

“Right,” the man said. “And are you, sir, also the one called the boy who never ages?” 

Landor’s eyebrows knitted together in apprehension and shock. “Why does that matter?” he demanded, feeling as vulnerable as a cornered deer. 

“May I come in?” 

Landor put down his damp towel and automatically went to one of the many smaller entrances in the castle and opened the door. This man, beast, whoever he was, was certainly dangerous, and Landor wasn’t going to deny him anything, in spite of his immortality. He knew very well that there were worse things than death. 

“What’s your name?” Landor asked. 

“Lovely place you have here,” the man said, hanging his cloak on one of the old pegs by the door and dodging the question. He wore a simple black tunic that was belted at the waist and black trousers, like an ordinary traveller. It was clear to Landor that the man didn’t want to draw attention to himself in public places. He followed the stranger down the hall and into a cozy side parlor, where the stranger sat heavily down on a decaying armchair, which let out a huge plume of dust. 

“I can put on a fire--” 

“No fire will be necessary, thank you,” interrupted the man. “That was always more of my brother’s specialty.” 

What? 

“If you haven’t figured it out yet,” the man continued. “Then I must commend you on your horrible deduction skills.” 

“Sir,” Landor said dryly, beginning to lose patience with the strange visitor and his infuriating arrogance and air of superiority. “I have no clue who you are.” 

“Then, my dear Landor Wairen,” the man said. “My name is Daralin Tourney. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” 

“Like…like the god?” 

The man, no, not man, god snorted and rolled his green eyes, like small, sharp peridots. “Yes, like the god,” he commented. “Exactly like the god. Maybe I’m actually the god.” 

Oh. So that was why Landor’s instincts had gone berserk at the sight of him. “It’s nice to meet you,” he got out. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Lord Daralin?” 

“Every so often, I pay a visit to the victims of my little curse.” 

“Your little curse? That was you?” 

Daralin laughed, a high tinkling sound like wind chimes in a storm. “The man in the woods was not me, unfortunately. He was just another cursed fellow like you, desperate to free himself from the curse placed upon him by someone else more desperate than he was.” 

“My father was dead,” Landor said tersely. “I didn’t have a decision.” 

Daralin played with a lock of his dark hair, twisting it around his finger and letting it snake over his shoulder. “Decisions,” he said decidedly. “Are quite overly complicated if you ask me.” 

“My brother, Merillius, was always the one with the choices, I was always the one who had to deal with the consequences. If he wanted the light, I was stuck with darkness. If he wanted the love of the people, I had to be content with being his shadow. And so, I got rid of him.” 

“Love isn’t finite,” Landor cut in. “You could have easily been just as adored by the people if you truly tried.” 

Daralin laughed again, but this time his laughter was cold and harsh, as if the wind chimes had been thrown into a frenzy and started smashing against each other. “Yes,” he said. “Because you would know about infinite love and grace so, well, Landor.” 

“You’ve paid your visit,” Landor said shortly. “Please leave. You are no longer welcome here.” 

“As you wish,” Daralin said, getting up. They walked to the side door and the god collected his cloak. “I’ll leave, but I guess that you don’t want to know how to lift the curse. Well, then. Goodbye, Landor Wairen.” 

Daralin grinned at the torn look that split his expression. “How to lift the curse?” Landor repeated, a question. 

“Well, you saw the man in the woods, what was his name again? Oh yes, Cieri Cecil. Lovely man. You know, if I was interested in relationships, he’d be just my type. Anyway, you saw how the man transferred the curse to you. How do you suppose he figured out how to? How do you suppose anyone learned how to escape immortality?” 

“Your visits…” Landor whispered, the pieces of all the things he’d ever wondered about the curse falling into place. “You tell people how to get rid of the curse each time you visit them.” 

“Well, I give them a choice. There’s two ways to get rid of the curse, and if you wish to know them then we can go back to the parlor and have a chat.” Daralin smiled.

Without another word, Landor led his guest back to the dusty armchairs and empty fireplace. 

“There are two ways to get rid of the curse,” the god continued after they’d sat down. “The first is to transfer it to someone else. That’s what most people do, they find someone with a dead loved one, offer to bring them back to life in exchange for their life. It’s what Cieri Cecil did. He found you and essentially split your existence into life and death. He gave your father your life, and he kept your death for himself.” 

“But didn’t he worry about what I'd do once I realized that I was cursed?” 

Daralin’s seemingly permanent smile faded. “It’s human nature to be selfish,” he said. “Cieri probably didn’t feel too much guilt for you at the time, he was probably just blinded by the idea of a final death.” He raised a finger seemingly armored in jeweled rings and pointed it at Landor. “But there is another way to end the curse forever.” 

“What is it?” 

“I lift it from you,” Daralin said gleefully. 

“How do I get you to do that?” 

Daralin grinned and Landor felt uneasy. “I’m sure you know of my dear friend Quarien, yes?” the moon god asked. 

“The conqueror.” 

“Yes. He…uh, is currently indisposed.” 

“Sick? Couldn’t you heal him?” 

“Not in the body,” Daralin explained, tapping his temples. “In the mind. He says that he sees things, apparitions, ghosts, the like.” 

“What does that have to do with me?” Landor asked, leaning forward in his seat to finally receive what could very well be the words that released him from his eternal chains. 

“Once Merillius died, so did our palace and Mount Karanis because the stupid, cocky bastard tied his life force to the thing, never expecting to be killed,” Daralin said. 

“I thought Mount Karanis was a myth.” 

Daralin rolled his eyes again. “Once a sixteen-year-old boy, always a sixteen-year-old boy,” he muttered to himself. “The humans all think I am a legend as well, as do they think of immortality. But here we are, two impossible beings in the same room.” 

“What do you need me to do?” Landor asked. 

“You need to come with me to Karanis and help me restore it,” Daralin said. “The mountain had a mind of its own, previously Merillius’s, but now it is time to give it a piece of mine.” 

“And how could we do that?” 

“My peacemaker brother thought that the idea of the gods and the human societies, hand in hand, was so poetic. He embedded that idea into the livelihood of Karanis. If I want to build it back up, I need a human to come with me.” 

“I’m not human, though.” 

“You could be,” the god said, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the armrest of his chair. “I could keep you immortal until we got to Karanis and then I could undo the curse, restore the mountain, and then both of us could go home.”

“That doesn’t sound too hard,” Landor said hopefully. 

“It’s actually very hard,” Daralin replied. “Especially since I only have a rough idea of where Mount Karanis is.” He smiled at Landor. “What do you say?” 

“Why didn’t anyone else accept this offer of yours?” Landor asked skeptically. Something wasn’t right. This was almost too good to be true. 

“Because they get scared,” the god said flatly. “They don’t want their fates to be completely reliant on a shadow god who killed his own brother.” He shrugged, as if it wasn’t his problem. “Plenty of people die every day, so I doubt it’d be too hard for you to find someone with a dead loved one, desperate to bring them back.” 

“Why don’t you just kidnap a person, force them to come with you to Karanis, and restore it that way?” 

“I have a conscience, you know. I know that the stories have me painted as some awful murderer, but if I want to restore my home, I want to do it the right way.” 

Landor disliked the night god, found him annoying and standoffish, but he could respect that, at least. Still, Daralin had a point. It’d be incredibly easy to find someone to transfer the curse to. He could take advantage of some poor kid with no other options, just like Cieri Cecil did, and that would be that. He could leave his isolated home in the woods and live a real life, complete with an end. 

But part of him felt a little pity for the divine, all-powerful being sitting in front of him dejectedly, reminding him of a raven in a downpour, just sagging ebony feathers and beady eyes. A little empathy, even. Landor knew what losing your home forever really meant, and even if Daralin perfectly played the part of a merciless killer, Landor could sense something under his exterior, like the dark side of the moon. 

“Why don’t you know where Karanis is?” he asked. 

“When Merillius died, the mountain died with it.” Daralin explained, sighing. “It crumbled into a patch of boulders and rock dust scattered with the wind. You would think that finding a collapsed mountain wouldn’t be too difficult, but no.” 

“Where do you think Karanis is?” 

Daralin produced a piece of crinkled, black parchment from nowhere Landor could see and spread it out on a wobbly, low coffee table in front of the fireplace. He assumed a cross-legged seated position and motioned at Landor to come see. 

“I have been all over the world,” Daralin announced. “From the highest points of the heavens to the deepest caves, there has not been an inch of land that I have not walked over at some point. But as time goes on, I forget about the places I venture. And because it has been tens of thousands of years since I last set foot on Karanis, well, I’m not exactly too sure of its exact location.” 

“I still remember where East Tully is. My hometown, I mean.” 

Daralin tilted his head to the side. “The duration of your existence is only a sliver of mine. Microscopic, even.” He ran his hands over the parchment, smoothing it so Landor could make out the faint text better. 

“It’s a map,” Landor remarked. “Where’d you find this?” 

“In a really old library.” 

“What does it say?” 

“The map originally belonged to a group of ancient scholars, probably so old that they were around when I was a young god. The scholars had little libraries scattered around the world, but over time they were buried with dust and dirt and abandoned. This map shows where all the library strongholds could possibly be.” 

“And why do you care about that?” 

“It’s almost certain that one of these libraries has the location of Mount Karanis. I mean, they store volumes and volumes of old texts and information. Surely they have to have something on the home of the gods.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Landor asked. “I haven’t even agreed to go with you.” 

Rolling up the parchment, Daralin said, “I figured you might want to know the details before you agreed.”

“Can I have time to think about it before I make my decision?” 

Daralin nodded. “Although,” he added. “This seems like an incredibly obvious decision to me.”

The moon god disappeared into the woods, and Landor sat down to think. This was the chance of a lifetime, this was the chance for a lifetime. He could end the curse forever, grind the unbreakable into the dust; here was his chance! 

The first stars of the dusk began to sparkle in the dim orange and blue sky, and Landor imagined what it might be like to look up at them from a home to share with someone else, to not be completely alone in his eternal misery. To not be in eternal misery at all. 

Even so, helping Daralin could prove unsuccessful. There were an alarming number of flaws in Daralin’s plan. What if they weren’t able to access the strongholds? What if the strongholds didn’t end up having Karanis’s location? What if, after all he’d been through, Daralin simply refused to lift the curse, and Landor had just helped instate a trickster king into the sovereignty of the world? 

It was much too risky, he decided. It wasn’t worth it. He’d just have to transfer the curse to someone else, and learn to live with the guilt. At least he wouldn’t have to live with it forever. 

So when the moon god returned and resumed his seat in the old, dusty armchair, Landor informed him that he would not be attending the quest to restore Mount Karanis. 

Daralin raised his dark eyebrows, and Landor thought that he looked slightly perturbed but that he’d expected it. “Are you sure?” Daralin asked. 

Landor nodded, scared that if he said anything, he’d change his mind. 

“This is an opportunity of a lifetime,” Daralin said. “A chance to make the history books, to make your existence worthwhile.” 

“I don’t need to make the history books to be happy,” Landor said quietly. “I want to make my own way out, not being dependent on someone else.” 

“Stubborn humans,” the god said accusingly. “You never change, do you? No matter what you’ve seen, where you’ve been, you always stay the same.” Daralin laughed a little. “Well, what did I expect?” 

With a cloud of dark smoke and a roll of thunder, Daralin was gone, leaving only a few scorch marks in the floor. 

Now to find someone to transfer this to, Landor thought, trying to distract himself from the guilt that weighed on him, like the moon god was perched on his shoulder like a carrion crow. He threw a bunch of supplies in a traveling pack he hadn’t touched in ages, and for the first time in over a hundred years, Landor left his castle, never to come back. 

He brushed the cracked stone bricks with his fingertips and smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For serving me as home.” 

And as if a comforting god with gentle hands and kind eyes was listening, the old castle seemed to exhale and disintegrated away in a gust of quarry dust and drifting ivy, after standing for so long, finally, finally at rest. 

Landor set off into the forest, picking his way through the bracken and thorns, until he came to a dirt path that branched out onto a larger, busier road. He tried his best to stay away from the main road, favoring smaller, more remote routes toward the village several miles away. As the sun set, he came upon a little girl sitting in the high branches of an oak tree, sniffling. 

“Hello,” he called. 

She startled and looked down, wiping her eyes. “Hello,” she said. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Not really,” she admitted, in the open way that young children, innocent of the dangers of the world often do. “It’s the anniversary of my older sister’s death.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Landor said truthfully. “I know how it feels to have a loved one die. But what would you say if I told you that I could bring her back?” 

Somewhere, traversing the evening skies and swimming amongst the blossoming stars, a trickster god began to smile sadly as the cursed cycle continued on another rotation. 

2 - Of Drugs, Dread, Desperation and Daralin

If you happened to be walking along Sand Street and if you happened to glance into the alley between the post office and the stationery shop, you’d notice an odd pair sitting against the back wall, a boy and a girl, both about seven years old, fighting over a piece of toast. 

The girl stared intently at the last bits of toast in her friend’s palm. “Florence,” she said coaxingly. “You know, I haven’t eaten since lunch.” 

“That was an hour ago,” the boy, Florence answered, cramming the bread in his mouth. “Too bad,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

“Go die,” the girl muttered. 

“Enid, if I were dealing with anyone else, I would smugly say only if you do,” Florence said. “But you’re terrifying and I would never want to cross you.” 

On ordinary days, Enid would be at home with her mother or at school, but today was Merillius Day, where all of her village, Gophriel, came together and celebrated the sun god. People would string golden and orange banners from window to window so they hung over the narrow streets, and they’d make yellow kites from old drapes to fly in the sky, like bright dandelion heads floating in a clear river. 

Merillius Day was a sad day for Enid. Her older sister, Karra, died two years ago today. Enid could remember the day well, even though she was only five. Karra was twelve years older than Enid, and seventeen when she passed. Enid remembered that Karra, a sickly teenager, had been prescribed rasroot extract from the local apothecary, and quickly became highly dependent on the stuff. Even once she had gotten better, Karra never really stopped taking her medicine. Enid couldn’t remember a time when her sister didn’t have a bottle of rasroot hidden under her bed or tucked away in a dresser drawer. And Karra paid for her addiction heavily, with her life. 

But Enid tried her best not to think about Karra’s death. Perhaps it was disrespectful, but Enid wanted to have as much fun as possible on Merillius Day. It would only weigh her down if she dwelled on it, like Mother and Father. And Enid was pretty sure that what she dwelled on, she’d become. 

But then, as the festivities began, Enid noticed the old geezer in the shadows with a pouch full of brown glass bottles. One fell out as he walked through the crowd, preferring to stick to the edges as if it’d make it easier to run away. Enid picked the bottle up and stood by a red lantern to read the label. Premium Rasroot Extract for Pain. She looked up to see the old man take the hand of a teenage boy, force open his hand and roughly shove the rasroot into it. The boy looked scared, but he took the medicine and tentatively took a drop. 

“Hey!” Enid hollered. “Stop that!” Without thinking, she ran over to the old man and the boy and grabbed the boy’s wrist, making him drop the bottle. 

It shattered on the ground in a crescendo of breaking glass, which caught the attention of everyone else milling around the marketplace. “Stupid girl,” the man muttered, running away into the darkness of a side alley. 

“Are you alright?” she asked the boy, who looked scared and perplexed at what he had just witnessed. 

“What’s going on here?” A police officer, dressed in dark blue, came over and stood in front of Enid and the boy, badges gleaming. 

“There was an old guy trying to give him--” 

“Oh, Carly, did you have too much cake?” the boy interrupted. Glancing at the officer knowingly, he said, “You know how they get when they’re on too much sugar.” 

“But I--” 

“What’s that on the ground, then?” asked the officer skeptically. 

“That’s a bottle of antiseptic solution that I dropped,” the boy lied, nudging the broken glass with the tip of his boot. “I’m a delivery boy for one of the apothecaries, and my sister wanted to tag along. I suppose I’ll have to go back for another one.” 

“May I see your delivery license?” the officer asked. “There’s a rasroot dealer going around, and it’s just to be sure.” 

The boy rummaged through his pockets and showed the officer a white card that Enid assumed was the license. The officer nodded and smiled. 

“Better go get that antiseptic soon, boy,” he said. 

“Of course, sir,” the boy said over Enid’s protests. As the police officer walked away, the boy turned on Enid, shooting daggers at her out of his grey eyes. “What the hell was that for?” he demanded, crossing his arms. 

“Rasroot addiction can kill you,” she replied. “Did he try to force it on you?” 

“I wanted it,” the boy said. “And I was going to get it, if not for you.” 

“It’s bad for you!” Enid’s voice began to rise as she became more and more frustrated. 

“It makes me feel better!” the boy shouted in return. “Look at you. You’re a little schoolgirl, your mother and father’s pride and joy--you’ve probably never known hardship or sadness in your whole halcyon life!” 

It was then that Enid took in the charcoal-colored rings stitched under the boy’s eyes, the hard line of his mouth, the long, pinkish-white scar that marred his left cheek. Bruises peeked out of his ragged tunic, spotting his collarbone with unsightly purples and greens. The boy noticed Enid’s observations and grimaced. 

“Mind your own business,” he muttered, fading into the crowd. 

Enid wasn’t sure what she had just witnessed. No one had ever hit her, not like that. There was wrestling with Florence in the mud, and then when the milkman chased her out of his cart that one time, and even when Mother and Father grew angry; no one had ever laid a finger on her. 

She couldn’t imagine what the boy must feel. She almost felt bad for yelling at him. But in a way, he reminded her of Karra. Just a child in the end, scared, grasping onto what little straws kept him afloat. And she wasn’t about to let anyone else turn out like Karra, if she could help it. 

The sun was starting to dip into the horizon, like a great, golden ladle into one of Mother’s big cooking pots. The fireworks would start once night fell, Enid knew. She kicked at the broken rasroot bottle on the ground and sighed, absently realizing that tears were starting to fall down her face. So this was what Mother and Father felt every Merillius Day. A crushing pang of sadness and regret, swinging back and forth in her soul like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. 

Enid let her legs carry her through Gophriel, thinking about Karra and all the memories that came with her. Karra was the first child, the accidental one that Mother and Father had had before they had gotten married. She looked like Mother’s younger sister more than Mother herself. And Karra had brown eyes, like Father. 

Or had she had green eyes, like Mother? This sudden hole in her memory, one that she had worked hard to keep tightly knitted, shook Enid out of her trance. She found herself by one of the smaller paths that connected to the main road into Gophriel, sitting high up in a tree. 

“Hello,” someone called from below. Enid sat up and stared down at an older boy at the base of the tree trunk. He reminded her of the bruised rasroot addict, with that all-too-familiar emptiness in his eyes, except this boy was cleaner and looked healthier.  

“Hello,” she replied, wiping her eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concern edging his voice. Enid guessed that a seven-year-old crying in a tree must attract some attention, and she quickly wiped her eyes again. 

“Not really,” she said. “It’s the anniversary of my older sister’s death.” 

“I’m so sorry,” the boy said, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown. “I know how it feels to have a loved one die. But what would you say if I told you that I could bring her back?” 

Enid almost fell out of her tree. “What? How?” She imagined Mother and Father’s faces, free from the grief that shadowed their eyes every day and night. 

“It’s simple,” the boy said. “I take your life force and give it to her.” 

“Are you magic?” Enid asked excitedly, climbing down the tree. “And will I die?” 

The boy laughed. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve been…well…let’s say I’ve been blessed by the gods. And, no, you won’t die. It’s like you’ll live forever.” 

“I’ll be able to do magic too?” 

The boy nodded. “I’m Landor, by the way.” 

“Enid,” she answered. Something struck her about that name, familiarity, perhaps. Landor wasn’t that uncommon of a name, although it sounded very Eastern. 

“Well, Enid,” Landor said. “Do you want to try it? Bringing your sister back?” 

Enid nodded brightly. But then she stopped, brows furrowing. “Will she still be a rasroot addict?” 

“She was a rasroot addict?” 

“That’s how she died.” 

“Oh.” Landor bit his lip, thinking. “No, I don’t think she will. My father was brought back to life and he died of sickness. Addiction is kind of a sickness, right?” 

“She was really sick which is why she had to take it in the first place.” 

“Then it should work,” he decided, holding out his hand. “Are you sure about this?” 

“Yes. Definitely.” 

“Alright.” Enid took Landor’s extended hand and looked up. She caught something glimmering in his eyes, something strange and out of place, yet something that clearly had weathered its way into his soul for a long time. Sadness, perhaps. Regret. Grief. Guilt. 

The pain was minimal at first. Enid felt sunburned, like she had spent one too many hours with Florence, running around in the open fields in the southern part of Gophriel. Then, she felt like her skin was going to fall off in sheets, like when Mother pulled the skin off a chicken after roasting it. She felt like she was being fried in one of the fireworks that were starting to explode in the distance, which was becoming blurry through her pain. Enid tried to wrench her hand out of Landor’s grasp, but it was impossibly strong. 

And then, there was a quick moment of calm as her arm began to get horribly cold. She watched as snow and frost began to slide up her fingers and her forearm. The cold felt like she'd left her arm out in a blizzard for a week, and she began to panic. 

You won’t die. It’s like you’ll live forever. 

Enid opened her eyes. She was lying on the dirt path as Landor stood over her, smiling. She turned her head to see that her arm was still intact. 

“You’re fine,” he said. 

“Is Karra at home?” she asked, hurriedly sitting up. 

“Should be.” Landor stuck his hands in his pockets. “Thanks. I really needed that. You don’t know how this feels…well, maybe one day you will.” 

“What do you mean? What happened? Can I do that?” 

He tilted his head to the side as a red firework burst overhead. “Are they having some kind of festival down in the village?” 

“It’s Merillius Day. You should come see,” Enid said. “But what did you do?” 

“Your sister is all fine and well,” Landor said, ignoring the question. “I think I’ll skip out on the celebration this time. Thank you, though.” 

Enid scowled. “I’m so confused!” 

“Yeah, I was too.” Landor began to make his way in the opposite direction of Gophriel. 

“Landor!” she called as he disappeared into the distance. The whole thing was really puzzling. No matter. When she got back home, Karra would be there and Mother and Father would be happy and there would be no sickness or hidden bottles in the dresser, and they could celebrate Merillius Day with the rest of the town. 

A few hours later, when the celebrations lasted well into the night, Enid noticed the stranger. He seemed so out of place in the bright lights and warm colors, but yet he fit in perfectly to the night. He had long black hair that had a silver sheen in the moonlight, like chrome. His hair was half up and fastened with a little white stone that Enid had seen in jewelry stands and around the throats of wealthy noblewomen, and his eyes were a strange shade of green halfway between chartreuse and shamrock. Unlike the colorfully dressed villagers, he was all in black, from his high collar to the tips of his leather travelling boots. But even in his uniqueness, no one seemed to notice the stranger. No one seemed to pay him any mind except Enid. 

He noticed Enid studying him too and raised his dark eyebrows. Enid made her way over to him, grabbing two bottles of cider from someone’s tray. She smiled and offered one to the stranger. 

“I’ve never seen you around Gophriel,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I know everyone.” She stuck out her hand. “Enid Orreck,” Enid said, introducing herself. 

The man nodded but didn’t take Enid’s hand. Enid found him rather rude. “Where are you from, stranger?” Enid asked. 

“I’m a traveller,” the man said, taking the cider instead. “A star-drunk wanderer, as the poets would say.” 

“What’s your name?” she asked. 

“Well, I suppose I don’t have one.” 

“Of course you do!” Enid insisted. “Everyone has a name.” 

“It’s a secret.” 

“You can tell me,” Enid said, cocking her head to the side. “I’m the best at keeping secrets. Actually, I’m the best at everything.” 

“Promise not to tell anyone?” the man said, lowering his voice. Enid nodded. “My name is Daralin,” the traveller said. “Daralin Tourney.” 

“Like the god?!” Enid shouted, unable to contain her surprise. “Like the god who killed the guy we’re celebrating tonight?!” 

“I told you not to say anything,” Daralin whisper-shouted. “I thought we were kindred spirits. Also, I noticed that your village doesn’t have a ‘Daralin Day’. It’s rather offensive, honestly.” 

“We do have a Daralin Day,” Enid said flatly. “D-Day. Doomsday.” 

Daralin snorted and took a sip of the cider. “This is good,” he remarked. “They never had anything like this on Karanis.” 

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Enid asked, narrowing her eyes. “About the god thing.” 

Daralin closed his eyes. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Trying to kill everyone within a ten-mile radius. Now be quiet, I’m concentrating.” 

“What?” Enid grabbed his arm. “No!” 

Daralin opened his eyes and laughed. “Of course I’m not going to kill everyone,” he said. “Look.” He opened his palm and a little storm cloud appeared hovering over it, flickering with lightning and unshed raindrops. 

“Wow,” Enid said, eyes going wide. “You’re like that guy in the woods.” 

Daralin stopped and the cloud dissipated in his hand. He turned to look Enid in the eye. “What guy in the woods?” 

“Magic,” she explained. “I was in the woods and a magician guy named Landor stopped me and did a magic resurrection thing and brought my sister back to life. She died of a rasroot addiction two years ago.” 

“Was he about sixteen, clearly not from around here, and kind of tall?” 

“I think so. He was.” 

Daralin’s eyes lit up. “And is your sister alive and well again?” 

“Yeah.” Enid looked curiously at the god. “Do you know him?” 

Daralin began to laugh again, harder this time, until his hands were shaking and Enid thought he might drop the bottle of cider. 

“I hate to tell you this, Enid,” he said. “Because I really am developing a liking for you, but you’re cursed now. You’re immortal.” 

“Why’s that a curse?” 

“You can’t die,” Daralin said. “You will watch everyone you love perish a hundred times over, completely helpless in the thought that you can’t join them.” 

“You’re scaring me.” Enid’s voice was small but tight, like a quiet twang of a guitar string in the dead of night. “You can’t be serious.” She turned to leave, to run home as fast as possible, back to the laughter and the candlelight and the warmth, away from this horrible future. 

You will watch everyone you love perish a hundred times over. 

“Wait!” Daralin grabbed her shoulder. 

“Get off me!” she shouted. 

“I can lift the curse,” Daralin interrupted. “It’s my curse. I’m the one who started it. I can end it, if I want to.” 

“Really?” Enid turned back. “If you want to? What am I, a little kid at some stupid moon god’s mercy? What do you want me to do?” 

“Well, kind of--” 

“You’re awful,” Enid snapped. 

“And you,” Daralin quipped. “Are a desperate little girl who has no other options. Now shut up and listen if you want a solution.” 

Like magic, or maybe it was magic, Enid stopped and went silent. 

“That’s better,” the god said. “A favor for a favor, right? I have a problem, you have a problem, we can help each other, yeah?”

Enid glared at him. “You’re a god,” she said. “You don’t have problems.” 

“No,” Daralin said. “I have problems. But I also have the power to get rid of them. Just like I did my brother. This, however, is a problem that not even I can solve.” 

It must be a really big problem. “What is it?” she asked, curious now. 

“When Merillius fell, Mount Karanis fell with him.” Daralin sighed, as if he’d explained this a million times. Maybe he had, for all Enid knew. 

“I hated Merillius, but Karanis was different. It was my home, after all. I want to restore it, and I have the power if I work with a mortal. Humans and gods together. Merillius thought it was all very adorable. But here’s the catch. I’m not exactly sure where the ruins of the mountain are.” 

“How do you not know where they are?” 

“Gods, why does everyone ask that?” Daralin rolled his eyes. “It’s been a while. Millions of millennia have passed since I last visited the place. Of course I’m not going to remember. But there’s a network of ancient libraries that should have the answers.” 

“Do you at least know where the libraries are?” 

“I have a map. But you have to come with me. We can journey together, and once we get to the mountain, I’ll lift the curse, you’ll be human again, and we can both go home.” 

“What am I going to say to my parents if I agree?” 

“I could temporarily wipe everyone’s memories,” Daralin suggested. “They’ll act like you never existed until I reverse the spell. Then everything will be the same again.” 

“That could work,” Enid agreed. She looked up at the moon god, the stranger who had appeared on the day of the festival for the victim of his deeds, and felt something stir in the bottom of her chest. Pity, like only a young child can feel. Pity for the murderer that could wipe out the whole world. She tried to imagine what it might be like to kill Karra, her older sister. It’d be hard, she thought. The most difficult thing to do because death is permanent. But then, maybe it hadn’t been so difficult for Daralin. 

“Can I trust you?” 

That was the fateful question. The question to end all questions forever. Can I trust you? Enid had assumed she knew the answer, like all the victims of the curse before her. No. She couldn’t trust Daralin. No one could. Her question hung in the air like a wasp nest hanging from the branches of a spindly tree, ready to fall and break open. 

His answer caught her off guard. “That’s up to you,” the god said, smiling sadly. He reminded her of a shiny, black beetle turned over so its underside was exposed to the elements. Helpless, vulnerable, little legs flailing in a dire attempt to regain proper position. Daralin had asked a thousand people for a chance to return home, and had been rejected a thousand times. 

Enid wasn’t about to make that a thousand and one. 

“Let’s try it,” she decided. “I’ll go with you to find Karanis if you lift the curse.” 

=-=-=-=-=

Daralin felt the circle crack. Never in his immortal life had he ever felt anything so satisfying. No one had ever had the strength to do it before, not the strongest cursed sorceress to the most brazen, decorated general. All it took was a little girl from a far-flung village, and the desire that propelled her into trust. Daralin hoped that he wouldn’t end up betraying her. He really had started liking the little girl already, and he felt some responsibility to keep her safe. 

Gods, you’re already such a big brother. 

Daralin remembered the first person he’d ever cursed. Ehren Loyrin, that captain who he and Quarien had encountered on their way out of the palace of the gods on that dark, wooded path. 

“You will suffer for crossing me,” he had hissed at the captain at the other end of his black blade. “Yes, I killed my brother. Yes, I betrayed my world. Yes, I know, I know, I know.” 

Daralin leveled the tip of the blade at the smooth space between Captain Loyrin’s collarbones. One figure stood over another, one black as night and the other in bloodied silver. One with immortal life and one with barely any life left.  

“I won’t kill you,” Daralin said bitterly. “I will do you much worse. Merillius was the god of the day sky, of independence and sunshine. But I am the god of restraint, of the blackest midnights, and the storms that pelt the ocean. And what is death but the final frontier?” 

“No,” the god decided. “I will not kill you. I will make you live forever with your thoughts, like me; I will make you watch me destroy and rebuild the world a trillion times, and I will enjoy it as you have no choice but to pass it along if you want your own freedom.” 

The path and the forest lit up with his power, incinerating all Loyrin’s soldiers into black ash. “Let this be the fate of humanity,” Daralin said, ripping his blade down the captain’s torso. It pierced Loyrin’s armor like a needle through a piece of fabric. The captain screamed, a horrible, heart-curdling wail like a wolf with its limbs torn apart. 

But he didn’t die. His blood spilled onto the divine earth of the mountain, a crimson pool of liquid destiny, sealing the curse. But then, Karanis began to rumble and shriek, like the ancient power that kept the stones together had finally crumbled, and the mountain began to collapse into the earth. Daralin and Quarien ran down the mountain as fast as they could and didn’t look back. 

And now here he was, standing in front of all the chances and opportunities he’d ever had to return to and restore his home, all bottled up in a seven-year-old girl. Who really was at whose mercy? 

But Enid agreed. She actually said yes. Rather than cleaving his dreams into a mess like he had done with his brother’s throat, she’d added to them. Strengthened them. 

Obviously, a naive, weak little kid wasn’t Daralin’s ideal partner for his quest. In a practical sense, Enid would be another person to watch over, another mouth to feed. Water wouldn’t be a problem; he could make it rain whenever he felt like it. He could also grow things to eat for both of them, but warmth was a problem. Daralin didn’t know how to start a fire, nor did he like them. Fires were always Merillius’s specialty, one he shared with the humans, and Daralin was the night and the storm and the sea. He didn’t get cold. But Enid would, and he would have to figure something out. 

“Daralin Tourney,” he whispered to himself as Enid skipped away to spend the rest of the night with her family, who she wouldn’t be seeing for a while. Daralin caught his reflection in a storefront window. He stared into his own eyes, green like palm leaves and peridots. “You’re going home, Daralin,” he murmured, the traces of a smile playing around his lips. “You’re going home.” 

The finale of the fireworks exploded overhead, a deafening thunder of blast powder and the colors of the sunset. Something Quarien had said to him eons ago as they stood on a hill, two small specks of black and white-blond to the swallows flying above them, echoed in his head, and Daralin wasn’t sure what had made him remember. 

“This is dusk. This is when the sun goes down, and the moon rises. Remember, you have a choice. In this world, you can either be dying life or living death. It’s up to you.” 

The moon god tilted his head to the side and took in the fizzing fireworks, the warm lanterns and the shouting, joyous people. And it was this, the festival celebrating his enemy brother whom he had slain out of jealousy, that finally made Daralin realize the extent of his actions. All this. All this for him. His laughter was bitter, like the sharp taste of rasroot extract, and so were his tears. 

3 - The Days Slip By Faster Than Any Years I’ve Lived Through

The memory spell worked, thank the gods. Enid and Daralin were able to slip out of Gophriel unnoticed, much to the girl’s relief. The southern-Welven countryside was pretty, Enid thought, mostly consisting of rolling green hills the color of quetzalcoatl feathers and gently-flowing, muddy rivers. Daralin had insisted that traveling on foot would be best, it’d attract less attention and make it easier to cross streams rather than having to lead horses through or around them. 

“Can’t you just teleport us to the library?” Enid asked tiredly after a day of walking. “Isn’t that a thing you can do?” 

“If I could,” Daralin said testily. “I would’ve already done it, right?” 

“I don’t know, maybe you’ve been keeping the extent of all your powers from my knowledge in case I suddenly attack you.” 

Daralin scoffed. “You? Attack me? I’d like to see you try.” 

Hands outstretched, Enid launched herself at the god, attempting to bowl him over. Instead, Daralin stayed planted to the ground and merely blew a strand of hair out of his face as Enid tried to knock him down. She tried from all angles, attempting to kick his legs out from under him, ramming into his back like a young bull, even dragging him by the arm, but Daralin didn’t budge. 

“Just fall already,” she grumbled. “Why do you stick to the ground so much?” 

Daralin smirked. “I’ve created a force between my feet and the dirt so strong that nothing can knock me over.” 

He picked Enid up from where she was trying to jump on his shoulders. 

“Hey! Put me down!” 

Daralin unceremoniously dropped her onto the ground, where she lay there for a few seconds, trying to catch her breath. Enid reached for the hilt of Daralin’s sword, hanging in the black scabbard on his hip, fumbling for a good grip to pull it out. The god, of course, noticed, and simply turned to the side so she would have to get up to try and grab it. 

“Now let’s stop scrambling around and check the map,” Daralin chided. He spread the black parchment out on a flat rock that sat on the edge of the path. Enid sat up and looked over his shoulder. 

“I think we’re around here,” the god said, tracing his finger over the river they had crossed an hour before. “We should get to the first town by tomorrow afternoon if we keep this pace up.”  

“How long until we get to the library?” 

“A little less than four weeks at best. I expect it might take a little longer.”  

Enid sucked in her breath and flopped back onto the ground. “I’m hungry,” she complained. “I’m tired. I’m sick of this. I miss my bed.” 

Daralin dug his fingers into the soil, and a small bush of ripe, purple berries sprouted up near where Enid lay. “This is what I get for traveling with a child,” he muttered to himself. 

As Enid began to stuff herself with fruit, the god sat cross-legged and set about making camp. He didn’t feel like hearing the little girl’s complaints, so he decided that he’d have to deal with making a fire. Daralin flicked his fingers, and several round stones gathered themselves into a ring around a pile of dry sticks and dead leaves. Enid watched in fascination as the god arranged the firewood into a small tent, leaning against each other, surrounding the leaf matter with a wave of his hand. 

“Do you have a flint?” he asked. 

“Can’t you just make a fire with magic?” 

“I’m the god of dirt and rain and night. I can’t.” 

Enid begrudgingly handed him a shard of flint she’d picked up on the road earlier, and sat back as Daralin struck the stones together to create small, orange sparks, like little pockmarks of color against the darkening atmosphere. When the wood refused to light a few times, Daralin threw down the flint with a frustrated sigh. 

“You’re not doing it right,” Enid commented. “You have to be patient and blow the sparks onto the wood so it catches.” Seeing Daralin’s puzzled expression, she asked, “Do you not know how to start a fire?” 

“Of course I do,” Daralin said indignantly. He picked the flint back up and started smashing the rocks together, creating flurries of sparks, none of which set the kindling ablaze. 

“How have you been traveling so far without knowing how to make fire? What about torches and cooking and things like that?” 

“I can see in the dark,” he replied. “And I only eat plants.” 

“What in the name of the gods is wrong with you?” the girl exclaimed. “Why would you eat vegetables and green leaves willingly? Fruit and berries are alright, but stuff like kale? Spinach?!” 

“I like kale and spinach,” Daralin said defensively. “And it’s better for you.” 

“So that’s why you’re so skinny,” Enid remarked. “If my mother saw you, she’d think that you were a starving homeless man with a funny hairstyle.”

Daralin ignored her last jibe and continued his efforts in trying to get the fire going. After another ten minutes of resultless attempts, Enid sat next to him and took the flint from his hands. She struck the flint together and gently coaxed the sparks onto the kindling. The wood and leaves caught, and soon, they had a small fire going. 

It was the first time in a long while that Daralin had seen fire up close. There was the flickering candlelight of cottage windows and the roaring blacksmith furnaces, the hearths of the villagers and the ceremonial burners of the priests, but Daralin had tried his very best to avoid fire because it reminded him too much of his brother. 

It bloomed at first like a flower, a cluster of innocent marigolds lazily waving in the breeze, but then as it grew, it became dangerous. Radiant, powerful, consuming everything around it; nothing was free from its charring scars and smoky fingers. Just like Merillius always had been. 

Daralin remembered how he had woken as a god. He remembered being suspended in open space like a criminal hanging from a bloody gallow, and how he had eventually floated down to Earth. Merillius had been born in the core of the planet, a fiery, explosive land that responded to his molten touch perfectly. They had opened their eyes at the same time, and the universe declared them as brother kings, to rule the world equally, side by side. A balance. The moon and the sun. The earth and the wind. The night and the day. Restraint and Independence. Daralin and Merillius. 

The campfire blinked at him and let out a puff of smoke. Daralin glared at it disdainfully as it crackled and flicked its hot, orange feathers at his face. 

“Daralin,” Enid asked, snapping him out of his trance. “Where do dead gods go?” She leveled some potatoes Daralin had conjured up over the fire. 

“Same place as mortals, I guess. But to keep the balance, every time a god dies, a new one is born to replace the old. So there’s probably a sun god somewhere out in the world not really knowing what to do with himself.” Daralin laughed. “Actually, Merillius was the god of death, too.” 

“I would think that you’d be the god of death.” 

“The true significance of death is so much greater than mortals can even fathom. Not that you’re mortal, though,” he added. “Death is freedom, Enid. This messy world is spilling over with bad people, murderers, abusers, manipulaters, the like. But even they get that final liberation. Now we immortals, we are forever bound to our posts, we live in a wretched rodent wheel that will never relent. It’s up to us to keep the balance.” 

Enid watched as the god settled himself into a pile of black cloth and pale skin, a shapeless lump with its back turned to the fire. “I’m going to bed,” Daralin said, and closed his eyes. 

“Do we have any salt?” she asked, raising the potatoes that she had been cooking toward him. 

“In my bag. There’s a spice box.” 

Enid crawled over to Daralin’s black traveling bag and rummaged around through its pockets, surprised at what he could fit in it. Surely it was magic. After a few minutes of searching, pushing aside a horse saddle, a giant bottle of lighter fluid, and at least six different types of war hammers, her fingers brushed against the lid of a black case. Enid lifted the case out of the bag and opened the silver clasps on the side. As it turned out, the case wasn’t for spices. She pushed open the lid to find a gleaming violin. The thin strings were dusted with a light layer of dried bow rosin, and the bow itself lay tucked against the inner velvet top of the case. Daralin heard the creak of the opening case and looked up. 

“That’s not the spice box,” he remarked. 

“No, it’s a violin case,” Enid said. “Why do you have a violin?” 

“Why do I have a two gallon tank of lighter fluid? Why do I have a textbook on the different species of tropical fish? Yeah, why do I have a violin?” 

