“No.” He screamed. “No, no, no, you can’t take her from me. Haven’t we both suffered enough for you? We played the cards you dealt us, we lived the shitty lives we were handed—I never asked you for anything, Dieve. I neveraskedfor anything. So give me this. Give meher.”
Dieve’s arthritic fingers clasped together in front of her, her frown growing infinitely deeper. “If I do that, it will only pass the pain to someone else.”
“I DON’T CARE!” He drew in ragged breaths, the hollow ache digging its way through his entire body. Nymiria was starting to feel heavy and stiff, her cheeks losing their color. “Please—please.” The roots were getting closer now. Panicked, Aziel kicked away from them with what strength he had. He dragged her alongside him, eyes flickering between Dieve and the roots that were now reaching for Nymiria’s feet. “Don’t let all of this be for nothing,please!”
“Do you understand what this could mean for you? You would lose everything you’ve done. You will no longer be the God of Death.”
Aziel opened his mouth, fully prepared to tell her that he, again, did not care. None of it mattered—none of it would be worth anything to him without her. She’d been the one he built this life for. Without her, it meant nothing. He may as well have plunged the blade into his heart, himself. But then someone spoke. A small voice that was barely audible, but loud enough to draw their attention.
His heart sank when he saw Raven standing in the threshold, his hair giving off a purple sheen in the light. “If you will not saveher for him… then do it for me.” He said, louder this time. “I’ll offer my own Grace—”
“Raven, no—” Trio began, but one sharp look from the child had his mouth snapping shut.
“She’s my sister,” the boy continued. “And our father is old. When nature claims him, there will be no one left that I share blood with. I… I really don’t like the idea of being alone one day.”
Thousands of moments.
Thousands of memories.
Flowers. Darkness. Scarred hands digging through the black, trying and failing to latch on to her as she fell. A key, a lock, a gate, a garden. Silver hair in grey morning light. A sneer, a laugh—him turning his head to hide his smile. His eyes full of concern, his eyes full of desire.
“I love you.”
“This is yours.”
“My home.”
Home.
She wasn’t home, but it felt similar. It was so cold before. She’d been surrounded by so much fear and confusion and grief. There was so much guilt from that place, so much anger. She remembered the weight of it all feeling so heavy. She remembered the pain of having to bear that load day after day, the tears she shed into satin-covered pillow casings, the days spent looking in the mirror and hating the face that stared back at her.
She remembered praying—hoping that there was someone out there listening to her heartache, hearing her sorrow, and would eventually bring an end to it all. She remembered digging her fingers into the dirt, scooping clumps and clumps of soil andclay out of the earth until her fingernails snapped and cracked. She remembered dragging his body through the rain, kissing the cold and waxy skin that would have burned had she not saved him in time. She remembered covering him in a blanket, tucking him into his grave.
And now… now he was pulling her out of water that didn’t feel much like water at all, but rather like warm, silk sheets.
He was pulling her out, wrapping her in a blanket and whispering her name.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. His golden brown curls gleamed in the sunlight, his green eyes frantic as they looked over her. “You don’t belong here, Nym—you shouldn’t be here.” He was patting her dry and then dragging her towards the cabin by the river, shoving her inside.
The place felt familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Nymiria wondered, perhaps, if it was a distant memory or if it had merely been a story.
Yes.
It was a story.
Owen forced her to sit at the large wooden table that rested underneath the large window that overlooked the river. Her eyes drifted to the markings etched into the surface—scratches and gashes in the wood from years of use, years of meals shared at this very table. Her fingers traced over the letters carved into the edge, the names of the family that once filled the chairs.
When she turned and began to actually take in her surroundings, she saw the dried flowers hanging like garland along the mantle above the stone hearth. She saw wooden figurines lining shelves—a mixture of animals, humans, and Mystic creatures, alike. Sitting by the fire, was an upholstered chair with a worn, flannel blanket slung over the fraying armrest. Beside it, on a small round table, was a stack of booksand melted candles, the wax from them having formed small puddles on the wooden floor below.
The hallway behind her gave way to two bedrooms, but only one of the doors was left open. Owen’s form appeared in the open doorway, his eyes focused on a stack of clothes held tight in his hands. When he turned towards the main room of the home and saw her staring at him, Owen paused.
“This is your home.” She said softly. “The one you lived in before your parents went to work for Dorid?”
Nymiria was not sure how death worked, but all of Owen’s mannerisms remained the same. There was nothing that had changed about him at all. Here, wherever they were, he looked as whole as he had the day she killed him. He hesitated, nervously wetting his lips. “Yes,” he began, awkwardly lifting the stack of clothes. “I have something for you to change into. It’s nothing special, but I assume you wouldn’t want to be in that dress forever.”
Forever?
She looked out of the window again, expecting to feel some sort of fear when she saw the large mountainous form looming over the landscape. “I died.” She said softly, her movements slow when she turned back to him. “Did I die?”
