Goddess Rising

by Alisha Ashton

  When they walked to the lake at the edge of the forest, Skye was taken aback. She did not anticipate the impact it would have on her to see the still-scorched, empty land beyond the tree line. Protected by magic, she could see that the relatively small patch of Sorcha's garden was unharmed, but all else was barren and dead. Mist hovered close to the ground like smoke, as if the land itself was trapped in the moments following the fire.

  In her time, it was lush and green. In her time, the castle stood in the distance – her first real home since childhood. Seeing its absence made her heartsick. It was a visual reminder that, no matter how relaxed she had felt a moment prior or how much comfort she took in Ciaran’s embrace, she was still terribly far from home.

  Sensing the importance of the moment for her, Faolan fell back and let her walk ahead. The others followed his lead, except one.

  “The immense stone structure where you and I first meet in your time… it will stand just there?” Taran asked quietly beside her, pointing off in the distance.

  Skye looked up at him and nodded. Her eyes wandered over his features, over the tattoos on his skin and all the subtle differences between him and the man she had fallen so deeply in love with inside that castle.

  Taran frowned as he surveyed the landscape, seeing glimpses of the way it would be from the pleasant memories she had shared. He could understand her pain. He knew without asking that this view had only renewed her intense longing for home.

  “If you would like, I will show you where we will begin our practice in the morning,” he offered. He was relieved when Skye motioned for him to lead the way – away from the source of her sadness.

  They planned for the following day with minimal conversation. After Faolan was satisfied that he had shown her enough, they headed back to eat the evening meal. When they were finished, Skye excused herself to her private quarters – alone for once. She needed some time to prepare before she went to Sorcha.

  Seated on a mat within her temporary home, she rested beside the fire. She was comforted by its presence. The quiet crackling of the wood it consumed. She was thankful for its warmth and company. She was also semi aware of the fact that she was beginning to think of elements, such as fire, as living beings on a regular basis… As quickly as her brow began to arch in alarm at the possible implications of that thought process, she shook her head and stuffed it down. She refused to think about it.

  One existential crisis at a time, dammit.

  She carefully reviewed all the partitions of her mind, picking out thoughts and memories she needed to keep private and placing them into an impenetrable box. With the growing number of pieces to the puzzle all gathered in one place, the temptation to review and consider them was stronger than ever. It was far too dangerous, though, and she knew it. She needed Sorcha’s aid to get home. She needed to wait until she was safely in her own time before she faced the truth and investigated any further.

  She layered her power over herself again, and when the sun began to set, she headed out to find Sorcha.

  Deep in the forest, high atop a tall cliff in an area Skye had never explored, Sorcha waited.

  Gazing up at her, Skye tilted her head. She did not see an obvious path up and considered the fastest way to reach the summit. After a moment, she decided to use her faol abilities to scale the sheer side of it. It felt good to leap and grip the rocks, to work her muscles, to transform partially and let the beast in her blood out. It occurred to her in that moment that she very much wanted to spend some time in her faol form. It had been quite a while since her last full transformation. She recalled Taran once mentioning how their kind longed for the ‘freedom of the hunt.’ She would have to ask her clansmen how best to run her Wolf before it grew restless. She personally did not want to track down and eat Bambi, but the Wolf in her just might need it.

  When she reached the top of the cliff and got to her feet, Sorcha smiled at her warmly.

  “You have your father’s physical power,” Sorcha marveled. “I see so much of myself in you, it is easy to forget that you are also a wolf changeling.”

  Skye laughed lightly. “With everything that has happened to me lately, I nearly forget, myself.”

  “What a wonder you are…” Sorcha breathed. She shook her head in amazement and extended her hand. “Come. You must tell me of your journey to this time. Spare no details – all are important.”

  Skye took Sorcha’s hand and followed her along a stone path to a modest, round temple. It seemed impossibly ancient (even by 2,000-ish years BC.) Despite the dark beyond its walls, the interior glowed with moonlight, courtesy of a hole in the ceiling. At the center of the far wall in the place of greatest prominence was a rudimentary carving depicting a woman holding the moon above her.