“Do you play?” 

“No,” Daralin said shortly, and Enid could tell he was lying through his teeth. 

“Are you good? Can you teach me? My older sister, Karra, the drug addict, played the violin for a little while but whenever she played, it sounded like someone was brutally beating a cat.” 

“I don’t play,” the god interrupted, covering his face with his hood. “So stop bothering me and let me sleep, for the gods’ sake.” 

Enid closed the violin case and placed it gently back into the bag. After looking for a bit longer, she found a plain, square box where she found the salt. 

“Sorry,” she said to Daralin, who was now a ball of black in the gathering darkness. He didn’t stir, but she knew he heard. 

She woke to footsteps, Daralin’s footsteps, heading out of their camp. Bleary-eyed but curious, Enid wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and followed him to a small clearing in the middle of the woods. He was carrying something that Enid couldn’t make out until the moonlight illuminated him, a silver spotlight that bounced off of the violin case clutched in his hands. He gently laid it on the grass, undid the clasps, and removed the instrument and bow from their velvet covers. 

Daralin put the violin under his chin and raised the bow to the strings, the movement familiar but in a manner that showed he hadn’t done it in a while. Maybe even eons. 

He was there for an hour, simply a sliver of a sliver of his immortal existence, but that hour alone seemed to take more out of him than any millennium, just rubbing the bow over the strings, shifting his hands up and down the fingerboard. For once, he seemed old enough to crumble away like a rotting piece of parchment. 

Daralin’s playing wasn’t perfect. Occasionally, he’d hit a discordant note that stuck out from the steady stream of music, like rock in a smoothly flowing river, but he’d swear quietly and then move on as if nothing had happened. If Enid knew anything about music, she might have paid closer attention to his rusty technique with scrutiny, but she didn’t care. She liked this side of him, so much more transparent and vulnerable, not the trickster moon god that she knew. His emotions were stitched into his music like patterns in a tapestry, bright and muted tones, flowers and birds, rain and storms. This was a moment just for himself, and Enid felt like she was intruding, like she was reading someone’s diary. 

When he was finished, he knelt and laid the violin back in the case. Shutting the lid and closing the clasps, he smiled, and it was a different kind of smile than the ones Enid knew. It wasn’t cold or calculating, not a smile of exasperation or grief, but just a smile. Something like what Mother would wear if Enid came home an hour after dinner, covered in dirt from making mud towers with Florence; just happy that she was home and not dead in a ditch somewhere. 

Daralin left the violin in its case, and left the case in the clearing, making his way back to camp where Enid was supposed to be, sleeping, unaware. She ran back to the camp, doing her best to get their first so he wouldn’t notice that she was missing. 

Enid burst through the woods and collapsed onto her blankets, breathing heavily. She climbed under her covers and pretended to be asleep when she heard Daralin come back into the camp. 

“I bet you’re feeling really proud of yourself, hmm?” 

She cracked open one eye to find the god seated facing her, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enid replied, blinking a few times. 

“I can see in the dark,” Daralin said. “And it’s midnight, which is when my powers are at their highest. I could quite literally feel you in the woods, watching me.” 

“I didn’t see anything.” 

“I bet you’re dying to know why I left the case there and why I denied playing in the first place, right?” Daralin smoothed his hair over his shoulder as Enid turned her back toward him. 

“I’m telling you, I didn’t see anything.”

“Merillius played the harp. He was always better at everything, so I picked up an instrument so I could try and beat him.” 

“You play the violin?” Enid asked, playing dumb. 

“Aha!” Daralin pointed at her gleefully. “I never said I played the violin. You must have seen me play. Otherwise you wouldn’t have known.” 

“I assumed from the violin case that you vehemently denied ownership of,” she said quickly, trying to cover her comment up. Seeing Daralin’s expression, she sat up. “Fine, I saw you play, I’m sorry, I know I should have minded my own business--” 

“He was in his music room when the solar eclipse struck,” Daralin cut in. “He was practicing, but quickly weakened by the eclipse, and then I killed him. That’s why I don’t play the violin anymore, because it reminds me of my jealousy too much. I held onto the stupid thing because I was too sentimental to let it go, but now I can. I’m going back to Karanis, and I’m going to restore it, and I’m going to see my deeds in the light and repent.” 

“Why would you go all the way to Karanis just to do something you could do right now?” 

“It’s bringing things full circle,” the god said, glaring at her. “It’s symbolic. And also, I want to go home as much as you do.” 

The next village that they hit, Jurei, was in the middle of a wide open plain, ringed by forest on all sides. There wasn’t much security, just a stone wall, 3 meters high to keep the animals out. There were no sentinels patrolling the entrance, no police officers to be seen, and Enid supposed that was because of the noble that governed it. 

“Villages like this make me uneasy,” Daralin muttered. “Pretentious vassals, plastering their colors over every streetlight and store window, thinking they can leave their land completely unguarded because they think they have the power to protect it.” 

“Do they get invaded easily?” 

“The most.” Daralin swatted at a green and gold banner hanging overhead. “Ooh, this is one hell of a cocky knight. They’re the lowest on the noble totem pole, you know.” 

“How’d you know that Jurei is governed by a knight?” 

“You live long enough, you learn the colors of the important people.” The god shrugged. “Not to mention he’s out here, ruling over a tiny, insignificant patch of land.” 

“Do you crave tales of the old gods?” 

Enid and Daralin turned to see a small man standing on a wooden box, aggressively ringing a rusty cowbell. “Do you enjoy stories of wild adventures?” he shouted over the general noise of the marketplace. “Right now, come down to the Violet Marquess for a captivating story about cruel gods and brave knights and powerful dragons!” 

Daralin made a face. “Cruel gods?” 

“Powerful dragons?” Enid’s eyes lit up. “Can we go see?” 

“It’s wasting time,” Daralin said. “We’re here to stop and get some basic supplies, that’s all. Besides, dragons aren’t real.” 

“How would you know that?” 

Daralin stared at her, incredulous. “How would I know that?” 

But not being able to deny Enid if she pestered enough, Daralin eventually conceded and they went to the storytelling. The Violet Marquess was a small tavern squished in between a tailor’s and an artist’s studio. It reminded Enid of the fort she had made with Florence out of the packages and cardboard boxes that they had scavenged from the post office’s recycling bin. It looked like it was put together out of tape and a little luck, and the door hinges nearly fell off when they entered. 

“--the tower leaned crazily to the side, and fell, raining stones and mortar from the sky.”

The whole audience gasped.

“Merillius blasted all the debris away with one flick of his wrist, saving the people and their village for another day.” 

The audience began to clap and whistle for the sun god’s great act of courage and valor as Daralin and Enid took their seats. 

“And now, for the next story, this one of a particularly foolish fox and a giant bear.” The storyteller was not the small man from the market, but an old fellow with gray stubble along his chin and head. Enid admired the way the dim light bounced off of the shiny, silver ring through his septum piercing and the various silver studs and hoops in his ears. The man had a tattoo of a mountain range that looped around his collarbone like a necklace, and a smaller one of a snake with its tail in its mouth around his right wrist. 

“The fox emerged out of its den to discover that spring had begun to take over the forest,” the man said. “He went out on a search for berries, expecting that all the red, ripe ones would still be on the vine, fresh with morning dew and sunshine.” 

The story continued as the fox encountered a hungry bear, straight out of hibernation, and was chased away. Enid loved it, and shouted with the crowd for another tale. Daralin, on the other hand, sat back in his chair and sighed. He’d heard each of these stories, a thousand times over, even witnessed a few. 

“Can we leave soon?” he asked, poking Enid in the elbow. 

“Shh,” Enid answered. “He’s starting another one.” 

The storyteller raised his hands for silence. “This will be the last tale for tonight,” he said. “So I will make it the most exciting. And don’t forget, if you enjoyed it, feel free to leave a coin or two in the box upfront. It helps me to be able to deliver these riveting stories for you--” 

“Stop advertising and get on with it!” someone shouted from the back of the room. 

“Alright, alright. Our final story takes place in a village on the Welven-Glenmonte border. Once, in the village of Bleusey, there lived a spinster named Elleza.” 

Daralin’s face morphed into an expression of dread and fear that reminded Enid of the papier-mâché masks that she had once made in art class. 

“Daralin?” she asked, tapping his arm. “Are you okay?” 

He didn’t answer. 

“Elleza was a sour old woman, and incredibly vain. Though far past her years of youth and beauty, she was set on taking every opportunity to make herself look younger. She would purchase anti-aging creams and spells from overseas merchants, intent on hiding or expelling her old age permanently. Because of this careless spending, Elleza quickly became broke and began to rely on other people for handouts so she could continue her facial experiments. But since she had been so sour and temperamental, her neighbors were less inclined to help her. One morning, Elleza went down to her storeroom to find that she was all out of spinning thread, and that her coffers were completely empty save a few cobwebs and dust. She heard the bell ring, indicating that someone had entered the shop, and went upstairs to tell the visitor that she was all out of material. The man that had entered the shop was no ordinary person, but a god. His name was Daralin, and he was the god of darkness.” 

Enid snapped her head back to look at Daralin, who had grown as pale as rooftop snow drifts after a blizzard. “Daralin?” she asked. 

“But Elleza didn’t know this. So she said in her rude, temperamental manner, ‘We don’t have any thread left. Go down to the corner shop if you want some.’ The god grinned and said, ‘I heard that there is a woman named Elleza who lives in Bleusey, who also might be interested in this new product I’m selling.’ ‘You’re a merchant?’ Elleza hadn’t recognized the god yet, and was distracted by the said product.”

“You don’t kill her, do you?” Enid tapped Daralin’s shoulder, but the god didn’t answer, stricken with apprehension at what was to come. 

“The god handed her a bottle of anti-wrinkle cream, and Elleza’s eyes lit up.” 

“Daralin?” Enid was shaking the god’s arm now, but he wasn’t responding. 

“That night, Elleza applied the cream. First, it began to tickle, and then sting, and then burn. Soon, Elleza was in so much pain that she couldn’t see. She went crazy, running around her house and her shop, looking for water, medicine, anything. She died, red faced and bitterly burned, to the hands of a trickster god, happy with seeing the mortals beneath him suffer.” 

“Daralin?!” 

Daralin saw black and red. He tried to remember the old woman, he tried to remember handing her the bottle of aging cream, he tried to remember spying on her from the heavens, writhing on the floor, screaming. No matter how hard he tried to, he couldn’t. 

“This is why, children, you should never trust the night. It is cruel and harsh, blinding and burning. Come home before dark so the darkness god, Daralin, doesn’t get you too.” The storyteller folded his hands, indicating that he was finished. 

Daralin stood up abruptly and left in a flurry of black silk and leather. Enid followed after him, trying to keep up with the god’s quick, lengthy strides. 

“Did you actually kill her?” Enid asked, alarmed. 

“I did,” Daralin said flatly. “Without reason, apparently. Apparently I’m an evil trickster god who has no remorse for any of his actions, and kills innocent old women.” 

“But did you?” 

“I didn’t kill her!!” The god whirled on her, eyes wild with fury. “I didn’t kill the old hag, I didn’t even give her that cream. She got it from a scammer merchant, it wasn’t me!” 

“Why’d they think it was you then?” 

“The scammer fled and they like to blame all bad things on the bad god. Truth is easily contorted by time and bias.” 

Daralin adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He seemed even more uneasy now, like he was scared that he’d be recognized. There are ways to kill gods. Burned on a stake, perhaps. Thrown into a pit of poisonous frogs. Stabbed, slashed, beheaded. Tortured. Suffocated. There were so many creative ways to kill someone. 

“I’m going now,” he announced. “You can come with me or stay, I don’t care.” 

“I’m coming,” Enid replied. “I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t kill someone without having a reason to first. And I know that you’re sorry about your brother.” 

They left the unguarded gates of Jurei, telling each other stories of foxes in the spring like siblings do. The forest that they entered was a welcoming forest; trees with boughs enveloped in leaves and blossoms, and the undergrowth crunched pleasantly underfoot. 

“Who’s Quarien?” Enid asked when they were a good ten miles from Jurei. 

“How do you know about Quarien?” 

“He’s in the story,” she explained. “The guy who helped you kill Merillius. The conqueror.” 

“He was my friend,” Daralin replied. “My chief advisor.” 

“Why didn’t you bring him along?” 

“The years of my nomadic lifestyle got to him.” Daralin sighed. “He went a little crazy. Says he sees ghosts and stuff like that. He once scared me when in the middle of the night, he started screaming some satanic chant to ward away some evil spirits he claimed to have seen.” 

“Are you sure he’s crazy? Maybe he’s right.” 

“The only evil spirits to exist would be my evil spirits,” the god said. “And I haven’t touched dark magic like that in years. Come on, let’s make camp.” 

Enid felt a little sorry for Daralin, so she agreed to no fire. The night settled in around them, a comforting blanket of stars and wisps of indigo clouds. There are so many stars out here, she thought. Gophriel was one of the busier villages of southern Welven, and most nights, the sky was tinted with blacksmith smoke and boiler steam. The only stars were little specks of light, like dreams too far away to be tangible or to see up close. Out here, lying in the open wilderness, everything was a thousand times more real. 

“Daralin,” she said over the frogs chirping in the bushes around them. “Are we friends?” 

“I don’t know, Enid, are we?” came the dry answer from Daralin’s pile of black blankets. 

“When I become mortal again and go back home, will you visit me?” 

“After I restore Karanis, I want to find the new sun god. I want to bring him home and rule the world with him,” Daralin said. “I don’t want history to repeat itself.” 

“But after you’ve done all of that,” Enid said. “Will you come and visit me?” 

“It might take--” Daralin stopped and sighed heavily. “Yes, Enid, I will visit you. Don’t worry. Go to sleep and stop bothering me please.” 

Enid smiled, satisfied. “You love me like your little sister. Admit it.”

“I don’t have a little sister. Never did, never will.” Daralin shifted in his blanket mound. “Remember what happens to my siblings?” 

“You absolutely adore me.” 

“I’ve known you for about a week and a half. I haven’t had the time to become emotionally attached to you.” 

“Aww, it only took a week.”

Daralin hid his face in his hood so the moonlight couldn’t illuminate his flustered expression. “I despise you, little gremlin girl.”  

“Good night, Daralin.” 

Daralin didn’t answer, but he smiled under his hood. He really was developing a liking towards Enid. She was the first friend he’d had since Quarien went crazy. She was like a breath of fresh air, in a way. There was relief in her companionship. Beyond the fact that she was cursed, beyond her sister and her parents, she was a little kid. A good-natured, fairly mature kid who had seen a lot of the world that she shouldn’t know about yet. Daralin bet that the average seven-year-old had no idea about drugs or murder to the extent that she did. He was glad that out of all the little kids in the world that he was destined to team up with, it was Enid. How ironic, he thought. The could-be child-killer god of night teaming up with a little girl. 

But perhaps there was beauty in that. A sort of poetic justice that Merillius would have obsessed over for hours. Merillius had always been so good with children. The god drifted off into a fitful sleep as the universe drew a breath, waiting for something to happen. 

=-=-=-=-=

She woke up to the snap of a twig and a hissed swear. As Enid’s vision cleared, she saw someone dressed in black approaching the camp, not much more than an amorphous blob of cloth and flesh in the darkness. The second thing she saw was the unmistakable gleam of steel, like the sharp glint of animalistic teeth right before the killing bite. Then she heard the sound of the blade being drawn from a scabbard, and then the sound of someone screaming. Then Enid realized that the screaming was coming from her. A warning, or perhaps a cry for something she knew was already lost. The sword began its deadly descent, cleaving the air, and Enid could only watch as it sank into the pile of blankets that Daralin was sleeping in. There are ways to kill gods. 

And then, the figure in black turned to her. 

4 - Catharsis Is A Stranger To Me

There are ways to kill gods. The words echoed over and over in Enid’s head like church bells heralding her demise as the figure in black approached her. The figure had left the sword in the pile of blankets, stuck in Daralin’s corpse, and drew another shorter blade from his belt to finish her off with. Enid couldn’t run. She was rooted to the ground as if she was one of Daralin’s plants. She could only stare as the figure spun his sword in his fingers, walking toward her. He raised the blade over him and forcefully shoved it down toward the top of her head, intending to split her in half. 

And then Daralin struck, faster than lightning. Or maybe he was lightning. Enid was too shocked to be sure. He came out of nowhere, broadsword in hand, with all the ferocity the god of roaring hurricanes and crashing mudslides should have, completely uncharacteristic of his normal, passive-aggressive self. It was terrifying--his agile grace, the way the pommel of his sword shifted so easily in his grip, like he was performing a dance that he’d practiced a million times. Knowing Daralin, Enid supposed that he probably had. 

Their assailant was no klutz when it came to swordplay, either. It was like watching a panther fight a raging bull, and Enid had never felt more helpless, watching as Daralin and the figure in black met steel to steel, eye to eye countless times. Enid wondered why Daralin wasn’t unleashing his full power upon the attacker. Surely he could incinerate him in one flick of his divine fingers. He must want to keep him alive, she realized. He wants to injure him just enough to interrogate him. 

She turned away when she saw Daralin’s blade sink into the attacker’s shoulder. She heard him grunt in pain, and heard the sickening sound of steel against flesh as Daralin tore his sword out of the man and shove him to the ground. 

“Who sent you?!” Daralin demanded as the roots of the nearby trees grew over the man’s limbs, pinning him to the ground. 

“No one lords over me,” the man spat. 

Daralin roughly shoved back the attacker’s hood, and Enid heard him gasp. She turned around, trying her best not to look at the man’s wounds. She recognized the tattoos on his wrists and neck, strangely beautiful like the piercings in his face and ears. The storyteller. 

“I thought I recognized you as you left in such a hurry,” the storyteller added. “You look just like how I remember. Age hasn’t taken you at all.” 

“Why did you try to kill us?”
The storyteller laughed. “Don’t you recognize me? It has been a while, but I would think you’d be able to recognize your own kind.” 

Your own kind?  So the storyteller was a god. And Enid was watching the result of an age-old feud between two gods unfold, completely powerless. She racked her brain, trying to think of who the storyteller could possibly be. 

“Fedon,” Daralin said, frowning. “Still the same as ever, I see. I suppose being the god of vengeance makes trying to murder a god and his companion perfectly justifiable.” 

“You know what you did,” the storyteller, Fedon, answered coldly. “You killed him. You murdered my best friend, turned him into ash that you casually ground underfoot like he was nothing, because mortals are nothing to you, I suppose.” 

“I’m not sure you should be calling me those things while you’re the one at my mercy.” 

“And the worst part is,” Fedon cut in. “You don’t remember who he was.” 

“You’re right.” A slow smile began to spread across Daralin’s face. “I really, honestly, don’t.” The night god quickly turned to Enid, bloodstained cloak snapping in the breeze. “Take my bag,” he instructed calmly. “And get out of here.” 

“But what if you need help?” Enid asked helplessly, wringing her hands. 

“If I need help,” Daralin said shortly. “I’m not going to be able to get it from you. There’s nothing you can do to help this situation other than to get as far away from here as possible. I can’t have you in danger, not in something like this.” 

“You have grown attached to a mortal as well?” Fedon cooed from his place on the ground. “Well, then. This makes my job much more enjoyable. How about I slaughter her as you did him?”

“Enid!” Daralin exclaimed, tightening Fedon’s restraints. “Go!” 

Enid grabbed the bag from where it was resting against Daralin’s blankets and fled. 

=-=-=-=-=

Daralin could hear Enid’s footsteps, light and quick, retreating into the woods behind him. Good. She would be safe. She was smart and knew how to take care of herself, and Daralin didn’t need to worry about her for now. The problem at hand was the vengeance god on the ground in front of him, struggling against his bonds. He didn’t want to kill him, Daralin knew he couldn’t bring himself to. Not again. He couldn’t add another blot to the already-mangled record of his that he was trying so hard to repent from. 

But if he didn’t kill Fedon, Fedon would kill Enid. 

“If I let you go,” Daralin tried. “You have to promise to leave us alone.” 

“That wouldn’t be very vengeful, would it?” Fedon smiled as more and more blood gushed from the wound on his shoulder. “Kill me and I will be reborn in another vengeance god. Let me go and I will kill you and hunt down your friend. What will you do, little moon god?” 

Daralin flexed his fingers and the roots around Fedon’s ankles and wrists widened and thickened. “You’re even more of a monster than I ever was,” he said, trying to stall for more time. 

“Vengeance is old,” Fedon replied. “Older than the moon or sun. Since there has been a wrong, there has been a drive to avenge that wrongdoing. Look at yourself. You wanted revenge against Merillius, for all those eons of inconsideration and indifference. So you killed him.” 

“Gods have the pettiest squabbles,” Daralin said. “But their squabbles tend to be the ones with the gravest consequences.” 

“Even petty squabbles demand revenge.” Fedon opened his hand and his two swords, the ones he’d used to try and kill Daralin and Enid, materialized in his hands. Daralin, however, was not paying attention. He was staring at the sky. The moon was directly overhead, the highest it would be that night. Daralin knew he could try it. His power was at its highest, and if he’d be able to trap the vengeance god, he wouldn’t have to kill him. He could imprison him in obsidian and steel, deep underground, and Fedon wouldn’t be able to go after Enid. 

“You picked a foolish fight, Fedon,” Daralin remarked wryly. “But then, I suppose intelligence was never really your strong suit.” 

The roots around Fedon began to loop over his torso and sink into the ground. “What the hell are you doing?!” Fedon demanded, for once alarmed. 

“I’m putting you where you can’t hurt anyone,” Daralin answered. “I’m not going to kill anyone anymore, no matter how much they deserve it.” 

He pointed straight down, and the earth responded to his power. Shouting swears and curses into the empty air, Fedon sank into a crevasse of Daralin’s creation and became enveloped in bedrock and obsidian, deep in the core of the planet. The crevasse sealed itself and became a jagged scar in the dirt. Daralin took Fedon’s swords from where they lay discarded on the ground and stabbed them into the scar, driving them deep into the soil to mark the place where the vengeance god would rest for all eternity. It wasn’t death, it was deserved.  

Daralin set off into the woods to find Enid. 

He found Enid crouched inside a bush, clutching his bag to her chest and shivering. Her fingers were curled around a small coring knife and she held it out in front of her as he approached. 

“It’s alright,” Daralin whispered. “It’s just me.” 

Enid lowered the knife and offered him a quick smile. “Sorry,” she said, eyes tracing Fedon’s blood on his shirt and cloak. “Did you kill him?” she asked. 

“No.” Daralin reached for his bag. “Just put him where he can’t hurt anyone anymore.” 

“How come you weren’t sleeping?” Enid stood up and bit her lip, still uneasy. 

“I was,” Daralin explained. “I always get woken up around midnight because that’s when my power is at its highest. I’ve never really slept at night, so most of the time I have to take a walk. I’m sorry. I didn’t think that there was going to be an attack.”

“I’ve never gotten a death threat before,” Enid said weakly. 

“I’m sorry,” Daralin repeated. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Enid said abruptly. She turned and began to walk in the direction of their camp. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was definitely not fine. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I really am. Let’s go back. Come on.” 

Enid wasn’t fine. She was scared of Fedon, of Daralin, even. If this was what happened when she was in Daralin’s company, Enid wasn’t sure she wanted anything to do with him anymore. For the first time, she was forced to see the god in Daralin, the killer that he could be. 

Fedon could easily be me, she thought. 

Enid felt like she was walking on the edge of Daralin’s sword, and any wrong step could lead to the loss of a limb. 

“If you’re scared of me,” Daralin said, as if he was reading her mind. “Say so. Say anything. You can talk about Gophriel, your sister, how much I supposedly adore you, I don’t mind. I will listen to you. Please don’t be quiet like this.” 

Enid ignored him and readjusted the blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders. 

“It’s okay to say how you feel,” Daralin coaxed. 

Enid pressed her lips together and walked on, staring straight ahead. She thought of the bruised boy from the Merillius festival and of Karra. She remembered the feeling of helplessness, biting and hollow, knowing that she couldn’t do anything as Karra tipped her head back and took the fatal dose of rasroot. 

Enid remembered calling out, to warn her sister of the possibilities, and getting a door locked in her face. Then, she heard a thud as Karra collapsed on the floor. And she remembered pointlessly trying the doorknob, knowing that her sister was dying, or maybe already dead. 

“What good is that?” she let slip. “Saying how I feel? What does that accomplish?” 

“It’s very therapeutic--” 

“Does complaining get us to the library?” Enid asked sarcastically. “Does it get us to Karanis?”

“Well, no, but--” 

“Right.” Enid quickened her pace so she was a few steps ahead of Daralin. “Can we stop talking about this?” 

They reached camp after half an hour or so. Enid didn’t question the two swords embedded in the ground, only moved her bedding away from it and quickly fell asleep. Daralin wished that she hadn’t had to have seen his fight with Fedon. She was only seven, after all, no matter how many times he forgot. Sometimes, he wished she could act her age.

 Daralin curled up in his blankets again. There was a small tear in some of them where Fedon had stabbed through, but he didn’t mind. He encased himself in the soft black lining, cocooning himself like Fedon had been enveloped into the earth. He could still taste the god’s blood on his tongue and in the air even though the night wind had swept it away by now. It tasted like he was biting on a rod of iron, like a criminal behind bars trying to gnaw his way out. He could still feel Fedon’s flesh giving away to his blade, soft and forgiving so unlike its wearer, and he shivered.

He thought about how he could have possibly ended up where he was, a murderer moon god turned pacifist by the hope of home, accompanied by a bewitched seven-year-old girl from a small country village. Quarien would be so disappointed in me. He would say in his strange way, ‘Daralin Tourney, how far you have fallen.’ 

But I haven’t fallen, I’ve risen above. I’ve ascended beyond that. Not conquering, but true victory. 

It was getting early, and the world seemed to be tinted with the weak, grayish-blue light of budding dawn. Soon, the sun would be up, streaming in through the treetops, and they would have to walk again. He closed his eyes, ignoring the images of the bleeding vengeance god and Enid’s eyes whenever she paid him a glance, stained and riddled with fear. 

The morning was unwelcome. Enid woke when a stray shaft of sunlight hit her face like the beam of a lighthouse illuminating ships on the ocean. When she sat up, the sunray joined its fellow cones of light, dappling the dirt around the camp. She rubbed her eyes, and when her vision cleared, her gaze fell upon the two swords poking out of the ground several feet away. 

The events of the previous night fell on her shoulders like a cluster of boulders in an earthquake. How about I slaughter her as you did him? If you’re scared of me, say so. Please don’t be quiet like this. It’s okay to say how you feel. 

Enid wholeheartedly disagreed with that last statement. It was never alright to say how she felt. It wouldn’t change anything. It didn’t matter. It was pointless. 

“I hate mornings.” 

Enid’s train of thought was broken by Daralin’s sour comment from his blanket pile. “Let’s pack up soon and get moving,” she replied. “We’re wasting daylight here.” 

“Gods, when did you become such a stickler for time?” Daralin rolled into a sitting position and began to work at the knots in his hair with his fingers. He winced as they snagged on a particularly large tangle. Daralin extricated his hands from his hair in favor of a brush from his bag. 

“Isn’t that a hassle to maintain?” Enid asked, running a hand through her shoulder-length, brown hair to smooth it down for the day. 

“It’s gorgeous,” Daralin answered vainly. “And beauty is pain.” 

“Your hair functions as window drapes,” Enid remarked. 

“Hence the reason why I put it half up,” Daralin said, pulling part of his hair into a tail and securing it with a small, black ribbon adorned with his signature opal. “Now, are we going to sit around making rather rude comments about the way I wear my hair or are we actually going to move and maybe make it to the next village by sundown?” 

Enid reluctantly shoved her bedding into the open flap of Daralin’s bag and went to the nearby creek to wash up a little. The water was icy cold and shocked most of the heaviness from her limbs and eyes. She wiped her face on her sleeve and returned to camp. 

“Are you still mad at me?” Daralin asked when she came back. 

“Mad at you?” Enid blinked. “I guess I was never mad at you. I was just taking my anger out on you because you were the closest person at hand.” I was never mad at you. I was scared. I am scared. 

She tried to play it off like everything was normal, as if she wasn’t completely apprehensive of the god walking beside her. Fear, Enid realized, tainted her senses. She was so distracted by keeping distance between her and Daralin that she didn’t register anything else. She stumbled over tree roots sticking up from the ground, strayed off the path, stepped into snake burrows and almost got trampled by a horse while they crossed into the next village, Lidall. 

Something wasn’t quite right about Lidall. It wasn’t like Jurei, completely exposed yet unguarded, but strangely quiet. Shop signs looked like they had been painted over, and Enid could barely make out different writing underneath the thin coats of whitewash that covered each wooden plaque. There were no schoolchildren chasing each other in the dust kicked up by mares carting wagons of fruit, no shouting shopkeepers or brightly colored market tents. The streets were made of carefully laid slabs of polished stone, suggesting that the noble that governed Lidall was either very wealthy or very frivolous. Each of the buildings that lined the main road was made of perfectly shaped bricks, melded together with mortar that showed no speck of dirt or signs of weathering. 

At the end of the road, Enid could see a large, looming house made of blue stone with indigo and scarlet banners draped across its front. The noble’s residence, surely. The house seemed to be watching over the town, like an overbearing governess. 

“I planned this out,” Daralin said. “We were supposed to stay at an inn in this town, but I’d understand if you didn’t want to.” 

“Did you say inn?” 

Enid and Daralin turned to see a scrawny boy looking at them through an open doorway. “We were just on our way out,” Daralin said, but was cut off. 

“My older brother runs an inn,” the boy offered. “I can show you the way.” 

Without another word, he took Daralin’s arm and began to drag him down the street. Enid followed, unsure of what to do. 

“Let go of me!” Daralin said loudly. His voice bounced off of the buildings around them, and Enid felt a little claustrophobic. 

“Come on,” the boy said to Enid, ignoring the god. 

Enid heard a sharp blasting noise like a muted gunshot, and the boy yelped. He staggered back, letting go of Daralin, who smiled smugly. 

“That’s enough,” Daralin said. “We’ll be on our way now.” 

“Wait!” the boy called as Enid and Daralin turned to go. “Please, I really need you to come with me to the inn. There haven’t been any travelers in ages, and we might have to close up if there’s no business to be had.” 

“Sorry,” Daralin replied. “But we’ve got places to be, and--” 

Enid grabbed Daralin’s arm to stop him and gave the boy a short smile. “Let’s give him a chance,” she whispered to Daralin, the first of her own thoughts she’d spoken out loud in a while. “It can’t be that bad, and we’ll be helping him out.” 

“This place is unnerving,” Daralin whispered back. “I don’t want to risk another lethal encounter after last night.” 

“Merillius would help him. Any well-meaning god would.” 

Daralin rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine,” he conceded, turning to the boy. “One night,” he said. “If you’ll be so kind as to show us the way.” 

The inn was not an inn at all. The blue sign hanging from the door read Serenity Asylum, and the interior was rather bland and the designer had thought it necessary to adorn the walls with various images of parrots with teal plumage. 

“Where’s the inn?” Enid asked. 

“Back here.” The boy beckoned them to a small door that opened up into a storage cupboard. He shoved on the back wall of the cupboard and it gave way on rusty, squeaky hinges that sounded like they hadn’t been used in ages, allowing him to climb through. 

“Maion?” 

Enid and Daralin emerged from the cupboard into an open, well lit room with a round, wooden table in the middle and chairs clustered around it. The voice belonged to a bespectacled man sitting at the table with a stack of papers in front of him. When he stood to hug the boy, Enid saw that he was tall, taller than Daralin. 

“Where have you been all day?” the man asked as the boy, supposedly Maion, wrapped his arms around the man’s waist. 

“I found visitors,” Maion replied, nodding at Daralin and Enid. “They want to stay here for tonight. I told them that we could take them.” 

“Of course.” The man smiled warmly at them and brushed the papers to the side. They were bills and notices from the government, Enid noted. “Please follow me,” the man said. 

“I’m sorry if Maion was a little forceful in his insistence,” the man said. “He really just cares about the inn and he’s all too aware of our current situation. My name is Terrick, and I’m the innkeeper here.” 

“I’m Orvin and this is my little sister Fornia,” the god lied. “If you don’t mind me asking, why is your inn in the back of a cupboard closet in a mental asylum?” 

“That would be the viscountess.” A shadow passed over Terrick’s face at the mention of the noble. “After the viscount died in a bandit attack, she changed the whole town. Painted over signs, had the roads redone, and set certain laws for each member of business. We weren’t allowed to continue maintaining our inn because of one of those laws, so we were forced to change into a sanatorium.” 

“So you just run the inn in secret?” 

“We don’t have any travelers anyway,” Terrick responded. “Viscountess Kradia sort of ostracized Lidall from the rest of the world. The inn is mostly of sentimental value and I can’t bring myself to let it go.” 

They stopped in front of an entrance to a hallway with two doors, one on each side. “Make yourself at home,” Terrick said. 

It was a nice room, Enid decided. She wasn’t one to be picky, and she found the long crack running across the ceiling interesting to look at from the bed. The crack split off into smaller jagged fissures until it resembled the bare, pebbly branches of an oak tree in the wintertime, and it reminded Enid a little bit of the trees at home. She could hear Daralin rustling around in the room next door, no doubt checking for spells and curses like the suspicion-ridden little squirrel he was. 

There were several small windows cut into the space where the walls met the ceiling. Enid was too short to see out of them, but she could tell that the sun was beginning to set from the long shadows that stretched from the furniture. The warmth from the thin beams of sunlight leaking in through the windows were starting to take an effect on her, making her feel drowsy and comfortable. She closed her eyes, letting herself go for just a moment. 

“Enid? Enid!” 

Enid awoke to a frantic banging on the wall next to her head. It was Daralin in the room next door, and there was genuine fear in his voice. 

“What?!” she asked, slamming the wall with the flat of her hand. 

“Gods, Enid, just come here!” 

She flung the covers off of her and glanced at the clock ticking merrily away on the far wall. She’d been asleep for six minutes. I really can’t catch a break, can I? Enid rushed into the hall and burst through Daralin’s door into the room. She found him with his back braced against the wall by his bed, paralyzed with fear.

“What is it?” she asked. 

“Look.” Daralin pointed at one of the windows on the opposite side of the room. Enid followed his gaze to an eclipse of small, gray moths clustered outside. They weren’t even in the room, more attracted to the light from a lantern hanging from the exterior of the building. 

“What?” Enid asked, confused. 

“Can you scare them away?” 

“Why?” Enid eyed Daralin suspiciously. “They’re just moths, and they’re outside anyway. They’re not going to attack you.” 

Seeing Daralin’s expression, Enid sighed and dragged a chair over to the window. Standing on the chair, she beat the window a few times until the moths dispersed. “Is that better?” she asked, climbing down from the chair and carrying it back to its resting place in the corner. 

“Before you say anything,” Daralin said. “I am not scared of moths.” 

“You looked pretty scared to me.” 

“Well, I wasn’t. I was simply a little apprehensive, probably because this whole village makes the insides of my bones crawl.”

“That viscountess seems really off,” Enid said. “Why would she cut off a whole village from the rest of the world? And why only when her husband died?” 

“Mortals are strange,” Daralin said, unfurling himself from his crouching position against the wall. He rolled his tense shoulders and sighed. “Let’s just get out of here tomorrow as fast as we can.” 

They were silent for a few minutes. Enid had forgotten that she was supposed to be scared of the god in his quick moment of foolish fear and she had let her guard down for a few seconds. 

“Are you done avoiding me?” Daralin asked, and Enid was convinced that he really could read her mind. It was eerie how he always knew when she was thinking about him. 

Enid sighed. She couldn’t ignore him forever, that she knew. Whether she liked it or not, whether they were friends or girl and god, Daralin was her only chance at going home. 

“I am,” she said. “You were right. I was scared of you and I didn’t want to say anything.”

 Daralin smiled. “Am I scary?” 

“Before I took off into the woods,” Enid said. “You came out of nowhere, started battling the vengeance god who had just tried to kill us, had him chained to the ground and was interrogating him while he was threatening to murder me. Had our roles been reversed, wouldn’t you be scared too?”

“See?” Daralin said cheerfully. “Doesn’t talking about your feelings make everything feel so much better and make matters clearer?” 

“I despise you, Daralin Tourney,” Enid retorted. 

“I was right,” Daralin sang. “You said so yourself.” 

“Please stop before I find those moths again and shove them into your eternally infuriating face.” 

“I was riiight.”

“Yes you were. Now stop acting like a kid. Really, Daralin, I’m the child here--” 

“Shh.” Daralin put a hand on Enid’s shoulder, silencing her. “There’s two adults talking in the main room, the one that we entered.” 

“Of course there are,” Enid answered. “It’s probably just Terrick and Maion. This is their inn, after all.” 

“Two adults, Enid,” Daralin said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Maion’s a little boy. And didn’t Terrick say that there weren’t any other travelers staying here?” 

“You’re being unnecessarily cautious,” Enid said. “So what, he has some visitors. Humans are social beings.” 

“In his special, hidden, illegal establishment?”

“The person’s probably a really close friend.” 

“And don’t you think it’s strange? They’ve taken so much care to hide the inn from this viscountess lady, but Maion literally finds random people on the street and persuades them to spend a night or two here.”  

“They’re desperate! Didn’t you see the giant pile of bills and stuff on the table when we came in?” 

“Enid,” Daralin said slowly. “How come they have bills for the inn if the government doesn’t know that they’re running it? Who are they paying?”

Enid thought Daralin’s words over until the penny dropped. “What are they saying?” she demanded once she had realized. 

“Shh,” Daralin repeated, moving to the door and pressing his ear against the wood. “Let me listen.”

=-=-=-=-=

Terrick hadn’t expected her to come tonight. He was sitting at the table in the main room again, poring over notices and bills with careful scrutiny when a section of the back wall unhinged and she came climbing  through. Viscountess Estherann Kradia was really quite pretty in the flickering candlelight of the lantern on the desk, Terrick thought. Of course, the viscountess had made it very clear that she didn’t care what he thought. 

“I hate how you decorated the asylum,” the viscountess remarked. “Were all those dreadful paintings necessary?” 

“Teal reminds me of your eyes.” 

“But birds, Terrick?” 

“It’s lovely to see you as well, Viscountess,” Terrick said, smiling. “What brings you here so late?” 

“I didn’t feel like sleeping,” Viscountess Kradia said dismissively, as if she’d reached a higher plane of existence that didn’t require her to rest. “So naturally I came here, my favorite place in Welven.” 

“Estherann, you’ve been outside of Lidall once.” 

“Yes, well--” 

The viscountess was interrupted by voices in one of the halls. Someone was singing, and was obnoxiously off-key. 

“I was right. You said so yourself,” came the singer.

“Please stop before I find those moths again and shove them into your eternally infuriating face.” 

“Travelers, Terrick?” the viscountess inquired. “I thought we agreed that if I let you keep your precious inn, you wouldn’t house anyone in it.” 

“What’s the point of an inn if you don’t have any guests?” 

“You said it was for sentimental reasons, darling. Something about your father and how Maion would be crushed if it were to be shut down. And we couldn’t possibly let anyone into Lidall, lest they see what we’ve done.” The viscountess walked over to the stack of papers and flipped through them. 

“All dues to me,” she continued. “A few coins a month, and you said we’d be fine. But somehow, even though you’re running another business, you can’t scrounge up that much.” 

“No one needs an asylum, Estherann,” Terrick tried to reason. 

“There are plenty of mentally ill people in Lidall,” the viscountess responded. “I mean, everyone just stays locked up inside their homes and shops. It’s like they’re scared to come out or something.”

“Gods, I wonder why,” Terrick said wryly. “Maybe it’s the crazy viscountess that governs them, putting restrictions on what they can and cannot do with their lives based on a system no one understands.” 

“You helped put me in that position, Terrick,” she said sweetly. “Who killed my husband? Who put the crazy viscountess on the throne?” 

“You threatened Maion,” Terrick said, quickly shifting from sarcasm to tight unease. “You said you’d kill him if I didn’t help you.” 

“But you’re the one who tipped off the bandits,” the viscountess said. “I may have made the consequences, but you’re the one who made the choice in the end of it all.” 

