Bartholomew sighed heavily, and a wisp of warm air billowed from his nostrils. The crackling fire Sheeva had set up was a meager comfort compared to what they faced within the next few hours. He hoped they would not draw out the process longer than they already had. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was briefly experiencing a sense of doubt in his weighty request.

  With an indignant huff at himself, Bartholomew crossed his arms and scratched behind his ear, thinking back to a few key things he’d decided to reflect on, should he become apprehensive about being put to death.

  He felt he’d said and done everything he’d wanted to do despite a few ideas that spawned following Lucille’s lengthy letter Sheeva delivered. He made sure to return to the medic's cabin on the S.S. Hafez for one night so that she could say her piece and take comfort that she’d been able to formally say anything at all. It made him wonder if it’d been any help, recalling how tightly and how desperately she’d held on to him before she succumbed to sleep. For her ease of mind, he hoped and held faith that she’d forgive him eventually.

  He caught his tongue between his fangs as the dismissive, doubtful scoff threatened to fly past his throat. He couldn’t decide for Lucille whether or not she could ultimately forgive him, nor would it matter to him once the world was rid of him. With a soothing press of his paw against a swollen spot on his shoulder to ground himself, Bartholomew sat back against the tree trunk and lifted his gaze to the swirl of stars in the sky.

  Tazaro’s tired citrine eyes, fixed on their brooding friend thanks to the light scoff he’d heard, fell instead to the shadows cast from Zakaraia’s stone statue. The cold, light-blue sheen of snow glowed with an orange hue by the warm firelight. He stared harder at the porous-stone statue as though daring it to spring to life, a skeptical frown clear on his face.

  As though it’d heard his silent dare, a fear pierced through Tazaro’s muscles as he heard something crackling. He jumped in alarm as an ember from the fire flew across his vision and yipped from a twinge of pain in his injured leg.

  "Everything alright?" Sheeva called, her usually soft voice full of concern. She turned to look at him, sighing away a groan at a spot of pain. Beyond the veil of exhaustion, worry glimmered in her gaze. Tazaro waved off his nervous state with a hand, barely shaking his head in added dismissal.

  "Good. Just, uh…still processing, I guess." He mumbled, blinking tiredly at the statue.

  "Mm," She responded, following his stern gaze toward the body trapped in an endless howl of despair. She, too, was having difficulty digesting it, and wondered if they should shatter the wretched thing, just to be sure.

  But, she wondered, would that give us the proof we need to truly believe it?

  Briefly aware of the married couple's short conversation, Bartholomew allowed his mind to wander further. While his experiences with Ta'hal deaths were few, not one of them seemed to go out the same way as another. They were, curiously, unique.

  After piercing Orobas with his almighty spear, the Ta’hal faded away with a thankful, relieved smile that haunted Bartholomew for thousands of years. His long, large, hexapedic body melted into a pile of viscous, pink slime and seeped into the ground. A patch of forget-me-nots bloomed afterward despite Pacem's mountain peak's harsh, cold, bitter snows that left the soils constantly barren and frozen over.

  Lamia had given such a shrill shriek, Belias joked it left him deaf–and abuse this joke, he did, as he proceeded to "huh?" and "what?" his way past every scolding for at least a couple of months before Bartholomew caught on. Like a fig in the scorching summer sun, Lamia shriveled up and withered away into a gruesome skeleton dressed with leathery, sagging skin. He shuddered and hoped dying such a terrifying death would not be the way for him; the memory might be so unpleasant, Sheeva and Tazaro might go out of their way to forget he existed.

  "Considering he hasn't moved or anything, I'd wager he's dead. Hard to say, though–we don't all die the same, it seems. Anansi's spider tattoo crawled out of his skin, wrapped him in a web, and devoured him in the end." Bartholomew offered.

  Tazaro shuddered, recalling a twisted intrusive thought he'd had while undergoing his apprenticeship in which he had died in the same, horrific manner.

  "Suppose we could always smash him to bits if that helps. Shit, take a trophy while you're at it!" He quipped with a toothy grin. "How about a leg–he won't need those!"

  Neither Sheeva nor Tazaro seemed amused, and the silence continued, though Sheeva seemed to grunt with approval at something.

  “I had wondered if we should do that–shatter him.” She paused in contemplation. “Considering you’re joking about it, maybe it truly is over.” She voiced, taking a sip of water from her canteen. She passed it to Tazaro, who took and drank gratefully.

  “I’m can easily promise you, he’s dead.” Bartholomew assured, reaching into his chest for his own canteen and chugging from it heartily. At the intense shiver that struck his face, Tazaro doubted it was water in the jar.

  "Bartholomew, I’d like to know: what about Belias? How did he…retire?" Sheeva asked.

  Bartholomew cast Sheeva a sidelong glance. The tension around the task ahead thickened faster than a roux in soup, but…if it would help clarify, he would answer honestly.

  "He went out in an atomic blaze of glory. Oppenheimer would be proud. 'Now I am become death, destroyer of worlds,' and all that." He answered with an assuring smile.

  However, forgetting that they wouldn't understand a reference only known to a world beyond the stars, the statement was lost on them. Bartholomew clicked his tongue at himself in reprimand.

  "He ignited himself and blew the compound we were being held at into smithereens. Nearly took me out, too, but I suppose if he hadn't blown the place up, none of us would be here."

  Sheeva nodded and dropped her gaze to the crumbling fire as the pyramid of logs collapsed, spewing a fountain of embers into the air. Without another word, she grabbed another log and piled it on top.

  Tazaro, chilled to the bone by whomever Oppenheimer was and what he had possibly done, spaced out as he thought of the phrase's meaning. He didn’t want to ask, but found himself wondering how many innocent people had been caught in the explosion and, more terrifying still, what magnitude the explosion had been for it to have ended the lives of so many.

  “Personally, I don’t think I’d mind becoming a crystal–been there, done that, and at least I’d be pretty to look at!” Bartholomew cracked with a cackle, expecting one of the two to offer a derisive comment at his expense.

  He waited patiently for something, for anything, to show that his departure would not weigh so heavily on the two.

  Hell, even something as terrible as “yeah, you'd be pretty–pretty ugly!” would suffice.

  As their mood only seemed to sour, Bartholomew took a deep breath and tried a different tactic.

  “You know, twisted as this is, I juuust kinda miss being sealed in a crystal.” He admitted with a closed pinch of his index finger and thumb to indicate juuust how little he really did miss it.

  At their continued silence, he fidgeted with a ball of snow between his paws. “At first, it was claustrophobic, but after a while, it became…comfortable. Like…cuddling with a lover as you slip into sleep, or a good bowl of leek and potato soup, or a warm–well, wasn’t a warm hug, but,” he paused to sigh again. “Uh, you know. It was a hug nonetheless.” He finished, packing the snow into a tighter ball.

  As a hazy visage of Rozaline’s face came into view, Bartholomew smiled fondly, slouched back against the tree as his arms dangled from his kneecaps. He wasn’t sure how long into his eighteen-year captivity it had been before Bartholomew realized he could escape some throes of madness by simply fighting to recall her soothing, tender touch.

  Unwilling to let them witness the frown in his mouth or the tearful well of his eyes as Rozaline’s face slowly faded to become replaced with the much more recent, more solid visage of Lucille’s, Bartholomew chucked the snowball towards the fire and turned his head to look at a fallen tree to his right.

  “Suppose you two will just have to tell me how I went if we ever meet again.” He sighed, unsure of how many years that might be.

  “Yeah. I guess we will,” Tazaro agreed.

  Satisfied, Bartholomew stood from his seated spot beneath the tree, stretched, and took another deep, clearing breath.

  “Well,” He exhaled dramatically with a deep-chested ahhh! Then smacked his lips. “Shall we go?”

  Sheeva blinked and traded confused looks with Tazaro, who seemed just as lost as she was.

  “Go?” Sheeva asked.

  Bartholomew snorted.

  “Yeah, “go”! What–did you think I wanted to die in this abysmal place?” He sneered and motioned to the desolate, snowy forest and eerie skies. “Fuck no!” He barked, shivering and brushing off the cold snow from his bottom.

  "That, and I can't just leave you here. It's easy to get lost on your way back to Sferra."

  Tazaro chuckled, then braced himself to move his leg. After much pain, he found he could barely raise a knee. He jerked his head up as a shadow crossed his vision, then blinked back his surprise as both Sheeva and Bartholomew knelt down to scoop him to his feet.

  With a collective “one, two, three,” they hoisted Tazaro to stand. He had to admit, feeling a scaly tail wrap around his middle as a claw pressed into his side was frightening and took him back to the struggle they’d faced only a few hours prior. Still, he looped one arm around Sheeva’s shoulders and the other around Bartholomew’s middle as they began to walk towards a stringy portal that Bartholomew beckoned with a wave of his hand.

  Like a contender in a three-legged race, Tazaro swung his injured leg as carefully as he could while they made their way through the warped space. He found it odd that he could hear the clicks of their heels on the bizarre pavement and the tinkling of their weapons against metal clasps as they wandered. Perhaps, like how a Ta’hal would die, each portal was unique to its owner. He didn’t voice the question though, out of time when they reached the opposite end and stepped through.

