Page 5 of The Deathless One
The ink turned into feet that stood before him. Delicate ankles that led up to shapely calves and curved thighs.
If it hadn’t been for her.
Leaning back on his heels, the Deathless One stared up at the one witch who had changed it all. The one who had seen into his heart and saw him as a person, not a god.
She leaned down, the shapeless mass of her face rolling with black sludge, the long locks of her dark hair sliding over her shoulder. Her hand cupped his jaw, trying to force him back into the dark memories.
“You wanted us to worship you,” she whispered. “And I did. Oh, Deathless One, I worshipped at your feet until you fell in love with me. And then what did you do?”
“I killed you,” he whispered.
Perhaps not in practice, but in meaning. He had turned his back on them, and the witches had done what they must to fix what was broken.
He did not remember what had been broken all those years ago. But he did remember the last time they sacrificed him. When this witch had drawn him into her arms, kissed him into oblivion, and then laid him out on an altar.
The memories made him shake. “No,” he whispered. “Youkilledme.”
“I did.” The darkness leaned down and pressed icy-cold lips to his cheek. “You were supposed to stay dead, godling. We took your power, all of it. We banished you here, and you were supposed to stay dead.”
Yes, that was what had happened. The witches had taken all his power, and then he had felt them blinking out of existence. One by one. And then had died the lovely gravesingers, more than worshippers, vital to a god like him. A gift. An anchor to the real world, where he had never been able to create a strong tie. Every gravesinger sacrificed themselves along with him, and thus his ability to be resurrected had died with them. He’d been trapped here ever since.
They had all blinked out, until there was no connection but the shattered remains of a coven that hardly existed. And then they had left him alone to suffer for centuries. Banishment was not a strong enough word.But though this realm in between life and death was created for his punishment, it was still his.
With a surge of power, he stood. The shape of the woman he had once loved tumbled out of existence, falling back into the darkness that threatened to drown him.
He turned away from the nebulous pool, ignoring how the hands clung to his boots, and remembered that this was a place he could control. How long had he been lost this time? So stuck in the bottom of that inky pit that he had forgotten who he was?
It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t even be the last. But something had awakened him.
He wandered for a while. But walking in darkness was difficult. So he lifted his hands above his head and twisted his fingers, rotating his wrist until a faint light illuminated the endless eddies of ankle-deep dark water.
“Yes,” he murmured. “This will do.”
In the distance, he could see what had awakened him. A lump. Too small to be a god visiting his realm. There were no other gods left, he reminded himself. And none had ever come to his realm, even when they were alive.
He strode toward it, dark boots splashing the water up against his shins. He shouldn’t be so interested. It was too small to be of note, likely just another trick to pull him back into that slumber. To control him, as so many wished to. And yet, his heart told him this was important. So he went.
What he found stole the words from his tongue and the air from his lungs.
A woman lay in the water. Dark waves lapped against her cheeks and filled her hollow eyes with tiny pools of glistening ink. Her dark hair floated around her, nearly the same color as the water that surrounded her. A white gown hung from hollow shoulders, torn lace and bloodied fabric clinging to her otherwise pleasing form.
A single lock of dark hair lay across her neck, like the delicious parting of flesh after all the blood had drained out, and he wondered what she was doing here. Why would she end up in his realm above all the others?
Crouching beside her, he let his hands dangle off his knees as he looked her over. It wasn’t right. Something about this wriggled in the back of his brain, like worms in a jar. She shouldn’t be here. There was a realm for the dead, and she was supposed to go there. Why would she end up—
A memory hit him like a sledgehammer to the skull. And he remembered.
Oh, he remembered everything
He fell onto his knees, black water soaking through his pants. He was in a memory, kneeling with his arms tied above his head, twisted with rope and then dipped in molten silver that burned to the bone. He was surrounded by etchings marked on the ground and black candles already guttering. He’d been there awhile.
Footsteps clicked around him, too light to be those of a man. Then the woman rounded in front of him, all angular shadows and dark hair that made her look like a spectral figure. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she was all that remained of this memory.
“Deathless One,” she murmured, her voice cast through the centuries and dulled by time. “There will be another who comes. The oracle has seen it. Another who can summon you back from the dead. One who can return all your stolen powers, and then it is up to you. You will either destroy this world, or rule it.”
He remembered the sadness. The ache in his chest as he knew the woman made of ink had prevented him from doing… something. Something great.
“You have betrayed me,” he found himself saying through swollen lips.