“All of this,” he said, sweeping his arm around to gesture at the room. “All of this hiding just to support your--well, your scheming head.”

“All of this,” she echoed, mimicking his gestures. “All of this could be gone if those travelers get word out to the world. Don’t even think about your inn anymore, Terrick. Think about Maion. Think about yourself. You’re dead if they find out what you’ve done. They’ll take Maion away from you and then execute you and I.” 

“I don’t care about what they do to you.” 

“And I don’t care about what they do to you, Terrick. At least I don’t care about anyone. This place is all I have left. If they take that away, then they may as well just kill me. You, you have much more to lose.” 

Terrick stood frozen in place like he was fossilized in amber, listening to the heavy words the viscountess threw about so lightly. “You’re not a very good person at all, Viscountess,” he said weakly. 

“Kill them tonight, Terrick,” the viscountess said, heading to the door. “ If you don’t, I’ll make sure that you’ll never have to worry about that debt ever again.” 

5 - Anything Except Acceptance 

At least this time, they were ready for the attack. Daralin had taken a lot of care to show Enid how to properly stab someone, using his pillow for a demonstration. 

“I don’t want to kill him,” Daralin said. “He really is a nice man. But if worst comes to worst, then you should know how to defend yourself.” 

“That viscountess isn’t going to give up,” Enid replied. “Even after we escape, all she’s going to do is take away the inn and then find us herself.” 

“Let me handle Viscountess Kradia,” Daralin said. “She will probably have to die. I’ll make it quick.” 

Daralin heard Terrick’s footsteps two hours after midnight. He quietly shook Enid awake and they waited together. It was a little bit funny to Enid. Terrick didn’t even bother trying to be stealthy. He sounded like a small elephant coming down the hall. Slowly, the door creaked open and Terrick’s head appeared around it. He froze in place when he saw the god and the girl, waiting for him, as alert as barn owls in the night woods. 

Enid saw Daralin’s hand flash as he uncovered it from his cloak, a quick flicker of movement, just enough to let free a thin bolt of power that hit Terrick straight in the chest. 

“You were ready,” she heard him croak before he fell to the ground, paralyzed. 

“He’s not dead,” Daralin said, kneeling beside Terrick and taking hold of his wrist, checking his pulse. 

“What are you going to do with him?” 

“We’ll leave a note,” Daralin responded, grabbing a stationery pad and pen from the desk. He scribbled something on it and showed the paper to Enid. 

Terrick, 

Enid and I heard everything that you and the viscountess were speaking about. I have taken care of Viscountess Kradia and wiped the memories of the people of Lidall, so you are free to take the leadership of the village. Tell no one of this, including Maion, as I have wiped his memory of the viscountess and your struggles as well. Do not ask how I have done this, only understand that you should never attack a god of night at two in the morning. 

~Daralin and Enid

“Didn’t you tell him that your name was Orvin?” Enid asked. 

“It’s fun to toy with mortals every once in a while,” Daralin said. “It’s not really evil, just makes his head spin a little.” The god stuck the note to Terrick’s shirt and smiled. “Let’s go and liberate a village, shall we?” 

They found Maion’s bedroom first. It really wasn’t a room, more like a closet modified for the boy’s needs, but Maion looked comfortable in his bed and Enid suddenly remembered that she hadn’t gotten to sleep for a night in a bed like she had been hoping for. Rather than the tiny openings where the walls met the ceiling for windows, Maion’s face was illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through two glass panes set evenly in the middle of the wall opposite the door. Daralin gently placed a hand on the boy’s forehead and flexed his fingers. Maion shivered as a faint, silver ripple of Daralin’s power flowed through his body, but stayed asleep. 

“He’s not a bad kid,” Daralin whispered, more to himself than Enid. “He’s just a bit annoying and pushy at times. But he really has a good heart.” 

“That’s the case with most children,” Enid said anyway. 

“I really haven’t been a fan of children as of late,” Daralin commented. “It’s quite provoking when they, you know, tell you to shut up, talk over you, blatantly ignore you--” 

Enid held a finger to her lips. “Be quiet, he’s going to wake up if you keep going on like this.”

“--And when they tell you what to do. I hate that. I really do.”

They slipped out of the inn-asylum and into the dark streets, which were pitch black as if someone had dipped Lidall in a vat of shoe dye. The only things that penetrated the darkness were the luminous cascades of moonshine that filtered through the looming buildings. There were no stars, at least none that Enid could see. The light reflected off of the smooth, blue stones of the viscountess’s manor. The scarlet and indigo banners flapped gently in the breeze, making a quiet slapping sound against the building that sounded like childrens’ footsteps on slick, marble floors. 

“How are we going to get into her chambers?” Enid asked, eyeing the guards that manned the portcullis and the side entrances. 

“The great thing about nobles who don’t leave their villages,” Daralin said. “Is that they tend to have a lot of greenspace within their estates. Gardens, goldfish ponds, trails to take the horses, you get the idea. It’d be easier to sneak in through one of the garden entrances.” 

After a few minutes of walking, they found a tall, stone wall that seemed to encircle uniform, evenly laid clusters of green-topped trees. Enid could see faint torchlight reflecting off of mottled purplish-crimson plums and blush red peaches. 

“The kitchen garden,” she whispered, pointing to the fruit trees. 

“Less guards,” Daralin noted. “Some of the servants are awake by now, preparing for breakfast. I assume the viscountess is still up and about, which means that she’ll be hungry.” 

“Why?” 

“Keeping alert consumes a lot of energy,” Daralin said. “Especially for mortals as stressed as she sounded earlier.” 

Enid glanced up at the wall and tapped the stones with her fingertip. She placed her foot on one of the outcropping rocks and began to haul herself up the wall. Once she made it to the top, Enid dropped down into a wheelbarrow of potting soil and clambered onto the ground. Daralin materialized beside her. 

“Where did you come from?” she asked, startled. “I thought you couldn’t teleport.” 

“There’s a gate,” Daralin said smugly. “About four yards left of where you climbed over.” 

The door that led to the kitchens was locked from the inside, and Enid could see lit lamps casting orange light on the plaster walls. 

“Not too many guards,” Daralin murmured. “Six, I think. Shouldn’t be too much for us to handle.” 

He picked up a handful of gravel from the path and threw it at one of the windows farther from the garden. The pebbles pinged against the glass and Enid heard a commotion in the kitchen as servants and guards rushed to investigate the noise. 

“Quickly!” Daralin hissed, and Enid followed him to the door. The god broke open the lock with a firm tug and they slipped inside. Enid stared at the broken lock as they passed. 

“It’s my superior king god's strength,” Daralin said, grinning at her expression. “Locks are for mortals.” 

“Won’t the staff see that it’s broken?” 

“Hopefully we’ll be farther away by the time that happens.” 

They found the viscountess’s chambers easily. Daralin said that most of the nobility had their estates modeled after the divine castle on Mount Karanis. “Makes them feel important,” he explained. 

It was strange for Daralin to be walking around in a place so similar to his first home after all these years. If he was given a floor plan of the manor, he could point to each room and name it correctly. The kitchens, the main library, the stables, the observatory. Viscountess Kradia lived in what would have been Merillius’s part of the palace, rooms located in the spires closest to the noon sun, with plenty of windows so its rays could flood in. It gave Daralin horrible deja vu as he remembered what exactly had occurred within them. The smooth slice and slit of his broadsword, the gushing blood as red as the cherries hanging from the orchard’s trees. 

“We’re here,” Enid whispered, tugging at his arm. She nodded toward the line of light that came from under one of the carved doors. 

Of course it had to be this room. The harp room. The exact room where all of Daralin’s jealousy and darkness had exploded into murder. 

“Actually,” Daralin said faintly. “Screw this village. Let’s just leave.” 

“You’re the one who said that the viscountess had to die,” Enid retorted. “We’re not backing out now.” 

“You’re the one who insisted on staying in Lidall for the night.” 

Enid ignored him and crept toward the door, careful not to step into the rectangle of light that might give her away to the viscountess inside. 

“I’m going to incinerate her,” Daralin murmured. “Then, I’m going to obliterate her colors and every mark she made on this place. Then, I’m going to wipe everyone’s memories.” 

“Easy,” Enid answered readily. “Let me know when you want me to open the door.” 

“Alright.” The god took a shaky breath. This was going to take a lot out of him. At least he didn’t have to watch as Viscountess Kradia crumbled away into ash or collapsed into a puddle of ruined flesh and fine cloth, like all the others before her. “Three, two, one.” 

Enid shoved over the door as Daralin’s hand shot out. The viscountess barely had time to blink before a shaft of blue lightning erupted from the god’s palm and into her chest. It coursed through her skin, weaving with her mortal, breakable bones, absorbing into her thin blood. In one breath, the viscountess was humming at her desk, thinking about the havoc she was going to wreak on poor, dear Terrick in the morning. In the next, she was a stain of gray powder on the floor. 

Daralin had killed someone, again. This death, he knew, was for justice. It was for freedom, for liberation, for everything he used to live against, this was different. He wondered if Merillius had felt like this every time he had vanquished some dragon or beast terrorizing the mortals on Earth. Instant regret, shame, guilt that he would be painted as some triumphant hero for dealing nothing but death. A just death. A fair death. A death. I have killed. 

“Daralin?” Enid’s voice, far away and echoey, as if she was calling his name through a long, metal tube. 

“Right,” he said hoarsely. He extended his hand again and made a fist. Let this land be clean of fire and fury. He felt the paint from the signs washing away, the boards over storefronts falling free, the stones in the roads unknitting into a state of laxness, like Lidall was taking a deep breath after years of suffocation. The memory spell was easy for him too, as familiar now as slinging his bag over his shoulder or the earth under his boots. 

Daralin turned to leave, tired after two nights without good rest. The night was his time to gain energy and straighten, like a flower during midday. He was looking forward to getting far away from Lidall. Daralin felt Enid stiffen beside him with a small squeak, so faint that it could have been the door creaking behind them. “What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“Daralin?” Enid got out. “What did you do to Viscountess Kradia?”  

The god spun around to see what she meant. When he saw, Daralin felt like he might go unconscious with dread. Two gods in two nights, was his first thought. Not a god, was his second. Definitely not a god. 

In a world where gods and men had walked side by side, there had to be monsters. The few that there were were never born, only developed from the rotting carcasses of foul mortals who had gravely disturbed the balance of the world, and they could only be killed by having their skin stripped from their flesh. From the looks of her, the viscountess was still a young monster. Her evilness hadn’t quite eaten her up, her eyes still shimmered with some spark of mortality, and her only scars seemed to be inside of her. 

“I see how things are,” The viscountess said sweetly, clenching a still-solidifying fist. “I had no idea that my dear Terrick would harbor a god and his accomplice, though. He really surprises me. But I suppose that’s a lovely thing about being mortal. Life is always full of surprises.” 

She launched herself at Daralin, who instinctively shoved Enid behind him and raised his hands. Their palms met, two impossibly powerful beings connected by a simple sheet of fragile skin, and the shock from the viscountess’s first blow sent Daralin skidding back into Enid. 

“I thought gods were supposed to be stronger than this,” Viscountess Kradia sneered. “Especially Daralin Tourney, lord of the night.” 

Daralin picked himself up. “The cat’s out of the bag, then.” 

“There was no bag to be had,” the viscountess replied. “After a blast like that, there’s no one else who it could be. You sent me light years farther than hell with that one. Too bad it didn’t work.” 

“Enid, grab my bag,” Daralin ordered. 

“I’m not running away again!” Enid said. “I’m not leaving you to die. She’s going to be much harder to beat than Fedon.” 

“Fedon was a god,” Daralin responded, deflecting another of the viscountess’s blows. “She’s a mere monster, and a foolish one at that. And I never said to go away. I said grab my bag.” 

“We’ll see just how foolish I am,” the viscountess snarled, snatching something from a panel that made up the underside of her desk. 

=-=-=-=-=

Of course the scary monster lady had to have a javelin. Fedon was a messy killer who didn’t mind a spatter of blood here and there as long as his job was brusque and finished. Viscountess Kradia, on the other hand, liked to carve her kill into perfection before she took the first bite. Enid wasn’t sure which she preferred. 

She watched as Daralin barely had time to draw his broadsword and parry before the viscountess attacked. What are you doing? Get his bag! came the voice inside her head. Enid ran and grabbed Daralin’s bag from where it lay in the hallway, discarded before their assassination attempt. She dug through it, trying to find what Daralin could have wanted. 

A small rapier with a thin, golden blade slipped into her hand. Not for him, she knew. For me. Just a few hours before, Daralin had carefully taught her that broadswords were for swiping and rapiers were for thrusting. If she wanted to do real damage, she’d have to get in closer to the target. Enid ran back into the room and began to make her way toward the viscountess. 

Daralin was clearing a path for her, she realized. He was taking the brunt of most of the viscountess’s attacks, blocking and parrying like a madman, no doubt keeping his full power at bay so Enid could get in close to stab the monster. She wouldn’t have to skin her. That, she knew Daralin would do for her. Enid just had to get her down, weak enough to avoid retaliation, so Daralin could finish the job. 

“Is that all you have, moon god?” the viscountess called over the clashing of iron against steel. 

“I believe in fair fights,” was Daralin’s short reply. 

“Would Merillius agree?” 

“What’s dead is dead,” the god said, staving off another swipe. “Besides, there’s still a sun god out there.” 

“Goddess,” the viscountess countered. “She’s a goddess.” 

“How do you know that?” Daralin stopped and ducked as the viscountess struck out with a slash right where his head would have been. Enid had managed to make her way directly behind the viscountess, and pulled back her sword arm to dig the point of her rapier into the monster’s back. She closed her eyes and plunged the blade into the viscountess. Enid would never forget the first sensation of flesh giving away to metal. 

“Haven’t you heard the story of the girl from Craetron?” the viscountess sputtered out before she dropped to her knees in front of the god, golden rapier embedded in her spine. With each breath she took, blood so red it looked black fountained from her wounds. 

The viscountess struggled to turn her head back to look at Enid. “Look what you’ve done, girl,” she said, grinning with bloody teeth. “Now your Daralin won’t ever know about this lovely little story I have.” 

“Finish her off, Enid,” Daralin said impatiently. “We have to bring her back somehow. Kill her and then she’ll come back.” 

“I’ve never killed anyone before,” Enid said reluctantly. 

“Kill her!” Seeing the look on Enid’s face, Daralin softened a little. “I'll do it myself, then.” 

He stalked over to the bleeding viscountess and sliced open the hole that Enid had already made. The monster gave a final heave of air and blood and went limp. 

“Is it that easy for you now?” Enid asked, watching as blood began to collect in a puddle on the floor. “You seemed to have a problem killing her at first.” 

“This isn’t killing her permanently,” Daralin said. “It’s to gain information. Useful information, at that.” 

“She said something about a girl from Craetron,” Enid argued. “Let’s just skin her and take a short detour.” 

“Gods are constantly on the move.” Daralin ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it down, and settled into a defensive stance, ready for the viscountess’s attack. “Chances are, the goddess has left Craetron and is somewhere else in the world.” 

“Why do we even need to find her?” Enid asked indignantly. “Let’s restore Karanis, lift my curse, and then go home. Find the goddess on your own time. We don’t need her.” 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Daralin said, shaking his head. “I need to restore balance.” 

“This isn’t about balance,” Enid said. “This is about you looking this new goddess lady in the eyes and realizing all the grief you’ve caused the world. This is about you accepting that stuff’s happened and that you’re healing.” 

“Well, maybe--” 

“But I know you, Daralin Tourney,” Enid interrupted, beginning to raise her voice. “I know the second we find the sun goddess, you’re going to run away. You’re going to pull the ‘brooding depressed night god stuck in the past’ card and hide in your cloak, because you can’t let your sins go. So let’s save us the trouble and forget about her.” 

“I can’t always be there to protect you,” Daralin tried to reason. “Think about how much more safe we’d be if we had another god on our side. The sun goddess, future queen of the world, especially.” 

“I trust you,” Enid said flatly. “I trust you to protect me. You are the most vulnerable to yourself, anyway.” 

Daralin wiggled the tip of his broadsword around in the viscountess’s wounds. “I’ll skin her,” he said quietly. “Let’s be on our way.” 

Enid left the room and Daralin was left with Viscountess Kradia’s corpse. He began to work a shorter knife through her forearm, pulling apart pale skin from pink flesh. He’d done this many times over the years, and the tugging resistance of monster remains against his cutter didn’t repulse him anymore. Of all the children, why did I have to be paired with the one who’s always right?  

Haven’t you heard the story of the girl from Craetron?  You’re going to pull the ‘brooding depressed night god stuck in the past’ card and hide in your cloak, because you can’t let your sins go. You are the most vulnerable to yourself. 

Daralin adjusted the half-peeled corpse so the viscountess’s head rested in his lap. Her orange hair spilled over his legs and he did his best to avoid her glassy, lifeless eyes as he skinned her neck. Daralin could feel his powers ebbing as the sun began to peek over the horizon. The memory and cleansing spells had taken a lot out of him, severely depleting his shallow energy reserves after the fight with Fedon the night before. He damn near ripped off the viscountess’s face, tearing off more flesh than necessary with the skin in his hurry and unfocus. When he finished, he dragged the body outside onto the balcony and threw it over, leaving it to whatever hungry vultures and carrion crows roamed the rooftops. The sky was pretty, Daralin thought idly. The speckles of stars were beginning to fade away, overcome with the burnished gold of the sunrise. It didn’t matter, he knew. None of it did. He would find the library stronghold, find Mount Karanis, restore her, and then he and Enid would go back to their separate lives. That was what was meant to be, ordained by the universe when Earth was simply an idea beheld in the minds of higher powers, a grand painting in the sketching stages. 

Enid would die like all mortals did, and Daralin would continue on for all eternity, alone again, this time with a crown on his head rather than a walking stick in hand. He wondered which was the worse fate, and then he wondered which fate was the one he deserved. 

=-=-=-=-=

The days went by like marbles falling from a little boy’s pouch, rolling further and further away into the reaches of the dirt. They walked through village after village, down road after road, careful to leave no touch on the land in their wake. 

The spark of adventure had long since burned out, and Enid was sick of trees and dust and sleeping on the ground. They had been extra wary since the incident in Lidall, and Daralin refused to stay longer than a few hours in each town, just enough time to pick up some supplies and to sit down to catch their breath. 

Most of the time, they kept to themselves. Daralin, as always, was thinking of Merillius and the woes of being a god, Enid supposed. Enid wondered a lot about what Daralin could be thinking, but mostly her thoughts drifted homeward. Karra didn’t know she had a little sister, Enid realized one day. Mother and Father didn’t know they had a second daughter. Florence didn’t know he had a best friend. 

Sometimes, Enid worried about whether Florence had replaced her to be best friends with someone else. The baker’s third son, perhaps. Old Man Drial’s great-nephew. Maybe Shirelle from school. Enid hoped to the gods that he wasn’t best friends with Shirelle. She would never be able to look at him the same again. But then Enid realized that these were childish cares, worries that were all transient in the grand scheme of things. When she came back home to Gophriel, she would be rooted in all the townspeople’s memories, like she had never left in the first place. That was what Daralin had promised, and the gods could be damned if she didn’t make sure he kept his word. Thinking about it, the gods would be damned. Especially Daralin. 

Daralin’s map said two and a half week’s worth of traveling was left in their journey, and Enid was pleased to see that they had come nearly halfway to the library. 

“Can gods pray?” she asked Daralin one morning. 

“We could, I suppose,” Daralin replied. “But we never need to.” 

“Did you have a crown?” Enid couldn’t picture Daralin as a king, someone who she always thought would look cold and regal. 

The god nodded. “It was probably destroyed during the collapse,” he said. “I’m not mad about that. It was heavy and hurt my neck.” 

“What are the other gods like?” 

Daralin laughed a little. “Gods are awful to be around. Except me, of course. I’m the one charming exception.”

“Surely there have to be other nice gods. You’re telling me that the goddess of peace isn’t a nice person?” 

“Frellyse is extremely annoying,” Daralin said. “She can’t take a joke and doesn’t understand that conflict is necessary for resolution. I can’t be peaceful all the time, after all.” 

“How tall is Karanis?” 

“What’s with all the questions?” Daralin stopped to step into the woods for a second as he did everyday to look for another walking stick. 

“I’m just curious,” Enid said. 

“Children are never just curious,” Daralin scoffed. 

The conversation ended there, and they respectively went back to their separate thoughts. Enid tried to start talking again a few times over the next two days and was mostly met with a short grunt of agreement or puzzlement. She knew that the god was probably preoccupied with other things. He was thinking about the sun goddess, of the sun god, of what he had gotten himself and Enid into. And he was most definitely thinking of his home, as he always was.
They reached the desert a day later than Daralin had planned. Enid had seen the Cinaen Desert on the maps at school, a bare expanse painted a pale yellow on the paper. The map had left out the fact that the sand in the Cinaen Desert was not yellow, it was more of a whitish-gray. 

As soon as they stepped into the dunes, Enid could tell that Daralin hated the desert. She was fairly sure that he could control the sands as he did the dirt, but the beating sun and the dry winds would be harsh against his skin and morale. They would have to travel by night. 

Enid couldn’t get used to sleeping during the day. The persistent sunshine seemed to poke through her eyelids and remind her of its presence, and the sand seemed to get into everything from her boots to her eyelashes. They pitched tents when they saw that dawn was approaching, and Daralin would shove his hand deep into the sand to erupt an outcropping shaft of stone to give them a little cover. 

Daralin could see fine at night, if not better now that the blazing sun had set, but Enid stumbled around in the darkness, grabbing for anything to steady herself and to give her a sense of direction. Once, Enid had wandered a few hundred yards into the exposed wilderness without Daralin noticing. After she almost walked into a sinkhole, Daralin thought that it would be best if he tied them together, so a loop of rope went around her waist connected to a loop of rope around his. 

They couldn’t eat their normal food, either. Most plants refused to grow in the shifting sands, and Daralin was forced to remove the spines of prickly pear cacti for every meal. Eventually, the god gave up and broke into their stash of various preserved goods, collected in the days before. Enid was at first excited at the prospect of eating something more substantial than foliage, but was quickly disappointed when she saw that Daralin had used their money to buy a boatload of canned vegetables. Enid thought that she preferred the cacti. When she informed Daralin of this, all she got was a sour look and a, “Don’t eat it, then.” Eventually, Enid’s hunger won out and she half-heartedly chewed on a stick or two of wet celery. 

Being the god of nighttime, one would assume that Daralin had control over sleep. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t. And that bastard, Aeyar, god of dreams, had always had it out for him, always talking about how the god of sleep should also have dominion over the night. Daralin argued that the night and sleep were two completely different realms. Weren’t there many a night when one went sleepless? Daralin knew the answer to that, for sure. 

When he did sleep, finally succumbing to the overwhelming, drowsy heat of the desert sun, Daralin’s dreams were filled with images of long blades made of chrome and golden gods seated at elaborate harps, and encircling it all, a familiar black crown made of twisting iron and glittering diamonds. His crown, because he was meant to be the villain. When he returned to Karanis, would he go back to that same fate? Would he be tied again to that cutthroat crown, icy glare carved into his face as hatred and cruelty ran freely through his blood? 

Daralin decided that he didn’t like labels. And if he was going back home, he wanted to at least return as a hero.

6 - When The Earth Betrays Me, Let Me Fall 

Enid didn’t think the Cinaen Desert was that big. It only took up a small corner portion of Daralin’s map, and Daralin had promised a mere two and a half days in it if they kept a brisk pace. What he didn’t take into account was that sand was infinitely harder to walk on than dirt. It took them nearly a week to get through the desert. Enid thought that she would never complain about eating Daralin’s plants again. 

“The library is still about two weeks away,” Daralin announced as they crossed back into the timberland. “It looks like it’s somewhere by the Azmorian Ocean.” 

Enid had never seen the ocean. Gophriel was leagues away from the nearest international port, and her family had never been one for traveling anyway. She asked Daralin what it was like. 

“It’s like a large pond,” Daralin answered. “Except imagine you’re as big as a speck of dust, and the pond seems to be stretching on forever.” 

Enid had expected it to be placid and yellow-gray, like the small, flat puddles and quagmires of home or perhaps with a gentle, hypnotic tumbling like the rivers of the countryside. The ocean was something else altogether. It was warped resplendence, a boundless expanse of churning green tide that faded into a tempestuous dark blue in the distance, falling over itself a million times as it stretched farther than the swiftest fish could fathom. The waves lapped furiously at the beach, each lined with milky seafoam like the lace edging a duchess’s skirt. It was wild, a terrifying type of raging freedom that could only be used to describe the savage, tumultuous unknown. Enid could see why this bottomless, untamed wreck of a place was fully and ultimately Daralin’s domain. It fit him perfectly. 

A fresh storm was beginning to gather in the horizon, a mass of flickering silver clouds, like the ocean was welcoming Daralin home. 

“Does it ever settle down?” Enid asked. 

“Never,” Daralin said proudly. “It’s always being pushed and pulled.” 

“By what?” 

“Mortals think it’s the moon, and they’re not exactly wrong. If I’m having a good day, then the ocean is calm. If I’m not, then it won’t be a good day for whatever villages are around here.” 

Enid eyed the rough, turbulent waves dousing the rocky shoreline. “What are you feeling right now, then?”

“I’m very excited,” Daralin replied. “We’re so close to the library, I can feel it. It’s like I have an ancient library sensor and my radar is going crazy.” 

The god pulled out his map to look at it again. “It’s about seven miles that way,” he said happily, pointing north. 

Enid had expected the door of the library to be an intricately carved doorway of stone and glass, guarded by sentinels in gold mail and noble colors. She didn’t expect it to be in a glorified heap of driftwood and rusted chain. The guard was a yawning teenager in a loose fitting tunic and trousers, who looked up from his dozing as they approached. His eyes widened when he saw Daralin, and nearly bulged out of their sockets when he saw Enid next to him. That was rude. Enid didn’t think she looked that out of the ordinary. 

“I was right!” he crowed, and Enid thought that she didn’t like him very much already. 

“Good to see you too, Yulev,” Daralin said dryly. 

“Daralin!” The kid, Yulev, ran forward and wrapped his arms around the god, who to his credit, didn’t stiffen and frown like he did when Enid tried to hug him once. 

“This is Enid,” Daralin said, motioning at the scowling girl. “Enid, this is Yulev, god of foresight.” 

“This kid is a god?” she asked incredulously, ignoring the friendly hand that Yulev held out for a shake. 

“I’m not a kid,” Yulev exclaimed, faking offense. “I’m millenia older than you are, little girl.” 

“We’re here for the library,” Daralin said. “Can you take us inside?” 

Yulev’s giddy expression turned into a slight frown. “I can’t,” he admitted. “The head scholar probably wouldn’t want you perusing through her books without her permission.” 

“And who exactly is this head scholar?” Daralin asked haughtily. 

“Come on.” Yulev turned toward the pile of wooden mess and beckoned Enid and Daralin to follow them. “You'll see.” 

The pile of splintered wood turned out to be a shipwreck, which the scholars used as a bottle cap for their massive underground stronghold. 

“This is the third-largest out of our libraries,” Yulev explained. “There are nine in total scattered around Welven, and more in Glenmonte.” 

“Our libraries?” Daralin smirked and punched Yulev gently in the shoulder. “When did you join up with this group of ragtag, dusty old men?” 

“A lot of gods did,” Yulev replied. “After, you know…” 

“After I killed my fellow-king brother and destroyed our home,” Daralin finished coolly. 

“Yes. That. Actually, most people here hate you now because of that. That’s why I have to get you checked with the head.” 

“Lovely.” 

“And they’ll also attack you on sight.” 

“Lovely.” 

“What’s the girl doing with you?” Yulev glanced at Enid. “I never thought you were the type to take hostages, but--” 

“She’s traveling with me,” Daralin said shortly. “We made a deal and this was part of it.” 

Enid started to protest, to tell the stupid foresight god that she happened to be Daralin’s best and only friend, but Daralin cut her off. 

“It’s a temporary thing,” he said, trying to ignore Enid’s hurt glare. 

The library wasn’t the most impressive thing Enid had seen on their journey, but it was certainly up there. The underground compound seemed to be a long cylinder sectioned off into eight levels, one on top of the other. At each interval, there was a wide, circular, glass platform that curved its way around the edges of the room, with a hole cut in the center of it to make way for a long, spiraling staircase. The walls were just stacked shelves of books and papers, twisting further and further down so Enid became dizzy trying to see the bottom. There was no way that mortals could have hewn this structure out on their own. Their patroness, engraved in the stone ceiling, a smiling picture of Tymarr, the goddess of knowledge, told Enid who had helped them. 

“Lady Tymarr normally resides at the Derebyl library,” Yulev said, noticing Daralin and Enid craning to look at the roof. “That’s the biggest compound, closest to the capital.” 

“That’s fine with me,” Daralin commented. “Tymarr was always a pain in the ass.”  

Yulev looked apprehensively at the walls, as if expecting them to 

suddenly burst into flame. “It’s probably best not to insult her here,” he whispered to the moon god. “We’re in her territory, after all.”
“Yulev? Who’s this?”

“Prain!” The foresight god whirled around with a grin plastered on his face. “My best friend!” 

He nervously laughed, smiling wildly at the girl behind them. Prain was undoubtedly mortal, Enid realized. She still had the fresh look of youth about her, different from the quiet air of age that hung around Yulev’s and Daralin’s shoulders. 

“I'm Prain,” the girl said. “I’m a scholar here.” She shrugged off Yulev’s attempt at an embrace with a small smile. 

“Prain and I are best friends,” Yulev said loudly, as if his noise could cover up the tension in the room. 

“That’s nice,” Daralin said. “My name is Orvin and this is my little sister Fornia.” 

“They have a few questions for the head,” Yulev added. “That’s why they’re here.” He took Daralin and Enid’s arms and began to steer them away from Prain. 

“Go study!” Yulev called over his shoulder. “You have your level exams soon! What are you doing here? Move, scholar!” 

“Let’s hurry,” he said quietly. “If Prain’s seen us, it won’t be long until others will too.” 

The head scholar’s office was behind a small set of double doors. Yulev shoved them open and hurriedly herded Enid and Daralin inside. “The head is normally very busy,” he said. “Managing a secret library is a very pressing job, not to mention overseeing the education of the scholars.” 

“You have mortals and gods here,” Daralin said. “Together.” 

“No one minds it,” Yulev replied. “In the end, we’re all trying to learn and stay safe. Keep the peace.” 

“Is the head mortal?” Enid asked, breaking her silence for the first time since Daralin had interrupted her. 

“She’s half-mortal,” Yulev said. “But then Lady Tymarr made her immortal and gave her power so she could upkeep and defend the library if necessary.” 

“I know how that feels,” Enid muttered. “Except I didn’t get cool powers or a pretty library.” 

“Herelia!” Yulev said, knocking on another set of doors. “I have visitors for you, looking to share in our wealth of knowledge.” 

“Come in, Yulev.” The head’s, Herelia’s voice came through the doors, sounding a little amused but tired. 

Enid heard Daralin’s breath quicken when he saw the head scholar seated at her desk. Enid could see why. She looked like the less happy version of the painting of Merillius that hung in the Gophriel artist’s shop. Her hair was orangish-yellow, like the faint light of dying coals, and her eyes were a strange purplish-blue like the center of the sun. 

“You’re not a goddess?” Enid asked without thinking. 

Herelia laughed, a grating sound. “Not a goddess,” she said. “Just blessed by one.” 

“You look familiar,” Daralin got out, still in shock. “Like a certain sun god from a long time ago.” 

“Merillius was my father,” Herelia answered. “It’s lovely to meet you, Daralin. I always wondered about my murderer uncle when I was young.” 

“Merillius had a child?” the moon god asked. 

Enid wondered the same thing. Yulev flinched and quickly moved to stand next to Daralin. “I figured you’d want to see him before he went looking through the library,” he said nervously. 

“Yes,” Herelia said. “And you’re Enid,” she added, looking at Enid. “The little Gophriel girl.” 

“Excellent work, Yulev,” the head scholar added. “Your work deciphering your visions has improved. Please take Enid back into the main chamber and show her around. I expect they’ll be staying for a little while. I need to have a few words with Daralin in private.” 

“If you think I’m going anywhere, you’re wrong,” Enid said, crossing her arms with a glare at Herelia and Yulev. “I’m staying right here. What you say to him, you can say to me too.” 

“You will be of no use to Daralin here,” Herelia said calmly. “It’s better for you to go with Yulev.” 

“I don’t know who you think you are--” 

“It’s not who I think I am,” Herelia interjected. “It’s who I know I am. And it’s who I know you are. Please, leave us.” 

She nodded to Yulev, who promptly seized Enid’s arm and dragged her out of the room. As the doors shut behind them, Herelia turned to Daralin, who was still somewhat baffled. 

“What can I do for you?” she asked, gesturing at Daralin to take a seat in the chair across from her desk. 

“You already know,” was Daralin’s short reply. 

“You’re right,” Herelia said. “I do. What will you do about it?” 

“I need access to whatever information you have on the ruins of Mount Karanis,” the god said. “Please…?” 

“Why should I help you with anything?” Herelia asked. “You killed my father, killed my mother, destroyed my home, and then ran away.” 

“I didn’t destroy Karanis,” Daralin tried. “It just…toppled over when Merillius died. It wasn’t directly my fault. And what’s this about me killing your mother?” 

“Tell me what you think of this,” Herelia said coldly. “If you hadn’t killed Merillius, you wouldn’t have caused my mother such grief to take her own life. If you hadn’t killed Merillius, Mount Karanis would still be standing. If you hadn’t killed Merillius, you two would be back home in the comfort of your palace, ruling the universe together.” 

“There was never a together,” Daralin said flatly. “He chose it so that it was him or me, and he picked himself.” 

“Would you have preferred it if he had chosen you?” Herelia folded her hands on her desk, tilting her head to the side in the way Merillius had so many times when he used to look over at Daralin from the other end of the dining table. “I know that you’re scared, Daralin. You’re scared of the crown because you know what it entails. You know we all live in the wretched circle the universe has laid out for us, and that you will never escape it.” 

“Who gets to determine that?” Daralin asked, tucking a loose strand of black hair behind his ear. 

“Not you, of course,” Herelia returned. “Normally, I would have my scholars and my soldiers kill you. You’re powerful, of course, but who are you against over a thousand highly-trained men?” 

“A threat,” Daralin said wryly. 

“But I believe in justice,” the head scholar continued. “We’ll have a trial so you have a fair shot in defending yourself. Of course, we’ll have to detain you until then.” 

“What about Enid?” he asked, his mouth dry. 

“She hasn’t done anything wrong. She is a child after all, and the Azmorian library compound doesn’t believe in mistreating children. Enid will be permitted to roam the library as long as she has someone at her side.” 

“What are you going to tell her? That you’re convicting her best friend, detaining him and putting him on trial without his consent?” 

“Not exactly,” Herelia said. “We’ll have your consent.” 

“You’re absolutely crazy if you think I’m going to agree to that,” Daralin said sharply. His hands curled into fists in his lap. 

“I may be crazy,” the head scholar said smoothly. “But you have no other options. What are you going to do if I don’t allow you access to the files on the whereabouts of Mount Karanis? What are you going to do if I kill you and your little friend?” 

“Is that a threat I hear, dear niece?” 

“It’s not a threat,” Herelia responded. “It’s reality.” 

Daralin sat back in his chair and nodded approvingly. “You’re fairly level-headed, Herelia. You didn’t get that from my brother, certainly.” 

“You are correct,” she said. “I got that from you.” 

The god let slip a surprised laugh. It sounded like wind rattling through the exposed ribs of a dead animal on the side of the road. “You also have a talent for perplexing even the most intelligent minds,” he remarked. “I agree to your little trial on your word that it is as fair as possible and that Enid is allowed to attend.” 

“I give you my word,” Herelia said. “Although I am not the type of person to keep it.” 

“I’m sure that you already know very well that I am not that type of person, either.” 

=-=-=-=-=

The cell they gave him was less than generous. It was a square room with metal walls and a cold, metal floor, and the only way in and out was through a thick, metal door that was activated by fingerprint. Daralin had no idea how the scholars had manufactured such advanced technology. Actually, he did. It was because of their oversized, mutant brains provided by their patroness and her head scholar. His bag had been confiscated as well as all of his weapons. He couldn’t use his powers or else he’d be breaking his end of the deal, and Enid or he could be harmed. 

Daralin set about gathering all the blankets scattered around on the floor and piling them into a soft, cushy heap which he propped against one of the corners. He curled up in it like a house cat and sighed. He was going to have to face his wrongdoings somehow, and this was one way. It wasn’t like Daralin had any better ideas. 

Daralin knew he was screwed. How was he supposed to prove his innocence, that he’d really changed? Herelia didn’t seem to buy it, Yulev was just nice to him because he was nice to everyone, and even Daralin himself wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He should be furiously pacing the room, racking his brain to think of any possible way out of this mess. Daralin didn’t have the energy to pace. He barely had the energy to stand up. All he could do was shut his eyes tightly and wait for sleep to overtake him. 

“I want to tell you something.” 

Merillius had his gaze fixed on something behind Daralin’s head, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look in his brother’s eyes. 

Daralin placed the chalice of wine he was holding on the dining table and smiled without any warmth. “Spit it out, then,” he said. 

“I--I’m in love.” 

“We all are,” Daralin replied. “With our crowns, with our land, with our coffers, and for you, with yourself.” 

“This is not a matter that requires your attitude,” Merillius said icily. Daralin thought it was quite ironic that the fire god could sound so cold. “I’m in love, and she’s a mortal.” 

Daralin’s green eyes widened. “A mortal?” 

“Yes. A mortal. Her name is Carenna and she’s pregnant with a girl.” 

“She’s what now?” 

“You heard me,” Merillius said. “Pregnant. With our child. She and the baby girl will stay here in Karanis by my side.” 

“Will the baby be…like us?” Daralin couldn’t comprehend what his brother was saying. Love? Mortal? Pregnant? Child? 

“No,” Merillius answered. “But once she is born, Carenna has agreed to let me make them immortal so we can be together forever. We’ll have a wedding, of course. All the fun ceremonial business to make it official.” 

“What are you telling me this for?” Daralin asked. “My blessing?” 

“No one could care less about your blessing,” Merillius scoffed. “I simply thought it’d be best if you were notified of their arrival.” 

“Yes, you always know best, don’t you?” the moon god deadpanned. “Shiny King Merillius, finally content with his beautiful Queen and daughter.” 

“You could have this life too,” Merillius said. “If you truly wanted it.”

“Of course,” Daralin replied. “But my dear king brother would never allow it, as he does control everything, including my love life.” 

“What would you know about love?” his brother asked. There was no warmth in those bruise-colored eyes; there never had been. 

Daralin was, for once, silent. 

He woke up to find a bright light shining in his face, like someone had decided to start a circus and their first main act was a god just trying to catch a few hours of rest. 

“Look, he’s waking up,” cooed a voice. It was shrill, like the sound of baby robins calling out to their mother, and Daralin found that it grated on him. He did not like this person. 

Daralin sat up and stared at the group of people surrounding him. They had him cornered in his pile of blankets, and they were all staring at him. Three men, not men, boys. Mortal, of course, in their stupid ferocity. 

“I’m going to have to kindly ask you to leave,” Daralin said, smoothing down his hair and pinning it up. 

The one holding the torch grinned. “Are you really the night god that everyone’s been talking about?” 

“Everyone?” Daralin rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, letting his rusted joints fall back into place. 

“They say you’re on trial in a few hours for killing Merillius.” 

“In a few hours?!” Daralin desperately wondered how long he’d been asleep for. “What day is it?” 

“The 30th of May, I think.” 

One of the other boys nodded, confirming Daralin's worries. I’ve been asleep for two days straight. The trial’s in a few hours and I’ve done nothing to prepare. This is not going to end well for me. 

“Well, then.” Daralin stood up and the boys hurriedly backed away. “I should probably be getting ready to appear in court,” the god said. “If you’d be so helpful to leave, that would be lovely.”

The boy with the torch stammered an apology and they scurried away. Gods, Daralin thought. If only everyone would listen to me that way.  

