Page 95 of Between Fear and Favor

“Though I have Aonara’s divinity, I’ve had many a conversation with Rhia,” he responded, taking another bite of his bread. I tilted my head, curious. “My wife and I—we wanted a babe. Never had one, but I still pester the goddess whenever I have the chance.”

Huffing a laugh, I stood. “Well, I’ll tell her you say hello.”

He nodded, and I slipped into the temple proper. Staying to the edges of the cots, I kept my head bowed, hair concealing my face as I strode with purpose. It only took me a few moments to get there, and not a single person paid me any mind. Rhia’s altar was on the northernmost wall of the temple, her plinth nearly half as tall as I was. Stained glass bracketed her divine statuary on either side. Life size, she loomed over me. In the statue’s arms was an infant, and the goddess’s face was tilted in observation. Though there were no details to her features, I was able to picture the woman with ease.

Kneeling on the cushions before her, I abandoned the proper show of piety and made myself comfortable instead. But my prayers wouldn’t come. Perhaps there was too much resentment weighing down my heart. Or too much pain. But I sat there for what felt like hours. The temple grew far quieter, many of our healers going to the novice chambers on the second floor to rest. Just as I was about to give up and head back to the palace, the torches dimmed, allowing the wounded some blessed darkness to rest within.

And perhaps my own wounded soul and mind found peace, because at last, a flood of thoughts and questions and prayers and apologies released from me. Curling into myself, knees to my chest, I prayed.

I lost track of time, and when I found shadows twining around my frame, I closed my eyes to concentrate. But, exhausted as I was, once I dismissed my encroaching divinity, I drifted off into a restless sleep.

It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare, but something far more terrifying.

There was a man—impossibly tall with pale skin and dark hair. He had antlers, enormous and reaching for the sky. They were shedding their velvet, the remnants of the bloody vascular protection hanging from their points and falling into his hair. It gleamed like black silk. When he smiled at me, showing sharp incisors, he didn’t seem threatening. Yet, when he tucked his midnight strands behind one pointed ear, fear flooded me.

He looked like Ciarden, the same god who had appeared to me at the Cascade and gifted me his divinity. But instead of shadows and darkness, this man emitted something else. Life, perhaps. Flowing and encompassing, I couldn’t quite explain it. He emitted a golden aura, reminding me so much of the bond I shared with Rain.

I passed a swaddled bundle over to the antlered man. My hands were slender—feminine and delicate—but not my own. With smooth, rich brown skin, arms I didn’t recognize placed an hours-old infant in his arms. Fresh from a womb that was not mine, I didn’t want to let them go. Dragging a thumb down their light brown cheek, I caused the babe to smile in its sleep. My eyes caught on tiny nubs hidden within dark curls, just as the antlered man gently traced one with his fingertip.

Vaguely, I remembered the beliefs of the long dead people who had once called Lamera home. The forestborn had worshiped an antler god whose name I forgot and who history, as molded by the Myriad, had erased. Was this him? Was this his child?

The woman’s arm lifted, feeling like my own, cupping the man’s jaw. The shadow of scruff dragged against her palm, and he rubbed his face into the motion, staring down at her with a look I recognized. Incomprehensible love and caring filled his bright green eyes, and with a shock, I noticed stars within them. Twinkling and bright, entire constellations lived within his gaze.

He kissed her palm, and the memory faded.

The antlered man knelt on the ground, his head bowed and back drenched in blood and sweat. He seemed to be on a battlefield. Bodies littered the earth as far as the eye could see, and a hazy smoke hovered over the dirt. She approached him, and I felt her heaving breaths, the shock of despair shaking her frame. Wiping away her tears, I felt tacky blood on her fingertips as they left marks on her skin. When she put her hand on his shoulder, he shrugged it off before tilting his head back. She narrowly avoided the sharply pointed weapons on his head as his agonizing roar pierced the air.

These memories—visceral and haunting, vile and enchanting—didn’t belong to me, and I felt intrusive. But I watched as if they were my own. Worry and curiosity warred as the woman replaced her hand on his shoulder. She didn’t flinch or hesitate, seeking to provide support and comfort.

She did everything she could to avoid looking down, and try as I might have, I wasn’t able to direct the memory to what I wanted to know.

Why was he wailing? What had happened? Whose body had he recognized at the battle’s mass grave?

Then, she peered over his shoulder. Her eyes filled with tears, making it nearly impossible to see, but I couldn’t miss the antlers the size of a handspan, framed by familiar, silky black curls. I couldn’t miss all the blood.

Before I had a chance to breathe, the urge to mourn along with her nearly overwhelming me, the sight shifted to another battlefield. And then another. In rapid succession, I watched the antler god—because that was what he had to be—defeat countless armies. Thousands of forestborn marched at his command, more than I could comprehend ever having existed. He bent trees to his will, making them uproot and defend. Coaxing vines from the ground, he bound his enemies and ripped them apart. The life-giving divinity I’d felt so keenly when I’d first encountered him was tainted and used for his vengeance.

The woman tried to stop him. She grabbed his hand, attempting to pull him down from his divine beast. Crafted from vining plants bound with flowers and moss, the enormous creature carried him into each victory. Tangled in jewel-hued bedding, she pleaded with him as she sank between his thighs. Behind him on horseback, she whispered words I couldn’t decipher, but the tone was clear. She fell to her knees in the aftermath of battle after battle and cried. But he would not stop.

Decimating and destroying—that was all the god did. With each passing interaction, I felt the woman’s heart harden. She walked through a battlefield, pressing healing hands to every person who still breathed amidst the unparalleled ruin. His divinity had changed them; twisted roots grew from ruined bodies, their dead flesh slouching over wooden legs. I couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of his destruction. Rapidly, like flipping pages in a book—each memory, each battle, each war—they all blurred together into a single desolate volume.

In between, during brief instances, there was tenderness between them. But it never lasted long enough for any sort of reprieve from all the bloodshed.

The memories shifted. No longer were they sharing moments of kindness. Instead, they argued. She pushed him, hit him, shrieked at him, but he didn’t move, his indifference a cool mask. Half of his antlers had broken off, some casualty from one of his many battles, and though he hadn’t aged, his face had hardened into something nearly unrecognizable. Would I have become like that if Elora had died? Mindlessly levying my vengeance until there was no one left?

When she slapped him, her rage flowed through me, and I wished I could have helped her hit him harder. But in these passion and gore-filled memories, I was powerless. When his own fist came swinging and the memory went black, I wanted to vomit.

And finally, when she stood facing a mirror, washing dirt and grime from her cheeks, I wasn’t surprised when it was Rhia’s face I saw.

I knew it was her, but her countenance was extraordinarily different from when I’d seen her last. Her spirit was broken. Dark, curly hair hung limp and tangled, and something gleamed beneath her eye.

Blood, golden and shining, trailed down her cheek.

She’d loved the antler god. Birthed and shared the loss of his child.

And now, she’d lost him too.

Her hands gripped the table beneath the wash basin—knuckles pale. After a moment, she began to splash water onto her face. Rhia pressed the tips of her long fingers to her wound and healed herself. For a long time, she stood there, repeating the motions. Staring, gripping, splashing. As if the longer she did, the easier her solution would become.

---