  With another flash that made them close their eyes shut, they were greeted by warm air and the glorious sounds of nature. A rippling stream bubbled somewhere beside them, and birds sang in the trees while the gallant cries of antlered beasts echoed off in the distance. Farther away, a roaring waterfall could be heard.

  Grateful for the pleasantries of a wooded thicket, or perhaps, a brimming forest, Sheeva opened her eyes to behold the new, unfamiliar wood.

  A grand forest stretched for miles, curving up along the side of a great mountain. She wondered if it was a type of volcano, considering the peculiar dip of a massive crater carving into its peak. If it was a volcano, she hoped it was dormant and would remain so for as long as they were here to complete their task.

  “Can I use the spyglass?” She asked, looking at Tazaro. He nodded and reached as well as he could into the pocket stitched inside his jacket to fish it out from the other “bits and baubles” he kleptomaniacally stuffed away. As something pricked at his finger, he let out a startled “bah!” and tilted his head to peer into his inside pocket.

  Nestled among a cluster of jacks he’d whittled some time ago on the S.S. Hafez and forgotten about, Sheeva’s wedding ring shimmered at him. He smiled and fished it out.

  “Hey, are you missing something?” He chuckled, handing it to her, pleased at the look of extreme relief she gave as she took it and placed it back around her finger.

  “Thank you!” She beamed, then looked at it again in mild shame. “I, I thought it’d gotten lost in the void,” She murmured.

  Tazaro gave an ambiguous hum, not about to admit that he’d nearly dropped it when his face collided with the floor.

  “Nope,” He answered, then smiled at a thought. “If it had, we still have the means to search for it, though.”

  “Anyway, here.” He reached into the pocket and handed her the spyglass to break her from her worried thoughts as they shone on her face.

  Sheeva stretched the spyglass out and carefully put the eyepiece to her eye, looking through at the jagged peak of the mountain ahead.

  Oddly, it was not a volcano but instead seemed to be a siphon for a source of freshwater that pooled into a vast lake, then cascaded down the side in the form of a rolling waterfall. Sheeva’s eyes followed it as far as they could into the forest, satisfied as it projected to pass nearby where the three of them stood. She looked towards the bubbling brook and peered at something peculiar in the water.

  Like newborn salmon charging for their lives downriver to meet the sea, colorful wisps of light traveled fast with the current. Some seemed to lead the way while others followed. Those that didn't lead or follow ended up swimming around and around endlessly in a natural pool, trapped by tree roots and jutting stones.

  She crouched by the water's edge and, taking pity on the poor things, reached out a hand to swish them out of their trap and back into the current.

  “Wait, Sheeva. Let them be,” Bartholomew called. Sheeva jumped, then pulled her hand back, cautious.

  “What are they?” She asked, turning back to look at the chromatic creatures.

  Bartholomew's face fell slightly, and he frowned as he watched a light bounce among the cage of roots, helpless and blind.

  “Souls. Those of the valiant, the saintly, and the scholarly. And…some of the damned," he answered, crossing his arms in contemplation of the souls swimming in the stream.

  "Oh," she murmured, brow furrowed with thought.

  "Shouldn't we help them join the others?"

  "No. You shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand. Besides," Bartholomew paused as they watched a lucky soul hop over its rooted cage and into the stream to join the others. "They’ll eventually find their way.”

  Sheeva nodded and sat back, contemplating if, at the end of her days, whether or not she would become one of the souls stuck whirling around in a shallow pool. Fearing that she could fall into the category, she fought to remind herself that she was still improving daily. Hopefully, trying to become a better person than she was the previous day would count for far more than Sheeva could begin to fathom.

  “Here, help Tazaro,” Bartholomew suggested, ignoring Tazaro’s protest: I can stand by myself.

  Brought out of thought, Sheeva followed Bartholomew’s order, figuring it best to help prevent her from wanting to assist the ill-fated souls trapped in the tidepools. She tucked her head against Tazaro's chest as she wrapped an arm around his middle.

  “Guess I don’t need this anymore,” Bartholomew grunted, crouching at the water's edge. He reached into his shoulder and retrieved his stone wheel. Neither Sheeva nor Tazaro averted their gaze, no longer unnerved by the skin-tight suction of his flesh around the wheel as he pulled it from his torso. Even the eardrum-tickling schlorp didn't bother them as it once had.

  They gasped in shock as he shattered it, then watched, mesmerized, as the colorful souls spilled into the stream to join the flow, lapped up by the shimmering waters on the rocky banks. Some souls charged ahead, and some lingered behind, but most of the bunch joined the rest of the souls circling endlessly in the sidepools.

  Thousands upon thousands of wispy gems poured from the disintegrating cairn, and as he felt an unnatural pull of his limbs toward the ground, Bartholomew shivered. In an effort to calm himself, he brushed off the electric zing that had followed through his hands, arms, and down into his feet.

  "Hm," he grunted in response to the vibrant chill that struck him to his core. He felt painfully aware of his sudden mortality and fought to ignore the intimidating fact that he could no longer turn back.

  Belias, you liar. You said it was warm and welcoming, but it's only given me the creeps!

  "What is it?" Tazaro asked, worried. Had they somehow been wrong?

  Bartholomew blinked and looked up and over at them. Both seemed frightened and sad, like children who'd been busted with their hands in the cookie jar. As he remembered the drag-and-pull of his own terse frown when Belias's trinket shattered, he couldn’t blame them for their worried looks.

  Ah. I see why you said what you did now.

  "Nothing. Just…" He paused and chuckled. "Didn't expect to feel so warm and fuzzy, is all." He insisted with a smile, waving the matter off with a claw.

  Tazaro let out a laugh and wiped at his bleary eyes.

  "I knew you were part ketze!" He teased with a grin.

  Bartholomew's eyes rolled so hard that they ached as his ears flattened back and his jowls curled in a halfway pleased snarl.

  "Heh! T’rett Tenglith Ouidal, Tazaro Chorea!"

  An echo of chuckles rounded, then trailed off into uncomfortable huffs and eventual silence as the dread settled in.

  “Anyway, we should get going.” Bartholomew reminded them as he stood to his tall, ten-foot self and stretched out the lingering ice in his veins.

  Sheeva looked toward the tall mountain, then in the opposite direction as she tried to decide which way would be better.

  “Is there something waiting for us at the start of the river?” She asked, looking again towards the large mountain in the distance.

  Bartholomew shook his head.

  “Not that way. They’re waiting at the mouth of the river.”

  Sheeva gave him an annoyed look, not appreciating his mysterious answers.

  “Who’s ‘they’?” She asked, her voice laced with her irritation.

  Bartholomew tilted his head curiously, then looked at Tazaro. He was sure he’d overheard the two talking about the twelve celestial beings at one point.

  “Don’t you remember Tazaro telling you bedtime stories, Sheeva? This is Fidelia’s River.”

  Tazaro snapped his head toward Bartholomew as he drew in a surprised gasp.

  “You gotta be kidding!” He blurted, feeling his skin flush as the shock buzzed on his face. His stomach plummeted into his feet with the unsettling realization that, despite all his insistence, he was indeed wrong. His heart fluttered with fear as he thought about it, and a boulder stuck in his throat.

  Would the gods punish him for denying them so? Would he have the right to beg forgiveness if they punished him? Would they take mercy if he admitted his humility? Would they even allow him the opportunity to apologize? He scoffed at himself, immediately disgusted with the pitiful, hoveling figure of himself he’d conjured up.

  “Oh,” Bartholomew paused, then smiled, and Tazaro didn’t appreciate the sneer that spanned their friend’s face. “That’s right! You don’t believe they exist.”

  “Well, I–Tazaro began, then stopped himself.

  It hadn’t been a matter of didn’t so much as it was a matter of wouldn’t, and he hadn’t really given it much more thought than he had shortly after he and Sheeva had shared their enlightening conversation on the balcony during a thunderstorm almost a year ago.

  “I mean, I...” He tried again, then sighed.

  What else could he possibly begin to say?

  Bartholomew tsked, then waved his hand dismissively at something.

  “No, I have no right to insult you. I didn’t believe in them either until after becoming a Ta’hal. Until after I understood what Anansi was and how he’d become. It was the proof I needed, though I wish I hadn’t learned about them the way I did.” He announced with a shrug. He crossed his arms and held himself for a moment in his mild discomfort, then sighed his feelings away with the rationalization that–soon–he wouldn’t have to endure any more bitterness of his circumstances.

  “Come. Let’s get going. You two should really see the sunset in this place. It’s…” He trailed off, pleased as his body began to warm again. “Boy. It’s something.” He finished, eager to see the shimmering sea as the last of the sun’s rays set on the ethereal place.

  Though Bartholomew urged them to hurry, Sheeva was grateful that he would take the time to pause when Tazaro needed rest, growing slightly worried at Tazaro’s increasingly pallid face. As she pressed a hand to the back of his forehead to ensure he hadn’t come down with a fever, his insistent “I’m fine, really” did not assuage, and she gave him that stern look of disbelief.