Daralin was collected from his cell by two soldiers a few minutes late and was shoved roughly into what he assumed was the courtroom. There were two platforms in front of him. One was flat, rising a few inches up from the floor and the other, behind the first, was raised higher and had three seats. On either side of him were rows upon rows of empty seats. The first chair on the raised platform was occupied by Herelia, who looked somewhat miffed that he was late. In the middle chair sat Rytorn, the god of justice and balance, who looked bored. Perched upon the last chair was Enid, who was uncontrollably bouncing her leg up and down, a sure sign of anxiousness. 

“Daralin,” Herelia greeted. She pointed to the lower platform. “Stand there, please.” 

Daralin walked over to the platform and stepped up. He wasn’t sure he liked the setup very much. It was just the four of them in the room, and anything could happen. 

“Daralin Tourney,” the head scholar stated. “You are on trial for the murder of your brother and fellow king of the gods, Merillius.” 

“Yes,” Daralin said. “I am.” 

“Do you plead innocent or guilty?” 

“Guilty,” Daralin said. “Very, very guilty. Lord Rytorn,” he turned, addressing the justice god. “If I may, I did kill Merillius. However, I have changed since that period of my existence all that time ago. I have learned the consequences of my actions and how they affect the people around me.” 

“Have you, though?” Herelia folded her arms. 

“I think that’s what this trial is for,” Daralin said, the trace of a smile lingering on his face like the afterglow of a sunset. 

“Lord Rytorn,” Herelia said. “If you please.” 

It started off as a burning feeling. Deep in the pits of his torso, Daralin felt like acid was beginning to pool and boil. The acid slowly began to rise, engulfing folds of delicate tissue and organs and shriveling them. Daralin gritted his teeth. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, swallowing hard. 

“Today, we’re baring your soul,” Herelia declared. “You can’t lie or hide anymore, Daralin.” 

The burning reached his lungs and he began to cough violently as tremors shot through his body. Daralin collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest as his skin began to smolder. 

“What are you doing to him?” Enid cried. She tried to stand up, but she found that she was rooted to her chair. 

His skin began to crack, like he was a statue that someone had just sledgehammered, and in between the cracks ran a pulsing, scarlet light that looked like bleached blood. 

“You told me he wasn’t going to get hurt!” Enid shrieked. 

“This is for Daralin's own good,” Herelia said gently, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. 

“Does he look good to you?” Enid demanded. 

There was a blaze of fire and smoke, and Daralin's green eyes turned silver-white as they rolled back into his head for a moment and then righted themselves. He slumped to the floor, unconscious as Enid screamed curses and pleas at the head scholar. 

Daralin woke up in his bed. Not the pile of blankets he had slept in while traveling for so many years, but his bed. His bed, in his room, in his palace, on his mountain. Confused, he sat up and padded toward the door on the opposite side of the room. He gripped the smooth, ebony handle and pulled it open to find that it led into another room. Standing at the other end of the strange room was a tall, wooden harp, painted sunrise gold. The harp’s spindly strings glinted prettily in the light streaming in through the massive, ornate windows that lined the walls. Seated at the harp was his brother, who smiled at him. 

“Daralin,” Merillius said warmly. “Come sit down with me.” 

Dumbfounded, the moon god obeyed, taking a seat next to his brother. He felt out of place as he always did in Merillius’s part of the palace, like a slab of jet in a pile of golden goblets. 

“I forgive you, you know,” Merillius said into Daralin's ear. “For everything, and it won’t be long before everyone else does as well.” 

“I killed you,” Daralin murmured. 

“You did,” Merillius replied. “But I wasn’t exactly the most kind, compassionate person the stories make me out to be.” 

Daralin laughed softly. “What is this? Merillius, being humble? Is the world ending or something?” 

Merillius put an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “I’m here now,” he said quietly. “We will be alright.” 

Daralin leaned into Merillius’s hold and sighed. “This is good,” the moon god whispered. He smiled a little. This wasn’t so bad.

He shifted into a more comfortable position and suddenly felt a biting pain in the back of his neck. He turned slightly and felt the slice of a blade against his skin. It was Merillius, holding a knife to his neck, frowning, disapproving look etched into his face, just like Daralin remembered. “Did you really think I’d forgive you?” the sun god said coldly. “Are you really as foolish as I was?” 

Daralin stiffened. “I thought--” 

LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. A voice echoed through the reaches of Daralin's head like rolls of charged thunder. The scene changed and Daralin, broadsword in hand, was standing in front of Merillius in the same room, only there was no sunlight and shining harp but an empty bench drenched in shadow. The point of his sword was dripping red, and Merillius had a curved gash that cut his throat into two sections. LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE, DARALIN TOURNEY. LOOK AT YOUR BROTHER’S BLOOD WHICH YOU HAVE DRAWN. 

“I’ve changed!” Daralin protested, dropping his sword. “I really have! I haven’t killed like this since him!” 

The door opened behind him and Daralin whirled around to find the flickering figure of Enid. No, not really Enid, but a projection of her. 

“Daralin?” she whispered, voice quivering. 

“Enid, I--” 

“I can’t believe you’ve done this,” she said, walking over and crouching by Merillius’s body. “I could never kill Karra. How could you do this to him?” 

“Brothers are different from sisters,” Daralin said pleadingly. 

“You’re like my brother,” Enid said. “Or at least, you were. But I could never kill you like you killed him.” 

LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE, the voice roared. YOU HAVE TURNED HER AGAINST YOU. YOU DID THIS. YOU DID ALL THIS. TO HER, TO HIM, TO EVERYONE. 

His surroundings changed again and he was standing in a circle of crumbling stone and rock dust. The forest around him burned, and he could feel the earth underneath his boots creaking and groaning. YOU DID THIS, the voice said. ALL OF THIS. 

Daralin saw Yulev dashing into the burning trees as a flaming log crashed down behind him. YOU CAUSED THIS. YOU’RE A MONSTER. He saw the projection of Enid again for a second as a rockslide slammed into the ground, splintering the earth with cracks. “Enid!” Daralin shouted as another wave of the rockslide began to gather and gain momentum down the collapsing slopes. His hand shot out as he attempted to change the course of the rockslide so it wouldn’t plow into her, but the boulders continued to tumble down the side of the mountain. Right before they hit Enid, everything around Daralin dissolved into black smoke. 

The pain was back except a thousand times worse, crippling his thoughts until all he could see in his mind’s eye was a bright, glaring light and he wished that it was all over. There was blood running down his face, Daralin realized faintly. He raised a hand to feel his cheek, running his palm gently up and down until he realized that he couldn’t see himself. It wasn’t as if someone had blown out a lamp, but as if there had never been any light at all. He lightly felt his eyelids before it dawned on him. His eyelids were slack, and there was nothing under them. The blood on his face, the emptiness in his eye sockets. Oh. Daralin took a blind step forward and his boot prodded at something on the ground. He bent down and picked it up, kneading it in his hand. It was wet and viscous, like he was dipping his fingers in half-dried glue, and he realized it was one of his eyes. Hands shaking, Daralin dropped his eye.

WHAT HAVE YOU TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?

Daralin shook his head and covered his ears, but the voice echoed a thousand times in his head like the tolling of church bells. 

WHAT HAVE YOU TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?  the voice repeated.

“Stop it,” he whispered into the empty air. “Stop it.” 

WHAT HAVE YOU TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? 

He felt something like a hand close around his throat, pulling him upright. His head felt foggy now, like it was detached from reality by itself but his body was still conscious. 

WHAT HAVE YOU TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? 

Daralin could feel himself blacking out for the second (or third?) time in one day. He vaguely wondered if one could go unconscious while unconscious. He figured that he was going to find out. 

Then, the hand released him. Someone gently took his arm and draped it over a set of shoulders. Shoulders he’d just been leaning against a few minutes ago, even though it felt like centuries. Merillius? he thought to himself. No, not Merillius. 

Kirae, came a softer, more feminine voice, the opposite of the thunder pounding away at his skull. I am called Kirae now. And you, brother, can stand on your own. His support dissolved and Daralin was standing by himself. 

Know yourself, Kirae said. Know yourself, and know the truth. 

And as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone, and the voice returned with more force than ever. 

WHAT HAVE YOU TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?

Daralin pulled his sleeve over his hand and began to shakily rub at the blood on his face. “That wasn’t me.”

ARE YOU DENYING YOUR CHARGES? 

“No,” Daralin said, wincing as the voice split through his head. “Someone definitely killed Merillius. Someone named Daralin Tourney, moon god and bane of all good things.” 

AND ARE YOU NOT DARALIN TOURNEY? 

“I am,” he answered. He felt like crying, but he had no eyes to cry from. “But I am not the bane of all good things. Not anymore.” Daralin raised his head toward the direction that the voice was coming from. Straight up. “I have learned so many things that gods struggle to learn. I have seen through the eyes of the most presumptuous duke and the drunkest fisherman. I have learned empathy and kindness, and even begun to learn love.” Daralin tried and failed to tighten his hands into fists. He was so damn tired. Had it only been a few hours since he’d been woken up? “But even when I am a struggling shopkeeper or a lonely wanderer submerged in shadowland,” Daralin continued. “I am a weary, old god who just wants to go home. If you can’t bring yourself to grant me that, then who’s really the bad person here?” 

This is an awfully conducted trial, he thought to himself before succumbing to the infernal burning in his chest and the pounding in his head. He waited for the darkness to take him, to float his body out to sea. He waited for the light to turn him into charred ash, and wished that there might be a breeze that could gently pick him up and return him home. He waited for his twisted story to finally end, for a new moon god to take his place. He waited to see Merillius again. Daralin waited, and waited, and waited. 

=-=-=-=-=

He hoped that Enid, at least, would forgive him with time. 

7 - Clinging Onto Everything I Know, And Everything I Don’t

Catching herself at the very last second, Enid nearly fell forward as she was released from her seat. The courtroom had gone silent after Daralin had fallen unconscious save the occasional note of disapproval or surprise from Rytorn and of course, the tremendous racket Enid made, berating Herelia for her sick idea of justice as she struggled in her chair. She made for Daralin's crumpled form on the lower platform and felt his pulse. It was faint and quick, like the beating of hummingbird wings, but it was there. 

“You damn near killed him,” Enid exclaimed angrily, dropping Daralin's wrist and turning the god over so he was laying on his back. There was a little blood that he had coughed up and he was paler than marble, but other than that he was fine. 

“Children shouldn’t swear,” Herelia replied serenely. 

“Children shouldn’t swear,” Enid repeated, bristling. “Well let me tell you exactly what I think of that, you lying piece of sh--”

Enid stopped when she saw Daralin stir, draping an arm over his chest and furrowing his eyebrows. He jolted upright like someone had connected him to a wire and the other end of the wire had gotten struck by lightning, startling everyone in the room. 

“Can you hear me?” Enid demanded. “Daralin, can you--” 

“Yes,” the god said exhaustedly. “I can hear you fine.” He reached up, gently felt his eyelids and sighed with relief. “And thank the gods I can see you as well.” 

 “What happened?” Enid asked. “Are you hurt?” 

“Enid,” Herelia interrupted. “Please come back to sit in your seat so Lord Rytorn and I can ask Daralin a few questions.” 

“Go, Enid,” Daralin muttered. “I’ll be fine.” 

Reluctantly, Enid went back to her chair and sat down, shifting in her seat uneasily. Whatever was about to happen, she already hated it. 

“How do you feel, Daralin?” Herelia asked. 

“Tired,” Daralin said. “A little upset that you didn’t stick to your promise because that was definitely not a fair trial. Relieved that I still have eyes and that the pain’s over for now.” 

“Do you feel lightened?” 

“Not really,” he said. “I already knew I’d changed. It was only a matter of getting you to believe me.” 

“And do you think we believe you?” 

The question hung in the air like an anvil on a fraying string. Any second it would drop and crush whoever was underneath it. 

“Yes,” Daralin said evenly. “I do.” 

“Why do you think that?” Herelia inquired, tilting her head to the side. The action seemed to unnerve Daralin a little, Enid noticed. But he took a breath and swallowed. 

“Otherwise, you would’ve just killed me.”

Herelia laughed a little. “We don’t encourage murder here,” she said. 

“Well, you’d call it justice,” Daralin replied matter-of-factly. “You would say that you were in the right because you were putting a dangerous criminal down. And no one would mind.” 

The head scholar laughed again, a dryer sound this time. “You’re probably correct,” she admitted. “That is something I would do.” 

Daralin spread his hands. “So, do you believe me?” 

Herelia grinned. “Not at all.” 

Enid swiveled to look at Herelia. Daralin blinked, as if that wasn’t the answer he had been expecting. “What do you mean, you don’t believe him?” Enid asked, fury beginning to build up in her voice again. “You stared into his soul, the one place where he couldn’t lie, where all the answers were given to you on a silver platter, but somehow you messed things up? And you call yourself blessed by the goddess of knowledge?” 

“I’d watch your tone if I were you,” Herelia said. 

“Gods, I hope that you never become me,” Enid shot back. “I wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror in the mornings. I’d hate myself.” 

“You had no reason to repent,” Herelia told Daralin, ignoring Enid. “There was no reason for you to learn anything.” 

“Isn’t my own conscience enough? There are things far beyond your understanding of reason, Herelia.” 

“Immortals don’t have conscience,” the head scholar said. “That’s why we’re able to stay sane in our eternal lives. If we always had a little voice reminding us of all the things we’d done wrong, then we’d go crazy.” 

“What would you know about conscience?” Daralin asked coldly. “You don’t have any emotions other than self-righteousness and vengefulness.” 

“Emotions are intense and too fickle,” Herelia said. “They cannot be relied on to bring about facts.” 

“I’m truly sorry, Herelia,” Daralin commented. “That you’re so hellbent on making me pay for Merillius’s death that it’s clouding your mind. Let’s not talk about intense emotion.” 

“He was my father!” 

“And I apologized! Several times!” 

“No you didn’t,” Herelia said. “All you’ve done is insist that you’ve changed, that the cold-blooded god who killed Merillius isn’t around anymore. You never once fully acknowledged that you killed him, and you never said sorry.” 

“I’m sorry, alright?” Daralin answered, lowering his voice. “I really am. I just thought that I had made that clear already.” 

Herelia’s mouth was a tight, thin line. “You may look through the files we have on Karanis. After you find your information, however, you must leave and never return. Your possessions are in Enid’s room.” 

She stood up and left the room, Rytorn trailing behind her. Enid helped Daralin up and took his arm. 

“Can you walk?” she asked. 

Daralin shook her off and smiled. “It takes a lot to kill me,” he said. “You’d have to do much worse than a disturbing vision and a metal cell.” 

“What did you see?” They walked out of the courtroom and into the main space, now almost empty as the scholars were in their classes. 

“That’s a story for another time,” Daralin said. “Let’s get our things and then start looking through the books.” 

‘Looking through the books’ was easier said than done. Enid could barely read and there seemed to be millions of books in the place. Her eyes hurt from mindlessly staring at old readings with decaying, cracking covers, where the ink was so old that the writing was barely legible. After the third day in a row of squinting at faded words under bright lights, Enid decided that she’d leave the reading to Daralin and went around asking the other gods if they remembered anything about Karanis. 

“Karanis was on a mountain,” Yulev offered. 

“Where was the mountain?” she asked. 

“On the edge of a mountain range.” 

“Very helpful,” Enid said. “Where is said mountain range?” 

“I think the mortals call them the Eastern mountains,” Yulev said. “They’re the only mountains in Welven so it makes sense that Karanis would be there. It could be in Glenmonte, though.” 

“You think I know anything about that old dump?” Ilbera, goddess of the harvest, snapped when Enid asked her. “Do you know how old I am?” 

“There were trees,” the god of fame said. Enid didn’t bother with trying to catch his name. “Lots and lots of trees.” 

The god was about to say something else extremely helpful when Daralin grabbed Enid’s shoulder from behind. “I may have gotten a hold of something,” he hissed. “Come on.”

It was a single sheet of paper, inked letters on the front, one of tens of millions in the compound. It could’ve taken them years to find it, buried in the mounds of paper that lay carelessly shoved aside on the scholars’ desks or pressed in between the pages of some long-forgotten book. 

“It’s Prain’s,” Daralin said. “Yulev told her about us and she gave us this.” He dropped the slip of paper on the table they were sitting at. 

10 Arbor Street - Trenth, East sector. Ask for Kisa

“Trenth?” Enid asked.

“Eastern Welven,” Daralin said. “Right in the foothills of the mountain range. Coincidence? I think not.” 

“How does Prain even have this?” 

“She says that two of her sisters live in Trenth and there’s all kinds of stories about Karanis there. If anyone knows anything about where it is, it’s the people there.” 

“Why doesn’t Prain know anything if she’s heard the stories?” Enid asked skeptically. 

“She’s never been,” Daralin explained. “She just gets letters from them on occasion. They’re not close.” 

“How many sisters does she have?” 

“Five. She’s the fourth out of six. The oldest are the ones we’re after.” 

Enid frowned and it struck her that she was frowning a lot more these days. When she was home, she never frowned. “Don’t you think this is a bit of a wild goose chase?” she asked. “First here, now to Trenth for answers we’re not even sure exist. When are we going to know anything for sure?” 

“This is all we have right now,” Daralin said. “It’s not much at all, but we’re wasting time if we keep looking while we have a lead.” 

“Trenth is literally on the other side of Welven.” Enid crossed her arms and sighed. “The journey from Gophriel took about a month. It’s going to take triple that much time to get to Trenth.” 

“Three months,” Daralin said. “It'll be September. The weather will be lovely especially in the mountains.” 

“And what if they tell us that Karanis is deep in the mountains? Then we’ll have to climb and contend with winter.” 

“What are you trying to say?” Daralin rested an elbow on the table and propped his chin up on his hand. 

“This isn’t worth it.” 

“What isn’t worth it?” 

“Whatever that is,” Enid sputtered, waving her hands at Prain’s note. “We can’t afford to make that trek.” 

“Everything is worth this,” Daralin said, tapping his fingers on the paper. “This is our ticket home.” 

“That is a stranger’s address.” 

“This is our only shot at finding Mount Karanis,” Daralin said, exasperated. “We don’t exactly have options.” 

“This is your only shot at finding Mount Karanis,” Enid said. “This is all for you. All so you can get home.” 

Daralin raised an eyebrow. “What are you implying?” 

“I’m really only here to get my curse lifted,” Enid said. “That’s my purpose in this adventure. There’s nothing in this for me other than that, Daralin. And I can easily just pass it on to someone else.” 

She felt a twinge of regret at the look on the god’s face, the look of a foreigner lost in the streets of a city, but she was too far down the rabbit hole to stop now. “If this is how you want to do things, then so be it. Go to Trenth and try to sort out your scraps of information. But don’t expect me to go with you. Not again.” 

Daralin looked less like a foreigner now, more like a child. Not lost in a city, but abandoned in one as the buildings crumbled and imploded around him. Enid didn’t want to look at him anymore. She turned and began to walk out of the room. 

“Enid,” Daralin said. His voice was even and smooth, as it always was, somehow. She thought that the world could be ending and his voice would sound completely stolid, like a statue presiding over a mossy, overgrown garden, no matter what he truly felt. She wondered what the sea outside looked like at the moment.

“You’re being very childish right now,” Daralin said. 

“Gods, because that would seem so unreasonable.” Enid stopped but didn’t turn. 

“Gophriel is still under my memory spell. If you do end up finding your way back through the desert and the forest, it won’t be home anymore.”

“Don’t try to manipulate me,” Enid said sharply. “I can go where I please, do what I want now. You, on the other hand, still need a mortal to restore the mountain.” 

She continued walking, doing her best to maintain a face of placidity. 

“Enid Orreck,” Daralin said, that steel resolve so stupidly solid with millenia of practice. “If you walk out that door, don’t expect to see me ever again in our damned immortal lives.” 

Enid could imagine him standing there, emotionless face propped up on a casual elbow, an opal glittering in his hair in the half-lamplight, green eyes watching her with controlled challenge. Daralin, that sad little carrion crow from Merillius Day who came to save her every time she got into trouble, her best (and only) friend, her older brother. She was reminded of something that the mayor of Gophriel, who the locals lovingly referred to as “Halfwit Hilmir”, had said during one of his boring unity speeches.

We are family, for we have chosen each other above all else. 

Daralin was choosing Karanis, and Enid was choosing herself. So this is how the story plays out, she thought, quietly shutting the door behind her.

=-=-=-=-= 

She was going to have to go around the desert. There was no way Enid could make it through on her own, with no plant-sprouting abilities or magic bag like Daralin's. What Enid knew was that she wasn’t stupid, and could get home by herself, wherever home was. Daralin was right. Gophriel was bewitched, and nothing she could do would change things. No matter what, her own village had no idea who she was. Enid wondered if Herelia might let her stay at the compound. 

You may look through the files we have on Karanis. After you find your information, however, you must leave and never return. 

So she probably wouldn’t. Enid had a feeling that Herelia had no problem with driving her out with a 500-soldier battalion. She furrowed her eyebrows, carefully studying the map spread out before her and traced her finger lightly along the possible routes she could take. 

“It’d be best if you went north toward the capital city,” Yulev said from behind her. 

“I thought it might be better if I camp out in the wilderness somewhere for a while. Azmoria’s probably too busy, anyway.” 

“I had a vision of you in the city,” the god said solemnly. “I think it’s ultimately inevitable that you go there at some point. Besides, you’ve had an easy journey so far with all of Daralin's powers.” 

Enid noisily cleared her throat and gave Yulev a withering look. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot that I’m not supposed to mention him.” 

The sea was roaring. Enid had wanted to talk to Prain for a bit before she left, to thank her for her help and to say goodbye. She thought that it would be a good idea to go outside, so it’d be difficult for anyone to overhear them. They walked out onto a small, stone balcony that jutted out from the cliffs that encased part of the library and almost instantly regretted it. The twisting waves slapped madly against the cliffs, drenching them with seaspray with every blow. 

“What did you need to say?” Prain shouted over the wind. 

“I’m going to Azmoria!” Enid hollered back. “Yulev said that he had a vision of me there so I’ve decided that it’s probably for the best!” 

“What about Daralin?” 

“What?!” 

“I said, what about Daralin?” Prain shook her head, frustrated. “Can we go inside?!” 

“I’ve become extremely paranoid!” Enid replied. “So no! What’d you say, again?” 

“What about Daralin?!” 

“He’s going to Trenth after your sisters!” Enid explained. “No offense, but personally I thought that was a bit far fetched!” 

“So you’re just going to be immortal forever, then?” 

“There are plenty of dead people in Azmoria, I’m sure,” Enid said loudly as another gale of wind tore across their faces. “I’ll be fine!” 

Prain reached over and gave Enid a quick hug. “Good luck,” she said, close enough that Enid could hear her. 

The road to Azmoria seemed a lot more treacherous than before. Enid was suddenly painfully aware of her helplessness, how little supplies she had, and that Daralin wasn’t beside her to catch her as she spiraled into panic two days into her trek. She almost regretted walking away from him. Almost. 

Slowly, Enid started testing the limits of her immortality. Would a paper cut hurt as much as a deep laceration in her forearm? Would a twisted ankle hurt as much as an amputated one? She quickly found that they all hurt just as much and took just as long to heal, only she could never die from an injury. That was slightly infuriating. Enid had hoped that she could at least be invulnerable in her curse. 

She practiced reading to pass the time, sitting down on a rock or stump that bordered the road and opening a book that she had pinched from the library compound. Enid knew she was wasting time, that she could have been in Azmoria by now, but she didn’t mind. She had all eternity to waste away, after all. 

A week and a half into her journey, Enid hadn’t intended to stop next to the figure crouched next to the road. She almost mistook them for a strangely shaped boulder until she saw a lock of yellow hair slip out of the hood of their cloak. She could have kept walking, ignoring them like every other wanderer who crossed their path, but she paused for a second, watching, observing. 

“What are you looking at?” the figure snapped after a few seconds. 

“You,” Enid said absentmindedly. 

“That’s quite rude,” the figure said, slightly turning their face toward Enid so she could barely see that the figure was a young woman. 

“What are you doing?” Enid asked curiously. 

“If I knew,” the stranger said dryly. “Then I wouldn’t be here, sitting dejectedly on the side of the road, hmm?” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but then thought better of it. “Are you heading to Azmoria?” 

“I am,” Enid said. 

“There isn’t anything there for a little girl like you.” The stranger tilted her head to look Enid over like an orca sizing up a school of fish. “Where are your parents?” 

Enid knew better than to tell the stranger anything. “They’re a day or two behind me,” she said. “We’re moving up to the capitol because my father got a new job.” 

“A new job,” the woman repeated, nodding. “Well, then. You’d better get going than wait, I suppose.” 

“You’re right,” Enid agreed, hefting her pack and walking on. That was the last time she intended on interacting with the stranger. A simple, forgettable encounter with a traveler on the road. “Goodbye then.” 

The woman hummed a short note of farewell and tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear while readjusting her mantle. As Enid walked past, she thought she could catch a few features. Straight nose, placid resting face and a mouth that curved up slightly at the corners teasingly. Dark blue eyes that contrasted sharply with yellow hair the color of sunflower petals. She reminded Enid a bit of Daralin, that strange, sometimes unnerving tricksterness that caught so many people off guard. But then the stranger’s head was down again and Enid was several feet past, and she didn’t think to look back. If she had, then she might have noticed the twist of a small smile flicker across the stranger’s face, so quick that it may have been a trick of the light. She might have noticed, once she had gotten a safe distance away, that the stranger stood up abruptly and vanished into the green forest bordering the path. Enid could have noticed many things about the seemingly harmless traveler on the side of the road. 

But she didn’t, and she walked on. 

=-=-=-=-=

“Daralin! Where are you?”

Enid marched down the hallway, steps muffled by the blue carpet the color of the sky at noon. Her calls echoed in the high, vaulted ceiling and bounced off of the shining marble walls. This palace is unnecessarily large for a bunch of gods, she thought. 

Enid couldn’t deny that every frivolous inch of Mount Karanis was gorgeous. It was, of course, crafted by the very universe itself, so there was no mistake to be had, but Enid still managed to be amazed at everything she saw. When Yulev had first escorted her to the mountain for her first visit after the restoration, Enid thought she might go blind by the sheer amount of shiny things there were to look at. 

Cold, icy waterfalls fountained from the slopes, seeming to stretch eternally into the opalescent cloud cover below. The castle itself was perched by the summit, where the air was so thin that Enid couldn’t breathe without immortal help. The exterior of the entire building seemed to be either made of stone, marble or glass, and she felt like she was getting a minor headache just trying to comprehend everything. And the gardens. Enid didn’t even want to get started on the gardens. 

She stopped in front of the large, carved doors that led into the throne hall. Enid had already checked Daralin's room, the library and the observatory, so she figured there was nowhere else he’d go except here. She hadn’t been in the throne hall before, and she assumed that she wasn’t exactly allowed, but with all the excitement she’d caused as the first mortal on Mount Karanis, Enid figured that the demigods and various spirits that acted as guards of the palace would most likely make an exception. And if they didn’t, Enid could figure out a way around them. 

The two sentinels stationed outside the hall visibly sagged like reeds in the wind when they saw her coming. 

“Good afternoon, officers,” Enid greeted as she walked past, not waiting for them to open the doors for her. 

“Lord Daralin isn’t taking visitors right now,” one of them called half-heartedly at her retreating back. 

The first thing that she realized was the amount of light pouring into the room from all angles--through long, open windows in the walls, from glittering chandeliers sporting hundreds of candles in the ceiling; even the floor seemed to be glowing with energy. The second thing were the two thrones ahead of her. One was made of solid gold, cut and molded and carved so that from the backboard sprouted two elliptical birds’ wings. The throne next to it was jet black, polished to shiny perfection and inlaid with sparkling diamonds and peridots. The third thing that struck Enid was the absence of sentries in the hall. She didn’t make out the faint glint of sunshine off of polished armor or sharpened blades, and she couldn’t sense the presence of anyone else other than her and the moon god seated on the black throne at the other end of the room and the foresight god standing next to him. 

They looked up when they heard her approach. 

“Enid,” Daralin said, settling back into his seat. “What brings you here to grace us with your company?” 

“I’ve barely seen you since I got here,” she remarked accusingly. 

“I would say that I’m sorry,” he replied. “But it’s kind of difficult to catch a break when you’re king of the world and shouldering a job meant for two.” Daralin glanced meaningfully at Yulev, who nodded and left the room, shooting a friendly smile at Enid as he walked past. 

“That’s fair.” 

“How’s Florence?” Daralin asked, getting up from his throne. They left the room and used a side exit to access one of the palace’s many courtyards. 

“Florence is fine,” Enid said. “He’s been completely smitten with this new girl from Glenmonte and I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that. She’s nice and all but for some reason I just don’t like her very much.” 

Daralin raised an eyebrow. “Are you jealous?” 

Enid snorted. “Jealous? Of course not.” 

The god sighed. “And how’s Karra?” 

“Karra is doing surprisingly well,” Enid said. “She’s studying to become a nurse. Mother and Father are very pleased with her.” 

“That’s good.” Daralin folded his arms behind his back, something Enid found extremely strange and a position that the god only assumed when he was thinking about something that was worrying him. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked. 

“We’ve been trying to track down the sun goddess,” Daralin said. “You would think that we could summon her using magic or something or that I’d have some sort of spiritual link to her, but things are never that easy.”

“What about the girl from Craetron?”

“Gone,” Daralin said. “She moved on.” 

Enid smiled a little. “You’re all serious now,” she said offhandedly. “Don’t you miss the life you led in the mortal world before all this?” 

“Of course I do,” he responded. “But this is my destiny.” The god waved at the palace walls that towered around them, spires stretching toward the free, blue expanse above them. “This is the life I was meant to live.” 

Seeing Enid’s dubious look, he hastily added, “It’s not so bad. It’s not everything I used to dream about, but it’s better than it was and once I find the sun goddess, everything will be alright.” 

“You’ll be complete when you find her?” 

“I will.” Daralin unfolded his arms and let them hang loosely by his sides. “Everything will be in balance again, and you know how much the universe loves balance.” 

Enid paused in place for a moment, just to process everything. The neatly paved walk, the manicured lawns and shrubs, the bright bursts of tulips and lisianthus lining the paths. The calm although stressed moon god standing serenely next to her. Daralin. Her friend. 

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” she said suddenly, looking up at Daralin. 

“What?” 

“In real life,” she said. “I’m sleeping in the forest alone, and you’re off in the depths of Welven right now without me.” 

“Are you alright?” Daralin lightly touched the top of her head worryingly. “Maybe the breathing spell that was put on you when you arrived is causing some side effects.” 

“No,” Enid said, pulling away abruptly. “This isn’t real. None of this is real. Not even you.” 

She could feel herself swimming to the plane of reality, leaving the muddy depths of dreamland behind for a colder, harsher world that did not mollycoddle her like the one she wished she knew. 

“I’m sorry,” Enid said as she surfaced. 

“I’m sorry,” the world echoed back. 

Enid woke up to the sound of dead leaves crunching underneath the sole of someone’s boots and the spreading sound of a torch being lit. There was something odd in the pack under her head, she realized. She sat up slowly and looked around. Her gaze fell on a thin, tanned hand, extended halfway out of her bag, her golden rapier clutched tightly in its fingers. 

Enid looked up and saw the thin face of the stranger from the road, bruise blue eyes the color of the most dangerous flames, illuminated by the orange firelight flickering from her outstretched palm. 

8 - What I’d Sacrifice For A Moment Of Belonging 

Enid left the Azmorian library early in the morning, when the sea was drenched in the hazy, brass glow of the freshly awakened sun. Daralin was taking a short walk before he started his day when he noticed her, a small figure of mixed colors heading into the golden hour, shadowed by the giant traveling pack on her back. He had wanted to run after her, to catch up to her, grab her shoulder and ask her what the hell she was doing without him. 

But he didn’t. Daralin knew the seat carved for him by the universe wasn’t a stump or rock by a small campfire, but a throne made of jet in a palace of marble and glass, on top of a mountain he was set to restore. He knew his string in the tangles of fate. He knew his place. 

So he stopped and watched her instead  as she disappeared into the land, fading into the scenery as the sun steadily climbed higher and higher into the sky. Daralin could’ve been standing there for five minutes or five years, and he wouldn’t be sure which.  

Daralin felt like hibernating again, disappearing into the world for another thousand years. Perhaps this time, he’d rent a cottage by the sea. He could ignore destiny for a little while longer, discard Prain’s note, his only lead, for another eon. 

Daralin decided against that. He split up with Enid over that note, over cruel, undeniable fate, and she was worth so much more than a cottage by the sea and another age of sullen reckoning alone. 

10 Arbor Street - Trenth, East sector. Ask for Kisa

The first village, Edranan, was more familiar than not. Before Enid, Daralin would occasionally make his way back to the Azmorian Ocean just to feel home again, to sense that sudden rush of pride and power that came in on the sandy tides. He’d always stay in that particular village because of its spectacular view of the sunrises and sunsets, and whenever he felt a storm coming on, he’d always do his best to spare the place. It was one of the only places in the world that still had a shrine to him. Hell, it wasn’t all that nice and gleaming like the ones he saw for Frellyse and Merillius, but it was something, and that was all he wanted anymore. To the village, he wasn’t the murderer moon god, he was the sea and the storm god who protected them from maelstroms and floods. Daralin was careful not to visit too often, lest someone recognize him, but he knew the people of Edranan had their stories of the stranger who resembled the sea god, who appeared every few hundred years. He didn’t mind.

Edranan was kind to him, so he reciprocated. 

His temple was a small, stone structure on top of a hill overlooking the water. The roof was open, giving a clear view of the gray sky. Daralin wondered what would happen if it rained. The walk leading up to the shrine was made of shards of seashells and gravel, edged with dwarf fountain grass that dipped gently in the breeze coming off the ocean. Inside the temple, atop a rusting pedestal, was a small, empty bronze offering bowl. It twinkled forlornly at Daralin in the weak sunshine, so he left a coin there because he felt bad for himself. He’d seen firsthand the piles of jewels and gold littered around Merillius’s various altars. But that was alright. The mortals simply didn’t know better, and Daralin didn’t expect them to. He had learned a long time ago not to expect anything from them. They were so small and naive in their short lives, like lightning in sporadic bursts. If Daralin was a statue in an overgrown garden, mortals were the mayflies that would live and die in a day by the old, worn fountains and ornamental ponds. 

He heard footsteps behind him, approaching the entrance to the temple and turned to see who it was. It was a little boy with hair a shade darker than the bronze bowl and wide, brown eyes that reminded Daralin a bit of a kitten’s. The boy stopped when he saw Daralin in the shrine. The god inclined his head slightly and stalked swiftly from the altar, giving the boy a small grin as he passed. He thought he could see a little of himself in the boy’s earthen eyes, or perhaps that was just his reflection. 

“You’re in luck today, kid,” Daralin said. “Pretty sure Daralin’ll answer this time.” 

“Did you get what you asked for?” the boy inquired hesitantly. 

“Sure, sure,” Daralin replied, nodding. “Go ahead. It’ll be fine.” 

“A-alright,” the boy said, disappearing inside. 

Daralin quietly stepped inside behind him, calling on the shadows and the power of the temple to hide him from view. He saw the kid place a small, silver medallion in the bottom of it. He could tell from its striped ribbon that it was a war medal, in honor of service. 

“Lord Daralin,” the boy murmured softly to the altar. The only other sound was the wind singing softly along the walls. “My father is sailing to Glenmonte today for some fancy business offer he didn’t tell us much about. Please accept this offering and keep him safe on the water.” 

Daralin pressed his back against the wall and held his breath as the boy walked past him, out of the temple, and back onto the path toward the village. He walked over to the bowl, took the medallion, and began to follow the boy through the streets at a distance. They turned down an alley and Daralin watched from a street corner as the boy opened a small, rickety gate and entered what the god assumed to be his home. Daralin left the medallion hanging on the smudged doorknob, knocked on the door, and made himself scarce as the boy stepped out. The boy’s face turned pale at the sight of the silver medal, swinging in the sun, but then he smiled. The boy looked around and Daralin thought he might have seen him crouched surreptitiously in the shadow of a leafy shrub, but he seemed to have taken no notice of the god. The boy smiled again, this time a ruddy flush the color of azaleas in the morning spread lightly across his face. He turned, grasping the medallion between fingers trembling with excitement, and went back inside the house. 

“I’ll keep your dad safe, kid,” Daralin whispered to whoever was (or wasn’t) listening. “I’ll do my job, for once.” 

He felt a raindrop prick and splatter against the bridge of his nose and looked up. The sky was responding to his melancholy mood; it was extra sensitive when he was by the ocean, his second home. When he was sure that no one was around, Daralin stood, stretched his back and walked back into the busier part of the village. He felt the most fulfilled he had been in a while which was silly to him in a way, like he was a mortal hiking up a mountain and seeing a view that most birds could only dream of, like he was an empty pitcher that had just been filled up. Daralin ducked under the outcropping awning of a shop to get out of the rain. He didn’t mind getting wet, but there was a fine line between getting wet and getting drenched that he didn’t feel like crossing. Daralin observed as the mortals hurried by him, huddled under hoods or brightly colored umbrellas dotting the street like the discarded flower petals after a funeral. Water slipped off the tilted surface of the awning and dripped into small puddles and pools in front of him, sending small ripples across their surfaces. There was a strange monachopsis of it all as the rain fell and Daralin stood dejectedly watching the people stray past. Everything seemed to blur and slow like he was standing in a crease of the folds of time. He was painfully aware of how starkly he must contrast with his surroundings, a splash of black ink against a landscape of gray on brown on blue, and that he must look out of place and alone under the awning by himself, watching the passerby. 

When he restored Karanis and found the sun goddess, Kirae, Daralin wondered if the mortals would sense any difference. Maybe one day, there would be a different story that defined him. Maybe one day, there would be a family of five sitting by their hearth, candied walnuts in hand, listening to the story of how Daralin brought back true balance to the gods. 

Maybe one day, he wouldn’t be a crumbling relic in a circle of potted flowers and once-manicured grass, long grown over with weeds and lichen. Maybe one day, he’d just be another one of the plants, thriving where he belonged, blossoming where he was rooted, and for once, at home. 

Daralin stepped out into the rain, feeling slightly less weighed down and set off in search of some place to stay for the night. He could have moved on to the next village, but he knew that there would always be a small part of him in Edranan, buried in the sand like pirate’s treasure, and there was no point in leaving early; he may as well revel in the power the sea brought him with each lapping wave while he could. 

There was a young woman playing the guitar in the front room of the hostel he picked. She vaguely reminded Daralin of Enid’s sister, whom he had caught a glimpse of as they left Gophriel. The guitarist had the same slightly weathered look, like the world had been eroding on her for all her life, and if Daralin didn’t know better he could have mistaken her for a doleful immortal, spending years and years alone with her music and her soul. She was strumming the last few measures of a familiar Edranese folk song, one Daralin had heard a few times during his visits. 

So my dear, before you take your leave

Let me hold your heart of stone

And press in a piece of memory 

We are your family, and this is home

=-=-=-=-=

Enid almost let her take the rapier as she stared into the stranger’s eyes, a similar blue-violet gaze to the one she had looked straight into as her friend lay half-dead on the floor as she screamed swears into the walls of the Azmorian library compound. She turned from the stranger’s eyes to the fireball in her palm, illuminating the surrounding woods. There was no one on the planet who would be able to do that, unless they were Merillius and he was dead. Enid knew that for sure, from stories and the subdued but wild look Daralin wore when he jolted awake from nightmares that Enid couldn’t even begin to imagine the contents of. 

“Merillius?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer. 

The goddess didn’t say anything, only tightened her hold on Enid’s sword and pulled, unsheathing it before Enid could react. She pointed the tip at Enid’s forehead. 

“Put your hands up,” she ordered. “And stand with your back to one of the trees before I skewer your head through.” 

“Are you seriously robbing me?” Enid asked incredulously. 

“Of course not,” the goddess said smoothly. “I’m simply making you mandatorily donate all your belongings to me.” She hefted the sword in her hand, measuring its weight. “Real gold,” she remarked. “This’ll sell well.” 

“You’re the sun goddess!” Enid exclaimed. “Queen of the world! And you’re down here in the mortal realm as a criminal?” 

“I was stripped of that title a long time ago,” she replied without batting an eye. “Now back away and put your hands up.” 

“And it’s not Merillius,” the goddess added as Enid stood and obeyed her orders. “It hasn’t been for a long time.” 

