The Heart is a Universe

by Sherry Thomas

  His gaze dipped to her lips for a second, before he looked again into her eyes. A quick movement, possibly not even a conscious one on his part, but she, who had vast experience in physical love, immediately recognized it as desire.

  Her aura of heroism might be forever tarnished, but she was still a young, pretty woman, her skin smooth, her breasts high and firm. That was what he was scrutinizing, not her character.

  She laughed a little on the inside, tossed back her wine, and removed the plate of hors d’oeuvres from the swing.

  “What did your physicians say about the effect of lovemaking on your health?” she said, undoing the fastening at her throat.

  Twenty buttons held her simple dress together, a good number, but they only required a tap to yield. She could tap four and still be considered presentable, seven and still be decent. She tapped nine. A deep, narrow V, opening past her navel, revealed the inner curves of her breasts.

  Much to her satisfaction, his breaths quickened. “They—the current consensus is that lovemaking, of the variety that took place on our wedding night, seems to pose no particular threat to my health. Though they did caution me not to indulge too frequently, or be too vigorous when I do.”

  She continued to tap on the buttons of her dress. The way she was seated—with her legs half tucked underneath her—the dress kept her modesty even when all the buttons had been undone.

  “What inconsiderate advice to give to a man on his honeymoon,” she murmured, then rose to her knees and straddled him.

  Now the dress fell apart. He inhaled sharply. She braced her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. He tasted as pure as morning air in the mountains and she couldn’t get enough of the kiss. Of him.

  She forgot that where he was concerned, she still couldn’t decide whether she was infinitely grateful or deeply resentful. She forgot that she had initiated lovemaking to gain a sense of mastery over the situation. She forgot that she needed him to be godly, or as close to it as possible.

  She did not forget that she would soon die. It made her acutely aware that she was still alive this moment, bathed in the warmth of a summer sunset, encircled in the arms of the man who would accompany her on the last journey of her life.

  “You are so very lovely,” he told her, his voice hoarse.

  She believed him. When he looked upon her like this, when he touched her lips with unsteady fingers, when she felt his heart beat wildly against hers, she believed that she was as beautiful as the sea and the sky.

  More than beautiful.

  Eternal.

  She pulled off his tunic. “All these years I have waited for you.”

  She hadn’t—she’d never thought of him as real and never yearned to meet him face to face. Yet as she spoke those words, it felt as if she’d never uttered anything truer.

  “Me too,” he replied, easing the dress from her shoulders, his fingers on her skin as light as the touch of moth wings. “And I didn’t know it until I’d met you at last.”

  The melding of their bodies was as familiar as sunrise, and as momentous as a convergence of galaxies.

  She kissed him again and again, her lips never leaving his. Their embrace felt as vast as the universe itself; the heat they generated, like the birth of stars.

  When the shocks of pleasure had come and gone, he held her close and whispered in her ear, “If I told you I love you, would you tell me that it was only the effect of too much pleasure on a susceptible soul?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I would.”

  “I love you,” he murmured.

  She did not say anything, but only buried her face in the crook of his neck.

  Apparently, the prince hadn’t told her everything his physicians had said about what he could and couldn’t do on his own honeymoon. Lovemaking wasn’t prohibited, but it came with a price: half a day in the recovery tank.

  Granted, a day on Mundi Luminare was shorter than a standard day, only 19.7 hours. But given how little time they had left . . .

  “No more sex for you,” she told him, as he opened the door to the tank.

  “That saddens me enormously.” He smiled. And added, when she lifted a brow, “Though perhaps not for the reason you believe.”

  “What other reason could you have to be sad about not making love on your honeymoon?” she asked archly.

  He cupped her face. “Because when we make love, you are not angry with me.”

  She looked away. “I’m not that angry with you otherwise.”

  He stroked her hair. “Maybe not, but I feel your anger—and the absence of it.”

  His nearness, the warmth of his palm upon her scalp, the gentle, soothing motion of his touch—she wanted to luxuriate in the simplicity of the moment.

  But there was no such thing as an uncomplicated moment between them, was there?

  She pulled away. “When I was much younger, I read about a type of antipathy—the anger we feel toward those who, by their excellence, courage, and humanity, reveal how badly we fall short of those ideals. And I didn’t understand it until I watched you stand before the steps of parliament, staring down an overwhelming force.

  “It’s self-hatred, really. But as I hate myself I also recoil from the one who holds up a merciless mirror to all my shortcomings—and it’s much easier to be angry than to develop excellence, courage, and humanity.”

  This is who I am. This is the darkness within. You said you love me. Do you really? It is possible for anyone to love what I have become?

  “I understand,” he said, his gaze open and direct.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m sorry to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “You’re wrong. I feel quite comfortable with you. I’m sorry that the reverse isn’t true.”

  It wasn’t until the recovery tank had sealed and tilted back to a horizontal position that Vitalis noticed the potted plants on the window sills. She recognized the color and shape of the summer eternity blossoms—she had given the seeds her husband had gifted her to Alchiba to be placed in special nutrient pods and now they were fully grown and in bloom.

  As Eleian had described, each plant boasted two brilliantly blue flowers. But human intervention had probably been required for the flower stems to be entwined in a passionate herbal embrace.

