Page 55 of Wooing the Wiccan
My heart sings at the news that he’s already planning to prolong his life.
“Sure, you’ve got a lot more experience than me, and you’ve seen a lot more, but that doesn’t always have to be specific to age. I’m not an immature kid. I understand what I want from my life. I’ve been in relationships and know how interpersonal stuff works. I don’t think you being older than me is going to be a dominant part of our relationship.”
“I certainly don’t plan to make it one,” I agree.
“Just one thing—no, two things.”
“As many things as you like.” I’d give him anything he wanted to see that smile flash at me.
“Did you ever come to Earth before the species wars?”
That’s an easy one. “Yes, often. We enjoyed visiting here. I didn’t get to spend much time here after I was invested, but before then, it was our favorite vacation spot.”
“That leads into my next question—though I’m going to ask about a million later about what Earth was like back then.”
“Anything, anytime,” I promise.
“The ‘we’ you mentioned—was that a long-term partner? Because I can’t imagine you’ve lived nineteen thousand years without being in a serious relationship.”
That’s a question I should have expected, but I didn’t. I’m not sure why, but I’m unprepared to answer it.
He deserves something, though—and I won’t ever deny how important Ásta was to me.
“Yes,” I say finally. “Ásta and I were married for five thousand years, and together for a thousand years before that. We both loved coming here, and in the two thousand or so years that we were together before I was invested, we came often. At one point I think we were visiting once a year. She was always so delighted by the fact that grass is green here.”
Jared does a double take. “What other color— That’s not important right now.” I can see that he’s mentally filing the fact away to ask about another time, though. “Do you mind if I ask about her? Ásta?”
Smiling, I shake my head. “I don’t mind. It’s been a long time since she died. We lost her to one of the anomalies. Has anyone explained about the anomalies and what they did?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “It must have been terrifying to live through. I’m so sorry for everything—everyone—you lost.” He puts a hand on my thigh, right beside the notepad, and gives me a gentle squeeze. “I wasn’t there, but I still know you did an amazing job leading your people through it.”
The chuckle that escapes me is born of surprise, though that’s quickly followed by gratitude. He might not have been there, but it’s still nice to have someone reassure me that I didn’t fuck everything up. “Thank you. For a while, I worried that none of us would survive, and I felt… guilty.” I’ve neversaid this out loud to anyone before, and I hear the words as if from a distance. “I made the decision to close the dimensional portals during the species wars, and I made the decision to keep them closed afterward, when it was clear that humanity was still volatile and that visiting Earth could be risky. It’s because the dimensional portals were banned that experimentation with temporal portals?—”
“Okay, yeah, I’m going to stop you there,” he interrupts, his tone gentle but very firm. “The person who made the decision to fuck around with time and then keep on doing it even after the consequences were discovered is the only person to blame for everything that happened after. Guilt is one of those messed-up emotions that doesn’t always respond to logic, but you were absolved of any responsibility the second that asshat learned that tem-temporal portals were causing the anomalies and kept opening them anyway.” He shakes his head. “Temporal portals. I never thought those were words I’d use in a sentence. Not unless it was about a sci-fi movie.”
His words soothe the hurt I’ve been carrying for millennia, but I can’t help smiling at his disbelief. “Stick with me, and I’ll have you using words in all kinds of weird sentences.” I hesitate. “If you wanted, I could teach you my native language.”
“Your…” Jared’s eyes widen. “Oh goddess, I never thought of that. Of course beings from another dimension wouldn’t speak English! You even have an accent… But your English is so perfect.”
“Thank you. We used a translator spell to help for the first few years, until English became second nature. But many of us still like to use our own language when we’re alone.”
“Translator spell,” he mouths, then, “Of course you do. And I’d be so honored if you’d help me learn it. Add that to the list of things I want.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. “But first, tell me about Ásta.”
Sighing, I lean my head against his and think about my late wife. “We met here on Earth, actually,” I say. “It was her first time visiting, but I’d been here at least half a dozen times before, and that time I’d come specifically to see some friends I’d made the last time. They suggested we go to another settlement for a festival, and Ásta was there with her sister and brother-in-law. The first time I saw her, she was casting spells to entertain some children—little tricks with moving lights and shadows, and her laugh caught my attention.” I stop for a moment, lost in the memory of that moment. “By the time we both went home, we were firmly infatuated with each other. Back then, I was… well, there’s not really an equivalent job here on Earth. A horticulturist, I suppose, but on an ecosystem level. My job called for me to travel a lot, and Ásta came with me. She was an archivist, so it fit well with her work. Has anyone mentioned the living archive to you?”
“No,” he murmurs, and with my ear so close to his mouth, the sound seems to vibrate through me.
“It’s something the elves and dragons developed—a kind of sentient memory. When any member of our species dies, their memories automatically upload to the living archive. Archivists have access to the memories of every elf and dragon who ever lived.”
His breath hitches. “That’samazing.”
“We think so. Ásta was so young to have been made an archivist, and we were all so proud of her. When I was invested, our lives changed a lot, but she saw it all as a challenge—a new perspective she could bring to her work.”
“She sounds pretty great. I wish I could have met her.”
I lift my head to meet his gaze. “She would have liked you. She always said that if she hadn’t become an archivist, she would have been a teacher. She thought giving children foundationalknowledge and a love of learning was the most important thing we could do for them—other than loving them.”
The question is in his eyes even as he hesitates to ask it. “You two never had any kids?”