She reached for Enid’s bag but then stopped, dropping her arm, letting the rapier clatter to the floor. “What have I stooped to,” she muttered to herself. “That I’m stealing from some helpless little girl.” 

Turning to Enid, the goddess said harshly, “You won’t tell anyone of this encounter unless you want to become charred meat over a fire.”

 She turned to go, to slip back into the darkness like a fish freed from a line, but Enid decided that an opportunity as enticing as this wasn’t going to get out of her hands this time. All she could think about was the look on Daralin's face when she brought the goddess to him. Enid could imagine him sagging with relief, a thousand years of weight and tire wiped off of him like a slate, and they’d be best friends again for the rest of their lives, and even after. 

“Wait!” Enid called after the goddess. “What if I told you that I could bring you back? I could take you back to Karanis and you could be ruler again! You could go home!” 

“And how,” the goddess said condescendingly. “Would you even hope to accomplish that?” 

“My friend Daralin--” Enid responded on the spot, stopping when she saw the expression on the goddess’s face. 

“I didn’t think that anyone would ever use that expression to describe my traitorous brother,” the sun goddess deadpanned. 

“He’s trying to restore Karanis,” Enid explained quickly. “He’s trying to redeem himself to Merillius by redeeming himself to you and your home! He was going to find you once he did.” 

“If Daralin's your friend,” she said skeptically. “Then why are you out here on the Azmorian road alone?” 

“W-we had a falling out,” Enid said. “And we went our separate ways.” 

“And you think that you’ll make things right between you too if you bring me to him, a consolation gift.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” the girl said hesitantly. “I just want him to be happy, and he says he’s not complete without you because you’re literally his other half. He says it’s destiny.” That wasn’t exactly true, but Daralin had said it in a very lifelike dream. 

“He’s become quite the sentimental sap, hasn’t he?” the goddess said disdainfully. “I don’t remember him being so dramatic.” 

“He’s changed,” Enid insisted. “He’ll show you if you give him the chance. I promise you on all that I know.”

The goddess studied Enid’s face, scanning her bruise-colored stare over every twitch of the girl’s eye and movement of her mouth that could betray a falsehood. Enid was really, truly genuine, she realized. This was what she wholeheartedly believed. 

“Isn’t there a piece of you that wants to go back?” Enid coaxed. “Some part of you that’s always belonged to the mountain?” 

The sun goddess’s expression became shadowed and Enid saw that she had struck a nerve or two. “I don’t belong to anyone,” she said coldly, turning away again. “And I told you, I was stripped of my title a long time ago.” 

She inclined her head slightly in a small nod of acknowledgement. “Have a nice night,” the goddess muttered halfheartedly, setting a quicker pace into the darkness. 

“Hold on!” Enid shouted desperately at her retreating back. “Y-you can have the sword after we find Daralin if you come with me!” 

Almost at once, the sun goddess was standing again in front of the girl, hand outstretched for a shake, a grin playing lightly at her lips. “You have a deal,” she said. “Kirae Tourney, sun goddess and pickpocket extraordinaire at your service.” 

“Are you always this much of a talker with Daralin?” Kirae asked indignantly on the first day, after Enid had started a conversation about wildfires and gone off on a tangent, leading them to an intense, one-sided discussion about the importances of anteaters in nature. 

“Yes,” Enid answered. 

The pair had decided to retrace their steps, go back to the Azmorian library compound to announce Kirae’s return and to hopefully get information on Daralin's whereabouts.

“You’re telling me that I have a kid who’s an adult now who heads that library?” the goddess asked. She could remember Herelia and Carenna, but had no clue what had happened to them. 

“She’s very mean,” Enid said. “She wasn’t very nice to Daralin to avenge you and treated me like a child.” 

“You are a child.” 

Enid ignored Kirae’s quip and moved onto another topic. “She won’t be happy to see us,” she said. “Actually, she might be overjoyed to see you. Everyone will be, and they’ll start asking questions. It’s probably best if we keep to ourselves, and only a select few know that you’re back.” 

“I could probably get them to help us,” Kirae said. “The other gods and goddesses, I mean.” 

“They’re not too keen on the idea of helping Daralin,” Enid replied. “They really don’t like him because he killed Merillius.” 

“But I’m back,” Kirae said, confused. “What could they even do?” 

“They could try to unite under you and stop him,” Enid suggested. “They could use you to get revenge on him for destroying Karanis. They could do a lot of things, trust me.” 

The girl looked at the goddess, sizing her up. “How do you feel about climbing up the sides of cliffs?” 

Enid would never understand what Daralin saw in the ocean. It wasn’t raging, per say, but it seemed charged with a chaotic energy that Enid had seen a hundred times reflected in the sea god’s expression on the brink of a thunderstorm. The sky was cloudless save a few misty streaks of cirrus far into the horizon, which made her uneasy. They would have to be extra cautious when it came to alerting anyone of their arrival, and sometimes utmost cautiousness required drastic measures like scaling the faces of seaside cliffs. 

They found a narrow path along the edge of the rocks, either carved into existence by the persistent waves or manmade for the most dauntless of the library’s occupants. As they edged along, backs pressed against the sheer stone, Enid prayed to the gods that Kirae wouldn’t fall in. Enid could swim after a few lessons in the river the summer she was five, a distraction from Karra’s death, but she wasn’t as confident in the sun goddess. 

“So,” she said casually to the petrified Kirae, clinging onto the wall for dear life. “Can you swim?” 

“Well, what do you think?” Kirae asked, squeaking slightly as a bit of rock crumbled under her foot. 

“You’ve had about a million years to learn,” Enid reasoned. She craned her neck and could barely make out the stone railing of the balcony she and Prain had stood on the day before she left, almost two weeks ago. 

“Up there!” Enid yelled over the sound of the water. “Let’s climb.” 

“Don’t you think we should use a rope or something?” Kirae shouted. 

“No use,” Enid responded. “If you slip and fall, then I’ll get pulled down with you. Besides, there’s nothing to secure it to. I can’t throw the rope up to the post cap.” 

“You’re sure that this is the best way of doing things?” 

“If we want to get in unseen, then yes! Prain said that almost no one uses this entrance.” 

“It’s a balcony hanging off the edge of a cliff!” 

“Exactly!” 

Enid gripped the slick stone and began to pull herself up to the next ledge. “Come on!” she called once she was a good distance up. “It seems fine so far!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be good at this sort of thing?” Enid asked loudly without thinking. 

“I was a mugger and a pickpocket!” Kirae shouted back. “I wasn’t one of those full fledged breaking-into-houses thieves!” 

A wave careened into the cliffside, sending saltwater every which way, soaking the pair in its wake. The sun goddess let out a high pitched screech. 

“We’re trying to get in without being caught, thanks!” Enid hollered down to her, frustrated. 

“You’re a slimy little kid!” Kirae exclaimed. “This is your natural habitat! I, for one, do not even remotely belong here!” 

After what seemed like a decade to the both of them, they finally hauled themselves up to the balcony and slipped over the railing, collapsing on the solid ground exhaustedly. 

“Quickly!” Enid hissed, dragging open the door once she had a moment to catch her breath. She practically shoved the sun goddess inside and shut the door firmly behind them. 

“Enid? Why are you so wet?” 

A familiar voice caught the girl off guard, and she jumped to her feet to find Yulev staring at them, appalled. 

Before she could answer him, Yulev closed his eyes and furrowed his eyebrows. “Wait, before you answer that, let me guess.” The god opened his eyes excitedly. “You climbed up the cliffside with the sun goddess in tow in order to find information about Daralin's whereabouts, in hopes that you could bring her to him?” 

“Your visions are becoming increasingly accurate,” Enid said. “Yulev, this is Kirae. Kirae, this is--” 

“Yulev,” the goddess finished. “I remember you.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Yulev said. “I remember you too! Except,” he added, looking her over. “You were less, um, ladylike…?” 

Kirae snorted and rolled her eyes. “Of course,” she said wryly.  

“Herelia’s going to have a heart attack when she sees you!” Yulev exclaimed, grabbing Kirae’s arm. “Come on, let’s go see her!” 

“Wait!” Enid reached out to stop him. “Herelia can’t know we’re here,” she said, lowering her voice. “No one can. We just came here to find out about Daralin and then to leave. If other people know she’s here, it’s going to cause a commotion.” 

“Is Herelia my daughter? The mean one?” 

“Did you have more than one daughter?” Enid asked impatiently. “Yulev, just tell us where Daralin went, and we’ll be on our way.” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” the god said. “He went on the road to Trenth, through Edranan, Azmoria and beyond. If you had continued on your way to the capital you would have eventually run into him there. You’re probably a good week and two days behind him if you’re lucky.” 

“You’re right,” Enid realized. “I should have known that.”

“So I can’t see Herelia?” Kirae asked. 

“You know,” Enid said harshly. “You would think that after a million years of being on your own, years of being a thief, you’d catch onto things faster. At least Daralin was as sharp as a tack.” 

She saw Kirae recoil at her barbed comment, but didn’t care. Enid was tired of how detached the sun goddess had become from the rest of the world. At least Daralin had always a plan, even if it was more like a straw to grasp at. Kirae, after millennia of isolation and confusion, sorting through fractured memories and dealing with death, was much more difficult to deal with. Daralin carried Enid on his back, and now Enid was getting a taste of that. She didn’t like it at all, so she forged on. 

“A basic level of competency would be nice to have,” Enid snapped. “But I suppose we can’t be that lucky, can we?” 

“You don’t seem to realize that you need me more than I need you!” Kirae replied, bristling. “I was doing fine, living my life, jumping travelers on the Azmorian road, and I will willingly go back to doing that! Keep going like that, and you’ll need to find a new sun goddess for my brother.”

“This is meant to be!” Enid insisted, her voice growing by the second. “You might be able to outrun the authorities, but you can’t outrun fate!”  

“I can damn well try,” Kirae said darkly, glaring at Enid. “Watch me.” 

“Hey!” Yulev cut in, stepping between them. “You,” he said, turning to Enid. “Need to calm your temper. And you,” he added, turning to Kirae. “Need to realize that this isn’t all about you. It’s not just your fate that hangs in the balance, but all of ours. Gods, mortals, it doesn’t matter. What happens to the rest of us depends on you and Daralin, and Enid’s going to get you there, whether she likes it or not.” 

Enid glowered at the ground while Kirae seemed abnormally interested in the picture of the knowledge goddess engraved in the ceiling. 

“Dry off a bit,” Yulev offered. “And then be on your way.” 

The foresight god showed them to a metal side room where he was fairly sure no one would look. “It’s normally a holding cell,” he explained. “The security’s temporarily deactivated because there’s no one using it at the moment.” 

Kirae eyed him warily. “How do we know that you won’t just lock us in there?” she asked. 

“If I wanted to detain you,” Yulev said. “I would have done it already. Trust me.” 

The inside was relatively bare save a few black blankets piled in a heap in the corner. Kirae snatched one of them and began to wring out her damp hair before realizing that she could dry herself off using the heat that she could emit from her skin whenever she liked. 

“Here,” she said, drying off Enid too. 

Enid didn’t answer. She was still peevish, and she figured that anything that she said to the goddess would be as prickly as ever. 

“We should get moving,” Enid managed after a few minutes. “I’m sure Yulev’ll get us a map if we ask. I don’t suppose you can make plants grow out of the ground?” 

“No,” Kirae said readily. “But I can catch and cook things pretty well. Living on your own lends that, at least.” 

“Daralin couldn’t cook anything,” Enid said, shuddering. “It was always plants with him. He couldn’t even start a fire before he met me.” 

They were silent for a moment before the goddess spoke. “Did Daralin really say that?” she asked softly. “That he’s not complete without me and all of what you said.” 

Enid blanched. “Not really,” she said. “He said in one of my dreams.” Seeing Kirae’s expression, she hastily added, “But I know that he would. I can see it all over his face whenever I mention you. You’re his sister, after all.” 

Kirae shook her head. “No, you are.” 

“Well, technically, the universe kind of said--” 

“Screw the universe,” Kirae interrupted. “Destiny or not, even if it was never meant to be, you were always more to him than I ever was.” 

“He chose Karanis and finding you over me.” 

“Don’t deny it,” Kirae said, smiling a little. “I don't mind.” They were quiet again before the goddess broke the silence. “What’s he like now after a million years?” she asked. 

“He’s very smug and dry,” Enid said. “Kind of pointy. But I assume he’s a lot more pensive now. He gets really distracted because he’s lost in his own head. He can get really distraught and moody sometimes.” 

“He’s changed,” Kirae said, nodding. “Before, he was all impulse, no thought. He always assumed evil in everyone and only expected the absolute worst possible outcome.” 

“That sounds a bit like him.” Enid shrugged, crossing her arms. “You two are more alike than you realize, I think.” 

“Thank you…?” 

“The similarity is,” Enid said, her breath hitching on a short laugh. “You both have this idea of destiny, that it’s this big, overarching cover that blankets everything, ties everyone together, and you both believe that it’s breachable. The difference is that Daralin's too scared to try and you’re too scared to conform. You’re scared of what’s in store for you if you go along with your destiny, Daralin's scared of what happens if he doesn’t because he thinks that he’s lived it. You both think you’ve seen everything there is to see, but you’re wrong. There is so much more to this world than you know.” 

“And how would you know that?” Kirae asked, amused. 

“We’re almost exact opposites,” Enid said. “I’m a little village girl from the boondocks of Welven and you’re the sun goddess, Queen of the world. I see things that you don’t, all the time. I exist in a way you don’t every day.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Kirae mused. 

“I tend to be.” 

“But I think you’re missing something.” The goddess stretched her shoulders and began to crack her knuckles, a movement that Enid had often observed from Daralin when he was feeling at ease. “The difference between destiny and fate.” 

“There’s a difference?” 

“Fate is the undeniable, the unbreakable, the inevitable. Destiny is what you make of it. It’s controllable.” 

Enid smiled. “That’s fair,” she said thoughtfully.

9 - Coming To Terms With The Idea Of Tomorrow 

Daralin could use a multitude of words to describe Firoh, the second village he passed through. ‘Loud’ was the first one that came to mind. ‘Cramped’ was the second. He couldn’t take two steps without tripping over a child or accidentally bumping into someone’s market stand, muttering a quick apology before ducking away into the crowd that edged through the narrow streets. 

“I am so sorry,” Daralin said, looking down at the seventh kid he’d nearly trampled. 

The little boy gave him an appraising look. “I don’t have a dad,” he said out of nowhere. “Will you be my dad?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“My mom is very pretty and young,” the boy continued. “She’s not rich but I promise you that she won’t disappoint.” 

“I’m sorry,” Daralin got out. “I’m not interested…?” 

“Remon!” Out of the dust and clamoring people came a young woman probably in her mid twenties. She was unmistakably the boy’s mother; they shared the same auburn, wavy hair and hazel eyes.  

“Where have you been?” the woman said, touching the top of her son’s head gently. 

“Can he be my new dad?” The boy, Remon, asked, pointing at Daralin who stood watching them, still bewildered. 

“Your what?” The woman flushed a pale pink and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Turning to the god, she said, “I’m sorry about Remon, he gets like this sometimes.” 

“D-don’t worry about it,” Daralin stuttered. 

“Well, can he?” Remon asked incredulously. “He seems nice enough, doesn’t he, Mama?” 

“Darling, that’s not how things like this work,” the mother said. “We’ll be on our way now,” she said to Daralin, giving him a small smile and a nod. “It was lovely meeting you.” She grabbed her son’s arm in a vice grip that only a mother could wield and dragged him away. 

Daralin wasn’t sure what to think. The first thoughts that he had dredged up from the bottomless pits of his brain were of Merillius, Carenna and Herelia. His second thoughts were of Enid and Florence, who he figured would end up together in some way eventually. 

Daralin would never understand that kind of attraction, a kind so unique and strange that it existed on a different plane of emotion than the type of affection he felt for Enid and Yulev. He’d never felt it, in all of his millions of years of living. 

Daralin had set out to change a story, his story, to write in a happy ending where no true ending had been, but now he was painfully aware that the only end he’d ever live would be bittersweet. He wished that he could lift his own immortality like he could Enid’s. Unfortunately for him, reversing his existence was much more complicated. For Enid, Landor, Cieri, and everyone else who had come before them, it was simply a matter of reversing a curse. For Daralin, it was fully unbinding his divinity and surrendering his power, accepting the vulnerability and helplessness of impermanence. It was freedom, it was restraint, it was something beyond his and Merillius’s control. 

Half of Daralin wanted to believe that that was what he wanted, a life just like the one he had left, the immortal moon god sovereign on his mountain throne, crown on his head and world in his hands. His destiny, what he’d set out for in the first place. The other half longed for something different, something so opposite that it scared him more than his fate. It imagined a cottage on the sea, the ocean breeze whistling through the ceiling rafters, fingers curled around a wooden oar or a cup of cold tea rather than the ornate hilt of a sword. 

In all his years in ostracism, Daralin had been so sure that Karanis had been his home, his end goal. He had changed, he could change, and that was his ticket toward a better life, the life he’d always dreamed of. But now, after traveling with purpose, taking in every moment of his journey as a step to further greatness, a record of his redemption, Daralin had seen the world through another lense. He’d seen through the eyes of a desperate innkeeper turned murderer, grasping at any straws to keep his dreams afloat. He’d seen through the eyes of the head scholar of a clandestine library compound, whose vision was glazed over with the knowledge of everything but rubbed raw of compassion. He’d seen through the curious eyes of a seven-year-old girl from Gophriel, cursed to live a life that had no place for her, familiarity stolen away from her in a foolhardy attempt to right her world to equilibrium. 

Lost souls, left to their own devices, drifting about the world, living wholeheartedly in the hope (or lack thereof) that eventually, things would right themselves, that either destiny or revenge would pull through. Daralin couldn’t count himself in a different boat than they were. 

He contemplated getting blackout drunk. Daralin had noticed a small tavern a few blocks back, and he wasn’t all too picky about what he drank as long as it kept him reckless and disassociated with reality until morning. It felt fitting that he’d get a few hours of blurred relief after days of internal monologue, being trapped in his own head, even if he could end up incapacitated in a gutter or worse, admit something that he didn’t mean to say, but Daralin decided against it. It was too risky, and he’d find something else to distract himself with for the night. He was the king of coping, after all. 

So that was how the moon god ended up lying down in the undergrowth of a small thicket, idly letting the ground cover grow over his limbs and torso before releasing himself and repeating the process as he watched the full summer sunshine fade into a weaker, purple twilight. Daralin knew that he was wasting time, first sticking around in Edranan and now Firoh; at this rate, he wouldn’t reach Trenth until well into the wintertime. 

To any onlooker curious enough to look between the trees and squint into the bracken, they’d see a human-shaped clump of dead grass and weeds, murmuring to itself. Then, they’d run and get the nearest exorcist. But Daralin wasn’t talking to himself, he was talking to the earth, tracing the slight tremors and vibrations with his sixth godly sense, molding and translating the force that wrapped around each rock and clod of soil up to each spindly root and blade of grass. As he could control the earth, he could feel it and understand it in a way that was exclusively his. 

“What do you think would happen if I took off, went undercover in a small seaside town somewhere for the rest of my life?” Daralin asked. 

The earth rumbled disapprovingly. And go back into hiding? 

“Well, yeah,” the god muttered. “This world has already gone halfway to hell, not much I can do about it now.” 

Are you running away again? 

“Who said it was running away?” Daralin joked. 

You did, the ground pointed out. You’ve said on multiple occasions that you were going to stop running away from your problems. 

“Alright then,” the god said. “I fix Karanis and then I go back to living my seaside fantasy.” 

You know how it’s supposed to be. Are you really going to be about to pull away once you’ve restored it? 

“Probably not,” he conceded. “I guess that’ll have to be the way, then.” 

But will you really be satisfied with that? Isn’t there a part of you that wants to be free from your fate? 

“Isn’t that what I just explained?” 

We’re just testing you at all angles. 

“Not fair,” Daralin complained, pulling a bit of grass out of the dirt. “I’m getting ganged up on.” 

Then go back to your brooding, old man. You’re getting soft. 

Daralin would do this regularly, find an isolated spot in the woods to lie down and have a conversation with the earth--it was his only opportunity to have a meaningful conversation with anyone or anything. He wished that he could be reminded of the days before he had happened upon the Merillius Day festival, long afternoons spent by himself, occasionally with the company of a circling vulture or the ants in the dead leaves, but there were glaring differences this time around. He had gotten a taste of peace, a faint scent carried on a light breeze that landed transiently on his being, and now that he was without it, it was all he thought of. Friendship was like being drugged. As it progressed, Daralin became more attached, and as he became more attached, each moment he was without it became heavier and heavier on his existence, like its scarcity was weighing him down in some twisted way. 

Once, after setting down his bag in the tangled roots of a red maple tree, Daralin turned to look for a chip of flint and absentmindedly asked out loud, “Can you get some firewood together?” 

The god’s fingertip was pierced by the sharp tip of the flint and the sudden flash of pain rechained him to realization. He shook his head vigorously as if tossing the memory of Enid into some dark, forgettable corner and went to find the wood for himself. 

Daralin stumbled onto an open path that snaked through the forest, probably leading toward the next village he should’ve arrived at several days before, to see a small procession of figures shrouded in heavy black velvet and lace following a horse-drawn cart. On top of the cart was a polished navy blue urn decorated with gaudy images of quartz swans and pearly beetles. A funeral procession, no doubt. He hadn’t been to one of these in an eternity. 

Daralin's curiosity led him to follow along, slipping into the black-clothed pack like he was just another of the mourners, blending in perfectly. He figured it was probably disrespectful to intrude, but as long as no one thought he was intruding there wouldn’t be any major problems. 

The path didn’t end at the next village, but at an expansive, brown field of dried grass and bent flower stems, their dusty heads brushing the ground, bleached of any color. The sky seemed less blue here, Daralin thought. The whole place seemed dead. 

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the mourners chanted, taking turns unceremoniously dipping a soup ladle into the urn and dumping feathery bits of ash and sharp bones into a pile on the unyielding dirt. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” 

Once they had finished emptying the urn, the mourners dispersed, each going their own way home. The whole practice seemed rather strange to Daralin, first the odd place to scatter the ashes and then the lack of ceremony, but everything fell into place like sand in an hourglass when he heard the voice behind him. 

“I never thought I’d see you again.” 

Daralin reeled around in surprise. Standing behind him, charcoal gray eyes twinkling with that familiar, half-maniacal stare, was his old advisor, the god of conquering. 

“Quarien!” Daralin said, stepping back, unsure of whether or not he should give the other god a hug. 

“Daralin!” Quarien replied, enthusiastically stretching his arms around the moon god in an embrace. “It’s good to see you.” Then, with a note of accusation in his voice, he added, “You just picked up and left, and I figured you were gone for good.” 

Daralin nodded without reply. Quarien knew all too well why he’d left, and Daralin wasn’t about to provoke those memories, ones that could turn the yellow grass fanning out around them into a burning battlefield. “Who died?” he asked instead, motioning toward the mound of ash. 

“One of my good friends died,” Quarien said. “A loyal member of the Dwale who sacrificed his life for our cause.” 

“The Dwale?” 

“We’re a covert organization that specializes in creating miracles for the people through sorcerer magic.” 

“You’ve got sorcerers?” 

Quarien smiled broadly. “Three out of the four in this world,” he said proudly. “We just want to make existence a little more satisfying. My friend Charvor and I run it.” 

“Oh.” Daralin scuffed at the hard dirt with the tip of his boot. “That name sounds really familiar, actually.” 

“Does it?” Quarien tilted his head to the side, thinking. “He’s been in a few newspapers before. I didn’t think that you’d read newspapers, though.” 

“I don’t,” Daralin stated. “It just sounds familiar, like I’ve heard it in a dream before. I don’t know. I have really strange dreams.”

“I used to have really strange dreams,” Quarien answered, even though the moon god hadn’t asked. “But then I got some help and now I don’t even see spirits anymore. Charvor had a big hand in that, honestly.” 

Daralin nodded numbly. “Maybe I should meet him,” he said, putting a hand on the back of his neck. 

The conqueror god studied Daralin's face curiously and said, “Let’s go into town and talk for a bit. The Dwale’s got a base around here, and I’m not on call anyway. Where are you camped?” 

“You’re going to do what?” Quarien asked in shock, nearly spilling his glass of brandy down his shirt. 

“I’m going to restore Karanis,” Daralin repeated, folding his arms over his chest and settling back into his chair. “And try to keep your voice down. We don’t need the whole of Welven alerted of my plans.” 

“Why would you want to do that?! Didn’t you want Merillius dead?” 

“He is dead,” the moon god pointed out. “I killed him. But my only intention was to kill Merillius, not to destroy my home. So I’m going back.” 

“Karanis may as well be another remnant of Merillius,” Quarien exclaimed. “Everywhere you look, sunshine and gilded wall hangings and obnoxiously colorful banners. It reeks of him.” 

“I can redecorate,” Daralin reasoned. “And besides, don’t you think that it’s good? I can bring in a new age, change my name so that the mortals’ stories can finally say that I was a hero in the end.” 

“Who cares what the stories say?” Quarien said incredulously. “They’re just tales made up by mortals to entertain their boring lives.” 

“Stories,” Daralin said severely, drumming his fingers on the tabletop to catch Quarien’s attention. “Are more ancient and more complicated than even you and I and any other old god could possibly understand.” 

Quarien rolled his eyes and took a sip of his brandy. “If you say so.” 

“I know you’re not too keen on the idea, but would you want to come with me?” Daralin offered. “It’d be nice to have someone to talk to on the road and you could go home.” 

“What about the Dwale?” 

“You could go back and forth,” Daralin said. “You could spend some time at Karanis after the restoration and then you could come back here.” 

He wasn’t sure what made him do it, offer the god of conquest a place in his new world. Quarien had done nothing in particular to antagonize Daralin, but the moon god could remember a different time in a different village, being jolted awake by the sound of screaming right in his ear. 

“Oh, gods, they’re here! They’re all here!”  

But now, Quarien didn’t even fidget. He didn’t pick at his scars or play with his ivory-colored hair, he didn’t bounce his leg up and down or fiddle with the buttons on his shirt. He didn’t even get distracted by the way his brandy glimmered slightly in the dim light of the pub they were in. If Daralin didn’t know better, he’d think that the conqueror god was just a normal mortal man. 

“Quarien,” he said suddenly. “Do you remember what you said to me once, on the hillside that one time?” 

“This is dusk. This is when the sun goes down, and the moon rises. Remember, you have a choice. In this world, you can either be dying life or living death. It’s up to you,” Quarien said after a pause. “What about it?” 

“I tried being both,” Daralin answered. “I tried being living death, I killed Merillius, destroyed Karanis, and look where that left me. I tried being dying life, weak as you would’ve called it, like a mortal. Personally, I didn’t enjoy either. They were both extremes, transience or permanence, and I’ve never really thought that there was middle ground.” 

“There isn’t,” the conquest god cut in. 

“There is,” Daralin contradicted. “And because I’m a decent person with morals now, I’m extending you this invitation to this middle ground.” He shrugged. “It’s up to you whether you accept it or not.” 

Quarien smiled, a thoughtful, spreading smile unlike the toothy, carnivorous grin Daralin was used to. It unnerved him even more. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said slowly. Deliberately. 

Daralin wasn’t sure what he’d just gotten himself into. 

=-=-=-=-=

“Did it work?” 

Charvor opened his eyes and looked down at himself. The tips of his brown hair were scorched, his shirt was peppered with burn holes, and his skin felt raw and red in the sudden chill of the room. He made a fist and tried summoning a bolt of lightning, a gust of wind, anything, but couldn’t. 

“No,” he snapped. “It didn’t.” 

“My apologies,” the sorcerer in front of him said weakly, taking a step back toward the door. “I thought it would work.” 

“It clearly didn’t,” Charvor said in disgust, gesturing at himself. “You’re lucky that you’re unfortunately extremely valuable to my plan. Get out of my sight before I change my mind.” 

The sorcerer scuttled out of the room, leaving Charvor to his anger and smoky clothes. He tore at the front of his shirt, ripping a wide hole in the center, revealing his mortality for the walls and the dim flames of the candles to see. He was so weak in this body, so incredibly fragile both inside and out, and he scorned it with a fiery hatred, all the balance of the universe bottled up in such a flimsy, skinny vessel, all of him confined into one place. Charvor was born to spread, born to exist on a higher plane beyond the understanding of anyone, born to twist and snip the strings of everything in life and everything that wasn’t, born to spin the eternal web that kept the stars hanging in their places. He was the universe, death and life, destiny and fate, balance. And here he was, struggling to break through walls of simple, papery skin and brittle bone, of mortality. 

Weakness at its fullest. 

Charvor slammed the flat of his hand into the wall and screamed in frustration. The blow stung his palm and he recoiled, carefully sewing himself back into the tight precision of his mental mask. 

“Jardrene!” he shouted, the door of the room swinging closed behind him. “Get over here.” 

“Yes, sir?” Jardrene materialized next to him. Whenever he did that, it made Charvor want to jump in his skin. It was creepy, how the first ranking member of the Dwale was so apt in being everywhere at the right time. It was also incredibly convenient and Charvor appreciated the basic level of competency Jardrene had. 

“Send the fourth officer to the meeting room in a few minutes. I want to have a quick chat with him.” 

“Of course sir,” Jardrene answered readily. “Did the experiment with the sorcerer succeed?” 

Charvor snorted. “I didn’t promote you so you could ask questions,” he said with disdain. “That’ll be all. Get back to your post.” 

Charvor’s meeting room was relatively simply decorated. There were a few wooden chairs around a rectangular table, with his at the head. Two guards were positioned at the door, although they weren’t necessary. Charvor could do plenty of damage on his own, even as a mortal. It was his throne room in the rickety slum section of the village, Sotria, that the Dwale controlled, and he wasn’t in desperate need of anything too flashy. That would be reserved for Karanis, when he celebrated his ultimate victory. 

The meeting room door creaked open and in shuffled his fourth officer, the torchlight highlighting the youth written all over his face. He was sixteen, almost seventeen if Charvor remembered correctly. Recently cursed with immortality, but had been able to transfer the curse. Charvor didn’t know the whole story, but he’d find out soon enough. 

“Landor,” Charvor said, nodding acknowledgment at the officer’s short half bow. “Come, sit.” 

  Landor pulled out the wooden chair at the foot of the table, closest to the exit, directly across from him--either a calculated decision or plain habit. Charvor wasn’t exactly sure. If things somehow went horribly wrong, he’d have to be ready, which meant that he’d have to keep Landor on edge until then. Charvor stood abruptly from his seat and began pacing around the table, watching Landor’s face with pleasure. The corner of the kid’s left eye twitched and Charvor noticed his hand curl into a fist in his lap, sure signs of uneasiness. Good. Charvor would keep it that way. 

“Jardrene tells me that you’re doing fairly well,” he said, continuing to pace. “Especially since you’re one of the Dwale’s newest recruits. I expect to see great things from you in the future.” 

“Thank you,” Landor replied. 

“You’re originally from Eastern Welven, yes?” 

“East Tully,” Landor answered readily. “In the mountains.” 

Charvor noticed a flash of something, perhaps pain or regret in Landor’s eyes and mentally added that to his list of things he ought to remember. Conversations like these were like playing chess or cards, if he could get into someone’s head then he would've already won the game. 

“Now, I’m not going to beat around the bush,” Charvor said. “The reason why I’ve called you here is because I’m curious about you. A sixteen-year-old boy who’s suddenly recruited by my associates in Southern Welven and somehow is able to claw his way to headquarters here as a fourth officer. It’s very impressive, almost unheard of.” 

“...Thank you?” 

“I know a bit about your background after a little research and honestly, you puzzle me.” Charvor stopped right behind Landor’s chair. “And I’m not a man to be easily puzzled.” 

“Why is that?” Landor asked, and Charvor thought that there was a hint of dryness in his tone. 

“For starters, you’re sixteen.” Charvor began to pace again. “Where are your parents? And if they’re dead, then how did you get all the way to Sotria on your own? And if you weren’t on your own, who helped you? And where are they now?” 

“That’s a lot of questions,” Landor said hesitantly. Charvor could tell that he had struck a nerve, if not more than one. 

“You can be perfectly honest with me,” he finished, finally sitting back in his chair and folding his hands on the table. “If you’re not, well, let’s just say that I can sense lies like a bloodhound.” 

Was that a threat? Landor’s expression asked. 

It doesn’t have to be, Charvor replied. 

“I was born in East Tully,” Landor started. “After my parents died, I moved a lot. Sometimes I’d stay in towns and try to find work but I was mostly on my own. Eventually, I ended up here.” 

He wasn’t lying, per say, but he was leaving out crucial details. 

“How old were you when your parents passed?” 

Landor swallowed and began to fiddle with his sleeve, not meeting Charvor’s gaze. “Thirteen,” he said after a little while. 

“You’re awful at lying,” Charvor said. “You know, if you’re going to swing then you may as well hit.” He cleared his throat and gave Landor a half smile. “I already know about the curse,” he said, watching the kid flinch in surprise. “If you didn’t already know, I’ve been after immortality for a long time after it was taken from me by a very, very foolish god.” 

“Which god?” Landor asked. 

“His name was Fedon,” he responded, feeling his face burn with boiling anger even after all these years. “The vengeance god. He thought that I had killed some mortal he was attached to and cursed me, but I happily pointed him in the right direction anyway.” 

“Who actually killed the mortal?” 

“The moon god,” Charvor said. “Daralin Tourney, the same one that murdered his brother and cursed you if I’m correct.” 

“How did you know that?” Landor blanched. 

“I am the god of destiny and fate,” Charvor said matter-of-factly, letting most of his cards fall to the table. “Some call me the universe, but I’m fate as well, and I could sense when my balance was being disrupted.”

Landor didn’t say anything in reply, but Charvor could tell that the kid was confused and baffled. Now would be an excellent time to drop the bomb on him. 

“When Mount Karanis, the pinnacle of power, was destroyed, my balance was put horribly out of order.” Charvor molded his face into a forlorn expression. “It’s now clear to me that I can’t leave this world in the hands of the gods. But unfortunately, as I have been cursed, I can’t take back Karanis unless I have the help of another god or if I somehow become immortal again.” 

That wasn’t entirely true, but Landor wouldn’t know better. 

“You have experience dealing with curses and lifting them,” Charvor said. “I need someone like that. And if you help me get my immortality back and restore Karanis, then I will grant you what you want most in the world.” 

He leaned forward in his seat and looked Landor straight in the eyes. He vaguely noticed that Landor’s eyes were blue with little flecks of silver, like solid ice under a wintry sun. 

“I know what you want,” Charvor said slowly. “I see it in the way you hold yourself, your attitudes, what strikes your nerves. When I am back to my full power, I can send you back. I can send you back to that little farm in East Tully with your sisters and your parents and your cattle and you can live your life like how you thought it’d go that fateful afternoon, collecting eggs for your mother. You can have that, as long as you help me get this.” 

“Or what?” A little wisp of defiance, like the smoke from a dying coal streaked through the kid’s face and Charvor remembered that some people weren’t pushovers like Jardrene. Oh well. Here came the threat. 

“Or I could kick you out of the Dwale,” Charvor said. “I could kill you. I could do anything, really.” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

“Landor,” the leader of the Dwale said sharply. “Something you will come to know about me is that I am not soft or sympathetic or compassionate whatsoever. I can absolutely kill you and I will if I need to. Surely this isn’t how you want to go, is it?” 

Landor glared begrudgingly at Charvor’s folded hands. “No.” 

“I’m even making you a deal, one that you know you can’t resist,” Charvor continued. “What else do you want?” 

The fourth officer was silent. 

“That’s what I thought.” Charvor smiled. “I’ve caught wind of another mission to restore Karanis, Daralin's mission, funnily enough. Apparently, he went to the underground library compounds of Azmoria to get information. We’ll need to make a stop there first so we can read up a bit on immortality and see what can be done about my situation, and then we can head right off to Karanis.” 

The door burst open and Jardrene came hurrying in. “Lord Charvor,” he said, coming to a breathless stop. “We’ve just received word from Lord Quarien saying that he’s gotten in contact with the moon god and plans on accompanying him to the mountain, spying for the Dwale. He says that he’s ‘all in’.” 

“Excellent,” Charvor said, grinning. “I just love competent people, don’t you? Especially power-hungry ones. Speaking of competent people,” he added, giving Jardrene a pointed stare. “You’re demoted.” 

“Come again, sir?” 

“I said you’re demoted,” Charvor repeated testily. “To fourth officer. Landor here will be taking your place as first, as well as your rank. Good day, Jardrene.” 

“Sir, perhaps we should discuss this first--” 

“Good day, Jardrene.” Charvor wasn’t in the mood to argue right now. He wanted to get things done. He could get things done. The strings were finally untangling themselves and he was extricating himself with them. He could already taste familiar, divine rock dust on his tongue and feel immortality running through his veins like lightning, and it energized him. 

His skin would tear away and his bones would shatter into nonexistence, replaced with strength and power that he’d foolishly lost all those years ago. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again. 

Oh, the world was in for a lovely surprise in a few weeks. A lovely, lovely surprise. 

10 - The Crack In The Crown

Merillius must have been quite the narcissistic ass, Kirae realized. Heroes tended to be. The sun goddess decided that she wanted to be different. If she didn’t want history to repeat itself, she’d ignore the noisy echo of Merillius’s voice in her head and do her best to help as much as she could. 

That’s not your job! Merillius squawked. 

I’m not the hero here, Kirae answered. This is not my story. Stop being such an attention-hogger. 

I’m not that bad, Merillius said, a bit softer this time. I got you into this. You were speaking my words when you first saw Enid in the woods. If I had let you have your way, you’d have missed out on this. 

I’m here for the sword, she said. I help her, and I get the sword. I don’t even want to become Queen. Really, can you see me as Queen of the world? 

No, he muttered. But I think you’re lying to yourself. You’re excited to be part of something bigger for once. 

Now would be the perfect time to start ignoring him. She focused on the sparkling sea below the path that they were walking on, along the cliffs she had been scaling a few hours before. According to their map and Enid’s predictions, Daralin would have passed through Edranan first. 

“He would have wanted to stay as close to the ocean as possible until he’d absolutely have to turn inland. It’s comforting to him.” 

Kirae remembered the cold sting of the waves that morning and shuddered in the summer haze, wondering exactly how different she and Daralin were. 

Very different, Merillius said unhelpfully. Like night and day. 

Kirae had woken up in a fiery wasteland of lava geysers and molten earth, and after an eternity was finally able to blast her way out into the sky. She was confused, and the voice in her head wasn’t helping. Merillius filled her in and insisted that she go to Karanis and resume her place on the throne, but Kirae refused. She’d had little shards of memory replay in her temples, like pieces of broken glass sending sunbeams all over the walls of a plain room, and she wouldn’t allow anything like that to happen again. Death changed people. It changed even the supposed unchangeable. 

It’s destiny! Merillius had shouted, sending a pulsing tremor through her head that hurt her eyes. 

Kirae was getting sick of hearing that phrase. She’d seen what destiny had resulted in, she’d seen the strings end in a tangle of bloody crimson thread, and revenge and ascension were overrated anyway. Merillius had called her ideals a ‘mortal mindset’. Kirae called it rationality. 

Sometimes I wish you were like me, Merillius said often. You look like me, you talk like me, is it so much to ask that you think like me too? 

I was replicated only on the outside, Kirae replied sternly when he did. My soul is much more stubborn than my skin. 

She really wanted to believe that that was true. 

She’d seen what the world was capable of. She had been a thief, after all. She saw things in a way that no one else did. People she knew, criminal or not, dangling senselessly from gallows too clean to take lives. Children with beady, hollow eyes peering at her from the broken windows of crumbling factories and alleyways between dingy slums. Enid had spoken briefly about Daralin's trial, about Herelia’s idea of justice, how she had seen him keel over, half-dead at the hands of ‘fairness’. Even the most powerful could fall here. They called it destiny, they called it fate. They didn’t know the difference. 