  “I don’t believe you,” she grunted as she pressed a bunch of dried feverfew and dried yarrow root into his mouth to chew on. Tazaro took it without hesitation, guilty, then was grateful to have something to chew on as Sheeva unwraveled the bandages to his leg. With her free hand, she trailed the sigil in the air and guided the light green cloud to his wound.

  Tazaro hissed and grunted at the pain as the wound closed itself a little more, burning as the flesh fused in speeded recovery. He let his head lay slack against the tree as he collected himself while she wrapped the bandage back around his thigh.

  “I was wrong about the gods.” He muttered past the wad of medicine nestled in his cheek like a wad of Tarrakkian tobacco, the words foreign as they fell from his lips, now numb from the chilling effects of the floral herbs in his mouth. As the bitterness hit him sharply like the snap of smelling salt, he fought the urge to scrunch his nose and pucker his face in disgust. His eyes narrowed to make up for the stern fight he put up.

  Sheeva paused at his sudden still, chuckled at his face, then reached for a sugar cube and held it to his lips. He gratefully drew the dry thing in with his tongue. The sweetness swept over his tastebuds like honey and helped him stomach the terrible stuff.

  “Oh, no. You were wrong.” She stated sarcastically, as though it were such a simple, obvious answer. “Is that really so bad–to be wrong?” She continued as she put the lip of the canteen to his mouth as if to prevent him from stubbornly protesting against her medical care. “If they can’t forgive us even after we’ve admitted our wrongs and given our promise to correct them–and are actively carrying out our promise–then perhaps we ought not to follow them in the first place.”

  This helped Tazaro, but only a little, and as his frown and pout deepened, Sheeva gave a long sigh.

  “I suppose that’s easy for me to say; I didn’t grow up knowing of or following any of them.” She admitted, rolling the medicine kit back into a loose bundle and tying it shut with the attached leather sash. “But…” She paused and sat back, then offered him a kind, assuring smile.

  “If I were a goddess, that’s what I think I would do should I have any nonbelievers.”

  Tazaro pursed his lips and gritted his teeth, squishing the juices out of the saturated, crushed mess, then sucked it dry and swallowed. The cooling numbness followed down the back of his throat, and as he drew in a deep breath and sighed heavily, the chill seemed as good as a fresh drink of water.

  “How do you feel?” She asked after a while, studying his demeanor to gauge whether or not he needed more time to rest. Tazaro hurriedly swallowed back a glob of likely green spit, then chuckled at the response he’d drummed up.

  “Like a cow chewing on cud,” He joked, giggling at her complimentary eye-roll.

  “I take that as a sign that you’re ready to go,” Sheeva countered, standing and reaching down to help him to his feet, happy to find that he needed to lean on them much less than he was before they stopped. Still, Bartholomew assisted with his tail wrapped around Tazaro’s waist in case he were to stumble on something.

  Eventually, the forest floor changed from soft, loamy soils to firmer, gritty soils, and as the treeline thinned, the sounds of rolling tides upon a shore echoed through the less-dense forest. The rays of a setting sun directed beams of light into their eyes, and they shielded their faces with a hand as they stepped out beyond the trees and onto a beachfront.

  Boulders shrunk into pebbles the further they traveled towards the vast ocean. Planks of driftwood stranded on the shore had recently been moved, their trails in the sands currently being smoothed out by the rise and fall of clean, crisp waters.

  The three of them broke away somewhat to explore, Sheeva heading one way down the beach, Tazaro towards the other, and Bartholomew to the water’s edge.

  What looked like a giant fort had been cleverly built with the pieces of driftwood, and as Tazaro peeked into one as they passed, he found a collection of toys tucked away in a corner. Confused, he looked over his shoulder to call to Bartholomew, then stopped as he saw a couple of people behind him.

  Surprised, he looked around again and wondered if the world had shifted while his head was turned. When he turned back the other way, Sheeva was in front of him, looking just as shocked and lost as he was.

  When Bartholomew greeted the two strangers by name, Tazaro couldn’t think about it anymore as his train of thought derailed in astonishment.

  “Lucassen. Fidelia.” Bartholomew stated, giving a subtle nod of acknowledgment to each.

  The patron to bards and god of entertainment’s smile grew to arch into his cheekbones. His lips were thin, and his face was clean-shaven save for a greying, fair-haired goatee that matched the long, wavy hair atop his head. His amber eyes seemed so dark they could almost be a rich shade of hazelnut, but neither Tazaro nor Sheeva felt fear as they gazed at the shimmering, wisened, cheerful eyes. The smile was short as Lucassen returned to casually lying back on a beach mat and strumming an instrument.

  If Tazaro had to guess, it was a birchwood lute, though with twelve strings likely made from twisted sinews of animal guts. The strings stretched along the neck and over the well-maintained body, slick with a sheen of polish. As they listened to the gentle melody, Tazaro felt his fears subside, falling into the sand beneath his feet as his body began to warm from his head down to his toes.

  “Welcome! It’s about time!”

  Tazaro blinked as the god spoke and was undoubtedly sure Sheeva felt him flinch, just as he had felt her jump, both of them startled by the voice that, if used more sternly, would easily command the attention of anyone nearby. No wonder the armies he’d supposedly called upon were so readily riled; the man’s voice was as strong as a sudden wind powerful enough to capsize a warship. Still, Tazaro felt the hairs on his skin stand as a calm rippled through him while listening to the gentle tune on the lute and the eventual low hum that began to sound as Lucassen turned back to his song.

  Hopefully, Lucassen hadn’t become disinterested in them thanks to Tazaro’s baffled stare. Self-conscious, Tazaro tore his gaze away to look at the patterns of the rug the god sat comfortably on. The chromatic prism of colors stuck out amid the tans of the sand granules packed down beneath his unshoed feet, legs obscured by fine-woven pants, dyed blue, with light-tan threads of a hempen vest to match.

  Sheeva glanced between the two gods and her husband, unsure what to do with herself. As Tazaro seemed to sternly stare at the mat that Lucassen sat on, she pursed her lips, let him be, and allowed herself to examine the goddess in front of them.

  She was dutifully tending to souls in a shallow pool, sitting on the sands with a passive smile as she scooped at the wisps in the water. Her body was lithe, and her hair was as long as Lucassen’s, if not longer, twisted together in a braid and adorned with some flowers that Sheeva first noticed on the shorelines beneath the shelter of the trees breaching the sands. With such a large amount of hair, Sheeva had to wonder if perhaps her husband helped her to put it all together. With how well-groomed he appeared, perhaps it was so, and it brought her a funny tickle of cheer in her chest.

  Sheeva watched as Fidelia plucked a soul from the tidepool and examined it. It shined in the sun with a mix of colors; blues, greens, reds, and purples. It seemed to bounce and jump excitedly, as though it’d won the lottery, and radiated with something that made Sheeva smile.

  “Oh, look, I believe this one’s ready–the soul of that 27-year-old that perished in the carriage accident. I pray fate tells us.” She whispered in a soft, gentle voice, unlike her husband’s. It resonated within Sheeva’s mind and brought her such a sudden calm that her knees might have buckled to bring her to the ground if she hadn’t been holding onto Tazaro.

  Lucassen put down his lute and watched. With how eagerly his eyes were glued to Fidelia's craft, Tazaro almost caught himself in a smile. The simple action reminded him of how he and Sheeva could be so attentive to one another, ready and willing to pause anything for the other.

  Fidelia waved her hand. The sand at her feet began to shift, grains crawling onto each other to form the base of her legendary scales. With a crisp crackle, what Tazaro might consider an incredibly managed sandcastle–if he didn’t know otherwise–turned into a regal, golden scale, with a pan on either side of the carefully-placed beam.

  The long, smooth-skinned fingers gently released the soul into the pan and, like a cracked cluckatrice egg, the soul melded with the flat surface, cupped into place by the pan’s curved edges. In the opposite pan, grains of sand began to move, shifting and morphing as they struggled to determine what they would settle into. They warped into many things, and other than Lucassen’s curious muttering of it usually doesn’t take this long, not a word was spoken.

  Finally, it solidified into the shape of a guitar, and Lucassen smiled.

  “A soul after my own heart.” He commented.

  Fidelia moved the block holding the scales in place, and as the scales teetered, Sheeva held her breath.

  The soul and the guitar fought, then leveled, the soul appearing slightly heavier than the guitar. Curious to know what that might mean, Sheeva opened her mouth, then stopped as Fidelia spoke.

  “Ah! How far this one has come!” She beamed. She hopped to her feet, carried the soul towards the water, and then set it in a rising tide to be pulled into the sea. “There you go. Return, and do great things for the world, my dear!” She congratulated happily, then returned to her spot, sat down, and began rummaging around in the tidepool again.

  “Uh…pardon me for asking; I don’t understand. So, these souls.” Sheeva murmured, pausing as she looked toward the mountain, now obscured by dusk’s dark blanket. “They travel all the way from the mountain?”