  Skye understood without asking that this temple had been created by Sorcha’s worshippers long, long ago – likely the very first humans to settle in these lands. She took a seat on a stone bench across from Sorcha and considered how best to word her experience. It took several moments, but she managed to stumble through it somehow.

  “Your first mistake,” Sorcha began, “was clinging so tightly to your form. You are a Goddess now, child. A Triple Goddess, at that. All that you believe of the world no longer applies to you.”

  Skye swallowed anxiously. “I have felt… at several points in the past few days… as if my body is becoming unnecessary.”

  Sorcha smiled. She seemed particularly pleased by this. “It is. You are light now. A physical body has many perks… I myself took this form in order to enjoy them. But you are so much more than this shell in which you currently reside. You can leave it as you wish. Change it as you wish. Once you return to your time, you may eventually choose to abandon it entirely.”

  Skye’s eyes widened slightly, and she shook her head. “I do not believe I will ever make that choice.”

  Sorcha’s smile faltered ever so slightly. Her gaze seemed to cool for a fraction of a second before she recovered. “Give it time, child. The more you practice, the more you may come to enjoy it.” She gazed up at the moon and sighed. “First, we will work on easing your instinctual fear of losing the solidity you have always known. It will take quite a bit of practice, I am sure, but it is crucial before you can accomplish anything further. I will be limited in what I can show you while you are here. Limited in what you can do without further altering the course of time. Your power has already greatly impacted the life paths of Taran and Ciaran, as well as a mortal boy, from what I have been told. Thankfully those changes all work to your benefit and have not drawn the fury of fate. We must be careful from now on. Each step you take is a pebble in the pond. Any single one could prove to be the ripple that grows to the tidal wave that washes away your entire existence.”

  Skye considered her words and nodded. “Okay, let us get started.”

  30: Rebuilding Foundations

  Skye did not sleep much following her training with Sorcha. Thankfully, it had not been physically demanding. Basically she was just meditating and listening to Sorcha talk her through the steps of turning into light.

  While she was not making any progress yet, Skye refused to be disheartened. She had only attempted it once so far, after all, and considering how much pain her mind associated with losing her physical form, it was going to take a while to work up the courage to take that leap again. It was akin to staring at a speeding train and telling your brain to go ahead and step in front of it – no worries, it won’t hurt! Your brain would tell you to kindly go fuck yourself because it knows damned well you would not be walking away unscathed. And just as you know losing a game of chicken with a speeding train would most likely mean an instant, gruesome death, Skye’s brain knew without a doubt that using her power was going to hurt like a mother fucker.

  Unable to sleep and having already spent a few hours wrapped up like a pretzel with Ciaran, Skye decided to get an early (predawn) start to the day. After dressing and eating a quick meal, she made her way alone to the place sh
e would be meeting Taran.

  Drinking in the silence of the morning, she crossed a flower-laden forest meadow. The thinning of the trees in the distance and unobstructed view of the sky beyond alerted her to the presence of a cliff up ahead. She was glad for it, as it granted a front row seat for a breathtaking sunrise. As she walked toward it, she spread out her fingers and allowed them to skim along the thigh-high, dew-wet bluebells and grass. She breathed in the chill morning air and felt reinvigorated by the land. The sun was casting the retreating clouds in varying hues of orange, pink, and blue. She came to a stop to take in the beauty of it all. She could feel the drastic difference in this old world compared to the one she knew. The purity. The lack of abuse.

  She had her first-ever immortal thought in that moment: In my lifetime, I hope I get to see the world returned to this glory. I hope I can witness the full restoration of nature’s perfection. And I hope mankind survives the cataclysm when the world finally rights itself.

  She felt Taran’s approach long before she heard him. She noted his cautious stride and the way he stopped several yards away. His voice was low and gentle when he spoke. Rather than interrupting the serenity of the scene before her, it somehow served to compliment it.

  “Who would have guessed a simple sunrise could so thoroughly impress a Moon Goddess?” Taran commented quietly.

