Despite the honesty, Destruction bristled. “Madefor me?” Her voice became as sharp as a razor’s edge. “You were ‘made for me’ by people who know nothing of me—by the people you somehow claim not to be a part of. The same divine who look and see me only as something to be controlled and tamed and leashed down.”
“That’s not—”
“I will not have it!” she proclaimed. “Go back to your masters and tell them that I am not beholden to themorto Chaos. I do not wish to be joined with her or their pantheon. I am my own woman, and nothing will change that!”
Creation watched as her eyes widened and lips parted. He could nearly feel her horror at the words she allowed to escape her lips.A confession. She was her own woman . . . a woman whom he’d known only in concept but saw now, with his own eyes, in all her autonomous glory. It was a glory that he . . . he . . .
His mind froze, and his heart sputtered.
An autonomy that he only wished he possessed.
“Nothing will change that,” he repeated softly, like a vow. A soft breeze rustled the trees and grasses as if in agreement.
Destruction stared back at him, searching, as if words seemed to evade her.
“Would you prefer it if I called you Zoria, then? Instead of the name the divine refer to you as?” he asked as gently as possible.
“What did you call me?” she hissed.
“Zoria, that’s what the mortals call you, isn’t it?” It came from the same knowing he had been born with. “They don’t call us by our names—Destruction, Chaos, Creation, or—”
“Creation.” The name seemed to stick with her. “Is that you?”
Warmth bloomed across his chest at her recognition. “It is.”
“Then let me use your name to say this: Stay away from me, Creation. Now and always.”
That warmth turned to frost in his veins. “But we are—”
“We are nothing.”
“You are everything to—”
Destruction raised her hand and Creation barely had enough time to react. The moment she unleashed her power, he caught her wrist and held it tight. Her magic exploded against him, washing over him like a violent tide. He weathered it and protested with his own power. Together, the glade shifted shapes and colors, spurred on by the relentless wave of death and rebirth.
“You are everything to me,” he finally finished. Destruction’s other hand raised up and he took hers in both of his. He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them gently. “You are what I live for.”
“You . . .” She stalled and simply met his eyes. “You don’t even know me.”
Creation was sure she meant the words as a protest. Yet, somehow, they seemed more open now, not quite an invitation but no longer an outright rejection. There was a rush of something happening between them—a sort of feedback loop where for everything she destroyed, he made . . . including their own relationship.
“Allow me to know you?”
“Why?”
“Because I—” Creation stalled. There should be an answer. It was right there, right on the tip of his tongue, right where he wanted to access it but . . . “I—”
Her face fell. “You don’t know, do you?”
He wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about her, to earn her trust and with it access to the deepest portions of her being. Yet, in the moment he needed to articulate that the most, he couldn’t find the words.
“You’re just doing what they command, after all.” She pulled away and an icy void rushed to fill the space she’d just been occupying. “You don’t feel anything. You’re nothing more than ashell. You only feel what they designed you to.”
Creation wanted to object. But silence was the only thing he was able to provide.
Destruction—Zoria, the woman who was his true companion—slowly shook her head. Pain welled in her eyes and he was now too far to wipe away the shining drops, like so many extinguished stars, from their corners. She turned and ran. He wanted to chase after her, wanted to stop her from being outside of arm’s reach ever again. But he couldn’t move. Her words cemented him in his spot.
His affections for her seemed so complete. So then why couldn’t he object to them being solely by design?
What was the true nature of his feelings?
What was the true nature of who he really was? Not just in relation to her, but to himself?