  “That’s right, Sheeva Jules. Ah–excuse me–Sheeva Chorea.”

  Sheeva didn’t acknowledge the surprise undoubtedly shining on her face at the goddess mentioning her maiden name.

  “I don’t recall them actually figuring that one out,” Lucassen commented, shifting back onto the sands to lazily strum his lute.

  “No, I suppose they didn’t,” Fidelia responded.

  “Don’t think they will, either.”

  Meek and slightly embarrassed about being watched, Sheeva cleared her throat as it dried from nerves and glanced at Tazaro. Perhaps he could shed some light on the subject since she couldn’t remember if they had actually sat down and talked about a final decision of their last name.

  He intently stared at the floor, head hung in mild shame as he wrung his hands together in his own wrecked bundle of nerves. The gods really had been watching them. It made him overwhelmingly embarrassed.

  The two celestial beings carried on in their nonchalant conversation as though the three of them weren’t there reeking of humility, awe, and embarrassment.

  Sheeva cleared her throat again.

  “Excuse me!” She called, trying to urge her voice beyond the frog in her throat.

  The two celestial beings stopped in their conversation and looked at her expectantly.

  “What, uh, happens to a soul if it...” She trailed off, wondering whether a delicate touch was necessary. Perhaps, the two wouldn’t care, but she didn’t want to accidentally piss off either and end herself, Tazaro, or Bartholomew in a heap of supernatural trouble.

  “Oh, so you have become less abrasive,” Lucassen smirked, causing Sheeva’s mouth to pop open in brief indignance. She jerked her head to the seemingly laid-back god, surprised by his affront. Still, as she thought on it honestly for a split moment, there had been many times when she was overly harsh. Deciding against making a scene and pouting mildly instead, she turned back to Fidelia as she noticed movement from the corner of her eye.

  The soul Fidelia plucked from the stream glowed with a swirl of reds, oranges, and yellows, like a growing flame licking at the air, and as it seemed to struggle feistily against Fidelia’s grasp, she tsked at it. The soul seemed to radiate fury and pricked at Sheeva’s wariness like a thorn in her shoe. She doubted the soul might pass, given how animated it seemed about getting away.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised about you,” she told it, setting the energetic soul into the pan.

  The sands in the opposite pan wasted no time solidifying into a sword. Tazaro and Sheeva’s eyebrows raised, and both wondered what that might mean–for both the soul currently being judged and for them when their time would eventually come.

  The drop of the scales was almost immediate, and the force of change threatened to launch the unruly soul across the way if not for Fidelia’s hand resting directly beneath it to catch it. Tazaro fought a funny smile, wondering if this was a commonplace occurrence with her job requirements.

  Fidelia tsked and shook her head in disappointment.

  “It seems Andrei Malakov still has much to learn of his repentance,” She sighed.

  This snared Bartholomew’s attention, and with a snarl, he broke away from searching the shores to join in on their conversation.

  “What?” He asked, feeling every fiber of his being flare. The seething fury was so immediate that his skin rippled with goosebumps and his tail flicked to further signal his irritation.

  “Did you know him?” Sheeva asked, curious.

  Bartholomew’s claws dug into the meat of his arms as he tightened them in rage, not eager to unleash his rage on the innocent party.

  “He’s the bastard that killed my wife, my child, and then me.” He growled beyond his tense frown. He blinked, somewhat surprised, as realization dawned on him. “Has he been circling through purgatory since I killed him two thousand years ago?”

  Fidelia looked at him, seeming to take pity on Bartholomew.

  “With all that you know of his criminal ways, are you really so surprised, Arseniy?”

  Bartholomew silenced and dropped his gaze to stare at the shifting sands at his feet, the cool water lapping at his nails and matting the furs between his scales to his skin. After a moment, he clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his gaze to the setting sun, still hovering just above the horizon.

  “No. I suppose I shouldn’t be,” he murmured, more to himself than to any of them.

  His chest rumbled with a satisfied purr. How long had it been since he’d heard his own name? Even Sheeva had not resorted to calling him by his Sferran name after he’d told it to her–and blame her, he couldn’t, considering how foreign it felt to his own ears.

  He drew in a deep breath, then let out a long sigh as he continued to bask in the feeling of tides lapping at the sands beneath his feet.

  Getting to her feet, Fidelia clutched the soul in her hand and waved her hand at the scales. With a shuffling noise, they shifted into the form of an albatross with a white coat of feathers and black-tipped wings. As the giant bird stamped its webbed feet and approached Fidelia, it clutched the soul in its open beak, spread its wings to their terrifying span of eleven feet, and took off into the sky. It veered left, then straightened in a path towards the mountain.

  Tazaro, still stumped and astonished, sighed in frustration as he mentally prepared himself. With a sheepish, humbled look, he brazenly approached Lucassen.

  "I'm sorry for, uh..." He trailed off, unsure of what he might even say. Sorry for being a stubborn ass? Sorry for cursing you and your wife for everything that went poorly?

  He cleared his throat and tried again. He had to face the heart of the issue.

  "I'm sorry for denying your existence. Please, forgive me." He voiced, unsure where to look. He fixed his gaze at the god's feet, but at haughty scoff, Tazaro jerked his head up to meet the god's scornful eyes.

  The intense, offended scowl on Lucassen's face, coupled with the instant crossing of his arms, made Tazaro think he'd been better off keeping his mouth shut.

  "Forgive you? Who do I look like–Alena?" He grumped, lips curled into an indignant sneer. Tazaro's face showed his growing disappointment and further humiliation, as he'd been hoping the god would have spared him some mercy.

  "Lucassen, dear," Fidelia called over her shoulder, apparently continuing on in her orderly task as though the others weren't standing around as she weighed another soul, this one radiating a mix of blues, greens, and yellows. The contender appeared to be a writer's quill, raised high in the air by the weight of the soul swimming around in languid bliss in the opposite pan. "Let the man apologize. You don't want to be pig-headed like Valrigard, do you, now?"

  The smirk that had tugged at the corner of Lucassen's mouth broke into a smile, and he shook his head at himself with a long sigh.

  "Very well–you're forgiven," He groaned as he sat back down. He grabbed his instrument and gave the strings a few plucks as he began to play a different tune.

  "It's not such a big deal, you know. Not our job to instill you creatures with faith." He said dismissively, causing Tazaro's eyebrows to raise in surprise.

  Flabbergasted, he looked to Bartholomew to see if the ever-wise Ta'hal might have something to add, but his mouth popped open at the sight ahead.

  The sea, previously a deep, dark blue, began to glow in a kaleidoscopic array as souls teemed towards the shoreline. Thin, wispy specters of the dead formed, given formidable shapes with granules of sand outlining their bodies, tiny seashells in place of nails, and strands of seaweed mimicking what hair they had in life. As the dead stumbled inland, they became more life-like, the sands morphing into supple, grey and tan skin glistening with ocean water that dribbled down their legs and feet.

  Tazaro looked at the feet of the marching dead, expecting to see actual footprints in the sand. Instead, mounds of sand spiked and faltered like magnetic forces being exerted on metal shards.

  “Wow, are you seeing this?” Tazaro asked Sheeva.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I am. It’s–

  –Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bartholomew called over his shoulder.

  As sentient beings would, they moved around the big Ta’hal in their way, determined to continue further inland. Tazaro and Sheeva gently pushed past them on their way to stand beside Bartholomew and continue watching the scene. When Tazaro accidentally barged into an older gentleman, his body didn’t hit something solid. Rather, the sands forming the body shattered with a soft pop, like the kicking of a sand castle, and the sands fell to the beach floor before new sands traveled up the man’s body to replace the arm Tazaro had knocked off.

  “Oh, excuse me! I’m…” He trailed off in amazement as he watched the regrowth of a sandy limb. “Sorry?” Tazaro finished, though his apology seemed to fall on deaf ears. The brush didn’t seem to bother the soul, and the man kept walking towards the shore, greeting others with similar facial features.

  Getting over his surprise, Tazaro turned back to face the waters.

  A tall brunette with a soft smile stood in front of Bartholomew. She held the hand of a young boy with short, brown hair. Both beamed at him, appearing unfrightened with his tall stature or long, bladed tail.

  “This is quite a welcome for my final moments. This is–ah, was–Rozaline, my wife, and Raphael, my son.” Bartholomew explained. “It’s…It’s nice to know they’ve been waiting for me.” He murmured softly.

  It’s comforting to know I won’t be alone when I’m gone.

  As Bartholomew began to converse with his family, though one-sidedly given the two apparition’s apparent muteness as they only responded with facial expressions or non-verbal gestures, Sheeva reached for Tazaro’s hand and gently guided him away to give the three privacy.

  “So, the dead, they…come alive for some time?” Tazaro wondered aloud, searching among the sandy patrons for his mother or his sister, hoping they would be together and waiting.

  “Yes. At night, those that wish to may come upon the shore for as long as they like, to greet their loved ones if they haven’t already been siphoned back into the world.” Fidelia explained.

  Tazaro whipped his head around to look at the goddess, still dutiful in her task and unbothered by the swarm of people around her.