  Skye smiled and replied without looking over her shoulder. “The sunrise is always impressive to me. It is a victory. It means I survived another night.”

  Taran let out a ‘hmm’ of agreement as he considered her words.

  The two stood together in silence for a while, watching the sun’s slow ascent into the sky. Once the spellbinding atmosphere of the dawn lost its hold, Skye turned to face him.

  “So, what did you have in mind for –?” she began, but abruptly halted her words when she focused on him.

  His tattoos were gone. All of them. The visual indicators of his youth. The inked landmarks that served as constant reminders of the vast distance separating him from the man he would one day become. They were simply… gone. The bare face that greeted her was painfully familiar. Ready for a day of sparring, he was shirtless, despite the chill air. The sight of the flawless, unmarked flesh of his exposed upper body caused her physical pain.

  Skye clenched her jaw and winced as the emotional impact landed like a punch to her gut. It was difficult to draw a breath against the intense longing she felt. In that moment, Taran was an unexpected glimpse of the home that was still so impossibly far beyond her reach.

  Taran shifted anxiously in response to the anguish in her eyes. “You have my sincerest apologies, Goddess Queen,” he swore repentantly. “I failed to consider how this would affect you. I can have Drostan reapply them if this makes it too difficult.”

  Skye could not yet find her voice. Her lips trembled uselessly, and eyes filled with unshed tears.

  Taran took a cautious step closer as he explained, “I transformed last night.” Seeing the way Skye’s eyes immediately narrowed questioningly, he shook his head. “Not out of necessity or danger,” he assured. “You need not worry about that. It was for… an errand of sorts for Drostan.” He waved the matter off, not wanting to get into it. “Afterward… when I changed back and saw my bare skin again, I… I do not know. I suppose I thought back on all that you have shown me. The man I will one day be, and I… Well, I just thought… maybe this time, I would leave the tattoos… gone.”

  With the trademark sincerity of his future self, he gathered the strength to continue. “I am not yet the man you will love, Goddess Queen.” He looked down at the ground regretfully. “So very, very far from it, truth be told…” he admitted. He met her gaze again as he assured, “Yet I am absolutely certain that I am no longer the man I was when you first arrived here. And those tattoos? They belonged to the arrogant, selfish fool I never again desire to be. I pray that he may be dead to us both, so that we may move forward,” he said hopefully. “Certainly not to intimacy,” he assured a moment later, afraid she might misinterpret his intentions. “But… perhaps… you and I might work toward friendship? Rebuild the foundations of trust that were damaged?”

  His eyes searched hers earnestly for any hint of her feelings on the matter. Skye remained quiet for several moments as a silent war raged in her mind. She was still angry. And hurt. And she would not soon forget the mistakes this younger variation had made. But they did need to move forward. He might have only just begun his journey, but he was on his way, and she knew the golden-hearted man he would become in the end.

  With a bit of effort, she managed to say, “Do not call me that.”

  Taran tilted his head curiously. “Do not call you what? ‘Goddess Queen’?” he asked, at first not understanding. Slowly, his features softened. With cautious hope, he asked, “What would you have me call you instead?”

  Skye closed her eyes and heard his distant voice echo in her memories. What she would not give to hear him say ‘my wee Queen’ in that moment. But it would not be right. “Sgitheanach,” she said as she opened her eyes. “Call me Sgitheanach.”

  The corner of Taran’s mouth lifted in a hint of a devastating smile. A familiar warmth came to his striking gray eyes. “Very well, then… Sgitheanach,” he said in a gentle tone and inclined his head to her graciously.

  It was a baby step, but a baby step in the right direction. They held one another’s gaze for a long moment before Taran unsheathed his sword and handed it over to her.

  “Let us start. I assume you have some experience using…” Taran began, only to trail off and quirk a suspicious brow at the unfamiliar, amateurish way she held it. Considering the vast differences in their cultures – and the world in general – by her time, he instead asked worriedly, “Have you… ever… used a sword?”

