I found that I wanted to experience it for myself, to live among them as they did, as if at any moment life could be stolen from me. I wanted to discover love, to feel happiness. And so, I created a life for myself in Elscar.”
Elscar? Garren knew that name. It was a town south of the Phantom Wood that bordered the Bay of Sorrows. He knew something catastrophic had happened there long ago and now it lay in ruin, forgotten amid the Bad Lands.
Craters the size of entire towns covered the land, the ground loose and erratic. Smoke still billowed from it, like a volcano on the verge of eruption. It could be seen all the way from the King’s road. He had seen it with his own eyes as he traveled north. It was as if an eternal flame burned beneath it. Many explorers had been swallowed whole by the Bad Lands, lost beneath the shifting ash and sand, never to be seen again.
“You lived in the Ruined City, along the Bay of Sorrows?”
“Yes, but it was not ruined then, and the bay was called the Gulf of Wonders.” Her eyes sparkled with an array of emotions. “It was a dazzling city full of wealth, light, and happiness. It was even more spectacular than the Sovereign City. But there is no one left alive today to tell of its beauty, of its people.”
“Except for you,” Garren cut in.
“What?” she questioned, caught off guard.
“You remember its beauty, its people.”
A soft smile illuminated her face for a fleeting moment before darkening into sadness once more. “Yes, but they are all gone because of me. An entire civilization wiped out in a single day, all because I wanted to feel love like they did.”
“And did you?” Garren’s voice was a low rumble. Something in his chest tightened as he anticipated her response. He turned away from her, surprised by the sudden rush of feeling that his simple question had sparked.
“I did,” she whispered.
Something shifted between them–an understanding at that moment. They had both lost so much. Garren took her hand in his, bringing it to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss upon it, letting his lips linger on the warmth of her skin, breathing in the scent of her.
“His name was Darragh,” she finally said. “He was a grand painter, extraordinarily talented. He was the light to my darkness. Good and carefree, unlike me in so many ways.”
“Did he know what you”–he cleared his throat–“who you are?”
Her smile was tender. “No. He thought me to be human, just like him. I think of him every day.”
“How did you lose him?” Garren inquired.
“That is part of the rest of my story.” Her grin fell into a frown. Garren squeezed the hand he was still holding, bringing it to rest in his lap and placing his other hand atop it.
“As I said before, it is forbidden for a god or goddess to be with a being created by my brother, Orrick. Anthes found me here and commanded me to leave and return to the High City as overseer of the mortal world under him, to be his right hand once again.”
“Anthes?” Garren questioned. “The god of war and trickery.”
“Yes.” Oriana took a deep breath and her entire body went rigid before continuing. “I refused him, and so he took Darragh and the entire town of Elscar from me. Destroying everything I loved. When I still would not go with him, he cursed me for eternity. You see, I couldn’t bear to leave this world. I fell so deeply and irrevocably in love with humanity that even though all those I had loved were gone, merely ash upon the wind, I couldn’t leave. Mortals are a strange creation, something completely unexpected and surprising to come from my brother's hand. They know their lives are short and will eventually end in death, yet they love more fiercely and live life more fully than any other being in the cosmos. They are unapologetically human, and above all, they are grateful for the lives they have been given. They are everything the Gods and I are not, and with them I found my home.”
Garren was at a loss for words. He opened his mouth several times, but nothing came out. It felt more appropriate to stay silent, letting her passionate words linger in the air around them, catching on the cool winter breeze and carried out over the stirring sea.
An unexpected calmness settled over him. Beside him sat a beautiful, powerful goddess, cursed to remain in this world as a monster, unable to protect those she was meant to look after. It was a story straight out of a fairytale, but his whole life had been full of impossibilities. He himself was like a walking storybook character. He could run faster than anyone in Svakland, jump higher, and hold his breath for an outrageously long time. He thought he might even be able to breathe underwater but was too apprehensive to try, out of fear of adding another unnatural ability to his arsenal. It would be just another unanswered question in his life, along with the fact that his skin was almost impenetrable. Any wound would heal within minutes, even sooner in some cases, and not even an ounce of pink raw flesh or puckered skin would be left in its wake.
Sickness was one more piece of the puzzle. Not once in his thirty-two years of life had he been sick. Not when the fever sickness threatened his hometown, killing hundreds, or when the pestilence spread like wildfire through every town in Svakland, taking countless lives. He had never even had a sniffle.
Oriana's story had only made him feel relief, a sense of peace washing over him. He had feared that his entire life would come and go without any answers to why he was different. Yet here was someone who was different too, who didn't even belong in this world. But that thought only brought up more questions. If he was more like Oriana than anyone in the mortal world, what exactly did that mean? Did he not belong here either? Was he just another of Orrick's experiments, brought here from another realm, ripped away from his true home and family?
An ache settled between his eyes. It was too much to think about, too much for his mind to handle right now. He angled his head at Oriana, letting his gaze linger on her stark white hair blowing in the breeze and her ethereal beauty. She looked every bit the goddess she was sitting on this ledge beside him, but who exactly was she? Which goddess?
“Oriana,” he said, voice coming out breathier than he had intended. “Who are you?”
She turned, slipping her hand from his grasp and looking him squarely in the eye. “I am Oriana, goddess of enchantment and bloodlust, daughter of Hylda, goddess of magic and beauty, and Anthes, god of war and trickery.”
19
Oriana
1st day of the Twelfth Month, 1774