Whatever it was, Kirae didn’t want any part of it. After she helped Enid and Daralin, she’d disappear on her own again and sell that rapier to some old, tired pawn shopkeeper. Maybe she’d even keep it for herself. It didn’t really matter. In truth, Kirae didn’t plan on staying after the restoration. She would be shackled to the mountain, a prisoner in her own palace, because that was her fate should she stay. Her destiny, however, could be what she wanted it to be. And there was much more closure in that. She would not fall prey to the mundane, murky fate that everyone else seemed to succumb to eventually, mortal or not. She would be different. She would be better than that. She knew better than that. 

Edranan almost made the goddess want to settle down, if only for a little while. The whole place was extremely exposed to storms and she still had mixed feelings about the water, but apparently the sunrise was to kill for. To die for, even. 

They asked around for a little while, interrogating various pedestrians and shop owners to see if anyone had sighted Daralin and knew where he was going. 

“Hello, have you seen a tall guy with dark hair walking around?” 

“He’s got this very sour expression most of the time, like he really wants to stab you but can’t decide where.” 

“He’s definitely not from around here, no. He’s a foreigner. Have you seen him at all?” 

No one had, save a wizened homeless man who pointed them in the direction of a small stone building on top of a distant hill. 

“Saw a fellow like that walking up that way a couple weeks ago,” he said, stroking the skinny, hairless cat hunched by his boots. Kirae felt sorry for him, so she dropped a few coins into the upturned hat beside him. 

The bronze offering bowl in the center of the building told Kirae that it was a shrine, a temple to some barnacle-encrusted sea god, she guessed. It was empty save a small coin in the bottom, shining slightly in the afternoon sun. It was clear that Daralin wasn’t there, and she motioned to Enid that she was ready to leave. 

“Wait,” Enid said. “This is his shrine, isn’t it?” 

“Whose shrine?” 

“Daralin’s. It’s in honor of him. I bet the villagers pray to this to keep themselves safe from storms. He’s the sea god, after all.” 

“And that helps us how?” 

“Maybe we can get in contact with him.” 

“Shrines aren’t messenger pigeons,” Kirae commented. “Besides, I doubt he answers anyone’s prayers anymore. This is probably one of his only shrines in Welven.” 

“Don’t say that,” came a tremulous voice behind them. 

The pair turned to see a boy clutching a bronze medallion in his hands, wide brown eyes peeking out from earth-colored curls. “H-he answered my prayer a couple weeks ago.” The boy raised the medallion so it caught the light, spinning gently on its striped ribbon. 

“I put this in the bowl and went home. Someone knocked on our door and I found it hanging on the knob.” 

“Maybe someone saw you leave it there and wanted to return it to you,” Kirae said dubiously. 

“It’s a shrine,” the boy pointed out. “You don’t return offerings in a temple to their previous owners, do you?” He lowered his arm and added, “And there was this fellow in the shrine when I came, and he said that Daralin would be listening so I should have hope!” 

That snagged their attention. “What did the guy look like?” Enid asked instantly, alert. 

“He was sort of tall, had black hair and was wearing all black. He also had a really scary looking sword and I was kind of worried that he’d attack me so I did my best to get in and out quickly.” 

The boy saw their faces and stopped. “Why? Do you know him?” 

“He’s my friend,” Enid explained. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” 

He shook his head. “What about you?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be in school with all the other kids?” 

“Shouldn’t you?” Enid answered on the spot, and the boy looked away so they couldn’t catch his guilty expression. “What was his most distinguishing feature?” 

“The sword, obviously,” the boy answered. “And his eyes were a really strange shade of green.” 

Kirae and Enid looked at each other at the same time. 

“Do you know where he could’ve gone?” Kirae prompted. 

“No,” the boy said. “I haven’t seen him since then. Why are you so curious, anyway?” 

“I said he’s a friend of mine,” Enid said quickly. “Thanks.” She grabbed Kirae’s arm and dragged her out of the shrine. Kirae heard her breathing fast; she was excited. 

“We don’t even know where he went!” Kirae said, unwrapping Enid’s fingers from her forearm. 

“You’re right,” Enid said. “We don’t. But this is the first indirect contact I’ve had with him in almost three and a half weeks.” 

“He really is your best friend,” the sun goddess remarked. “It’s only been three and a half weeks.” 

“He could be dead in a ditch right now,” Enid said with a slight note of bitterness in her voice. “There’s much more at stake here.” 

“I sincerely doubt that,” Kirae replied. “I would’ve felt it if he had died. I’m sure of it.” 

Unfortunately, I can confirm that our brother is still alive, Merillius confirmed in her head. Not that you care what I say. 

You’re right for once, Kirae shot back. I don’t. 

“You really confuse me sometimes,” Enid said as Edranan faded into a small smudge of light behind them.

“Why is that?” Kirae asked absentmindedly. 

“When I first passed you on the Azmorian road and when you attempted to rob me, I got this idea from you that you were scary not to be trifled with at all. And then I started talking to you and realized that you were the world’s biggest softie.” 

“I’m not the world’s biggest softie,” Kirae said wryly. “I’m just better and more ethical than the rest of you.” 

Merillius snickered loudly in her head and she considered running into a tree hard enough to give herself a concussion, just to rattle him around.  They made camp just outside the low walls of Firoh by the burned remains of a barn as the golden hour faded into dim starshine. Kirae slumped against a tree and Enid curled up in the dust by the small, unused fire pit they had hastily dug. The goddess pointed at the firepit and it blazed to life, sending a gust of smoke into the atmosphere. 

“I’m going to sleep right here, without a blanket or anything,” Enid announced. “You take the first watch.”

“You’re cruel,” Kirae muttered. Her eyelids sagged tantalizingly, blurring her sight and dangling peaceful, dreamless sleep in front of her senses. “We’re not going to get mugged.” 

“How would you know? We're sitting ducks out here.” 

“It’s not a good night for thieves,” she replied, pressing her fingertips into the damp dirt beside her. “It’s too wet. No one’s going to be taking risks tonight, not anyone actually capable of stealing something from us.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense but I trust you,” Enid said, sitting up to detach her bedroll from her pack. “Good night.” 

“You don’t even want dinner?” 

Enid’s even, slow breathing was her answer. Kirae decided that giving into the heaviness in her muscles wouldn’t do any harm and fell asleep. 

The throne room was beautiful, far more majestic than the shattered images that lingered in Kirae’s memory had depicted, even in the nighttime. Overhead, crystal chandeliers holding hundreds of candles flickered gently, giving the room a warm glow. Tapestries of all kinds draped the walls, evergreen and azure and amethyst purple, embroidered with golden pictures of trees and animals frozen in fabric. At the other end of the hall were two thrones. One was forged of gold and from the backboard sprouted two elliptical birds’ wings. The second throne was night black, shining and inlaid with glittering gems. On top of the seat of the golden throne was a radiate crown, points shaped like the rays of the noon sun, stretching out in sharp sticks of metal that could skewer someone in half if the wearer decided that they wanted to headbutt someone. In the center of the diadem’s band was a round stone of iolite, contrasting sharply to the sunny colors of the crown. She knew it was hers, jagged pieces of memory tearing through her head, memories of that very crown resting on her brow as she sat lazily on the winged throne, memories of that crown shimmering in a locked, glass cabinet in her bedchamber, leering at her from the moment she woke up to the second she fell asleep. 

An invisible pull began to draw her to the throne, forcing each foot forward in a step toward…what? What was she walking toward? A crown sitting simply on a cushioned seat. Kirae laughed to herself at her ridiculousness, gave in to the pull and picked up the diadem, turning it in her fingers. She admired the way it caught the candlelight, gleaming gold against the bronze skin of her hands. She wondered what it would look like against her hair. 

Oh well, Kirae thought, settling it on her head. It’s mine, anyway. 

The second it touched her hair, she wished she’d never gone into the throne room in the first place. She was frozen in place as each of the candles were snuffed out and the room went dark. In front of her, the two thrones glowed but didn’t cast any light, illuminated by some hidden power Kirae didn’t want to trifle with. She reached up and tried to take the crown off, but it was sealed to her skull like cement. She could only watch as the throne room bled away into the night and the scene shifted. 

Kirae’s hands were bloody when the world knitted itself back together. She was standing over a dark lump in the back alley of a grubby line of rundown buildings, holding a wooden club with bits of broken glass and bent nails poking out from one end. The lump of dark cloth and bone pale skin trembled slightly, whimpering. Some unseen source of light shone behind her, casting a shadow over their empty, green eyes. Or perhaps the shadow had been there prior to her arrival. Kirae didn’t know. 

Raise the club, her instincts were screaming. Raise the club and bring it down. Strike him and beat him into a bloody pulp, just as he deserves. 

There was a familiarity in that broken, olivine stare. Kirae had seen it before, in another time, when she was the one on the ground while he glowered at her, broadsword poised at her neck. It was the last thing she saw before the world went dark, when she looked death in the eye for the first time. 

The crown was still on her head. Kirae tried to throw the club to the side and rip it off her head, she tried to bend down and help Daralin up, but she couldn’t. All she could do was resist the urge to slam the stake into his head. He was absolutely helpless, she knew. He couldn’t do anything to stop her. This was an opening for her catharsis, her rage, her vengeance pooled in front of her like an oasis in a desert. And hell, was Kirae parched. 

“Please,” was the guttural murmur from the god on the ground, choked with blood and tears. 

Pathetic, her head chanted. Kill him. Finish him off. This is your duty. This is justice. This is your right. This is what your crown means. 

I don’t want this, Kirae tried to get out, either a reassurance to Daralin or to herself. I don’t want any of this. 

Do it, her head voice seethed. 

A crushing weight began to push her arm lower and lower as Daralin flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for the glass to slice through his skin. Kirae closed her eyes too, not wanting to see what she had done. She braced herself for the sensation of flesh giving way to her weapon. 

It never came. Kirae cracked open her eyes to see that the club hovered an inch away from the back of Daralin's head. One more second, and it would have crushed the bones in his skull. Her arm was trembling and still sagged under the invisible weight, but Kirae felt stronger. 

I don’t want this, she thought. This isn't right. 

“This isn’t right,” she heard herself say out loud. “This is not justice. This is kicking someone who’s already on the ground.” 

There was an immense splitting ache in her head and Kirae thought that it might explode, but all she could hear was the sound that the mountains had made when they erupted from the earth in creation, a loud, jarring crack that would most definitely leave ragged fissures in the dirt. Her demons were howling, clamoring for revenge like dogs fighting in the dust. Kirae held up a hand to the crown and plucked it easily from her hair. She examined it for a second, noticing a small crack in the iolite jewel in the center. It was a pity that such a beautiful trinket was so horribly lethal. She might have enjoyed wearing it, just for a bit. Kirae tossed the crown to the side where it clattered against the alley wall and lay in a corner, completely unharmed save the small fracture in the middle. She offered Daralin her hand, which he shakily took, but as soon as their fingers met, the scene shifted, plunging Kirae into darkness again, alone. 

Kirae woke up with a start. She instinctively touched the top of her head to check for the crown, but it wasn’t there. Good. That was good. She sighed and settled back against the tree, closing her eyes. It was just a dream. There’s no need to think anything of it. She relaxed her shoulders and tried to fall back asleep. 

Kirae thought that the humming was coming from Firoh, perhaps some pipes or currents were overexerting themselves. When it became louder and more insistent, she realized that it wasn’t. Kirae stood and looked around for the source of the noise. She crouched and woke Enid, who rubbed the sleep from her eyes and was alert in an instant. 

“What is it?” 

“Do you hear that?” Kirae tilted her head, pointing her ear toward the humming. “It sounds kind of like a wasp.” 

“I don’t hear anything,” Enid said, lying back on the ground and pulling a blanket over herself. “Just the wind and the crickets. Go back to sleep. It’s probably nothing.” 

Kirae retreated back to her tree and tried to ignore the humming, clamping her hands over her ears, but it seemed to ring in her head over and over as if she had a beehive embedded in her brain. 

You know that you have to investigate it, Merillius said. You know what it is. You know what you have to do. 

Kirae closed her eyes. I don’t want to. 

You know why you have to go see the sword, Merillius replied. You know why you wanted it so bad in the first place. You remember. 

She’d first seen the golden rapier for herself sheathed at Enid’s hip during their first encounter on the Azmorian road. It had sparked something in her, made Merillius go berserk, and she had followed the girl, looking for an opportunity to filch it. She said that she had wanted to sell it. That was what she had told herself. That was what she wanted to believe. 

Kirae crawled over to Enid’s sleeping figure and quietly opened the flap of her pack, retrieving the rapier’s scabbard and weighing it in her hands. Every time she held it, she was blasted with a deluge of memories. The rapier strapped at her waist, hung above a mantle in a marble mountain palace. The rapier, leaning on the wall a few feet away as a broadsword was leveled to her neck, so close yet so pitifully far. She pulled it out of the scabbard and immediately noticed the gem inlaid in its hilt. Iolite, cold, dark and shining, blinked at her in the faint, crescent moonlight. 

My sword, Merillius said softly. Your sword now. 

The rapier vibrated slightly in her hands as if in agreement. 

This is your destiny, my child, the sun god murmured. Do not fear it. It will be kind to you. 

But the crown, Kirae whispered, shoving the blade back in its sheath. It wanted me to kill him. 

And you cracked it, was the quiet reply. The crown does not make the queen. The queen makes the crown, if she is strong enough and has the will to. I thought I had control of it, but it was able to twist me in a way, and I learned the hard way the consequences of my actions. But you are much stronger than I ever was. Seeing the sword again has helped me see that. 

Kirae sighed and turned the scabbard over, tossing it from hand to hand as she thought, It’s still Enid’s. I’ll get it back eventually once we find Daralin, like she promised. 

As you wish, Merillius conceded. Go back to sleep, then. 

Kirae slid the sword back into Enid’s pack and returned to her tree, nestling into a small crook among the gnarled roots. She quickly fell asleep to the most peaceful rest she’d had in an eternity. 

=-=-=-=-=

Charvor’s sword was not an impressive thing to behold. It was a simplistic, sturdy falchion without any jewels or paint, just a supple leather pommel that moved easily in his grip. That was fine with him. It would be painted crimson with blood, mortal and divine, soon enough. 

Charvor checked and rechecked his pack, sometimes removing supplies that he thought unnecessary and adding spearheads and maps instead, sometimes repackaging foodstuffs and tightening the lids on water canteens. He’d stay up all night contemplating different routes to the mountain ruins and dreaming of what was to come. The first thing he’d do as king would be to get rid of those ridiculous thrones and crowns, and then he’d redecorate, wiping Karanis clean of any trace of the gods. Then, he’d work on rebuilding and refurbishing the world so it bore no remembrance of a time before him. He would make it his own.

Other nights, Charvor would be up late reading. There was so much he didn’t know about his state and how to get out of it. He had come across a guard captain’s journal from the time of Merillius and Daralin which proved to be somewhat helpful. The captain’s name was Ehren Loyrin and he too had been cursed by Daralin, probably the same curse that had been inflicted upon Landor. He never mentioned how he had transferred it. The whole matter was like a puzzle, and Charvor was missing one crucial piece, one that prevented it from being fully solved. But he read and read, and checked and rechecked, and sometimes took out his anger on Jardrene. Everything would go to plan. Everything would be fine. 

It had to be. 

Otherwise, it would not be a good day for the world. 

The night before Charvor and Landor were to embark on their journey, there was a polite knock on his door. 

“Lord Charvor,” Jardrene said from outside. “I have something to help you on your excursion, if I may.” 

“Come in,” Charvor said dismissively. “Make it quick.” 

Jardrene shuffled in and presented Charvor with a small slip of paper. “I have some family that live nearby the ruins. If you wish, I’m sure they would be more than happy to accomodate you and Landor.” 

The paper read: 

Kisa & Liriope - 10 Arbor Street in Trenth, East sector

“Family?” Charvor inquired, taking the paper and depositing it in the wastebasket by his desk. 

“My daughters,” Jardrene said proudly, not seeming to notice that Charvor had thrown the paper out. “I’ve got six. Kisa and Liriope are my oldests. Then Relina, then Prain, then Faraday, then Haven, and of course, there’s my ex-wife--” 

“I didn’t ask about the whole lot of them,” Charvor interrupted. “I’m sure they’re lovely. Thank you. You may take your leave.” 

Jardrene left with a small bow and Charvor was again left to his own thoughts and ponderings. 

Daralin Tourney, he thought. I’ve got no reason to hate you. If anything, it’s Fedon who I should be angry at. But something tells me that you’ll be a bigger problem than just a painful memory. If it comes to it, I will not hesitate to bathe in your blood. 

The moon rose a bit higher in the sky, almost at its midnight roost. 

11 - I Will Be The End Of Your World 

The rhythmic clopping of hooves drumming the earthen path was a welcome sound to Charvor’s ears. It stirred up the dregs of thought in his mind into a sandstorm and he was raring to go. He was the most pleasant he had been in weeks, and even though he didn’t enjoy the company of the horses and Landor, those things were all evanescent in the grand scheme of his dreams. The Dwale-controlled slums of Sotria and then the wealthier parts of the village skimmed by, a blur of green, blue and brown, but Charvor barely noticed. He was in a world of his own about a world that was to be his own. 

“Tell me,” he said to Landor who was keeping up with a steady canter from his own mare. “Have you only lived in Welven in your thousand years?” 

Landor seemed taken aback slightly, like he had expected them to be silent for the whole journey. Charvor didn’t mind silence, but it wore on him after a while. 

“I have,” Landor answered after a pause. “I was born in the mountains and somehow I ended up in a secluded patch of wilderness by a village called Gophriel, further south.” 

“Gophriel?” Charvor had vaguely heard of the village somewhere. “What in the hell were you doing down there?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just lived there until I found out how to transfer the curse.” 

“How did you find that out?” 

“Daralin paid me a visit. Said that all I had to do was to transfer it to someone who had recently lost a loved one. It’d split my life force, giving me their death and the loved one my life, leaving them with immortality.” Landor shrugged. “That was Daralin's curse in particular, though. It might not work like that for you.” 

“Maybe I should look for Fedon, then,” he said thoughtfully. 

They were quiet for a while longer, with nothing but the wind whistling through their hair and the horses’ manes and the steady beating of hooves on the ground resounding in their ears. Eventually, Charvor let go of the reins, trusting his ride to lead itself and pulled out the captain’s journal to read. 

I’ve got a lovely line of damaged tissue that hasn’t healed properly that mars my torso from my collarbone to my abdomen. It was my blood that sealed the moon god’s curse and destroyed the mountain. The blood of a dying mortal spilled by the blade of a god. I suppose that that must be the trick to restore it, too.  

Charvor smiled crookedly. That would be Landor’s part to play in all this. He shouldn’t get too attached to the boy, as he would have to kill him. He glanced up to see Landor staring rigidly ahead, gaze fixed on the woodland before him. He had promised that he would send him back to that cursed afternoon, before everything began to spiral downward, but Charvor knew in his heart that he couldn’t. There was no one with that kind of power. Landor would die at his hand and reunite with his family in a different way, in a different form of heaven. 

“Were you a god?” Landor asked out of the blue. 

Charvor decided to turn a blind eye to his blatancy and replied, “I am more than that. I’m pretty much the universe, higher than any god.” 

“The stories call you the god of destiny and fate,” Landor said. “They say that the universe is something else altogether.” 

“Stories are bits of mortal nonsense that they entertain themselves with.” Charvor put away the journal and retook his horse’s reins. “I wouldn’t trust them so much if I were you. Besides, the world rests on destiny and fate. It’s what keeps things in balance.” 

“So which one is it?” Landor asked, and Charvor wanted to suffocate the tone from his words. 

“I am the universe,” he said stubbornly. “And I am the controller of destiny and fate. It’s the same principle.” 

“So you made the gods and the earth and Karanis,” Landor continued, sounding more and more skeptical. “Why can’t you just snap and destroy the gods and make the world your own?” 

Charvor wasn’t expecting that question. This conversation was starting to grate on him. “I am currently and temporarily mortal,” he snapped. “Even when my predicament is reversed, I won’t be at my full strength in an instant. That kind of power requires millions of millennia of practice, even for me. It’s easier to restore Karanis this way.” 

Landor nodded, and Charvor was thankful that he didn’t say anything else. The ex-god’s patience was a fragile thing, like a thin sheet of limestone, and one wrong knock with a chisel or mallet could shatter it into pieces. Maybe it came with age. 

They rode on, through the night and Charvor could tell that Landor was getting tired as they had ridden all day. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping them going, more Charvor’s than Landor’s. Still glad that you’re mortal? he thought wryly as he watched the boy slump in his saddle, half-asleep. 

Eventually, the lights of another village came into view with the dawn. Firoh, according to the map. They could arrive at the library compound by tomorrow morning if they kept going, but Charvor was feeling the effects of their restless travel as well, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Charvor sent Landor to scout ahead for a place to make camp while he tied the horses to a post and rechecked the supplies. When Landor didn’t come back, he went to look for him, muttering to himself about the incompetency of headstrong teenagers, and how he would enjoy killing him in a few weeks. 

He almost passed Landor’s form, curled up a patch of long grass in a grove of aspen trees. At first, he thought that the boy was dead, but he was only asleep, breathing slowly and evenly in a manner that made Charvor feel like he wanted to sleep too. 

He hated how weak he was. The power of the universe never sleeps, he thought as he led the horses closer to where Landor lay and fastened their leads to a tree. Charvor began to make a fire, cracking the flint together to make sparks, nearly smashing his fingers in the process. He didn’t know why he was so furious all of a sudden, but it felt good to feel something. Anger was energy. Energy wasn’t riding on a horse for hours at a time, observing the quiet fields and rivers and trekking through the sparse forest. Energy was adrenaline, searing flames minging with his blood, the thrill of an axehead burrowing itself in an enemy’s forehead. That was what could keep him going. Unless he wanted to slit Landor’s throat in his sleep or burn down Firoh, Charvor was going to have to sit down and rest. 

But wait. Why couldn’t he burn down Firoh? Landor was essential to his plan, but the village wasn’t. The shadow of a grin began to flicker at the corners of Charvor’s lips. 

The peeling barn right by the village wall was asking for it. Perhaps burning down the village was a little extreme, but the barn? Light arson wouldn’t hurt all that much. Charvor slipped the flint and steel into his pocket, turned to make sure Landor was still asleep, and ambled casually into the waking village. There were a few people milling about, sleepily unlocking shops and starting small fires in their hearths. They took no notice of Charvor, assuming that he was just another townsperson, maybe hungover after getting kicked out of the tavern or a frazzled sleepwalker who had woken up in someone else’s house. 

Looking over his shoulder warily as he approached the old barn, Charvor reached into his pocket and took the flint in his fist. After making sure that no one could see him, he scuttled into the small lot by the barn and sidled behind a pile of split firewood. The kindling was dry. It would do nicely as the beginning of his bonfire. The sparks caught one of the logs and began to blaze to life after a little coaxing on Charvor’s part. He grabbed the safe end of the stick and threw it into the barn, as far as he could, then climbed the wall, dove onto the other side and watched as the fire quickly started to devour whatever was inside. He heard the distressed cries of the various animals, tethered to their pens, waiting for death, but he didn’t care. Charvor ducked lower by the wall as he heard the shouts of the villagers, noticing the rising beacon of smoke in the sky, calling for water. The noise of the animals died down and faded away with the bits of ash carried away on the wind. 

Charvor discreetly made his way back to camp where Landor still lay asleep, despite the uproar in the village and the acrid sting of smoke that cut through the air, even all the way out here in their little grove of aspens. He felt energized beyond belief now and he almost woke Landor up to continue their journey. The horses nickered uneasily, clearing the smoke away from them with their tails and straining against their ropes. Charvor started to play a game with the mares, rolling an apple by their mouths just out of reach and watching them tug against their trusses trying to get it. He entertained himself for another hour or so like this until he got bored and decided to wake Landor. 

“Why do you smell like smoke?” Landor mumbled, hiding his head under his arms and turning his back to Charvor. “Why does everything smell like smoke?” 

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Charvor said, nodding at the small campfire he’d put together before his short venture into the village. “Now get up, we’re going to start back up again.” 

“I’m hungry,” he complained, sitting up. 

“Can you wait until we get to the compound?” 

“Just give me food now.” 

Landor pushed himself off the ground with his hands and trudged over to their bags, rifling through them, looking for something to eat. After wiping it on his shirt, Charvor offered him the dusty apple that the horses had been struggling to get to. 

Charvor liked the ocean. He thought it was everything an ocean should be. To him, it had the bite of a crocodile and the soul of a honey badger, and the majesty of a monarch butterfly unfolding its wings, getting ready to fly. It was vicious and beautiful and lethal and he liked the way it was never still. The only issue that he had with it was that it was Daralin’s, but that wouldn’t be a problem for much longer. 

The library compound’s entrance was in a shipwreck on the beach, overlooking a row of sheer cliffs where the sea churned below. Night was falling as Landor and Charvor dismounted, and the ex-god could barely make out a figure leaning against the wreck. A guard, most likely, and most definitely an immortal. He drew his falchion and put out a hand, indicating that Landor should be quiet and step back. Landor drew his own knife, and Charvor almost laughed at how awkward the movement had been for him. 

“I heard that,” the guard drawled from the wreck. “State your business or leave.”

Charvor was taken aback by the youthfulness of the guard’s voice. He sounded a year or two younger than Landor. “We’re here to gather information on the subject of immortality,” he said. 

“How did you find out about this place?” the guard asked. 

“Found out about it in some old texts,” Charvor answered easily. “The library is open to everyone who can gather their wits enough to find it, right?” 

“The head scholar’s been restless for a little while and upped the level of security,” he replied. “Can I get your names?” 

“Landor and Charvor,” Charvor said. “We’re from the East.”  

“Charvor as in the destiny god?” 

“No,” he said testily. “Charvor as in the tired mortal who’s been riding day and night to get here with his annoying companion.” 

“How come your companion’s not saying anything?” 

Landor started to explain but Charvor silenced him with an icy glare. “Landor’s a selective mute,” he said. “He’s been through some trouble.” 

“Alright then,” the guard finally conceded. “Hand me all your weapons and you’ll be let in.”

Charvor less-than-reluctantly handed over his falchion and made Landor do the same. That part was fine--he had at least four other blades on his person, all of which he knew how to use. 

“And the packs,” the guard added, and Charvor gave him their bags. 

The first thing that Charvor noticed about the library was the mortals. He knew that mortals were allowed to live and work at the libraries, but he didn’t expect there to be so many. Mortals atop rolling ladders to reach the highest shelves, mortals seated around square tables with papers and other mortals, talking excitedly about some fascinating new work by a fascinating mortal author. Mortals walking arm in arm with gods, mortals illuminated by yellow lamplight, reading. The place was crawling with them. He didn’t like that at all. 

The second thing he noticed was the massive carving of Tymarr in the ceiling. The knowledge goddess leered down at the scholars below with an obnoxious smile engraved on her face and Charvor wanted to slap her grin right off. He could imagine the cold sting of stone against his palm, and how useless it would be. Patience, he thought. You will be able to pulverize it soon enough. Until then, open displays of anger in a place like this would be fruitless. 

The third thing Charvor noticed was the bemused look on Landor’s face as he openly stared at the internal conflict going through the ex-god’s brain. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. Patience. 

“What are you looking at?” he asked sourly, scowling at the boy. 

“Nothing, Lord Charvor,” Landor said, shrugging and looking away. 

There is little known about immortality curses because they are so rare. In fact, there is only one known to have been cast for purposes other than research--cast by the moon god on the day of Karanis’s destruction on a relief force captain. However, Daralin’s curse is unique in the fact that it is solely his, meaning that he holds the key in reversing it. Even so, immortality curses have a certain set of constants that all of these types of spells abide by. 

1. They can only be performed by an immortal, to either a mortal or a fellow immortal. However, if an immortal curses another immortal to be mortal, the now-mortal can transfer the curse, but only  to a current immortal. This is the same principle for if an immortal wished to transfer their curse--they would need to find a mortal to turn.

2. Immortality curses split the life force of the victim into their life and their death. If the caster is mortal and wishes to transfer the curse, they must take the life essence of the force and keep it to themselves, while giving the immortal they are casting the curse on the death essence, rendering their victim mortal. However, if the caster is immortal who wishes to transfer the curse, they must transfer the life essence to the victim and keep the death to themselves. 

3. The divine immortality of a god is different from an immortality curse. This means that if a mortal is cursed to be immortal, they cannot become a god unless they were previously a god before becoming mortal in the first place. 

There it was. The ticket to Charvor’s immortality, the ticket to his dreams. His destiny. His fate. All he had to do was to find an immortal to transfer the curse to, and he even had the time to be picky about which one. The library compound was filled with immortals, but he didn’t want just anyone. He wanted Daralin Tourney, that little moon god who had gone and tangled up his perfect strings, the one who had been brazen enough to upset his balance, the one who thought he was so strong, stronger than fate and the universe itself. And it would make it so much easier to kill him. The great lord of the night, the storming sea and the endless earth, reduced to a pile of rubble and a dash of blood on Charvor’s sword.

He would go to Karanis and wait by the ruins, wait for Daralin to walk right into an ambush, and then kill him. He could even raise Karanis that way, and not have to kill Landor. On second thought, Charvor decided that he’d kill Landor in celebration. 

It would be the best day he had ever known. It would be the only real day he had ever known. Charvor looked at his hands, scarred from age and glass shards from mirrors he’d punched out of hatred for his own reflection. He’d covered all the mirrors in his rooms in Sotria with towels and blankets, and painted over any shiny surface that could potentially lead to him seeing himself. Of course, Quarien was as vain as a peacock, so not much could be done about the main complex, but Charvor tried his best. It was all he could do. Soon, so soon that he thought that he could touch the moment with his fingertips, Charvor would be able to do much more. He would break bones like he shattered glass, he would spill blood like he painted over door knobs and countertops, and he would rewrite the world a hundred times over until he got it right, in such a precise, meticulous fashion so it would never tip his balance again. 

Surely he wasn’t the villain in this story. This wasn’t any story, it was his story, as all somehow ended up being, and he was going to knit together a new, better world. If he had to wreak some havoc, wipe the dust off the drawing board, then so be it. This was woven in the strings, this was what was always meant to be. 

“Lord Charvor?” Landor asked, tapping the wooden tabletop to get Charvor’s attention, breaking the ex-god’s train of thought. 

“What?” Charvor snapped, perhaps a bit too harshly. 

Landor held out a scrap of furled paper, torn at the edges. “It’s word from Lord Quarien. He sent it to the library a few days ago figuring that it wouldn’t be long until you arrived.” 

Charvor snatched the paper and unrolled it. 

June 12 

Daralin is headed for Trenth to gather information on Karanis’s whereabouts. He had a companion before me, a young mortal girl by the name of Enid, but they are no longer traveling together. According to Daralin's map, we are set to arrive in Trenth by the fall equinox, September 22nd. Send a reply to the Dwale branch in Enkarien. 

-Q

“Enid?” Landor asked over Charvor’s shoulder. “The girl I transferred the curse to was a girl named Enid.” 

“Probably the same person,” Charvor reasoned. “It doesn’t matter. She’s not part of the journey anymore.” 

He scribbled a short response on a stray piece of paper pinched from the many on a nearby table and handed it to Landor. “Send it to Enkarien,” he instructed. “It’s not hard.” 

“I’m not your carrier pigeon,” Landor grumbled, but he obeyed. 

As he left, Charvor folded his arms on the desk and laid his head down with a small sigh. He was in desperate need of sleep. Even burning down half of Welven and brutally killing its king wouldn’t help him now. 

 He closed his eyes and was out like a light in an instant. 

Quarien’s bird, Pegande, was a carrier blackbird from the Dwale that served as the conqueror god’s messenger. He was also incredibly overweight due to Quarien’s doting upon him, a kind of overindulgence that made Landor think that the scrawny, dieting-obsessed god was living vicariously through his bird. Pegande had been perched on the handrail of a small side balcony when Landor had first noticed him, teetering on the edge with the slip of paper bound to his ankle. The bird was easy to recognize; Landor didn’t know of any blackbirds who were that round, and his grayish-brown eyes glittered in the moonlight in a similar way to Quarien’s charcoal ones. 

Landor hadn’t peeked at the message until he read it over Charvor’s shoulder, even though he had wanted to. But now, the nosy imps that infested his mind were wailing in his ears, pining for one quick glimpse at Charvor’s response. It wouldn’t hurt him just to look.

Landor absentmindedly began to unroll the paper while he walked, not exactly glancing down at it, holding it slightly out of view so he couldn’t read the words. He thought it might quiet his thoughts down, to mollify them for a second, but it only sent them into further uproar. Landor could see out of the corner of his eye that Charvor’s handwriting was too slanted and messy to read through his peripheral vision. He saw the door to the balcony ahead of him and shut his eyes, pushing the door open with his shoulder and blindly staggering over to the balustrades of the outcropping, where Pegande waited expectantly.

Hastily, Landor refolded the paper and tied it to the bird’s leg. He thought that Pegande may have given him a suspicious glare and stiffened. 

“I didn’t look at it,” he assured him. “I promise.” 

Landor finished knotting the note to Pegande’s leg and stepped back, motioning that the bird could fly away. He’d observed Quarien do it a hundred times back in Sotria--Pegande was highly trained and knew all of Quarien’s various signals. The blackbird didn’t move, only peered at him with an increasingly dubious stare that made Landor feel guilty, even though he hadn’t looked at the message. He had been able to resist the temptation, if barely. 

“Go!” Landor ordered, shooing the bird away. 

Pegande didn’t budge, so the boy stalked over to the bird’s perch, grabbed his downy body and threw as hard as he could. At first, he plummeted toward the sea like a stone, but extended his wings and began to fly away, squawking angrily. Landor breathed a sigh of relief, dusted off his hands and moved to go back inside. He opened the door and stepped over the threshold into the library. 

Instantly, two pairs of arms seized him as a strange-smelling rag was pressed against his face. Landor tried to call out for help, but his voice was muffled by the cloth and he accidentally breathed in whatever it was permeated with. Darkness spread across his sightline like the high tide over the beach and he went limp. 

Landor woke up in an office. The room was sparsely decorated save an overflowing bookshelf on the opposite wall behind a chair that was placed at a messy desk, piled high with papers and more books. Seated in the chair, across from him was a young woman with long, yellow-orange hair like weak flames. She was studying a stack of documents, pen in hand, and didn’t seem to notice that Landor had woken up. The memory of the arms and the handkerchief swam to the surface of his mind, and he was quickly alert. 

Landor shifted his position in his chair, craning his neck to get a better look at his surroundings, and the woman glanced up at the noise. 

“I know who you are,” she said. “I was blessed by Tymarr, goddess of knowledge, with the gift of omniscience. I heard of your arrival and was curious about the details that I didn’t know yet. There’s no need to lie. You’ve been in my presence for long enough that I already know most of the pieces.” 

She paused for a moment and then added, “My name is Herelia. I’m the head scholar here. You’re in my office, still in the library.” 

“I’m Landor,” Landor muttered, swiveling his head to see that there was no one guarding the door. At first thought, he could easily walk out without a second glance. At the second, he figured that someone like Herelia could probably summon about a hundred and fifty sentinels to shoot a hundred and fifty arrows perfectly through his skull on the spot if he tried to leave without her permission. 

“Right,” Herelia said, propping her elbows up on the desk and leaning forward, chin resting in the cupped heels of her palms, like an intrigued scientist studying a particularly interesting insect. “Tell me, Landor. How did you end up here?” 

She reminded him a bit of Charvor in the Sotrian meeting room, the first time they had spoken. She seemed to know what made Landor uncomfortable, and seemed to know exactly how to exploit those weaknesses. 

“Tell me what you want to know,” he answered. 

Herelia laughed, a dry, rasping sound like wind blowing through a dry prairie. “You entertain me,” she said. “Tell me the important details, then.” 

“I’m from a village in the Eastern Mountains,” Landor began, starting with what he thought was most important to him, his origins and his family. “I left after my family died and moved around a lot until I ended up in Southern Welven. I joined up with an organization that provided me with food and board in exchange for my services. Lord Charvor heads the organization with his friend but he’s going home and asked me to accompany him.” 

“You’re not lying,” Herelia said thoughtfully. “But you’re leaving out several crucial details.” 

“I don’t know what Lord Charvor would want me to say,” he replied hesitantly. He sounded like a small child scared of his father. 

Herelia gave him a disapproving look. “What about what you want to say?” she asked. “And let me remind you that Lord Charvor told my guard, Yulev, that you were a selective mute.” 

Landor’s eyes widened. He’d forgotten about that lie, and it seemed that Charvor had forgotten as well. There’s no need to lie. I already know most of the pieces.

“We lied,” he admitted. But you knew that already. “He did the talking to get us here so we could access the files on immortality.” 

“And what does Lord Charvor want with immortality?” 

Landor contemplated Herelia for another second. Charvor would kill him if he told her. Or worse yet, he’d break the deal and Landor wouldn’t be able to return home. However, he knew that Herelia wasn’t just curious about him. If the guard from earlier really had been Yulev, the god of foresight, she surely knew what they were after. She knew what might happen to her library if Charvor got what he wanted. But that didn’t mean that Landor had to be the one to tell her. He knew where his loyalties lay. 

“He wants to achieve immortality,” Landor said finally. It was the truth, but only a part of it. “He wants to be a god.” 

“He couldn’t be a god unless someone else made him one or he had previously been a god.” 

“I know.” Landor fiddled with his shirt sleeve, refusing to meet Herelia’s stare. 

“I know the stories,” Herelia murmured, lowering her voice. “The stories of the mysterious god who was always in the background of things, Charvor, the god of destiny and fate.” 

“He’s the universe,” he corrected. “Or at least, he was.” 

The head scholar laughed again, gentler this time. “Is that what he told you?” she asked. 

Landor nodded. 

“He’s not,” she said pointedly. “He was a god like any other. An extremely powerful god, but also incredibly prone to tangling himself in his own strings. He is weaker than he lets on.” 

Landor was silent. Herelia smiled a little bit, the corners of her mouth stretching up so imperceptibly that Landor almost missed it. “You have had a difficult life,” she said. “I have also heard the story of the boy who never died.” 

He flinched at the mention of his title.

“I have lived much longer,” Herelia concluded. “I was a halfling. My mother was mortal and my father was a god. They are both dead now. When I became head scholar, I was made immortal by Lady Tymarr.” 

She glanced down at the stack of papers she had been going over, picked it up and hid it away in one of the drawers in her desk. “My story will not be closed. It is my destiny to remain here. My fate, I can’t be sure.” 

“There isn’t a difference.” 

Herelia looked up at him again, sadder this time, like she had just seen a pile of books go up into flames. “Charvor’s been putting words in your mouth for a little while now, hasn’t he?” she inquired. “You will meet your fate, Landor. It is inevitable, uncontrollable. Your story ends in death. What kind of death, I don’t know. It’s up to you and you alone to decide.” 

Landor wasn’t sure what the head scholar meant, but one part stuck out to him. It’s up to you and you alone to decide. He wasn’t sure what that meant either, but he thought that one day he might. 

Herelia went back to sorting through her papers, signaling to Landor that their conversation was over. “Charvor will not hear of our short talk if you value your life,” she said as Landor stood. 

“He won’t,” Landor promised, and for once, he knew it was a promise that he was going to keep. Perhaps it was the only promise he would ever keep. 

Something else she had said snagged his attention when he had reached the door. “You said that your father was a god and your mother was mortal,” Landor said. “Which god was your father?” 

“Merillius,” Herelia responded, not sparing him a glance. “The god of freedom and the sun.” 

Landor remembered sunshine spilling through the smudged windows of a small cottage in the mountains as a rooster crowed in the distance, heralding the day. He remembered that same sunshine, that same smoldering light shedding its warmth on overflowing garden boxes of weeds and mixed wildflowers as he observed and painted in a crumbling castle, an eternity ago. 

He remembered the bleeding sunset and closing dusk as he ran home, through the forest after a strange encounter with a starry-eyed magician. He remembered the patchwork of night showing through the rotting rafters of a decaying tower. 

Landor remembered being offered a choice, slow death or his father’s life. He thought that everything would be fine, until it wasn’t. He remembered thinking that he would live forever, anchored to his cracked flagstone and worn banners until a moon god showed up and gave him an alternative. A way out. And he’d been so certain he’d made the right decision. 

Yet here he was, faced with one more fork in his path. The sunshine through the smudged window or the sunshine in the crumbling castle. The closing dusk or the patchwork of night. 

