Page 120 of The Ascended
“We never attended any solstice celebrations,” I admitted. “Too many people, too many eyes. I used to wonder what it would be like to see a god in person.” I gave a hollow laugh. “Careful what you wish for.”
Osythe’s expression held understanding. “The divine rarely matches our mortal imaginings. I expected Morthus to be cold, terrifying. And maybe he was—on the outside. But not truly. The farthest thing from it.” She bent to examine a cluster of pale flowers that glowed in the dim light. “Though the differences between us became apparent soon enough.”
Osythe looked up to the bleeding sky and let out a deep sigh.
“The hardest part was adjusting to the divine perspective of time,” she continued, resuming our walk. “Mortals measure life in days, weeks, years. The Aesymar think in centuries, millennia. It creates challenges.”
“Such as?”
“Patience, on my part, at least,” she said with a wry laugh. “Conversely, teaching a being who has existed for eons that waiting three days for an answer feels like an eternity to a mortal.” She eyed me. “My son has not learned such lessons yet either.”
I thought of Xül’s irritation when I couldn’t master something immediately and understood exactly what she meant.
“Is that why he seems so...” I searched for the right word, one that wouldn’t offend his mother.
“Disconnected?” she supplied. “Part of it, certainly. He was raised between worlds—too divine for mortals, too mortal for the divine. It creates a particular kind of isolation.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “I suspect you understand something of that feeling as well.”
The observation struck too close to home. I looked away, focusing on a nearby tree.
“My apologies,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s alright,” I managed, though my chest felt tight. “It’s just... complicated.”
“Life always is.” She touched my arm briefly, her hand warm and solid and undeniably mortal. “Especially when the divine decide to involve themselves in it.”
We reached a small clearing where a bench of polished stone provided a view of the garden’s central feature—a fountain carved from dark marble with gargoyles perched in mid-flight.
“Morthus created that for our five-hundredth anniversary,” Osythe said, her voice soft. “He always had a more brutalist taste in decor. I pretend to enjoy it.” She laughed.
Osythe vibrated with life, her skin smooth and glowing, betraying no sign of the vast time she had experienced.
“Extended life is one of the few gifts he could give me that I would accept,” she explained. “I age, but incredibly slowly. I remain mortal—I can still die relatively easily—but time’s effect on me has been... diluted. Enough time to love him properly, but with mortality still defining my existence.”
“Is that why you never ascended?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could consider its implications. Instead of offense, her expression showed approval.
“Ascension would have been an entirely new battle amongst the domains of Voldaris. And I’d already grown tired of war.” She sighed, looking toward the palace where her husband and son were engaged in their mysterious discussion. “Besides, to become divine is to becomeother. And I never wanted to lose that part of myself.”
She traced her fingers along the edge of the bench, her expression thoughtful. “There are other ways to bind yourself to a divine being.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, curiosity piqued.
“Morthus and I swore the Sev’anarath,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“What is that exactly?”
“It’s ancient—older than the Twelve themselves,” she explained. “A ritual that binds two souls together across time, distance, even the barriers between life and death.” Her hand absently moved to rest over her heart. “We become... extensions of each other. I feel his pain, his joy. He feels mine.”
“That sounds...” I searched for the right word, “intense.”
She laughed softly. “That’s one way to put it. It’s considered... extreme, even among the divine. Most Aesymar would never consider such a binding. It’s too intimate, too permanent.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Once done, it can never be undone. Not even by death.”
“Why tell me this?” I asked, suddenly aware of how personal this revelation was.
“Because stories are how we preserve truth, even when others would see it forgotten.” She gazed toward the palace again. “The history of the divine is often sanitized, rewritten. This—what Morthus and I share—is a truth many would prefer remained buried.”
She looked back at me, respect in her eyes. “And you strike me as someone who values truth, no matter how uncomfortable.”
We sat in silence for a moment. I thought of my own circumstances—the Trials, the path to ascension I’d never wanted, the divine blood already flowing through my veins against my will.