  “Siphoned? Do you mean–We’re reincarnated?” He mused, star-struck.

  Lucassen sputtered in irritation.

  “You can’t have been serious when you thought there were monsters beyond the fog, can you?” He asked with a grin.

  In great disbelief, Tazaro whipped his head around to look back out at the horizon beyond the sea, peering at it for confirmation. To his dismay, it was too dark out to see any possible veil. It threw his brain into a disambiguate haze, and he sighed heavily and lowered his gaze to the ground.

  Sheeva, after glancing back at Bartholomew and witnessing how cheerful the three of them seemed while Bartholomew regaled them with whatever tales he had in store, began to wonder if she, too, would be greeted by anyone on the shores when her time came. Wishing to keep her hopes up, she looked among the growing crowd to see if she could spot Rose, if not her own siblings, or, if the fates allowed, her father.

  Her eyes darted from one black-haired and emerald-eyed spirit to the next in a desperate search.

  There, beyond the frame of a familial group, the flash of the passive, calming smile she’d seen much in her late childhood and early adolescence grinned, illuminated by what looked like candlelight. Sheeva gasped and stilled as her stomach leaped into her throat.

  As someone passed in front of Sheeva, she blinked, and the smile and visage were gone.

  “Wait, Rose!” Sheeva called, breaking away from Tazaro’s side to give chase.

  “Wait, Rose?” Tazaro blurted, torn away from his thoughts by Sheeva’s sudden lurch. As she took off, he did his best to keep up, limping as he weaved through the crowd to follow.

  Sheeva budged through several people before she caught sight of Rose’s hair, held back in its typical red ribbon. With her heart in her mouth, Sheeva hustled forth and reached out to grab Rose’s hand.

  When her hand clasped around sand that burst and fell to the shore, Sheeva stared at the shifting sands that created a new hand, scar-free and unharmed. Bringing her hand up to view it, she played with the granules of wet sand that had stuck to her skin, rubbing them together between her fingers.

  It painfully solidified the fact that this Rose was only a mimic, and Sheeva could not hug the woman she’d considered “mother”.

  Rose stopped and turned around to look, confused, then surprised as her mouth popped open. They stared at each other for a few seconds, Sheeva’s chest aching as her heart mourned and her stomach danced in joy.

  Looking the sandy statue up and down, Sheeva half-expected to see the giant hole in Rose's chest that claimed her life, but the blue woolen cardigan and the white cotton button-up shirt beneath remained unstained. In her hand, a short, purple candle rested in a small, brass candle holder, flicking at a gentle breeze that swept over them. Sheeva chuckled, not expecting the candle in Rose’s hand to be the same as the one she’d lit during the candlelight vigil they’d held.

  Her cheeks warmed as cheer bubbled into her face, and Sheeva embraced the wave of peace that washed over her.

  “I’m happy to see you, Mother,” She greeted, Rose’s title feeling foreign on her lips.

  Rose’s smile was genuine, but short as it fell into a furrow of concern, and as Rose looked Sheeva up and down, Sheeva shook her head.

  “Wait, it’s ok! I’m ok!” She insisted, reaching out to take Rose’s hands in hers, then stopped, reminding herself that it wouldn’t work. She clasped her hands together instead to prevent reaching out and causing the mimic to crumble into a pile of sand, as she feared it might.

  “I’m, I’m alive, thanks to you. To my friends, too–and my, my husband. He’s...he’s incredible, and I’m so grateful to him for opening my eyes. For loving me. For teaching me to love myself.” She babbled, unable and unwilling to stop. She wrapped her arms around herself for comfort.

  “I was so blind, and so hurt after you died. I, I hated everything, and was so…disparaging and unforgiving of others and of myself. It was lonesome, and I–I can’t believe I felt I deserved nothing more!” She shook her head in disgust at her former self, still somewhat baffled.

  With how compassionate Rose had been as she pulled Sheeva out of conditioned fear, taught her how to stand up for herself, and guided her through the fires of recovery, how could Sheeva have come to hate herself so?

  Sheeva sighed heavily and crossed her arms. That hadn’t been how she’d wanted to catch Rose up if they’d had the opportunity to meet again, but if she were being honest with herself, she couldn’t have possibly known how she’d react. She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a shaky breath, hot tears fast on their way to falling down her cheeks.

  “No, I’m sorry, that’s not how I wanted to–

  Sheeva stopped and gasped as a cold hand touched her cheek, feeling the odd grains of sand brushing her cheekbone as Rose tenderly caressed it. With a soft, thankful huff, Sheeva let her head carefully rest in the fragile hand, letting out a sob as a cold, gritty pair of lips pecked her forehead. She chuckled as residual specks of sand fell down her face, and pulled away to wipe at it with her sleeves.

  “I love you, Rose. Mother. I miss you so much. I, I always wished you could see how much I’ve grown–how much I’ve accomplished.” She laughed. “Heh, it looks like, uh, you have been.” She commented, referring to the candle.

  “It was Tazaro’s idea, you know.” She stated, then gasped as she realized she’d left him standing on the shores without explanation. She turned and looked behind her, then to the sides, pausing as she saw him standing afar, talking to someone, face illuminated by candlelight. She squinted, then smiled wide, feeling it stretch across her face and peak in her eyes as the form became familiar.

  Even though he’d first-hand witnessed the souls crawling onto the shore and taking shape, Tazaro still jumped, startled as his mother nonchalantly stopped to wait at his side while he watched Sheeva and Rose from afar.

  It took all of his willpower not to immediately reach for a hug as desperately as he wanted to, since all it might do would cause her to collapse into a pile of sand as the man’s arm had. Shakily, he reached out a hand to gently touch her shoulder. Maybe, it’d tether him into finding what he wanted to say since all things previously imagined completely disappeared into smoke.

  He pulled his arm back as the cold texture of formed, wet sand brushed off in his hand, flaking away to leave a pile in his palm. His face tightened as he immediately felt the wistful pout and the furrow of his brow, and he closed his fist on the handful of sand.

  “Gods, I, I’m so sorry. I should have–

  He stopped himself, remembering all the times that Sheeva, Vincent, and Micah had drilled it into his head that his mother’s death was not at all his fault. He choked on words for a moment as he tried to will himself to say something. A staggered breath in and a shaky breath out allowed him to think a little more clearly as his body pulled forth with the motion. Encouraged, he stood up straight and looked at the sand clutched in his palm.

  “Hm, you wouldn’t want me to accept blame for something that’s not my fault.” He muttered, sighing as he let his hand fall to the side and looked her in the eye. She smiled and nodded, seeming pleased, and Tazaro felt the reciprocating smile on his face. He chuckled and tried not to count all the times he had been needlessly hard on himself.

  A lot had changed in a year, and he suddenly realized he was no longer the same man. It was an uplifting thought, and he looked for Sheeva in appreciation. He didn’t want to entertain the likely miserable outcome that would have taken place had they never met.

  “Sheeva’s been good to me. She’s supportive, honest. Encouraging.” He began. “I bet that if you were to read me, you’d know how much she’s impacted my life, and for the better.”

  Mildred reached out and took his hand again, and, used to the calm that would sweep over him, he relaxed. A grateful squeeze of her hand, despite it crumbling to the ground in a heap, told him she was pleased with how well he’d been doing.

  Tazaro chuckled, and gave a happy sigh as looked across the way at Sheeva. He felt sympathetic to her ails as she seemed about to burst into tears, then light as Rose reached out and held a sandy hand to Sheeva’s cheek.

  “Man, I love her. So fucking much. I don’t think I could ever–He paused, then nodded slowly to himself as he finally understood how his father apparently still felt about his mother. “Stop,” he finished, the screwy expression on his face exposing his sudden understanding.

  “Luka–uh, Dad–still loves you. I used to think I understood how he felt until just now, but, uh…” He sputtered and waved the tangent off.

  “Anyway, I buried the hatchet with him. Helped him get closer to forgiving himself for Amara.” He mentioned, looking around for his sister.

  “Where…is Amara?” He asked, wondering if she had already been cycled back into Sferra–an idea that he might never be able to fully comprehend.

  Tazaro stopped as his mother turned and pointed towards a spot further along the beach, less crowded by adults and more occupied with children. Several children were playing tag, and he recognized what he remembered as a bright, bushy, chestnut-colored head of hair bouncing as she chased after another girl her age. In the fading sunlight, Tazaro slowly recognized the one being chased as Sheeva’s older sister, Elle, from the painting hung in Sheeva’s childhood home. Hopeful, he searched for Sheeva’s older brother, Renoah, and found him flying a winged-drake kite. As he looked closer at the kite, he slowly recognized it as the red-winged, blue-bodied, and green-tailed one that they had buried his sister with, like Mildred had told him when he pressed for details in his early teens.

  “Oh. Wow. Thank the-the gods.” He mumbled, feeling sudden awkwardness about the phrase. “I’m relieved. I think–maybe–she’d like to see them.”

  They watched the children play for a while, Tazaro’s eyes beginning to ache after squinting in the growing darkness of night. Curious to know if it would work, he waved his hand and formed an orb of light, grateful when the bright thing raised above his head to shed a little light on them.

