Page 50 of Palingenesis

I have no idea what I’m doing. Just as I didn’t back then.

But the farther I trek into the unknown, the more I feel the pressure in my chest lessen.

It shouldn’t be, but it is.

So here I am, following that invisible pull towards something that feels greater than anything I can comprehend, one step at a time.

Up ahead, the flowers part, their foliage making way for a fork in the path, and I just know.

Go that way.

Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I carefully step through the greenery, taking care not to disturb the flowers too much. The last thing I want is to trip into some fae king lair or some shit and find myself ass up for yet another out-of-this-realm-being.

Imagine that. Being between two cursed fucks.

If I make it out of this alive, that’s going to be the next plot I write ab—

“Oh, shit,” I hear myself murmur, my own voice making me flinch.

There’s a sudden opening in the woods, a pathway cutting up the middle, and beyond that …

A sprawling mansion with a wraparound porch that looks like it belongs in a historic downtown—with the rest of the intricate buildings—and not smack dab in the middle of the woods. Alone–calling to me like I belong here.

The door is unlocked when I try the knob—total white chick in a horror movie move, Shannon—and I push my way inside.

Guess I’m dying first today.

The foyer lights up the moment I enter, candle-lined walls flaring with each step.

Cobwebs sear and float off in ash, fluttering through the air before disappearing completely. It’s as if they were never there, leaving nothing but a clean foyer in its wake.

Advancing down the long hallway, its walls and marbled floors glittering in the firelight, I notice the intricate detailing carved into the stone holding it all together. Pillars set into the walls every few feet hoist up the structure with flowers and flame-etched surfaces. Feathers and arching branches. I reach out and touch one, a tiny bird with incredible tail feathers flowing below its ass perched upon the branches, the faint markings of a mane etching chipped away by time on his head.

A stillness washes over me.

I should be terrified.

Embarrassed, at the least, having walked right into someone else’s home so freely.

There’s just something about it that feels like… being home. Like taking the first breath after having held it too long, the first sip of cool water on a warm summer day, cookies, fresh from the oven and still soft.

It's actually pebbling my skin, and my nipples.

A grand staircase curves up to the second floor on my right, a massive fireplace to the left, both of which seem oddly familiar.

Maybe they’re close to settings I’ve used in my writing. Or maybe this is one of the places I’ve been in my dreams.

I don’t have much time to assess it, because the scent of something freshly burned trickles up my nostrils.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve had a guest.”

Though faint, the sound of his voice still makes me jolt.

I whirl around, my hand clutching my pumping chest, and there he is.

Eyes of fire locked right on me, that jagged scar running down his face identical to the statue.

“I-Ilios,” I choke out, my throat thick from lack of use.