Page 43 of Wild Ivy
I raise my hands, watching as light and darkness dance across my skin like aurora borealis in negative. The souls of the dead swirl around me in a tempest of memory and emotion, each one distinct yet part of a greater whole. I am not just their keeper anymore - I am becoming them, and they are becoming me. From the worst murderer in history to the innocent nun, they pour into me like water into the parched earth. Each brings its flavour to the power growing within me - the sharp tang of violence, the sweet nectar of compassion, the bitter ash of regret, and the bright spark of joy.
The chaos magick that runs through my veins proves to be the perfect foundation for this metamorphosis. Like bedrock beneath a mountain, it holds steady as power builds and builds. The realisation doesn’t surprise me - chaos has always been about potential, about the space between what is and what could be. It’s the perfect crucible for this new form of existence.
The remaining souls draw closer, their whispers a symphony of anticipation. Some sound like wind through autumn leaves, others like distant thunder, and still others like the last breathof a dying star. They know what’s coming. What has to happen next.
But first, I have to complete this transformation. Have to become what the universe needs me to be. The power surges through me in waves now, each one bringing new understanding. Every wave has its own character - some crash like ocean breakers, others slide like silk across skin, still others burn like fever or freeze like arctic wind.
I see flashes of lives lived and lost, each memory crystal clear yet somehow distant, like watching through ancient glass. A mother holding her newborn child, love radiating from her like sunlight. A soldier taking his last breath on a battlefield, his blood mixing with mud as thunder rolls overhead. A couple growing old together, their lives intertwining like ivy on a trellis. A child lost too soon, their potential hanging in the air like unsung music. Joy and pain, beginnings and endings, all of it flowing into me, becoming part of me. Each memory carries its own weight, its own lesson about the delicate balance between life and death.
My connection to Tate flares up, the soul mark on my lower back burning with an intensity that would have brought me to my knees in my old form. Now, it feels like a compass needle finding true north, reminding me of what’s at stake. Our fated bond, which transcended death itself, pulses in time with the void’s rhythm. The connection shows me how life and death could intertwine, become something more than just opposing forces - like two strands of DNA spiralling together to create something new.
Thoughts of Bram and Torin surface in my mind, their faces crystal clear against the swirling chaos. The sacrifice ritual that brought me back left visible scars on them that changed their essence, those are what truly matter. Their willingness to giveeverything, to risk their very existence, showed me the true meaning of both life and death.
The power continuing to flow into me takes on new dimensions. Each soul brings not just memory and power, but understanding. I feel the weight of centuries, of millennia, pressing against my consciousness. The knowledge of ancient Deaths mingles with the fresh perspective of newly departed souls. Kings and beggars, saints and sinners, their experiences blend together perfectly.
The void itself seems to breathe now, expanding and contracting with my transformation. What was once empty space now teems with potential. Colours that have no names in any human language ripple through the darkness. The boundaries between life and death, between being and non-being, blur and reshape themselves around me.
I can sense Life’s desperation now, her fear radiating across dimensions like heat from a dying star. Her frantic attempts to save herself echo through the fabric of reality, creating discordant ripples in the natural order. But she doesn’t understand the fundamental truth that’s becoming clearer to me with each passing moment: you can’t cling to power and expect to evolve. You have to let go, to transform, to become something new. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, change requires surrender.
As the final waves of energy wash over me, I feel my transformation nearing completion. The power settles into my new form like water finding its level, filling every space, every crevice of my being. My consciousness expands beyond the boundaries of what I once thought possible, encompassing aspects of existence I never knew existed. The void’s pulse synchronises with mine until I can no longer tell where I end, and it begins.
Soon I’ll have to leave this space between spaces, step out of the void and into a role the universe has never seen before. The thought sends ripples of anticipation through the souls that now make up my being. I only hope the world is ready for what I’ve become, for this new force that bridges the gap between life and death.
Because I’m no longer just Ivy, or even just Death. I am the cycle itself - birth, life, death, and rebirth united in one being. Every soul that has ever lived or died is part of me now, their experiences and wisdom flowing through me like blood through veins. The chaos magick that once seemed so dangerous now serves as the perfect foundation for this new form of existence, strong enough to contain multitudes, flexible enough to adapt to whatever comes next.
With that thought, I gather my new powers around me like a cloak made of starlight and shadow. The void pulses one final time, acknowledging what I’ve become, what we’ve all become together. As I prepare to emerge and face whatever awaits in the world beyond, I feel neither fear nor hesitation, only certainty and purpose.
22
TATE
The fated markburns on my chest, a constant reminder of what’s happening to Ivy. It’s different now, though. Not the sharp, desperate pain from when she was first taken, but something deeper, more fundamental. Like my atoms are being rearranged to match whatever she’s becoming.
I press my hand against it, panting slightly, feeling the steady pulse that tells me she’s still there, still connected to me, even as she transforms into something beyond what any of us can comprehend. The mark feels warmer than usual, almost alive under my palm.
“A fated bond?” Blackthorn says, watching me with keen interest. “You can feel her changing, can’t you?”
“Yes,” I admit, dropping my hand. “It’s like watching a star go supernova in slow motion. I can feel her expanding, becoming something more.” My voice sounds strange, distant and hollow.
Bram’s wild magick fizzes in response to my words, making the air thick with potential. “The power recognises it,” he says softly. “Whatever she’s becoming, it’s connected to this.” He holds up his hands, where silver threads of magick dancebetween his fingers. “It’s not Morrigan’s, it’s not even mine. It’s hers.”
“All magick is hers,” I comment, not in the least bit jealous, but in total awe of her. Not that long ago, she was a shifter assassin and now she is a god. She is nothing short of incredible.
I catch Torin watching me, concern etched on his features. He knows me well enough to see past my calm exterior, to recognise the fear lurking beneath. The fear of what this means for us. For our future. Will she still be our Ivy when she emerges? Will our fated bond survive her transformation into something beyond Death itself?
“We need to focus on what we can actually do,” I say, forcing myself to think practically despite the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. “You mentioned rituals to stabilise the transformation?”
Torin’s growl reminds me of his earlier objection to rituals, but this time, I meet his gaze steadily. “I know you don’t like it, but if it means the difference between the world surviving this transition or not, then we are doing it.”
“The rituals aren’t particularly painful,” Blackthorn interjects, pulling an ancient-looking tome from his stack. “These are more like anchoring points. Ways to ensure reality can adapt to the changes coming.”
Bram moves closer to examine the book, his magick sparking with interest. “These are old. Really old, steeped in Fae magick.”
“Yes,” Morrigan confirms, and something in her tone makes me look at her sharply. “From when the first gods were born.”
“The Fae?” I ask in surprise. Although I suppose that makes sense in a way. The Fae are an extremely powerful race.
The fated mark burns again, and this time, I catch fragments of something through it. Not quite thoughts, not quite feelings, but impressions of what Ivy is experiencing. Power beyondimagination. Understanding beyond mortal comprehension. The very fabric of existence is reshaping itself around her.