  “Ummm…” Skye said with a thoughtful frown as she scanned her memories. “No, actually,” she answered, surprising herself. “Most of the time, I just staked blood-drinkers in the heart. I decapitated plenty over the years, but I never used a sword to do it. Machetes, sure. Bowie knives a couple times. A hatchet – once, in a pinch.” A smile came to her lips and she laughed as she recalled, “I did use a scimitar one time! But that was only because it was hanging on the wall and I was otherwise unarmed…”

  Taran was amazed to find images coming to his mind with each unfamiliar word Skye used. Her magic was translating their words with ease, but there were no precise matches for ‘machete’, ‘Bowie knives’, ‘hatchet’, or ‘scimitar’ in his language. Instead, he received flashes of her memories. He could see each of the comparably-smaller, oddly-shaped, foreign blades as if through her eyes.

  Skye frowned as she added as an afterthought, “Eh, the scimitar turned out to just be a display piece, though. Blade was completely dull. Made a huge mess…” Her eyes widened and she grimaced at the memory.

  Taran suppressed a smile. He was no stranger to the daunting, gruesome task of decapitating an enemy with a dull blade. It required a sheer, determined will to survive.

  A moment later, Skye cleared her throat and said, “But no. I have definitely never used a longsword like this.”

  Taran fretted only briefly over her lack of experience. Ultimately, he decided that it was better this way. Skye was a blank slate. He would not have to contend with another’s teachings or explain why he preferred his own method over hers.

  Evidently a glutton for punishment, his mind chose that moment to meander down a path he stupidly believed it would have avoided for the foreseeable future. The metaphor was not lost on him that Skye had never held another man’s longsword in her hands. And didn’t that just make the image of her in that moment even more enticing… He watched as she adjusted her grip on the hilt, trying to find a comfortable position to hold it at rest. He took far more enjoyment from the scene than was strictly decent before giving himself a forceful mental shake.

  Mercifully, with a bit of restraint (and a great deal of that aforementioned ‘sheer, determined will to
survive’), he was able to hold his tongue and not address the obvious inuendo. Still, he found himself (privately) deeply pleased by the fact that he was her first in this. It occurred to him that he would most certainly gain this same sense of satisfaction in her time, being the first to guide her through her transformations. He had seen the memories of those moments through her eyes, not his own, but he knew without a doubt he had been internally delighted by the situation. What a vision she would be when he reached that point in his life. Strong and fiery as ever, yet frightened and reluctantly seeking his guidance…

  “We will start with the basics then,” he said, fighting back his intrigue and dragging his wayward mind back to the task at hand. He steadfastly ignored all possible double meanings behind his words as he said, “Go ahead and get a feel for the blade, for its weight and reach. Give it a few swings – nothing wild or aggressive. Just allow it to become an extension of your body. The more fluid and relaxed you are in your movements, the more lethal you will become.” He motioned for her to go ahead, then crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against a fallen tree to observe.

  With Taran’s eyes on her, Skye carefully examined the weapon. She exhaled slowly, fully aware of the significance of him giving her this sword to use for her lessons, rather than any random blade. Taran took great pride in this weapon, clearly. Just since her arrival, she had already witnessed him caring for it on numerous occasions. There was sentimental significance here. This was an object from his mortal life – something she knew must be an increasingly rare commodity.

  Her immediate impression was that the sword was perfectly understated. Unapologetically beautiful in its masculinity and obviously well-loved. Its muted, golden hue gave the bronze weapon a warmth that belied its purpose. The pommel was round and flat. She brought it closer to her face to study the familiar crescent moon design stamped there. It was the same as the moon previously tattooed on Taran’s brow. The leather-wrapped grip was soft and smooth to the touch, worn-in from decades regularly spent in Taran’s firm grip. Knotwork designs were etched into the aged leather, many of which matched the animals and symbols formerly inked into Taran’s flesh. These symbols were all tied to his identity, she knew. Some served as a family crest, others denoted his rank and status within his mortal clan. The designs continued down the impeccably clean, incredibly sharp blade. Its polished surface glinted in the morning sunlight.