Landor made his choice. 

12 - My Cruel Head and My Withered Heart Meet In My Hands

Daralin had forgotten how annoying Quarien was to travel with. Although he didn’t scream in his sleep anymore, he’d still mutter to himself and toss and turn, and Daralin was all but ready to drop him again and leave. The only thing that stopped him was the fresh memory of the loneliness of a solitary journey, the emptiness that had resounded in his soul since, well, forever. Enid had been a temporary solution. Temporary. At the moment, he was taking anything to fill the void, even Quarien. 

On their first day together, the conqueror god had suggested a completely alternative route to Trenth. Rather than going back the way Daralin and Enid had come, Quarien proposed that they cut sharply north and travel through Azmoria and along the Derebyl River, due east. 

“We’ll arrive at least a week earlier,” Quarien said. “Along the Azmorian road and then east.” 

“It’s also crawling with bandits,” Daralin retorted. 

Quarien snorted. “What’s a few bandits to two gods?” he drawled, flicking a strand of white-blond hair away from his face. 

“Especially on a busy path like the Azmorian road, we’re sure to attract attention. We can’t let them live otherwise they’ll tell everyone the gods have returned, and I won’t kill anyone.” 

“You have come a long way,” Quarien said. “First killing your brother and now refusing to lay a finger on some raunchy bandits and all this talk of middle ground. That girl really softened you up, didn’t she?” 

“That and time alone.” Daralin smiled a little. “But she helped.” He cleared his throat noisily, trying to discard the memory like it was nothing. “We’ll go the southern route,” he said, and Quarien nodded. 

One thing nice about traveling with Quarien was that the conqueror god didn’t need a fire. Daralin had never gotten used to campfires, and it was only out of habit that he began to build one. 

“What are you doing?” Quarien inquired, watching the moon god stoop and reach for a stray tree branch, ripping the dead leaves off of it. 

“Making a fire,” Daralin answered, but then dropped the stick. “Sorry,” he said. “Enid used to need a fire. Old habits die hard, I guess.” 

“Mortals,” Quarien muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. “I’ll never understand them.” 

“I’m going to bed,” he added, stretching his legs out in the dust and pulling a tarp over himself. 

Something Daralin remembered from their conversation the afternoon before caught his attention, and he nudged Quarien’s resting form with the tip of his boot. 

“What?” 

“Is Charvor a sorcerer?” 

“Come again?” 

Daralin shook his head in exasperation. “Is. Your friend. Charvor. A sorcerer?” he asked, spacing his words out like he was talking to a toddler. 

“Sorcerer?” Quarien laughed lightly. “No. He’s a mortal.” 

“How did he cure your dreams, then?” 

“He has sorcerers under his command.” Quarien hid his head under the tarp. “The Dwale existed in a small number before I came along. One was a sorcerer and he helped me.” 

Daralin grunted as he settled into a pile of blankets. “I see.” 

“I’m going to sleep for real now,” Quarien said from under the tarp. “Don’t wake me up until absolutely necessary.” 

Daralin murmured a note of agreement and sighed, releasing all the tension in his muscles in an attempt to fall asleep. Unfortunately, his thoughts were a whirlwind of memory and fear in his head, drowning out all exhaustion as it echoed in his head. He didn’t trust Quarien completely yet, which he was sure the other god was aware of. He wanted to trust him. He wanted a sense of normalcy in friendship, and he wasn’t in the position to be picky about whom the friendship was with. But there was still a nagging feeling in his heart that he should be wary, always vigilant, always ready for anything. The Dwale didn’t sit quite right with him either--a secret organization for mortal miracle making? With Quarien at the head? Quarien, the god of cunning victories, under-the-table type deals. The conqueror at any cost. What had the stories said about him? As clever as a fox and as ruthless as a ram. But then again, stories were not always to be trusted. 

And finally, this fellow, Quarien’s new friend, Charvor. Daralin could swear on Enid’s life that he had heard that name somewhere, written on an obscure page of a lost story or offhandedly mentioned in a tavern somewhere. He had more questions than answers, and he hated not having answers. Quarien had said that Charvor was mortal, but how powerful could this mere mortal be if he had not one, not two, but three sorcerers under his command? The Dwale must be one of the most powerful covert organizations in the world, second to the library strongholds. How could Daralin have not heard of them before? 

Something definitely wasn’t right. It was as plain as day, sewn in Quarien’s tender smile and suspicious words, but Daralin chose to ignore it. Perhaps he was overreacting. The part of him that craved companionship overruled the one that ran on logic. It was a perpetual weakness that Daralin didn’t mind. For now, he would lie down, close his eyes, and revel in his company, and the warmth it gave him that put campfires to shame. 

The sensation of a knife poised at his throat interrupted his dreams. 

“Raunchy bandits, hmm?” Daralin heard a coarse voice say as he cracked open his eyes. “Two gods. This is great. Hey, Jashig, did ya hear that?” 

“What?” A second voice, presumably Jashig, asked. 

“I said,” the first voice repeated impatiently. “Two gods. This is great. You know how much their skins’ll sell for?” 

“How d’you know they’re gods?” Jashig asked. 

“The one with the light hair and scary eyes sings like a canary.” 

Daralin fully opened his eyes to take in the sight of two burly, masked men standing in their camp. The first man who had spoken had a sharp, silver wharncliffe knife pressed to Daralin's jugular while the second, Jashig, had Quarien gagged and bound, weapons scattered on the ground. They looked like brothers with the same cognac colored eyes and dirty brown hair. They reminded Daralin of two bristling brown tabby cats he’d seen in an alley once. Strangely, he felt a little pity for them. They only had each other, it seemed. Then, he remembered his and Quarien’s predicament and hardened his glare until he was staring right back in the first bandit’s face. 

“This one’s pissed off,” the bandit commented. “What’s your name, sour frown?” 

Daralin gritted his teeth as the wharncliffe was jabbed closer to his neck. “Orvin,” he got out. 

“Orvin,” the man said, turning the name around in his mouth. “Don’t remember any gods named Orvin. Do you, Jashig?” 

“Nope,” Jashig said, whipping out a small sheepsfoot blade and positioning it at Quarien’s back. Quarien froze, hyper aware of how close it was. Do something, his eyes said. Daralin's hands were still free. He could easily blast them into ashes, especially now that it was night. The bandits wouldn’t see it coming. 

“I’ll tell you what,” the first man offered. “You let us kill light-hair here and give us all your things, and we’ll let you go.” 

Daralin squinted, trying to read the bandit’s face in the dark. There was no moon tonight but he could feel the energy of the earth and the shadows pulsing in his palms. If only he had the courage to use it. If Jashig had had Enid, both thieves would have been dead on the ground, but he didn’t care nearly enough about Quarien to have killed them yet. And yet, it wasn’t Quarien that made him hesitate and contemplate the first bandit’s offer, it was that feeling again, the crawling sensation that it might be better this way if the conqueror god was dead. Daralin would probably be safer. He saw Quarien staring at him expectantly as he worked his fingers back and forth in anxiousness. When he didn’t answer the bandit, he saw Quarien’s face fall. 

Daralin finally spoke. “We have nothing,” he said. “Just each other and our bedrolls.” 

Without moving the knife from Quarien’s spine, Jashig hooked the strap of Daralin's bag with his toe and dragged it over. With his free hand, he reached inside and began to rifle through it. 

“Hey, Hweif, take a look at this.” Jashig retrieved the intricate black scabbard of Daralin's broadsword and held it out to his brother. 

Quarien saw an opening and kicked out with his bound legs, striking Jashig’s ankles and lower calves, sending him sprawling. With a shout, Hweif pressed the knife deeper into Daralin's neck, making him yelp. It was a blow that would have killed a mortal, but Daralin felt a warm stream of blood begin to bubble up from his wound and run down his throat and shakily reminded himself that he’d suffered worse. Once this was over, he could heal himself. It would be fine. 

As quick as a comet, Quarien twisted his head to the side, loosening the gag. The ropes around his hands came undone and he lashed out at Hweif, producing a small dagger out of nowhere and hurling it at the bandit’s back where it stuck. Jashig roared, rising from the ground, and Quarien reached into Daralin's bag as the second bandit hurtled toward him. Daralin watched the conqueror god, dumbfounded, and could only watch as Quarien seized a broadhead arrow and pointed it toward Jashig, who was too close to stop before he ran straight into the tip, impaling himself. He dropped like a stone, wheezing in surprise, and Quarien effortlessly finished him off by extracting the arrow and swiping it across his neck. 

“How did you undo the ropes?” Daralin asked softly, fearing that straining his voice box would widen his wound. 

Quarien shrugged. “I stole a dagger from his belt while he wasn’t looking and when he was distracted, I’d work a little harder with the blade until I had an opening.” 

What Daralin had thought to be fidgeting or a habit of nervousness was all part of Quarien’s plan. He shook his head in wonder, wincing as his exposed flesh caught the gentle breeze. 

“Look,” Quarien said as Daralin began to dab at the blood collecting on his collar with one hand and began to grow healing herbs for a poultice with the other. “I know you don’t trust me, and honestly your whole pacifist bit is a little unnerving to me, but if I wanted you dead then I would have let Hweif slash your throat. Actually, I’d have killed you in your sleep before the bandits arrived. But I want to give this thing a chance, this new middle ground idea. I want to see home again, even if I don’t want to stay. But I can only do so much until you let me do more. I don’t know how to prove that to you.” 

He looked so genuine that Daralin wanted to believe him. He felt like his withered heart had grown legs and was running toward Quarien, toward friendship and warmth and all that it had missed and grown to live without as his head screamed at it, fool, fool, you sappy, desperate fool. The last time he had let his heart take over, it had ended in a sliced throat and a falling mountain. The last time he let his head take over, it had ended in a door in his face and a small girl setting off into the sunrise alone. 

Daralin held out a hand to Quarien, smiling a little. “Let’s shake on it,” he offered. 

Quarien began to smile too, grasping the moon god’s hand and squeezing it slightly. “Just like old times,” he said. “Except it’ll be better.” 

The conqueror god unceremoniously towed the bodies of the two bandits into the woods and Daralin heard him rustling about, clearing a small patch of ground. 

“Can I get these turned to ashes, please?” Quarien called. 

Daralin raised an arm and snapped his fingers. “There you go,” he replied as Quarien dragged some leaves and twigs over the dust. 

The conqueror god smoothed and sat down on his tarp that had been hastily tossed aside during the bandit encounter. Daralin noticed again that he was perfectly still as he had been in Sotria, the picture of ataraxia, and he wondered exactly what Charvor and his sorcerers had done to him to make him so serene. Exorcism, perhaps. Something extreme enough to remove the demons that made Quarien shriek in his sleep. 

Daralin had never asked about what Quarien saw. Being the god of victory, triumphant and sanguine, pyrrhic and hard-fought, had to come with some trouble, witnessing defeat firsthand. Quarien didn’t have the ability to be rid of his enemies without looking at them like Daralin did, he didn’t have magic in his palms and sorcery in his blood. He had to look the figure curled around the point of his sword or impaled by the shaft of one of his arrows in the eye as they died, and then walk away without turning away as they fell. Daralin didn’t know how he could bear it. Maybe certain things were better left unsaid.

There was never a victor without a loser, after all. That was something that Daralin knew all too well. 

“Where did you stay after I left?” he asked once as they continued their trek through the countryside. 

“I took over a city,” Quarien replied off-handedly, like oh, you know, as you do. “It was in southeastern Welven, I think. Built myself a whole castle and everything, but it’s long gone now. It was collapsing before I left anyway.” 

“Tried to make yourself king?” Daralin asked jokingly. 

“I prefer the term world dominator,” he said, grinning. “But king works.” Quarien sighed and hefted his pack. “Maybe one day, I’ll--” 

He stopped mid sentence and Daralin looked at him expectantly. “You’ll what?” he asked. 

“Set down roots,” the conqueror muttered, but Daralin knew that he had intended to say something else, only something stopped him. A memory, or possibly the thought of what might come if he had kept talking. 

The sun was beginning to bake the path as it rose into the summit of the sky, heat waves rippling over the grime stuck to their skin as the well-worn dirt seemed to smolder in the heat. June was a brutal month, Daralin knew, and it would only get worse from here. He couldn’t bear to think of August as sweat pooled in the dips of his collarbone, his only consolation the recollection that mountain summers were gentler and more mild than most, especially with the regular cold fronts coming off of the high, snow capped peaks and the river. Daralin was rudely torn from his fantasy as a harsh, hot gust of wind blew across his face like someone had slapped him. Dazed, he wrapped his cloak around himself in an attempt to hold the coolness still left on his person close before it could dissipate into the thick, damp air. He only felt warmer, feverish even. But despite the viscid atmosphere and the beating sunshine, they trudged on.

Quarien seemed somewhat indifferent to the heat. The conqueror god took the lead with what seemed to Daralin to be unfailing precision and focus, a drive and could only belong to a highly trained general or warrior. But again, someone who was able to stand fully upright without the help of a walking stick could have been a god to him then. He was so out of his own environment, like an evergreen in a desert, whereas this was where Quarien basked in glory, in sweat and grit, the moments before victory, even a small one like reaching the blurry patch of green woodland, a hopeful speck in the distance. Daralin was sick of the rolling, flowery fields that offered little to no cover from the blaze, but with every step, the woods seemed to retreat farther and farther into the horizon. The sun was mocking him. He was sure of it. 

“I’m done,” Daralin announced, sitting down in the long grass by the road with his arms crossed. The grass offered some solace, but its freshness was quickly overwhelmed by his exhaustion as he collapsed into a pile of heavy, dark cloth and pale skin. Daralin never tanned or got sunburned. At least that wasn’t something he had to worry about.

“You’re done with what?” Quarien asked, standing above him. 

“This.” Daralin idly held up a hand and waved it around, gesturing at their surroundings and then up at the sun. “Those woods keep getting further away the closer we get. Let’s just rest here for a bit.” 

“And boil to death?” the conqueror scoffed. “Not a chance.” 

“I’m not going to budge.” 

“Then I’ll drag you,” Quarien said decidedly, then hooked his hands under Daralin’s shoulders and began to lift him up. 

Daralin yelped and scrambled to his feet. 

“Better,” Quarien said, nodding with faux approval. “Now march, soldier. Left, right, left, right.” 

The moon god sat back down. “I’ll die here,” he declared, wrapping layer after layer of tree roots over his ankles and wrists, fettering himself to the ground. “Although all I need are ten paltry minutes. Just ten.” 

Quarien sighed and gave in, dropping beside him, holding out his hands to catch himself. “You’re becoming more like me everyday,” he said wryly. “That’s not a good thing. You know what happens when I have to be the logical one.” 

“We wake up, hungover, in the back of a sketchy alleyway cornered by a pack of armed teenagers playing pretend,” Daralin answered. “But I’m okay with that. Just this once.” 

“Enkarien is waiting for us,” Quarien murmured, but even he was getting comfortable. “That’s the next village, you know. It’s on the other side of the forest. We could be there by tomorrow morning.” 

“Let it wait.” 

Daralin waved his hand and the turf around them began to grow and stretch into a knot, the tips curving and wrapping around each other so the blades of grass shaped into a dome-like structure above their heads, shielding them from the brutal sky. The light filtered in through the green tendrils, squeezing in emerald tinted sunbeams that washed their clothes in a thin, viridescent glow. 

“Do you remember that time we were up by the Northwestern Inlet, and I found a stray kitten, half-dead on the side of the road?” Quarien asked. 

Daralin nodded. “It was all shriveled up,” he said. “You made me stop and try to heal it, and you gave it the rest of the water we had left.” 

“It was a hot day and it would’ve died without us.” Quarien adjusted his position so his knees were tucked up under his chin and smiled thoughtfully. “And I took care of it until it got better and left it on that rich family’s doorstep.” 

“You took care of it?” he asked indignantly. “I’m the one who gave it my water. I’m the one who carried it in his pack the whole way.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m the one that actually loved it.” 

“It was a scrawny tabby with a nasty little temperament.” Daralin shuddered and traced lines on his sleeve, as if remembering old scratches from small claws several lifetimes ago. “You insisted on keeping it and cried your eyes out when we had to give it away.” 

“I did not,” Quarien contradicted. “I was just a tad bit upset.” 

“You were bawling like a child.” 

The victory god laughed under his breath, trying to ignore the memory. “I think that was you, old friend. I was never one for bawling.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

“I saw it again,” Quarien said with a note of wistfulness in his tone. “Years later, different eyes, different body, but I’m sure it was the same cat.”

“Are Charvor’s methods wearing off?” Daralin quipped lightly. 

“It was the same cat!” he repeated, more firmly this time. “I could feel it. It was like how we can tell mortals from immortals. Its soul was the same.” 

“Fine.” Daralin held up his hands in surrender. “What about it?” 

“I don’t know. I was just reminded of it. I’ve got a pet bird now, you know. He’s a lovely carrying crow that sends messages for me. He’s more of a free spirit than the cat, but he’s mine.” 

“Was that the fat blackbird that you sent to Charvor the other night?” 

Quarien swiveled to glare at him. “He’s not fat. He’s just well-loved.”

“I thought some fun-loving god had sent a massive cannonball down to Earth to toy with the mortals a bit.”

“You’re horrible.” 

They continued on like this for the next few minutes, bickering about pointless things like blackbirds and cats, paths and fields in the sweltering heat, momentarily forgetting about the more poignant matters at hand; their futures, their hopes, their fates, their destinies. Blissful moments, snatches of time like dandelion seedlings floating in the warm breeze, seconds of pointless peace that made them whole. 

Daralin wanted to freeze this moment, to immortalize it in green stained glass in the temple of his life, alongside the miles and miles of walls and rainbow windows that had been layered upon each other as the years flew by. He wanted to bask in it forever, in the gentle light, the sweet fragrance of the grass over his head and the dirt under his nails. 

The sorceress was probably the start of his fall. She was a small and slight with a gracile jaw that reminded Daralin of a fairy’s in a storybook, and he hadn’t been surprised when she had come flitting into the glade that they were passing through, luminous, milky eyes like small moons glittering in the faint, forest light. Her head had cocked sharply to the side as Quarien drew in a breath at the sight of her, even the soft intake of a gasp triggering her senses. She’s blind, Daralin noted. 

“Who’s there?” the not-fairy demanded. “I suggest you fess up before I make you, and by the gods, I will make it hurt.” 

“Just two travelers passing through,” Daralin called cautiously. “We mean no harm.” 

The not-fairy scoffed. “That’s what they all say. Come out into the clearing, traveler, if you value your life.” 

“You’re blind,” he pointed out. 

“And you’re ugly as hell, and at least I can help myself.” 

“But you’re blind,” Quarien piped up from his crouching position in the brush, and her head snapped toward the sound of his voice. 

“Exactly. Now step into the light.” 

They obeyed, Quarien attempting to trample as much dead bracken as possible to mask the sound of his sword being drawn. 

“I heard that,” the not-fairy commented. “The sword. You can put that away. What I could do to you is far worse than what you could do to me.” 

Daralin wasn’t sure if he was offended, scared or if he felt a drop of pity for her, like a splatter of color on a canvas that was already drenched in paint. They were such empty threats, he had thought. That was before he really knew. 

“Names?” she asked, circling them with such an eerie precision, not a step out of line, that unnerved the moon god to his core. 

“O-Orvin and Cegyon,” he said quickly. “From the East.” 

“You don’t sound like you’re from the East,” the not-fairy observed. “You don’t smell like you’re from the East. Your names aren’t remotely Eastern. Therefore, I can conclude that you are not in fact from the East.” 

“Well, we are,” Quarien said haughtily. 

“You smell like gods.” 

Daralin was so startled by the not-fairy’s remark that he nearly agreed with her. Instead, he checked himself and replied, “Is that a good thing?” 

“That depends.” She tilted her head to the side, as if listening to everything around them, the quiet rustle of the wind through the trees, the crunching of dry weeds under their boots. “Are you powerful gods?” 

“Who said we were gods?” Quarien asked, and Daralin elbowed him as the not-fairy tittered. The cat was out of the bag, and there was no denying it. The not-fairy was hyper-sensitive to everything around her, and she could probably sniff out a lie like a blue hound could a raccoon. She didn’t seem normal either, Daralin thought. He could sense something in her, perhaps not immortality, but something that set off a switch in his mind, signaling him to be wary.  

“You know, you should really tell him to shut up,” the not-fairy said, facing Daralin, fixating him with those strange, pearly eyes. “He’s making this a thousand more times difficult for you.” 

“How can you see us?” Daralin inquired. “By the way you act and with what you say, it’s no secret that you can.”

“Magic,” she answered, waggling her fingers at him. “I’m magical.” 

“Is that what your mother told you a few years ago, when you were just learning how to walk?” The moon god smiled a bit, taking the offensive. 

“I’m nineteen and my mother’s dead, thanks very much.” 

“You’re a sorceress,” he realized. “You probably cast a spell that allowed you to see, at least somewhat.” 

“That’s not how it works,” the not-fairy drawled. “We can’t heal extreme stuff like that, not us beamers. That’s what the skinweavers do. I just cast a basic spell that makes me more sensitive to vibrations. It’s nothing difficult.” She cleared her throat. “Now, where were we?” 

“Beamers? Skinweavers?” 

“Different types of sorcerers.” She gave the pair an appraising look. “You really don’t know much, do you?” 

“There’s only four of you in existence,” Quarien said, bewildered. “How can there be different types?” 

“There’s always a way for anything,” the not-fairy said wisely. “My name’s Mapix, and I’m sure I’ll learn yours soon enough. If you’re who I think you are, then you’ll want to come with me. These parts aren’t too friendly to strangers.” 

“So you’ve got the other three?” Mapix asked excitedly as she placed two boiling cups in front of them. 

Quarien nodded. “We help mortals with magic.” 

Daralin contemplated the teacup, brimming with some kind of woodland tea he didn’t recognize. He tentatively took a sip, gagged, and discreetly held it in his mouth until he could summon the strength to swallow. It tasted as if the earth had chewed up dead, moldy leaves and spat the mess out into a puddle of stagnant rainwater. 

“Lovely tea,” he lied, and tried not to cringe when Mapix grinned and  poured him some more. 

“Can I see them?” she asked. “Can I meet them?” 

Quarien didn’t answer, only tasted the tea, coughed and set it down on the log tabletop. 

“There’s four types of sorcerers,” Mapix went on. “Beamers, skinweavers, charmers and necromancers. One of each. I’m a beamer.” 

“Skinweavers are probably healers,” Daralin said helpfully, and the sorceress nodded. 

“Sorcerers are often in association with the gods of their powers,” she explained. “The skinweavers are close with the goddess of healing, the necromancers are close with the goddess of death, the charmers are close to the elemental gods and the beamers are close with the messenger gods and the god of destination.” 

“There’s a god of destination?” 

“Aren’t you supposed to know these things better than the rest of us?” 

They found out that Mapix’s abilities as a beamer were far different from Daralin’s or Quarien’s. Like them, she specialized in a certain type of power, except she could do one of the only things that Daralin and Quarien couldn’t. 

“I can teleport,” she said matter-of-factly. “Anywhere. From Glenmonte to the lands across the ocean.”

Quarien slammed his hand on the table, making them jump. “What do you want the most in life?” he asked. “We can grant you almost anything under the sun. Just get us to this one place and it’s a done deal.” 

“Anything?” 

“Anything,” Daralin promised, catching on. “We need to get to Trenth, in the Eastern Mountains.” 

“Why?” Mapix folded her arms, and Daralin instantly could see that it wouldn’t be easy to convince her. 

“We want to go home,” Quarien jumped in. “To Karanis.” 

“Karanis is nothing but a pile of boulders and ash in the wind,” she said readily. “Tell me something I’ll actually believe.” 

“We’re going to restore it,” the moon god added. “We know how. And you can help us. If you can get us to Trenth, we’ll grant you any desire you have. Anything. Please.” 

He felt a twinge of embarrassment that tasted like karma; the two gods were completely at Mapix’s mercy, of which she seemed to have little, and Daralin realized that this was how the mortals felt when, in another time, he had held them at swordpoint or offered them decisions they couldn’t refuse, no matter how dire their lives were. But if he had to kneel and plead with her, if he had to bargain away his world, by the gods Daralin would. Anything for this, this dream turning tangible, as if he had been a flighty, starry-eyed child finally able to brush galaxies with his fingertips and hold the moon in his palm. 

“You said that you know the other three sorcerers,” Mapix finally said, turning to Quarien. “After you restore Karanis, take me to meet them.” 

“Aren’t you worried that we might run off after the restoration and not keep our promises?” 

“The stories all say that gods are tricky, cruel beings with no sense of morality or compassion,” she told them, digging her fingernails into the muscles above her elbow, hard enough that they left small, crescent marks in her skin. “But you just smell tired, and of dirt.” She directed that last comment at Daralin. 

“I’ll take you to Trenth,” Mapix decided. “If you break your promise, well then, I don’t care how immortal you are. I’ll find a way to break you.” 

As Quarien thanked her over and over, she whispered to Daralin, “I wouldn’t get too close with him if I were you. He smells like lies.” 

13 - Second and Seventeenth Chances

Mapix promised to beam them the very next afternoon, and Daralin was quick to agree. He was willing to work on her time, on her terms, he was so cooperative that he had been extending deals to her left and right, deals that even made Quarien bat an eye. After Daralin had tried offering her his broadsword, the conqueror stepped in and pulled him to the side. 

“Don’t,” he said, taking the black scabbard from the moon god’s hands and slipping it back into his bag. “Come on. Don’t be this compliant. She’ll think you’re a pushover and then she’ll be asking for Karanis itself.” 

“I’m just trying to ensure that she’ll help us.” 

“You’re not helping,” Quarien responded. “You’re just giving away all of our possessions. Stop.” 

Daralin obeyed. He was getting really used to obeying. Part of him, the chaotic, maelstrom-ridden part to be specific, was gnawing at the iron cage he’d locked it in for the time being, wailing into the dark recesses of his soul, begging to be let out. The other part, the sappy, tender dreamer, was just content that it was nearly home. 

And then, although he didn’t like to admit it, there was another part that wondered where home really was. It felt trapped by the marble palace in the cliffs. It hated the twisted, iron crown. It felt freed by the rushing sea, rocking a sailboat starboard and port. It wanted to be on that sailboat as saltwater sloshed over the sides, and perhaps it wanted to remain there as the deck went under. Perhaps it desired the exhilaration of it all. 

Home. Daralin thought it was rather ironic that such a short, unsuspecting word could be so crushing. So complicated. Too complicated. For now, he would return to the only home he had ever known, the palace on the mountain, the jet throne and iron crown. He tried to feel excited about it, and almost succeeded. Almost. 

Quarien called him over to Mapix’s tea table where their maps and supplies were spread out, to go over their plans again. Daralin wondered what Enid had been up to as of late. He hoped that she, too, had found somewhere to call home, to remain for the rest of her days, mortal or not. Maybe one day, he’d visit her again, as he had promised that night. 

“When I become mortal again and go back home, will you visit me?” 

“After I restore Karanis, I want to find the new sun god. I want to bring him home and rule the world with him. I don’t want history to repeat itself.” 

“But after you’ve done all of that, will you come and visit me?” 

“It might take--yes, Enid, I will visit you. Don’t worry. Go to sleep and stop bothering me please.” 

He would keep his promises. He was Daralin Tourney, and if he was nothing, he was nothing but a god of his word. He closed his eyes and unraveled the spell he’d laid over Gophriel, undid the curse over Enid, hoping that one day he’d return to the village to see an old friend. 

=-=-=-=-=

Charvor had insisted that they rode day and night, and quickly. Another note had come from Quarien--he and Daralin had found the fourth sorceress (a beamer, he had referred to her as) and they had persuaded her to teleport them to Trenth, where he would sabotage the moon god and split paths. For now, all Charvor had to do was ride, and move quickly. It was only a matter of time now. Victory was so close, he could taste it in the breeze. 

He whipped out a matchbook from his pocket and clutched in his fingers, grinning at the unsuspecting lights of Enkarien. It was time to raise some cain in celebration, and have a hell of a fun time doing it. 

=-=-=-=-=

Enid needed a break. She’d begun to slow down, much to her own disapproval, breaking Kirae’s brisk pace, and sleep no longer provided any comfort. Her dreams were filled with a thick, opaque mist that she ran through, screaming and crying about everything, about her family and the memory spell cast over Gophriel, about how she never thought that things would escalate into problems like the ones she carried now, about Daralin and Kirae and what she would do without them after their ascension, and about what might happen if the restoration never happened. Then she’d wake up, drenched in cold sweat that blended in with the dew drops clinging to her skin, and Kirae would spare her a concerned look and they’d move on. Enid knew Kirae was having dreams of her own, ones that she hadn’t shared in detail with her, but she saw the way the sun goddess glanced apprehensively behind them more than usual and flinched away whenever the gems encrusted on the golden rapier caught the light. 

“Enid?” Kirae’s call retrieved her from the mental hole she was digging herself into. 

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, stabbing the ground with the walking stick she’d picked up a few days prior. “Just tired. What do you need?” 

“Nothing,” Kirae replied. “But you’re about to walk right into a tree, so I’d look up if I were you.” 

Enid looked up and skidded to a stop, her nose a hair’s breadth from the knobbly bark of a hickory tree. 

“Can we take a break?” she asked. 

The goddess shook her head. “We’re already almost a day off track. Come on.” Seeing Enid’s expression, she grinned widely. “Try and catch me.” 

She took off running along the path, and that was Enid’s cue to dash after her, a method she’d insisted that Kirae implement whenever she expressed feelings of grogginess. Reluctantly, Enid began to hurry after her, pack thumping on her back and sword swinging at her hip. With effort, she unhooked the rapier from her belt and stuck its sheathed blade into her bag, and continued to chase after Kirae who had just begun to crest the hill ahead. Not a hill. 

“Look!” Kirae declared, beaming and pointing at the green stretch of land below when Enid had caught up to her, panting and swearing like a sailor during a hurricane. 

Enkarien was one of the bigger villages they’d come across, if it could even be considered to be a village. The sprawling neighborhood streets, lined with colorful pansy boxes and trees made it look closer to a noble girl’s make-believe town, complete with blue skies and cheerful brick roofs puffing out picturesque clouds of smoke. 

The sight should have brightened Enid’s spirits, but it only made her feel more depressed. Enkarien was pretty, like painted porcelain, but it didn’t have the same charm as Gophriel and even melancholy, seaswept Edranan. It was shallow like a puddle of rainwater turned diamond in the sunlight, nothing like the roaring tempest of home. Enid was sure that there were no ragtag bands of noisy children, wrestling in the dirt or chasing each other through the squares, only glowing, gilded dolls sat nicely at polished school desks or on shiny lawn benches. It was the most dead-alive place she’d ever seen. Mother would love it here, she thought. This is her ideal. 

Gods, did she miss her fussy, unadventurous mother. 

“Can we stay the night here?” Kirae asked. “Please?” 

“Weren’t you the one who just said that we needed to pick up our pace?” Enid replied, but she agreed. A part of her wanted to experience a snippet of time here, where nothing ever went wrong and rainbows shot the heavens with streaks of magic. 

As they marched down the hill and into the village, Enid found that even the air smelled flowery, like the sun was actually the bent head of a yellow rose gazing serenely down at the houses. She felt like the scent was invading her pores, weaving itself into her clothes and her hair like puppet strings. And the people. They all looked so content and pleasant, so at peace. Enid found herself feeling envious of them. She couldn’t remember a time in her life without turmoil. 

A little girl around her age sailed past on a spotted pony led by a young man. She looked perfectly happy, Enid observed, and her stare lingered on the elegant ribbons streaming from the girl’s waist and sun hat. The Enkarien girl’s eyes were a sparkly, cornflower hue and seemed to gleam with such grace and clarity that reminded Enid of a fairy princess’s. She rubbed her own eyes self-consciously, scrubbing away any dust that had accumulated on her face during their walk. The girl was probably an only child, and if she wasn’t, then she must have several other angelic siblings who were all robustly healthy and never had the need for rasroot extract. She could sob just thinking about it. 

“I knew a girl like that once,” Kirae whispered, nudging her elbow. “I was a governess for the Grand Duke’s two nieces in Azmoria for several months during my early days. Not the royal family, of course, but they could’ve been. They were lovely. Anvia and Juna. The sweetest noble girls I’ve ever met.” The goddess motioned toward the Enkarien girl’s pony. “They had a colt like that one, too.” 

“I can’t imagine you as a governess. Why’d you leave?” 

Kirae shrugged. “I stole their silverware.” 

Enid could picture Anvia and Juna, nieces of the Grand Duke, playing in a white gazebo in the springtime. She could imagine the Enkarien girl with them. Enid wondered what her life might be like if she was the Enkarien girl, the little princess atop her spotted pony. Perhaps she would never have heard of the perils of Daralin and Merillius and she might believe that all the gods were kind and merciful and generous. Enid wanted to hold her own head underwater somewhere and scream, to lament for that lost reality that she would never get to live, no matter how shallow and shiny it was. There had to be some fulfillment in it. 

Enid was tempted to wave at the girl, to offer her a quick, friendly smile as she glided by on silver wings she couldn’t even begin to behold. But she didn’t. She masked her thoughts in a placid, still face like the surface of an unruffled lake and walked on, watching at the gravel the tips of her boots kicked up in her wake. 

=-=-=-=-=

Mapix had been unnerved by Quarien since day one. His smell was what had originally caught her attention in the glade and had led her to the pair, the sharp redolence of a liar, spicy sweet like cinnamon with something else lingering underneath. The other god, Daralin, just smelled like wet dirt and wear, like a struggling gardener. But Quarien’s scent was unmistakable. 

Of course, Mapix had warned Daralin of such, but he seemed too pleased with their deal to take anything she said to heart. It saddened her a bit to sit with him, patiently declining gift after ridiculous gift he presented her in thanks, as she listened to Quarien skulking in the background. He knew she knew, Mapix thought, and he wanted to do something about that. He was waiting for an opening, like a lion camouflaged in the whispering, rough grasses of the savannah, creeping after a young, flighty gazelle. 

She stiffened as she heard the rustle of cloth next to her and cinnamon flooded her senses. 

“Quarien,” she acknowledged. 

“Mapix,” he replied. “Can we talk?” 

Mapix nodded and began to wave Daralin over, but Quarien grabbed her wrist. “Not with him. Alone.” 

She knew she shouldn’t. He could kill her where she stood. She was a sorceress but he was a god. And she was conserving her energy to beam them to Trenth. Mapix sent a silent prayer to Samaen, the god of destination, her patron, and followed Quarien into a secluded part of the forest. She knew these woods like she knew the grainy texture of her log tabletop and the bitter taste of her woodland tea. The knotted scars criss crossing her arms and back proved it, signs of a younger Mapix stumbling through the trees alone, learning where every root and rock marred the ground and where every sapling stood, listening carefully to the sounds of the undergrowth and reveling in how they bounced so casually off her senses. The earth here had its own, distinct rumble that she could hear and understand, heightened by the spells she’d cast on herself in order to lessen the effect of her blind state. 

This earth did not know of Quarien. He was an outsider, an intruder, and Mapix was counting on that fact to save her life if necessary. His footsteps were unfamiliar as he crashed carelessly through the bracken, and Mapix winced at the harsh noise. She would apologize to the weeds later, when she felt safer, when the two gods were long gone and the smell of cinnamon had been long since blasted out by the wind. 

“You remember our deal, of course?” Quarien said as they walked. “You teleport us to Trenth, we’ll take you to see the other sorcerers.” 

“I do.” 

“I’d like to alter that promise slightly,” he announced. “I’d like you to beam us to Enkarien instead.” 

“Enkarien?” Mapix asked. “Why?”

“I have two friends I need to get to Trenth with me,” Quarien responded lightly. “They’re arriving in Enkarien this afternoon. Do you think you could do that for me?” 

“Does Daralin know of this plan?” Mapix tilted her head to the side. His words carried the gentle lilt of omission. 

“Well, no,” Quarien wavered. Mapix’s skin prickled as waves of fear-lies-warning began to saturate the atmosphere around them like rain. “I’d like you to keep this a secret between us.” 

“What’s Daralin going to say when we end up in Enkarien instead of Trenth? What are you going to do when he asks you what’s going on? You haven’t put entirely enough thought into this.” 

“Actually,” he contradicted. “I have. My friend, Charvor, works with the other sorcerers and I. If you decline, you won’t be able to visit them.” He leaned in close to her, whispering even though she could hear him perfectly well. “Realistically, I’ll have to slit your throat.”

“What are you going to do if I just run away?” Mapix asked. 

“I’ll hunt you down,” he responded bluntly. “They don’t call me the conqueror for nothing.” 

“And what will you do with Daralin?” 

“I’ll kill him too.” There was nothing in his voice, hollow, but not the echo of an empty threat. The cinnamon faltered for a second, a lapse in its steady stream, and Mapix could feel that Quarien was telling the truth. He would hunt her down. 

“If you kill us,” she said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “We’ll just be reborn. There will be a new moon god and a new beamer. What will you do then?”

“Then I’ll kill you both over and over again, a million times if I have to, until you lose the will to exist and wither away.” 

Seeing her expression, Quarien shifted where he stood, stepping back. “Do we have a deal, then? You take us to Enkarien and then take my friends and I to Trenth?” 

It wasn’t a deal. It was an ultimatum. A final warning, per se. What was she to do? I don’t want to see you quite yet, Mother, Mapix thought before she smiled a half-grimace at the victory god and nodded, feeling as if she had just been teetering on the edge of a cliff and had been pulled away from the drop with a rope made of sharp, metal wire. “It’s a deal.” 

=-=-=-=-=

Send a reply to the Dwale branch in Enkarien. We have encountered a beamer who has agreed to aid our cause. We will meet in Enkarien on the afternoon of June 24th. Transfer the curse to Daralin then. 

Different notes, different days, different circumstances. The same goal. Messages and timelines converging, intertwining and grinding each other into fine sand slipping through an hourglass. 

It was only a matter of time now. Only a matter of time. 

=-=-=-=-=

Mapix took Daralin’s and Quarien’s arms and closed her eyes. She couldn’t picture Enkarien in her head, but she could imagine the soft breeze, the perfumed air, the gentle thrum of the village’s pleasantry imbued in the cobblestones. She focused on the ground under her boots, and she willed her destination to be true. 

Enkarien, she thought. Enkarien. 

Mapix opened her eyes and her senses were drowned in new sounds and vibrations, but above it all, Daralin’s confusion. 

She could already smell the jarring, metallic odor of his blood. 

=-=-=-=-= 

Landor had spotted them first, to his credit, but Charvor wasn’t about to give him any. He was too focused on what was to come as a wretched grin split his features when he saw Quarien’s white-blond hair stand out against the landscape. Next to him were two figures, a blind girl and a fellow dressed in all black, the beamer and Daralin, he assumed. They dismounted and walked toward the three. 

“Where are we?” he heard Daralin ask. 

The sorceress muttered something incomprehensible in reply, but Charvor could’ve sworn that she had said, “Enkarien.” 

Quarien noticed Charvor and Landor in the crowd and beamed. “Look who’s finally here.” 

Daralin and Mapix turned, and the moon god blanched in shock. “Landor?” he asked. 

Landor peeked out from behind Charvor and waved. “Hello,” he got out, and Daralin took a step back, motioning at Charvor. “Who’s he?”

“My name is Charvor,” Charvor answered. “It’s good to meet you, Daralin. I don’t think we’ve spoken before.” 

“No,” Daralin replied as the blind girl stared him down. Her expression was inscrutable, but Charvor thought he saw a flicker of dismay in those pale, unreadable eyes. 

He offered the moon god a handshake, which he warily took. 

“Well then,” he said, not letting go of Daralin’s hand and grinning widely. “Allow me to explain to you what I’m doing here.”

Instead of facing him, Daralin swiveled to glance at the beamer. “Mapix?” he questioned. “What’s going on? Quarien?” 

The sorceress and the conqueror didn’t answer, the former staring intently at the ground and the latter wearing a triumphant, mocking smile similar to Charvor’s. 

“Landor? Why won’t anyone tell me what’s going on?” 