  Mildred seemed amazed, staring at the light with an awed look. Tazaro smiled and began to turn it different colors before it dawned on him that his mother could see.

  “Wait, can you-you can see me?” Tazaro asked.

  Mildred nodded and smiled, appearing to be laughing at him, though no sound erupted from her mouth. She reached for his cheeks and squished them, and Tazaro watched the compliment form on her lips that he was “so handsome!”

  Modesty made him laugh the compliment away, but eager to share in her gift of sight, Tazaro looked for Sheeva and pointed her out.

  “That’s-that’s my wife over there,” He proudly announced, jumping a little as his mother smacked his arm with an impressed, “I knew it” look on her face. He brushed off the sand from the front of his shirt and chuckled as he imagined her telling him that she’d “called it,” because “a mother knows.”

  As the children seemed to tucker out from running around on the beach, they sat at the water’s edge and watched the stars poke out amid the black, one by one.

  Still standing at his mother’s side, Tazaro contemplated whether or not he should approach his sister. He took a deep breath and sighed as he crossed his arms and frowned, somewhat disappointed with the excuse his brain thought up. Amara had died when he was young, so, naturally, she wouldn’t know what he looked like. He could only fathom as to whether or not she had been following him and his mother, and, if not, she would have no idea who he was. However, he scoffed at himself.

  Here he was, in the realm of the gods; a place he would never have believed existed if he hadn’t been seeing and feeling it in real life. As he touched the place where his mother had slapped his arm, he supposed that at this point, anything was possible, and that perhaps Amara had been watching him grow up, and Elle and Renoah could have been witnessing Sheeva grow up.

  As soon as he’d gotten to his feet, however, Sheeva approached him with Rose in tow, seeming nervous and excited. There were many things she seemed to be, likely feeling the same expansive array of emotions as he was considering the bundle of nerves buzzing in his stomach as he understood he was finally meeting the mother that Sheeva remembered so fondly and fought for so desperately.

  Sheeva paused as she saw Mildred, shocked into momentary silence.

  “Mildred. I–” She pursed her lips and silenced, frustrated about finding herself apologizing again. She sighed and offered her a bittersweet, apologetic smile.

  “I...wish things had turned out differently. That you had lived.” She stated, then cleared her throat. “But, as I promised, I trained your son–And well, I think,” Sheeva added. She reached for Tazaro’s hand. He took it, and as their fingers intertwined, they both felt a little better about being able to hold something tangible amid all the illusion surrounding them.

  “Hm. You raised a good man. A patient man. One who’s determined and forgiving, and…one that I’m happy to be married to.” She praised before turning to Rose.

  “Rose, this is my husband, Tazaro Chorea.” Sheeva introduced, pride and cheer exuding from every pore. “And, this is his mother, Mildred Chorea, though…perhaps you’ve met.” Sheeva supposed. Since Rose seemed unsurprised that the two of them were married, Sheeva wondered if spirits lingering in the ocean could somehow peer into the lives of the living. It was a comforting thought, and it made her feel all that much better about breaking out of her self-destructive, lonely ways.

  Rose smiled at Tazaro, then fished something from her pocket and handed it to him. Sheeva followed it with her eyes, wondering how a scrolled piece of parchment tied shut with a green ribbon could possibly sit in the pocket of a woman who’d emerged from the ocean without getting soaked and destroyed. Tazaro took the roll, stared at it for a moment, then gave a furtive grin as he chuckled from mild embarrassment upon recognizing it.

  “A...letter?” Sheeva mused, confused, though her hopes lifted. Whatever it was, she hoped it contained nothing but pleasant things.

  “Uh, yeah, it’s-it’s a letter.” He chuckled, flustered, becoming more red-faced by the second with the three of them staring at him, Rose and Mildred with knowing smirks and Sheeva awaiting an explanation.

  “Ahem,” He cleared his throat, unable to remember exactly what love-drunk ramblings he’d jotted down, certain it was when he was plastered on Bartholomew’s potato-based spirits. “Shortly after we were setting out to Raynak to get married, I wrote Rose a letter that asked for her blessing. The next morning, I thought it was a really weird thing to do, so, uh...” He paused, finding it curious that it would actually reach its intended reader. “I burned it,” he finished, looking at Rose, even more perplexed.

  He was certain he’d crumpled it up, too, ribbon and all, but here it was, smooth as fresh paper and neatly bound.

  Sheeva looked at the green ribbon wrapped around the letter, then in Tazaro’s hand as he clutched the favored hair tie.

  “Is that so?” She grunted, scoffing playfully. “You told me you lost your ribbon in the ravine.”

  Tazaro’s playful smirk curved into his cheek.

  “Technically, I did, but I never said how,” He volleyed back, unrolling the scroll to see what he’d written…and in apparently terrible handwriting, as he hardly recognized his usually “nice” cursive. In the leftover space at the bottom of the scroll, he saw a calligraphic scrawl that wasn’t his. Elegant loops and sharp cuts that he slowly pinned similar to Sheeva’s wrote out:

  Tazaro Chorea, you love her as much as I loved her, and more. You have my thanks, my approval, and my blessing. The meaning of life is indeed to give life meaning, and what excellent experiences you both have given to yours! I am proud of the man that you are and the woman that you’ve helped Sheeva become.

  ~Rose

  Tazaro grinned at Rose and carefully secured the scroll in his pocket, promising that he would give it to Sheeva to read later. Just as he opened his mouth to say his sincere thanks, Bartholomew called to them, approaching with his wife and child in tow.

  “Hey. Not to be rude, but we are on a mild time crunch,” Bartholomew stated, stopping just in front of them and crossing his arms. His tail flicked behind him on the sand, and he picked it up to gentlemanly wrap it around his waist.

  “We are?” They both asked simultaneously.

  Bartholomew sighed and scratched behind his ear with a claw.

  “Sun’ll be rising soon. Everyone goes back then. I would like to go with them.”

  Puzzled, Sheeva glanced at her stopwatch, since it felt as though they had just arrived on the sandy beach. She stared at it, amazed to find the hands of the clock moving backward, then forward, as though it were a metronome keeping time with a steady beat. With a groan, she snapped the unhelpful thing closed and buried it in her pocket, then frowned and dropped her gaze to her feet.

  “Will you be able to go with them?” She mumbled, reluctant to go through with the task if it meant that Bartholomew would have to cycle through the river from the start of the mountain, possibly getting stuck in a shallow pool somewhere for who knew how long. Bartholomew’s pleased purr rumbled in his chest.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He stated hesitantly. He huffed. “You know, if not, I didn’t see Belias–er, Fenrist Baugh. Might have to find him and shove his klutzy, uh, ‘dimensionally confused’ butt out of a pool somewhere.” He chuckled. “Heh! The guy couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag! We got lost several times in the void thanks to him!” Bartholomew informed, throwing his head back as he laughed heartily.

  Tazaro laughed at Bartholomew’s humour, but Sheeva didn’t seem to appreciate the joke.

  “If-if that’s so, then I don’t want to,” She argued.

  Bartholomew lowered his head and groaned softly, sighing heavily as he crossed his arms again, this time in disappointment.

  “You promised, Sheeva,” He growled, reminding her.

  “I know,” She defended, then scowled. “But if it means you have to-to flow through the stream and get…and get weighed, and possibly denied, then I don’t want to. It’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to do all that, too. You’ve already done all that!” She argued, adamant about her position.

  “Sheeva, I still have to–

  –What? Have to what? Pay? Repent? You’ve paid the price! You’ve done your time–Two thousand years, right?” Sheeva barked, becoming louder and more upset by the second.

  As she broke away from the three of them and stepped up to Bartholomew, angry, Tazaro dashed in her way and stopped her, wrapping her up in a tight hug.

  “Sheeva, stop,” He urged softly, a morose, distant scowl on his face, equally as unhappy about the situation Bartholomew faced, but understanding of the plea.

  “Come on. It’s what he wants. We should honor that. It’s his departure, after all.” Tazaro murmured, squeezing her tighter as she tensed.

  “But, what if he...” Sheeva began, pausing as she failed to come up with an appropriate answer. “No! We came here so we could give him rest–not condemn him even more!”

  Tazaro’s brow furrowed, and he scowled at their circumstances, much as he hoped for a pleasant departure. Sheeva’s “what-if” resonated deep within his soul, and he scowled as he searched the beach while contemplating what to do.

  Spotting Lucassen and Fidelia talking amongst each other where the sands met the grassy start of the forest, Tazaro boldly called out to them.

  “Hey, you! Lucassen!” Tazaro boomed, snaring both of their attention. They stopped in their conversation and looked, both apparently quite surprised at the blunt show of rudeness. Tazaro found he couldn’t care less, and it gave him a strange bout of courage.

  “Is he gonna have to journey through the stream, too? I think that two thousand years of cursed immortality is enough–don’t you?” He proposed, holding tight to Sheeva as she peeked up at him from the crook of his shoulder.

  “Excuse me?” Lucassen called back with a voice of ice that struck Tazaro to the core.The god got to his feet in a short-fused rush. Ready to support, the goddess followed, and with a wave of her hand, the sands shifted to carry the celestial beings a few feet from where they stood. The sudden closeness caused Tazaro and Sheeva to stumble backwards a few steps.

  “You think that two thousand piddly years mean anything to a god?” Lucassen challenged in a roaring voice that no doubt would have moved people to charge fearlessly into battle. His bellowing laugh rippled the sands on the shore, and both Sheeva and Tazaro widened their stance to withstand the rumble that threatened to bring them to their knees.

  “You truly believe that we would tip the scales of truth in favor of someone doomed to wander for eternity, Sferran? Of someone who tried to cheat my scales to change someone’s fate?” Fidelia joined with a voice as equally motivating as Lucassen’s. Tazaro briefly wondered what he’d gotten himself into but held fast to Sheeva as she began to shake, tucking her behind him to shield her from whatever fury the gods were about to unleash.

  Another wave of the goddesses’ hand caused a cage of hardened sand to form around them, and while neither of them reached out, Tazaro didn’t think they would budge as easily as stomping through a sandcastle. A harsh strike of the strings belched out a sour and discordant tone, causing Tazaro to wince and almost wish he was deaf.

  The skies above darkened with the instant forming of storm clouds and disorienting flashes of lightning dazzled their eyes while thunder ricocheted through the trees. The waves crashed hard upon the shore to wet their feet even though they were quite far inland, demonstrating what Tazaro feared was a mere fraction of the god’s power.

  “Yes, we do! You had to have heard my plea in the forest, and tipped the scales then, didn’t you? Hasn’t Bartholomew paid enough?” Sheeva cried back fearlessly.

  “Hah! How naive! If that’s what you truly think, child,” Lucassen laughed, “that we would bestow upon someone our pity,” he continued, waving his hand. The birchwood lute he seemed to favor turned into a regal, gold-lined, brass trumpet, and with a deep inhale, the reverberating sound that erupted into the skies and vibrated in Sheeva and Tazaro’s chests caused them to cry out in alarm and paw at their chests–certainly, their hearts had blown out of their ribcages.

  Frightened, they lifted their gaze to the skies, wondering what foe would be descending upon them to pick them off like fish in a barrel.

  Like the flick of a switchblade, the storm raging above the sea disappeared, as did the earth-shaking thunder and blinding lightning. The cage trapping them in dropped to the ground, covering them in the sand it was built of. More than Tazaro cared for fell down the back of his shirt, but, too stunned, he couldn’t groan in annoyance.

  “You’re right!” Lucassen smiled, clapping his hands together before rubbing them theatrically.

  Both of them stared, flabbergasted.

  “Is this-Is this some kind of a trick?” Sheeva whispered. Tazaro slowly shook his head “no,” considering all the sand worming its way down his back. He clenched his tongue between his front teeth to bite back the vulgar phrasing that passed through his head regarding all the sand now in less than desirable places.

  “No, no trick–though it’s been a long while since I got a good workout, so thank you for that!” Lucassen applauded, laughing all the while.

  With a wave of Fidelia’s hand, Bartholomew had to instantly brace himself in a stance as thick, dark chains appeared, constricting his limbs and torso. With a simple snap of Fidelia’s fingers, the chains shattered, falling to the ground in a ruckus as they sang Bartholomew’s freedom.

  “There. You are free to do as you will.” She smiled.

  Sheeva and Tazaro were quick to hurry to Bartholomew’s side, helping him stand tall.

  “Are you hurt? How do you feel?” They pressed.

  Bartholomew could only blink at them, then stare at his palms as he turned his hands over.

  “Light,” was all he had to say, and softly, with a voice unfamiliar to himself. “But, I’m…ready.”

  Wanting to be comfortable, Bartholomew knelt, then lay himself down, giving himself a moment to gaze at the starry, deep-blue skies. He silently wished them good fortunes with exploring the stars, almost sorry he wouldn’t be around to know what other fascinating things they might learn. He hadn’t even been able to witness them discovering a black hole for the first time, and chuckled to himself as he imagined Tazaro losing his marbles over the existence of the eerie, obscure thing.

  “Here,” He said, lifting his tail and resting it in Sheeva’s hands as she raised her arms in mild alarm. “Not sure if you still have your tail-blade knives, but…” He filled his lungs on the fresh, salty-sea air, then sighed heavily. “Even if you do, use mine. Only seems fair.”

  Somber as understanding set in, they obliged and knelt at his side. Sheeva’s hand clasped the knuckle joining the blade to the tail, and she blinked at it for a moment. It was colder than her chilled hands, trembling slightly. A pair of larger, calloused and warm hands covered hers, and she jerked her head up to meet Tazaro’s eyes, calm, certain, and encouraging.

  “Promise you’ll name a kid after me, ‘kay?” He smiled, gently urging the blade to hover above his heart with the muscles in his tail. He hadn’t told them before, but the scale that usually covered it had been wrenched from its place, and currently, he hoped, hung around Lucille’s neck on a piece of string–until she could purchase a sturdy chain to replace it with, she’d promised.

  Sheeva and Tazaro barked out a mournful, strained, “Yes, of course!”

  With a satisfied grin, he fixed his gaze on the stars, wondering what he might do. Perhaps, he’d fly through the cosmos, and see if the unnamed planet in Behemoth Major truly was just a “ball of gas,” as Sheeva seemed to think.

  “Do it,” He called.

  Tazaro and Sheeva raised the blade, unsteadily resting in their shaky hands. Neither was sure who made the first move, but once they felt the downward shift, both knew there was no stopping now. Eyes shut and breaths shallow, Sheeva wasn’t sure the knife had actually pierced until she heard Bartholomew’s short, pained gasp.

  A harsh sob squeaked past her throat as she felt the furs that poked beneath his scales brush against her wrist, and she cried out in aguish, curling down to press her forehead against Bartholomew’s shoulder.

  As the rattling sigh escaped Bartholomew’s throat, Tazaro opened his eyes in surprise at himself, feeling unable to accept what they had done as tears streamed down his face. He glanced at their friend in alarm, finding a disturbing sense of solace from the peaceful, dreamy smile still on Bartholomew’s face.

  Their bitter weeping was cut short as the sands beneath them began to shift. Tazaro stood and backed away in alarm, pulling Sheeva with him. They turned to watch the sands engulf Bartholomew’s large form, and as his body sunk into the beach, a new mound of sand emerged.

  From the pile, a Sferran man they didn’t recognize stepped out. As he saw them, he seemed to pause, then looked towards where his Ta’hal body had been. He gave them a broad smile that caused the sand to shift and fall off his cheeks.

  “It’s…Arseniy.” Sheeva said slowly. They watched, moved as Rozaline and Raphael greeted Arseniy with hugs that only caused them to mold into a singular mass for a small moment. As three figures formed from the mountain of sand, they walked hand-in-hand toward the ocean, slowly dissolving back into a transparent, wispy outline, then eventually colorful souls; Raphael a bright yellow, Rozaline a mix of oranges and reds, and Arseniy a mass of navy blue and teal.

  “I’ll miss you, Bartholomew,” Sheeva announced her goodbye, clinging to Tazaro’s shirt and using the way he wrapped his arms around her in a hug as a tether.

  “Yeah,” He sighed, blinking slowly at the fading colors as they flowed farther and farther away. “I will, too.”

  As the sky ahead of them began to lighten, Tazaro realized he might not have as much time left as he would like, and he turned to look for his mother’s sand-figure.

  As Rose stood on Sheeva’s left, Mildred approached and stood at Tazaro’s right. Sheeva, tired, reached a hand to grasp the model of Rose’s hand, left with nothing but sand in her grasp. Still, it was a comfort, and she appreciated it as much as she could. She bowed her head as Rose placed a gentle kiss on her crown, leaving her with more flakes of sand in her hair, which she didn’t bother to shake off this time around.

  “We’ll-we’ll meet again soon, Mom,” Tazaro promised, then chuckled to himself. “Though, hopefully, not too soon,” he added, laughing at the unamused look his mother sent him.

  As other sandbodies shuffled past them on their way to the vibrant shore, Rose and Mildred turned away wordlessly to join the rest of the crowd. Like a bale of newborn sea turtles, they made their way towards the ocean, disintegrating into ghosts, then into will-o-wisps of spectral light as they danced beneath the waves.

  Still stunned, Tazaro beckoned Sheeva to sit with him, reeling from extreme tiredness. He groaned as he knelt in the sand, then sat back to splay his leg out in front of him carefully, wincing as a sting burned into his muscle from his wound.

  It was a while before either of them spoke, watching the sun rise from–strangely–the same location it had set, causing Tazaro to wonder if they were even on Sferra. Perhaps, they’d migrated across the universe to some far-off land with a different orbit, but, too tired to want to make sense of the nonsense, he focused his attention on something else, instead.