Panic started to bleed into Daralin’s tone, and Charvor drank it in. This was his moment, and no one else’s. He wished he could paint the scene, capturing Daralin’s countenance and the beamer’s downcast eyes, Quarien’s and his victory, and Landor’s…well, Landor. Daralin tried to wrench out of Charvor’s grip, but it was like iron. Solid, he thought. Solid like stone. And so it was. 

“I am older than you and Merillius combined,” Charvor said, enjoying the way Daralin flinched at the mention of the sun god. “I was there when you two were born, suspended in the stars and in the core of the earth. I was always there, tying and cutting the strings, keeping the balance, giving you your way.”

His smile darkened. “That is, until you went and messed it all up, with your pettiness and jealousy and how you killed your own brother. Do you know how hard I worked to keep things together after your little spectacle? Can you even comprehend the pulling and snipping I had to do after that? First I had to plant that old captain in your path so you could set off the immortality curse, so you could send things so wildly off balance in an attempt to restore equilibrium?” 

“That wasn’t you,” Daralin answered, but it sounded more like a plea. “That was me. That was all me.” 

“You’re just a pawn in the end,” Charvor snapped, slithering out of his mask for a satisfying instant, observing Daralin recoil. “You’re all pawns in my game of chess. The problem with you is that you’re a pawn who thinks you’re a queen. You think you can move in any direction you please, only you can’t jump over things in your way. But no, little moon god. You’re just a pawn.” 

He gestured at Mapix and Landor. “They’re pawns, but at least they realize it.” 

As solid as stone, as fluid as a running stream, he thought over and over, a war cry or a sorcerer’s chant, it tickled something in him that had been asleep for ages too long. As solid as stone, as fluid as a running stream. Balance. 

“It was your fate all along,” Charvor said, tightening his grip as Daralin started to squirm and wriggle his way free. “We’re like star-crossed lovers, you and I, only we’re not lovers.” 

“What are you doing?” Daralin exclaimed as Quarien and a reluctant Mapix moved to stand by Charvor. 

“You were in the way from the beginning,” Charvor rasped. “Always ruining my plans. First the balance, now the restoration. It was my throne all along, Daralin. Mine. I was the one who put that sanguine crown on your head, and now I will be the one to take it away.”

Daralin sagged and Charvor could tell that the pain had begun to sink its claws in. He had had Landor describe the transfer experience to him--burning heat then searing cold followed by a short minute of unconsciousness. Charvor smiled and thought that he was feeling more and more powerful as his divinity rushed back into his veins. 

Finally, Daralin slumped to the ground and Charvor could see the strings again, like effulgent strands of thread spun by angels, connecting from person to person around them. All of them were knotted around his ankle, fetters in a way, but he felt free. 

He was just marveling at the way a box of crimson geraniums wilted at his will when someone called from a distance, “Daralin?” 

=-=-=-=-=

There was a small crowd flocking around the marketplace of Enkarien. No one noticed the commotion off to the side, away from the spotlight. No one but two travelers, one tall with tanned skin and the other small and slight, with signs of youth marked on her face like a leopard’s spots. It was a part of her.  

The young traveler heard the cry first. 

“What are you doing?” Frantic in an attempt to sound fearless. Panic poorly disguised as poise. 

The young traveler knew that voice. It was as familiar to her as the dirt paths of her hometown, as familiar as yellow fireworks bursting overhead and the thick scent of rasroot hanging in the air like a ghostly tapestry of death. It was as familiar as a black traveling bag and fires in the dusk, as familiar as an opal glittering in raven locks of hair and green eyes like peridots. But the dread was unrecognizable, an unwelcome figure at a family reunion. 

“Daralin?” she called, and the last of the sand fell to the bottom of the hourglass. 

=-=-=-=-=

Daralin woke up just in time to see Landor, Charvor, Quarien and Mapix disappear into thin air. He reached out in a futile attempt to catch the last fold of Quarien’s cloak before it vanished, but his arm dropped to his side, limp. He shuddered, tracing his fingers up and down his sleeves as he remembered the burning of his skin and then the icy plunge, and then it struck him like a slap. 

Daralin was mortal. 

He too, like all the cursed before him, would die. He felt like someone had roughly ripped the ending from his story and burned it away, leaving him with the torn edges stuck to the spine and the back cover. Daralin held his hand out, brushing the dead petals of the red geraniums Charvor had killed and they did not respond to his touch. Like him, they were gone forever. 

“Daralin!” 

He didn’t look up as he was hoisted to his feet, even though his savior’s voice triggered a thousand different memories at once, spread out in front of him a panorama of penance. When a strong hand took his chin and tilted up his face, he scrambled upright. Bruise colored eyes, framed by golden lashes, looked back into his own. He knew those eyes. 

“Merillius,” Daralin said hoarsely. 

“Not Merillius,” the sun goddess said. “Kirae. I am called Kirae now. And you, brother, can stand on your own.” 

Those words, familiar to him as shade is to a forest pond, washed over him, steadying him. 

“I know you,” he whispered. 

“Know yourself.” She let go of him and smiled. “Know yourself and know the truth.” 

Kirae’s voice was warm, like spilling sunshine. It soothed him, reminded him of kinder times when his burden didn’t cut as harshly into his shoulders. 

The solace was interrupted when Enid bowled him over, shouting and crying like the child she was. She wrapped her arms around his torso and squeezed, and Daralin patted her on the back. 

“I’m coming with you,” she said into his shirt. “I’m coming, and so is Kirae, and we’re going to get you your mountain back.” 

“Are you?” he asked, looking up at Kirae. 

“We’re going to ascend,” she answered with a streak of intensity. “We’re going to take our thrones, forge our own damn crowns, and we’re going to live happily ever after.” 

The thought came crashing back down on Daralin like thunder. “That sounds lovely,” he said wearily. “There’s one problem, though. One tiny, miniscule problem.” He hesitated, glancing at their glowing, expectant expressions and broke the tension. “I-I’m mortal now. And so is Enid.” 

=-=-=-=-=

The mountain air was cool, rippling through Mapix’s hair, and she knew what she had to do.

14 - The Only Stars To Light My Path

Kirae and Enid had taken the news surprisingly well. Daralin had assured the girl that he had lifted the memory spell on Gophriel before he was cursed and explained that the curse could be transferred back to Charvor if necessary. And if not, then there were always ways to kill gods. Daralin’s disappointment in Quarien was quickly converted into energy, meticulous planning and gathering supplies. 

He tried to avoid Kirae as much as possible. Daralin knew how dead gods worked. Merillius was in her head, speaking to her every waking moment and in her dreams, and he couldn’t face him, not even indirectly. Death didn’t change people that much, let alone gods, whose mannerisms were as concrete as time itself.

As for Enid, Daralin was just happy that she was by his side again. Her presence comforted him, and it was good to have someone watching his back who he trusted. You trusted Quarien, the little voice in his head murmured. Look where that got you. 

So Daralin kept busy, using his new workload to push away at the incessant buzzing in his head and his thoughts about what could be. 

“The ocean is not yours any longer,” he told himself, over and over. “Maybe one day it will be, but not now.” 

But he still felt the churn of the waves in his gut and its roar in his ears, like echoes of the dead and the lost ringing through a graveyard. The ocean was a part of him as much as his mortality was, and the sooner that he learned to accept both, the better. 

He kept himself occupied, just the same. 

Daralin was violently awoken by Kirae’s shout. He jolted upright and drew his broadsword, ready for an attack. He half expected to feel the shadows coursing through his capillaries, the comforting moonlight shedding power into his skin like an old friend’s embrace, but it never came. Daralin silently cursed and reminded himself to be careful. 

Daralin stood and scanned the perimeters of their camp, scrutinizing the darkness to check for any intruders. So this was what mortals saw. A seemingly endless void of swirling ink, the outlines of nearby trees faintly illuminated by the dying coals of Kirae’s fire, shrouding the village in a heavy, swathy mist, which only the moonlight penetrated. The nighttime was truly beautiful, Daralin thought distantly. He’d never experienced it like this. It was elusive, unknown to those who couldn’t see through it. 

Daralin shook his head and squinted into the dark, trying to spot any assailants. He stepped in between Kirae, who had a cutlass clutched in one hand, her other fist aflame, and a sleepy Enid, who was wildly waving around the golden rapier in chaotic, deadly circles. 

Out of the dark stumbled Mapix, who dropped to the ground in front of them, bleeding from a long gash in her right forearm. 

“Nice to see you again,” she said bitterly. “Nearly just died for you. Now can one of you do something about the lovely little nick in my arm before I bleed to death?” 

“Was that supposed to be a joke?” Daralin said numbly as Kirae knelt next to her, pulling flasks out of her pockets, doing her best to soothe the wound. 

“Are you the sorceress?” Kirae asked. 

Mapix turned her head toward Kirae’s voice. “Yes,” she informed her. “You smell like sunshine and rainbows.”

Kirae smiled grimly as she poured something acidic over the cut. “Thank you,” she replied as Mapix gritted her teeth to suppress a yelp of pain. 

Wrapping bandages around the sorceress’s arm and tying a spare blanket around her shoulder as a sling, the goddess said, “It’s going to take a while to heal, at least two weeks and it’ll probably scar. Was it Quarien?” 

Mapix nodded. “He caught me trying to run away and got me in the arm with one of his fancy new throwing axes.” She shrugged. “He was aiming for my chest, so it could’ve been much worse. I got away in time, though.” 

“You beamed them to Trenth,” Daralin said, voice growing with pent up anger. “And you have the gall to show up here?” 

“Look.” Mapix sighed and cradled her bandaged arm. “I’m sorry. He threatened to kill me, you know. Pulled me aside, gave me the threat-talk, told me not to tell you. He would’ve hunted the both of us down.” 

Daralin tensed, realizing what he could’ve missed. 

“He didn’t mention that Charvor was going to curse you,” she continued. “He couldn’t reveal all his cards at once. I teleported them away for me, and for you too.” 

“Then why are you back?” The venom was gone; his words were like an empty snakeskin, the poisonous vessel nowhere to be seen. 

“I picked my own godforsaken destiny.” Mapix raised her head and looked directly into Daralin’s eyes, pearl meeting peridot. “Maybe I’m meant to die someday, but I decided that I’m going to be the one who chooses how.” 

She stood up and patted Kirae’s shoulder. “Thanks for the bandages,” she said. “I’ve just made three incredibly energy-consuming trips in a day, so if I could rest for a bit before we leave, that’d be absolutely fantastic.” 

“Of course,” Kirae answered. “I doubt the rest of us will be falling asleep anytime soon, anyway.” 

Mapix strode over to Kirae’s bedding and lay down. “Daralin,” she said. “Do you want to talk?” 

He trudged over and sat down next to her form. They were quiet for a few seconds as Enid went back to sleep out of earshot and Kirae settled back into her watch. 

“Landor’s a good person,” Mapix said gently, breaking the silence. “He’s just naive in the ways of the world, as kids tend to be.” 

“He’s millenia older than you,” Daralin pointed out. “You’re only nineteen.” 

“Once a sixteen year old boy, always a sixteen year old boy,” she remarked, and Daralin noticed with a pang of sadness that she was just echoing his own thoughts when he had stood proudly in front of a decaying castle in the woods, where his journey began. 

“I spoke with him briefly before I ran off,” Mapix went on. “He said that Charvor promised that he’d insert Landor back into his life before the curse. Pulling strings, he called it.” 

At Daralin’s stricken look, she added, “We both know that that’s impossible. He’s powerful, but not that powerful.” 

“That’s a power no one should have,” Daralin acknowledged, shivering slightly. 

“It’s a complete lie.” 

“I gave him a chance.” Daralin tucked his knees under his chin and began to slowly rock himself back and forth. “He could have been a hero. He’s had so many chances.” 

“He’s desperate,” she said. “He hasn’t been happy for a long time, Daralin. At least you got to meet Enid, and you have your ocean and your dreams. Landor has nothing except his past and his faith in death. How depressing is that?” 

Mapix’s gaze seemed to soften, reflecting the starlight. “He really is empty, and Charvor offered him the one thing to fill him back up. Of course he didn’t deny him.” 

“I offered him freedom from his curse. I offered him companionship.” 

“But Charvor offered him happiness.” Mapix closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Freedom is terrifying. Companionship hurts. But it’s the price we pay for love.” There was the trace of a frown lingering on her face. “A price Landor wasn’t willing to pay.” 

They were quiet again as Daralin absorbed everything she had said. Nineteen years old and already too wise for her age. He suddenly had a glimpse of the kind of person Enid would become. 

“Mapix,” he finally ventured. “Do you have any dreams?”  

“Dreams?” she repeated. “I can’t say that I do.” 

“I want to live by the ocean someday,” he said. “I want to have a boat and go out onto the water every morning until I die.” 

“What about Karanis?” 

“I don’t know,” Daralin admitted. “I just--in another life, if I were fated to be a mortal man, I’d want to live in a cottage on the sea.”

Mapix smiled and folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t know what you’re fated to be,” she said. “But if that’s something that you really want, then embrace it and live it with all your heart. Just like Landor chose his past, you can choose yourself.” 

“The difference between destiny and fate, right?” 

She nodded and settled into the blankets. “Right.” 

The stars over Enkarien were numerous and shining, like a careless child had flung a handful of glitter over someone’s funeral garb, and Daralin fell asleep. 

If a hawk saw Trenth from its place in the sky, it would see a stretch of precariously built, well-loved buildings crammed into the foothills of the Eastern mountains, as if a wandering peddler had come across the land in his travels and decided to settle down for a moment, a moment that had turned into a day, then a year, then a century, then a thousand centuries more. Trees sprouted from fissures in the old roads and ivy ran rampant around the lichen-eaten wires of fence gates, green on green. Daralin might have enjoyed their visit if he wasn’t so paranoid that Quarien or Charvor might walk up behind him and embed an axehead or two into his back. 

“Do you think you can beam yourself back?” Kirae asked, worrying over Mapix’s arm. 

“Obviously not yet,” Mapix said. “I’ll find an inn somewhere. I’ll be fine.” She shrugged Kirae off and smiled, running her fingers over the jagged scar poking out of her shirt collar. “I’ve had worse.” 

The goddess winced. “I don’t trust you.” 

“You don’t trust yourself either, but you seem to be fine.” Mapix turned and began to walk away. “Good luck!” she called, and the three watched as her figure melted away into the mountain vista. 

10 Arbor Street in Trenth’s eastern sector was no different than the rest of the buildings, only a wreath of purple flowers and twisted twine hung from the door, encircling a heavy brass knocker. Daralin reached up and grabbed it, letting it hit the yellow painted door a few extra times for good measure.

 “I’m coming!” came a voice from inside, and the door opened to reveal a wide set woman in her forties with short, ecru hair cropped at her chin and watery blue eyes. “Can I help you?” 

Daralin cleared his throat. “We’re looking for Kisa. Um, her sister sent us here.” 

“And who are you three, exactly?” 

“Her sister’s friends.” 

The woman smiled. “Which sister, then?” 

“Prain. The fourth.” 

To Daralin’s relief, the woman said no more to them, only turned toward the house and shouted, “Keese, you’ve got visitors!” 

A woman who reminded him of a thin, tall tree topped with yellow leaves appeared by her side, presumably Kisa. “Prain sent you?” she asked as the first woman bustled away. 

“Yes,” Daralin confirmed. “See, we’re…we’re scholars looking to do some more research on the history of Mount Karanis and Prain said that the people of Trenth would know where the ruins are.”

“We do,” Kisa answered. “But why didn’t Prain come herself?” She peered behind Daralin and saw Enid and Kirae, standing by awkwardly. “The little girl’s a part of your expedition too?” 

Enid frowned. “I’ll have you know, I am essential to--” 

“Prain said that her place was in the library compound,” Daralin interrupted. “Mentioned that she wouldn’t be of much help, anyway.”

“`Course she wouldn’t,” Kisa muttered. “I bet she’s forgotten all the stories since she left us.” She inhaled deeply and smiled faintly. “Come in,” she said. “I’m sure Iri will love to meet you.” 

Iri turned out to be Liriope, the second of Prain’s sisters, another columnar tree of a person just like Kisa. They were interchangeable in Daralin’s mind, like two identical boxed dolls on a shelf. They could have been twins for all he knew, but he noticed Liriope had a light sprinkle of freckles across her nose and used that to remember who was who. 

“Kirae, Enid and Daralin,” Kisa said, pointing to them respectively. 

“Daralin?” Liriope questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Like the god?” 

“My mother named me after the striking resemblance,” he said smoothly. “I’m not a god, though.” Not anymore, at least. 

The ruins were a day’s walk from Trenth, though no one knew the condition of the path because the people of Trenth believed it was cursed. “It was teeming with gods at some point,” Kisa said, shuddering. “Gods. Can you imagine?” 

To their credit, neither Kirae nor Daralin batted an eye at the last remark. 

“Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something?” Liriope cut in. “Isn’t this for research?” 

“We don’t need to take notes,” Enid said wryly. “It’s part of the scholar thing. We’re like magic.” 

“You have an older sister?” 

“I do.” 

“Seems like it.” 

“Can we leave tomorrow?” Daralin asked. “Can you take us to the ruins? In the name of research?” 

“I’m not setting foot in that place,” Kisa said firmly. “You know the stories right? About Ehren Loyrin? He went there during the solar eclipse with some men and Daralin cursed him.” Glancing at Daralin, she added, “No offense to your namesake.” 

“Sounds pleasant,” he murmured and Kirae patted his shoulder reassuringly. 

“A few travelers arrived here just yesterday,” Liriope told them. “They were set on seeing the ruins as well.” 

“Any idea where they are now?” Enid asked, leaning forward in her seat. 

“Joriene,” Kisa called into the kitchen where the woman who had greeted them was, wiping dishes and eavesdropping. “Any idea where those travelers from yesterday are? Y’know, the ones with the blind girl and the ax man?” 

“I think they stayed at the Marneyses inn last night,” Joriene replied. “I’m not completely sure they’re still there.” 

“Are they scholars too?” Kisa inquired, and Daralin almost laughed. He wasn’t even sure Quarien knew how to read. 

“They’re not,” Kirae said. “Just acquaintances.” 

“Right then.” Kisa stood up, a signal that it was time for them to leave, and began to escort them toward the door. “It was nice meeting you,” she said. “The Marneyses live six blocks down to the right.” She practically shoved them outside with a quick smile. “Good luck in your research.” 

Kisa was about to close the door when she seemed to remember something and tapped Daralin on the shoulder. “If you see Prain before I do,” she said. “Tell her I said hello, and that if she’s ever in the area, she should visit. We miss her, Iri and I and then Farah, Haven and Relina.” 

She nodded in farewell and Daralin could see the mortal in her for a moment, less lacquer and more life. “Goodbye,” she said, and then she was gone and the yellow door was closed. 

=-=-=-=-=

Landor noticed that there were three prominent members of the subculture that was the Marney establishment. First, there was the Marney’s eight-year-old son, Shodur, who captured the clients’ affections with his dewy, gray eyes framed with soft brown lashes and his silver tongue. Then, there was Cereus, less elegant than Shodur in his middle age and sun-beaten raw after more than half his life venturing up and down the Oaranoe River. Finally, there was Deotz, the old rich lady of Trenth who often bought several rounds of drinks for the travelers. She bought Landor his first ale after mishearing his age and ordering one for him. 

“This boy’s got arms skinnier than mine!” Deotz crowed, grabbing Landor’s forearm and holding it up for the whole inn to see. “Tell me, boy, how old are you?” 

“Sixteen.” 

“Eighteen?” 

“...Sixteen.” 

“He’s eighteen, people, and yet he still looks like he could be twelve, just a couple years older than Shodur here.” She laughed loudly and dropped his arm. “Someone get this kid a drink, on me. Alcohol warms the bones.” 

Cautiously, Landor looked Charvor and Quarien’s way for a second for assent, but Quarien was passed out in a corner while Charvor held a hand of cards, glaring at a young girl who had stacks of coins, his coins, prettily lined up on their table. There was no one to save him now. 

“Where are you from, kid?” 

“East Tully,” he said, not expecting her to know where it was. 

Instead of nodding and backing down, Deotz nodded approvingly, giving Landor an appraising grin. “That’s where my family’s from. You’ve got Eastern blood, then. Let’s see how much spirit you’ve got in you.” 

She reached over the counter and slid a tankard of ale in front of him. “Go for it,” she said to his hesitancy. 

He tipped the pitcher to his lips and began to drain it, bit by bit as the rest of the bar took notice and began to egg him on. Finish it, finish it, echoed through the rafters of the building and Landor was sure that even Herelia, on the other side of Welven could hear them. He downed the last of the ale and slammed the tankard onto the table, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, but better. It was like the stinging tickle of the drink had burned away the cloud of dread that had hung overhead ever since he had joined the Dwale, and hadn’t Charvor told them to drown their sorrows in alcohol until the world swam with it? Quarien certainly had. Landor was just following suit. Charvor had been furious when Quarien reported Mapix’s escape, which Landor had pretended to know nothing about. They had spoken before she disappeared, and any drunken idiot could tell by her tone that she had no intention of staying. Mapix was much too stubborn to be tied down, and much too fearless to care about the threat of death. Landor knew what Quarien had offered her, an opportunity to meet the other sorcerers, but she knew her place in all of this, the elaborate tapestry of destiny that Landor saw as a clump of tangled strings. She knew what she was willing to sacrifice, and what she was sacrificing for. Landor envied her in that way. 

He was distantly aware that Deotz was pounding him on the back, hollering something either obscene or just plain loud, and he smiled weakly. 

“Care for another?” she asked. “Next round’s on me again.”

Landor nodded. “Yes please,” he said, and the bar erupted in raucous applause and laughter. 

“I’ve never heard of a kid with this kind of hold on his liquor,” Deotz announced some time later after Landor had imbibed several tankards. “Not in the mountains anyway, not since Leighla Wairen.” 

The name snapped Landor from his stupor. “How do you know Leighla Wairen?” he asked. 

“She’s my great-times-a-thousand-greats grandmother,” Deotz said proudly. “She’s from East Tully too, you know. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. Drinking legend.” 

“Oh.” Landor looked at the floor, trying to imagine his sweet little sister out and about, at home at mountain pubs on wild nights like these, the life of the party. Strangely enough, he could. And he could see the faint resemblance, preserved through their family’s generations like fossils buried under layers of silty sand in the ocean floor. The dimple in Deotz’s left cheek, the flicker of merriment in her eyes, the way she folded her arms behind her back while sitting because she wasn’t sure what to do with them. It was all vaguely familiar to Landor, and it made him realize how close he was to home. There was a piece of it, nestled in the nooks of Deotz’s soul, a piece he had once carried too, only his had been eroded away by time. It was baffling to think that he was technically her distant uncle, when she seemed fifty-five years older. 

At some point that night, the tides of ale took him, and his chin dropped to his chest as he fell asleep. 

“The beamer is asleep in the room next door. I know you knew of her plan to escape.” 

Landor woke to a husky whisper in his ear. He was still in the bar, now empty, draped over a chair. He must’ve fallen asleep. Something cold was pressed into his hand, and his fingers curled around it instinctively. A dagger. 

“I will let it slide just this once,” the voice continued, and Landor could now tell that it was Quarien’s. “I’ll keep it to myself if you kill her right now. If not, I’ll kill you both.” 

His voice was harsh and high, like the scrubbing of a steel sponge against a frying pan. It wasn’t the scent of spirits on his clothes that made Landor grip the dagger and stand up. It was the lack thereof. Quarien was perfectly sober and alert, and that terrified Landor more than anything in the world, perhaps even more than Charvor himself. He imagined the two spanking new axeheads Quarien had purchased, one lodged in his chest, one in Mapix’s. Better one life than none, the voice in his head muttered, and he complied. 

=-=-=-=-=

The ruins were elysian. They should have been, as the once-home of the gods, but they still took Daralin’s breath away. It was mostly gray and brown rocks, but occasionally poking out from the rubble were pieces of white marble dusted with age, gilded with silver and gold molding in the shapes of vines and leaves. Much of it had collapsed back into the earth, grown over by moss and bracken, but Daralin thought it was beautiful all the same. He could have stayed there, basking in the center of it for all eternity to come if not for the fact that Charvor was probably not far behind them. He could be lurking in the forest as they stood. 

“Here’s the plan,” Enid said as Kirae craned her neck to stare around her. “We kill Quarien and Landor, disable Charvor, change the curse and then Daralin turns me mortal so you two can ascend.” 

Daralin blanched. “Who said we have to kill Quarien and Landor?” 

“I did,” Enid answered. “Quarien’s only going to come for our necks as soon as he gets the chance, and Landor is--” 

“Landor is a misled kid with no one to look to other than Charvor,” Daralin interrupted. “I’m not killing him.” 

“Fine, he can live, but Quarien has to die.” 

“As long as I don’t have to kill him.” 

“I’ll take Quarien and Landor,” Kirare offered. “Daralin can take care of Charvor.” 

“What am I going to do, then?” the girl protested. “I want to help! That’s not fair!” 

The goddess and the mortal eyed her. “You’re a child,” Daralin pointed out casually. “And you’re also incredibly vulnerable when it comes to violence.” 

“Stabbing things isn’t that hard,” she claimed. 

“You looked like you were going to faint when I asked you to kill the viscountess.” 

“That was my first time!” 

“Enid, I swear to all the gods, you need to stay out of the fight.” Daralin crossed his arms, a sign of finality. “I can’t have you getting hurt because we need you to ascend.” 

“You don’t even want to ascend! If it were up to you, you’d rather stay mortal and live in a remote beach town somewhere by yourself for the rest of your life,” Enid said fiercely. “You’re scared of it, so don’t act so high and mighty.” 

“You don’t?” Kirae asked. “I thought that was why I came along.” 

“You don’t want to ascend either,” Daralin exclaimed. “Don’t you just want to pawn away the sword?” 

“I’m done being in denial of who I really am,” she shot back. “I know my place in all of this, and I’m not going to be a wimp and run away from it. I already did that for a million years, but I know what I have to do. The sword would sell for a lot, but that money’s just temporary. Coins slide in and out of your hands in an instant.” 

“Are you calling me a wimp?” 

“Are you saying that you’re not?” Enid cut in. “I’ve been telling you all along. You’re a coward, and if you’re not going to admit it to yourself, then someone has to.” 

“You can call me a thousand different things,” Daralin bristled. “But you can’t ever call me a coward.” 

“Just did.” Enid stuck out her tongue. “What are you going to do about it, coward? Too scared to accept it?” 

“My, my, my.” Charvor’s voice cleaved their argument like an arrowhead through flesh. “Falling apart at the seams, are we?” 

Enid drew the golden rapier, Kirae her cutlass, Daralin his broadsword, in one graceful, practiced motion, fluid like the opening of an eagle’s wings. 

“We can do this nicely,” Daralin said slowly. “Please.” 

Charvor lips quirked into a slightly amused frown as Landor and Quarien fanned out next to him, blades glimmering in the afternoon sun like the sleek backs of minnows in a creek. “I stopped doing things ‘nicely’ a long time ago,” he replied. “The only way ends in death, which I’m sure you’re well aware of.” 

“Your death,” he corrected himself. “I didn’t intend on dying off just as soon as I regained my power.” 

“We can resolve this peacefully,” Daralin pleaded. “And then you can go back to the Dwale and live your life.” 

“Idiot,” Charvor said, waving his hand flippantly in Daralin’s face. “The whole purpose of the Dwale was for this moment to be executed perfectly.” He leveled the tip of a simple falchion at the ex-god’s heart. “Say your goodbyes. Your blood will restore the mountain in my name. You should feel honored, really.” 

“You don’t have to kill anyone,” he wheedled, feeling foolish for even trying. “That’s not how the magic works.” 

“It is,” Charvor responded, only fake gaiety decorating his words. “Why do you think it needed a mortal? The mortal shall die from the immortal’s blade. Very poetic.” 

“T-That’s not how Merillius would have wanted it!” 

“It wasn’t Merillius that set it into place,” Charvor hissed, and the look on Daralin and Enid’s faces said it all. 

“Anyway,” he continued brightly. “I thought you might want this.” He waved Quarien forward, who dropped something at their feet. A strangely shaped form, swaddled in cloth. Kirae stepped forward and ripped the cover away to reveal Mapix’s cold, dead body, dried russet blood encrusted around the dagger in her chest. 

15 - The Difference Between Destiny And Fate

Kirae ducked as an ax buried its head in the tree behind her, barely missing her skull. She stayed crouched as it came whizzing backward, redrawing its lethal arc, cracking back into Quarien’s grasp. Landor hung back, regret lining the corners of his eyes and his shaking fingers, but shuffled forward when Quarien barked an order at him. 

He’s just a kid, she thought, flicking her hand in front of her as a wave of fire rolled toward the conqueror, who had begun to advance. Smoke billowed into the sky and Kirae heard Daralin yell Enid’s name, probably screaming for her to get out of the fray. 

The smoke stung her eyes and she coughed. If it was bad for her, it was probably worse for Quarien and Landor. That was good. That was also when she realized that she was engulfed in flames, flames lapping at her clothes and spiraling around her limbs. A tornado of fire, whirling and spinning, all hers. She felt powerful, powerful like she had never felt before. 

She was Kirae Tourney, and she was the goddess of the sun, strings be damned. 

Kirae could hear Charvor shouting over the fire boiling in her head as the clash of metal echoed through the ruins, falchion against broadsword, cutlass against ax. 

She realized that she was rusty, having only been in streetlight scuffles in the cities and easygoing bar brawls, but Merillius chanted instructions in her head, which she listened to. Step forward. Lunge. Spring back. Duck. Release fire. Parry. Parry. And so they went. 

“What are you doing?” Quarien roared at Landor, who stood behind him, petrified, silent. “Get in the fight!” 

He wordlessly shook his head, sheathing his sword and stepping back. He opened his mouth to say something, to beg for his life, to scream, but no sound came out. Kirae pitied him. Quarien whirled around to face Landor, forgetting about her for a second. 

“You better take out that sword of yours,” he snarled. “You better take out that goddamned sword of yours, or I’ll…I’ll chop you in half like the stupid animal you are.” 

Landor gripped his scabbard and pulled, detaching it from his belt. He dropped it on the ground in front of him and stared defiantly into Quarien’s eyes, smoldering like lit coals. 

“Get on with it, then,” he said hoarsely. “Hurry up and kill me.” 

Kirae thought Quarien might combust right then and there. Where Charvor had an eerie poise, a type of twisted control over his feelings, all Quarien had was a yawning expanse of raw flesh, a torn, humorless maw of insanity. She wondered how he had kept it hidden from Daralin for so long. 

“Very well then,” Quarien replied, a carnal grin overtaking his features, suppressing any anger left in him. “Any last words, Landor Wairen?” 

She didn’t want to watch Landor die, but there was nothing she could do. The events were already set in motion, and Kirae knew that trying to stop its course would be like trying to pause time. This was Landor’s choice, and she would not interfere. Kirae smiled, one proud tear running down her cheek, sizzling on her skin. 

“I will never be a hero,” Landor breathed, swiftly removing the sword from its sheath and tearing it across his own neck, turning his head toward Kirae so he didn’t have to see evil as Quarien’s ax flew through the air. By the time it sank into his back, he was already dead. 

There was no time to mourn. Quarien was already regaining his composure, and the tides of battle were upon them again. 

=-=-=-=-=

Landor smelled flowers and knew he was home. 

=-=-=-=-= 

“Come and get me!” Charvor screamed over the din. 

Daralin couldn’t see much, not with the smoke emanating from Kirae’s fury and the daze of the fight. He was just a husk, fighting against the god of fate and destiny and balance, like denial trying to fight old age. Death was inevitable at this point. It was forthcoming. 

He had roughly shoved Enid away when Charvor had charged, sending her sprawling on her hands and knees in the shrubbery. She had a weapon, he remembered. She had the rapier. She was not completely helpless. 

A shadow blurred in front of him and Daralin thrust forward with his sword arm, but Charvor just laughed and parried his attack away. “Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted. “Come on, at least put up a fight before I kill you and your friends.” 

The thought of Enid’s body curled around the tip of Charvor’s blade jarred Daralin out of his reverie. He jabbed at the god again, awakened, at the ready. 

The smoke gave the sky a metallic tint and made the sun look like battered brass. They exchanged teeth-shattering blow after blow, steel and iron screaming through the air and clashing together, releasing sparks. At one point, Daralin tripped over something limp on the ground, and with a squeak of horror realized that it was an arm. Whose arm, he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t have the time to find out before Charvor slammed the falchion toward his head. He was barely able to lift his sword up to block it in time, and nearly dropped it on impact. Well, then. It seemed that Daralin had finally found his match. 

The steady thrum of adrenaline filled his ears, a drumbeat that matched the pumping of his heart and the rhythmic sweeping of his steps. Light on your feet, he ordered himself. Shift your weight. 

“I think the first thing I’ll do after I become king is rebuild the world from scratch,” Charvor said decidedly. “Kill everyone and then remake everything. It’s the best way to restore balance.” 

“I think I’ll kill Enid first,” he continued. “I’ll have Kirae burn off her skin and then have Quarien kill Kirae. And then I suppose I’ll have to finish off Quarien, because really, I wasn’t going to share the throne in the first place with another vengeful, backstabbing god.” 

His tone was casual, almost conversational, as if they were friends discussing inconsequential things like the weather or the number of bushels of wheat reaped from the harvest. 

“I think I’ll just kill you instead,” Daralin replied in the same manner. “I wanted this to play out differently, but as you said, all the paths lead in death.” 

“Your death,” Charvor informed him. 

“We’ll see.” 

They could have been fighting for hours or seconds, an eternity or the first breath of a lifetime. They were in their own world, a world of cruel, fisted hands and the sharp clang of blades. They were two impossible beings, a god turned mortal and a mortal turned god, hanging in suspense, headfirst in the chaos but submerged in their own realm of solitude. There was only the swinging of their swords, the smoky air, the packed dirt underneath them, and their minds, raging for control. 

Daralin’s focus was broken when he unconsciously brought the pommel of his sword onto the shaft of Daralin’s falchion, shattering it into a thousand lethal fragments scattered around the clearing. 

“You did not,” Charvor said playfully, seeming not to care. 

“I did,” was the wry answer. 

Charvor grinned and dodged to the side, avoiding Daralin’s swipe, and seized something in the undergrowth. He dragged his catch upward, and Daralin could see that it was a wriggling, screaming Enid, streaked gray with soot and ash. Charvor tore the rapier from her hands and deposited it by his feet like it was nothing to him. 

“No!”

The cry escaped his lips before he could think, before he could chastise himself for revealing his cards. Charvor knew Enid would be a weakness of his, and he’d already lost the chance to bluff. Enid twisted her head in an attempt to bite his forearm, but he jerked her chin upwards so she was headlocked. Any sudden movement would surely snap her neck. Charvor’s arm snaked around her throat and began to squeeze. 

Daralin looked down at himself and saw that he already had his sword pointed at Charvor’s heart. If he wanted to ram it through, he’d have to go through Enid first. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Kirae, who had Quarien on his knees, cutlass poised between his eyes. She drove it through without hesitation. There are ways to kill gods. 

“Let her go,” Daralin growled. 

Charvor applied more pressure on Enid’s neck, and she struggled in his grip, twisting and straining, but it was no use. He would suffocate her to death with a smile. 

“Make your choice!” Charvor shrieked. “Her or you?” 

“Don’t do it!” she choked. “There has to be another way!”  

There are ways to kill gods. Even the mighty will fall. The words pounded over and over in his head, a curse, a blessing, a chant of war. Enid squirmed as her face morphed into a purplish-blue from the effort. His decision was made. Daralin took a step forward and dropped his sword. It clattered to the ground, echoing through the glade like funeral tolls. 

“Let her go,” he repeated, softer this time. 

“Daralin!” Enid shouted. “Please--” 

She was cut off as Charvor flung her aside. She tried to scramble forward, but Daralin put out a hand to stop her. “Wait,” he said. “Go away, Enid. This is my fight.” 

“You’re not going to die for me like some hero!” Enid said fiercely. “I’m not going to let you do that!”
“You couldn’t stop me, even if you tried, little gremlin girl,” he murmured. “Let me do this for you. Just this much.” 

Daralin stood in front of Charvor and raised an eyebrow expectantly. “I broke your falchion,” he reminded the god. 

“Fortunately, I have a spare.” Charvor bent down and picked up the rapier from where he had left it after wrenching it out of Enid’s hands. The iolite glimmered reproachfully in the sun, and Daralin smiled numbly. He’d seen that look before, plastered all over Merillius’s face. He’d see it again, soon enough. There are ways to kill gods. 

 Charvor kicked him to his knees and without a second thought, plunged the point of the rapier through his chest, skewering him like a slab of meat. Daralin gasped and sputtered weakly as Charvor shoved it further. Crimson blood fountained and pooled in his lap, a liquid pool of destiny and fate intertwined, and his lungs felt like they were wet clay burning in a potter’s kiln. Somewhere far away, he heard a guttural scream, the clank of metal, and something flopped down beside him. 

Daralin knew he could have beaten Charvor had he really tried. He gagged and raised a hand to his mouth. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Above him towered Enid, shocked frown on her ghost-pale face, a spray of blood decorating her shirt, fingers still gripped around his broadsword. Its tip was stuck in Charvor’s back and she had one foot on his side. Enid screamed again, closed her eyes and ripped it out of him. There are ways to kill gods.

“No!” Charvor wailed. “Not this time!” 

He took a ragged breath and coughed up blood. “I am the universe!” he howled. “I am destiny and fate itself! I am--!” 

He heaved again and lay still, dead.

Enid knelt next to Daralin as Kirae rushed over, cutlass gleaming scarlet and silver in the sunshine. She worried over his wound for a second, wringing her hands, before he pushed her away. The hole throbbed, but he was careful not to remove the blade. He’d only die faster. He wheezed in the smoke and looked up, straining his eyes to see the sky one final time. 

The sun was beginning to set. It looked less like brass now, Daralin thought idly. More like gold. It dipped closer and closer toward the horizon, staining the clouds pomegranate pink and orange and mauve, as if Merillius was coming to meet him on a paint splattered chariot of radiance. He would miss sunsets. Even the mighty will fall. 

“We’ll save you!” Enid said frantically, pacing back and forth, wracking her mind for a plan. “Just hold on for a few more minutes and we’ll figure something out!” 

“Should we take out the sword?” 

“Don’t you dare!” 

Daralin tried to chuckle, but it came out as a groan. “We all know that I’m going to die,” he remarked. “There’s no use trying to save me now. Just let me go.” A dark rivulet of blood traced his cheek as he spoke, like spilt wine dribbling down his face. Enid wiped it away with her sleeve, white faced. 

“You can’t die,” she ordered. “I won’t let you.” 

“How many times are you going to say that before you learn?” Daralin whispered. It hurt too much to speak. “I don’t care.” 

Kirae put her hand on Enid’s shoulder, but was promptly shrugged off. “It’s too late,” she said. “He’s dying.” 

“What am I going to do without you?” Enid asked. “You promised that you’d visit me. You promised. And you owe me. I helped you restore Karanis and now you’re dying and--” 

“I lifted the immortality curse a while ago,” he answered calmly. Even in the face of death, he was serene. “And the memory spell. I knew this day would come.” 

“A new moon god will arrive,” he said to Kirae. “I will be a part of him, as Merillius is a part of you.” 

“He loves you,” she replied solemnly. “He loves you and he forgives you.” 

Daralin smiled sadly, his eyes crinkling at the corners like flower petals. “Bury me by the sea, will you?” he croaked. “I think…” He exhaled, a last goodbye. “I think I would’ve liked…” 

His heart was pounding in his head now, growing ever fainter. I think I would’ve liked to live by the sea, he thought, unable to get any sound out. 

The last of Daralin’s words trickled out of him like rainwater from a gutter, and then he was no more. The mountain seemed to sigh and creak as stones began to hum and shake in their resting places. There was a flash of light, and then everything that they had worked for and everything they had tried to avoid, a despondent sun goddess and a grieving girl cradling the head of a corpse close to her heart, and behind them a palace of marble and glass spiraling into the heavens. The mountain was restored, and Daralin lay at the foot of it, at home, and finally at peace. 

In another existence, in another timeline, had he been born to a mortal mother in a seaside town of the West, he could have been free. He could have been a child of the ocean, with soft eyes rather than acidic green, with suntanned skin rather than bone pale, he could have been careless rather than listless, he could have been anyone else.