  “I’m glad he can finally be with his family. I-I can’t image what I would do if I had to wait for you, Sheeva. I mean, suppose I’d be dead, so it might not, um, hurt. Maybe, it’d pass in the blink of an eye.” Tazaro shrugged, then waved off the ramble with a dismissive hand. “But, we don’t have to worry about that now…right?” He asked.

  Sheeva glanced at her palm, where Bartholomew’s insignia had been branded. The skin of her palm was clear and smooth as though nothing had marred it to begin with.

  “It seems so,” She agreed, showing her palm to Tazaro, who smiled gratefully and let out a relieved sigh. Sheeva cozied in the crane of his arm as he wrapped it around her shoulders, blinking sluggishly at the waves as they met the shore.

  Tazaro let Sheeva snooze as he stared at the starry horizon, mesmerized by the swirling splendor before him and the colorful orbs bobbing with the waves. He looked up and over at a figure approaching him, suddenly sheepish as Fidelia headed their way. Perhaps, by letting Sheeva snooze, they were being rude.

  “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to–

  He stopped when Fidelia raised a hand and shook her head gently.

  “No matter. You are but Sferran, aren’t you? You have your limits, but Sferrans still have managed to do wondrous things.” Fidelia assured.

  Tazaro closed his mouth and smiled, but it faded as quickly as it shined.

  “May I ask you something?” He asked, wondering if the goddess would oblige his request.

  “You want to know why I tipped the scales in your favor, don’t you?”

  Tazaro blinked, eyes widening.

  “You-you really did, then?” He asked, further confused with her silent nod of affirmation. Tazaro’s brow furrowed, and his eyes darted back and forth as he tried to make sense of it all.

  “Thank you. But–I mean, after all I’ve said…why?” He questioned.

  “You should know that all actions have consequences, Tazaro Chorea. I can only tip the scales so much before the consequences become too extreme.” She answered. Still unsatisfied, Tazaro scowled as he tried to accept the vague information.

  “Neither of you were supposed to survive that day in the forest,” Fidelia stated. With a wave of her hand, a mirror appeared in the sand, and as Tazaro gazed into it, fear struck him to the core. An entirely different set of events unfolded that left him startled and crying out a disturbed “oh!” as he watched Zakaraia mercilessly behead him after forcing him to his knees to witness his mother’s death.

  Wide-eyed, he tore his gaze from the mirror, piecing together the information. His death meant that he would have never found Sheeva, and she would have died a cold, painful, lonely death. Tazaro’s stomach sank, and he gaped at the goddess, lost for words.

  “Sheeva’s plea was…intriguing, considering she had no idea what or who we were. Curious to know what she might do with the gift of second chance, I tipped the scales, and because of that, I could not spare your child.” She explained. Tazaro sighed heavily and let his shoulders slouch forward, then shuffled Sheeva to rest over his lap.

  “I…I’m grateful,” He murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind Sheeva’s ear before raising his head to look Fidelia in the eye again. “Thank you, um…Fidelia.”

  She tipped her head in acknowledgment, then raised her head.

  “If it helps, he would have been a strong child.” She hinted.

  Tazaro’s cheer bubbled into his face, bittersweet and light, and he sat up with a gasp of delight.

  “We had a boy?”

  Fidelia nodded and summoned another mirror, which Tazaro was not hesitant to peer into, eager to see the child they would have had. He had Sheeva’s hair, but Tazaro’s eyes, and Tazaro watched happily as the mirror showed fast glimpses of the child’s life.

  “Arseniy Bartholomew Chorea. A curious, brave child, like his mother.” She mentioned after they watched him interact with the foreign and unfamiliar environment around him.

  “An inquisitive mind and brilliant inventor, like yourself.” She added as it showed him dutifully working on some type of bird-like machine. As Tazaro thought on it for a second, he recalled it looking similarly to something he’d dreamed he created after he had flown the skies with Sheeva.

  “He would have had a happy, fulfilling life,” Fidelia summed as the mirror seemed to flash forward through a long string of successes, both personal and professional as the boy slowly became surrounded by a wall of growing accomplishments and an ever-growing family. Tazaro searched desperately for his and Sheeva’s presence, wanting to know how proud of their son they might have been, though through the quick scan of the child’s life, he couldn’t see either himself or his wife.

  “I don’t see, um, us.”

  Fidelia gave a long sigh, crossed her arms impatiently, and cast him a sideways, almost disappointed glance which caused Tazaro to sit back in brooding thought.

  “Oh,” he mumbled, eyes downcast. “Consequences?” He posited, sighing and nodding his acceptance as she answered with a quiet affirmation.

  “Everything has a price.” She summed darkly, then tsked and clicked her tongue at something. “Your time here is up, I do believe. Besides, I’ve said too much.” She stated, turning and walking away from their spot on the beach.

  “Wait, how do we get–He flinched as she snapped her fingers.

  –back?” He finished, looking around as he found themselves sitting on the dusty sands just outside of Torde, where their grand fight with Zakaraia had begun. The heat was blistering, no longer invigorating like the sunrays on the beachside had been, and it made Tazaro all-too aware of how gross he felt as he instantly began to sweat.

  “Sheeva,” He blurted, shaking her awake, hoping she would. She did, with a start that made him utter a sincere apology. Likely more confused than he was, she sat up, looking around and then at him for an explanation.

  “Fidelia, uh, sent us back. We’re back on Cruinia, near Torde, looks like.” He answered, unsure of how to explain how, one minute, they’d been on a beachfront and within a second, they would be back on Sferra, as though no time had passed.

  “Yeah, it looks like it! I, I can’t believe I fell asleep!” She said, cheeks turning red with embarrassment. Tazaro chuckled and pecked her cheek, not worried in the slightest as he held back his retort of: “I sure can!”

  How much like her it was to fall asleep when she was most comfortable!

  “So, it’s really over? We’re done?” She babbled, looking around once more. Tazaro reached up a hand to straighten out the flyaways in her hair.

  “Looks like it.” He declared.

  Sheeva gasped with thrill, then kissed him passionately, holding his face in her hands as she kissed him again, giddy. Laughing, Tazaro returned her excited, fervent kiss that made his head swim and a riptide of allure sweep across his body. When her hand accidentally pressed a tender spot on the back of his head, he let out a whimper of pain and stopped her, grimacing with an apologetic frown.

  “Sorry–sore spot.” He panted, sitting back as he stroked her cheek. She let her head rest in his hand with an exhausted huff that seemed to bring about a flow of tears as her lip began to quiver.

  “We made it,” She whispered, sniffling before she barreled her face into his chest to hide it as she broke into tears. “I can’t believe we–Hah! It’s insane!” She barked, falling into a fit of hysterical cackles.

  “Yeah. Yeah, we did,” Tazaro murmured as reality settled in. Slowly, they collected themselves, giving the occasional chuckle and huff amid sobs and sniffles that turned into hysterical, chest-heaving sobs and hard, throat-tearing laughter.

  Lying on the dusty outskirts, Tazaro blinked at the sky through what felt like golf-ball sized eyeballs, nose stuffy and throat raw. How much he wanted to let his body slip into sleep, he couldn’t begin to measure, but as he struggled with the understanding that sleeping in the sun would leave him with a nasty sunburn, he let out a groan as he made his decision.

  “We should go back to the hotel before we fall asleep and bake in this ridiculous heat. And, I don’t know about you, Zvedaya, but I could eat a big, juicy, ten-pound, bloody fuckin’ steak, chug down a gallon of water, boil myself like a lobster and scrub all this damn sand off in a hot steamy bath, and sleep. For a week.” He listed, counting the options off on dusty fingers with one hand while trailing the fingers on his other hand through Sheeva’s hair as her head lay on his chest.

  “Mm, steak.” She giggled. “Sounds–argh–” She grunted as she pushed herself up off of his chest with trembling arms, then sat back on her heels. “Fuckin’ amazing!” She grinned dreamily, though tired as her eyes remained half-open.

  Tazaro smiled and sat up, too, groaning dramatically from another sore spot on his stomach. Sheeva helped him to his feet and held fast as they plodded back towards the city center. The climb up the stairs took a heavy toll, and with the help of the hotel staff, Tazaro and Sheeva managed not collapsing on the floor of their suite as Tazaro had imagined they would do upon entering the room.

  After ushering the staff out of the room with the assurance they were both fine, Sheeva started a bath and helped Tazaro shed his sandy, bloody, damp clothing, then wobbly stepped out of her own dirty clothes. She helped him with a quick sponge-bath before giving herself one, and after helping him climb into the bed with the use of the step-stool for the tub, crawled in beside him, welcoming the mattress that cradled her aching body.

  Even though he was sleepy and barely coherent, Tazaro still reached for Sheeva’s hand, finding it while it was apparently searching for his. He chuckled at that, then sighed happily.

  “I love you, Sheeva, and I’m excited for what the future has in store.” He mumbled.

  She squeezed his hand and rubbed the back of it with her thumb.

  “I love you too, Tazaro, and I’m excited, too. I can’t wait to see what the future has in store.”

  Tazaro’s chest rumbled with a happy hum as he let his eyes close and felt his body slip into a deep, heavy slumber.