  She took her dinner across the large room—their bedroom, in fact—from the recovery tank, caught up in all the reasons she felt uncomfortable in the presence of a man who accepted her for who she was.

  After dinner, she walked around the retreat for an hour. The stars were out en masse, a spill of cosmic fire against an ink-black night. Down below, bioluminescent plants bordered the paths. When she touched them, her fingers came away with a slightly smoky fragrance.

  Back in her new marital home, she took the volume of meditation instructions out of the display case in the main sitting area. As she’d half suspected, it was none other than her own copy, which she had donated to an auction years ago. At the turning of the first page, her voice rang out, a little crackly, as if coming through a great deal of interference.

  “To the anonymous donor who bid so generously on this book, my deepest gratitude. This volume represents the courage and wisdom of Pavonis, who bravely gave his life for our people. It has been of great comfort and encouragement to me in the preparation for my Task. I hope it will be for you too.”

  Her voice carried a deep conviction. But Vitalis knew at least some of it was pretense. She remembered recording the message—remembered the number of attempts it took before she was satisfied that she still sounded like a true believer.

  And of course, she remembered wanting to get rid of the book because meditative sessions had turned into the worst hours of her day, when she had nothing else to distract her from her disillusion and resentment.

  She took the book with her to the prince’s bedroom, sat down against the side of the recovery tank, and tried to remember how to pay attention to her breaths.

  How t
o let go of all the unhappiness she didn’t want to carry for the rest of her life.

  However brief it was.

  6

  [Footage of a tranquil sea lapping at a long, sandy beach. A small group stands near the edge of the water, around a man in a tactical suit, his head bowed as if in prayer. The sea parts, smoothly and almost soundlessly. Soft gasps erupt. The man raises his hand in farewell and marches forward on the path cleared by the parting seas. The others fall to their knees.]

  [Shot of Vitalis walking along the beach, hands in pockets.]

  Voice off-camera: This is the spot?

  Vitalis: Yes. This is where the sea will part for me to head to the Elders’ Temple—and where my remains will wash up in about a day’s time.

  Voice off-camera: But it’s ten thousand klicks to the Elders’ Temple. And you set out on foot. How is it possible for you to arrive so fast?

  Vitalis: Personally I find the parting of the sea a lot more mind-boggling. Entities who can manage to do that can probably find a way to get me there in half a day.

  Voice off-camera: I know you—and only you, of all the inhabitants of Pax Cara—are allowed to set foot in the sea. But do you ever do it?

  Vitalis: Sometimes.

  Voice off-camera: For fun?

  Vitalis [shakes her head]: No, never. Sometimes I get in a mood, put my hands in the water, close my eyes and try to communicate telepathically with the Elders.

  Voice off-camera: Really?

  Vitalis: Really.

  Voice off-camera: Then what happens?

  Vitalis [smiles apologetically]: Nothing. Nothing happens. There is no special connection between the Chosen One and the Elders. There has never been.

  First thing in the morning, Vitalis ran ten klicks on a well-kept trail that took her to the top of a nearby peak. She must keep in prime physical condition and there was no better time for training than during the hours her husband spent in the recovery tank.

  Her pace was off her personal best—unexpected, as Mundi Luminare had both a slightly higher oxygen content and a slightly lower gravity than Pax Cara. But she didn’t dwell on the oddity: she needed to run faster to get back in time for the unsealing of the recovery tank.

  She reached the bunker in good time. But when she came out of the hygiene suite, smelling faintly of flowers, the recovery tank still lay where it was, only now surrounded by a team of physicians and the chamberlain, who hurried toward her.

  “His Highness is unconscious.”

  Her stomach clenched—not so much at his words, but at the fear in his eyes. “What does that signify?”

  “Every one of his earlier health collapses had been preceded by a bout of unconsciousness that came out of the blue.”

  She couldn’t speak for a moment. “What happens next, then, if we are looking at a collapse?”

  “Once he regains consciousness, for the next day or so, he will appear fine—better than fine. And then . . .” The chamberlain took a deep breath. “But it may not be that.”

  He was not lying, only wishing. But they all knew better. This was the big one, the collapse that his physicians feared would end his life.

  “Should the collapse begin soon, would he last until the Pax Cara Event?”

  Her words sounded calm, normal. The chaos was only wreaking havoc inside her head.

  “No one can say for certain.”

  “Probability?”

  “Not very good.”

  She thanked him, greeted the physicians, and asked the lead physician, a woman named Betria, whether there was anything they could do now for their prince.

  Betria shook her head.

  “In that case, I would like to have some time alone with my husband.”

  Should she pray, she who had never believed in the gods, even as a child?

  Slowly she stroked the recovery tank, first with only the pad of a thumb, then with her entire hand. The way she might have caressed him between bouts of lovemaking, had he been a healthy man—learning the texture of his skin, delighting in his nearness, letting physical contact express the sentiments she was reluctant to voice aloud.

  But her touches were prayers, too. Wordless pleas sent out into the universe for time, faith, courage—and more time.

  Vaguely she became aware of footsteps pounding in her direction. But only when the recovery tank began to tilt upright did she realize that she was half sprawled on top, her arms spread wide.

  She scrambled off. When the tank was fully vertical, the door opened to reveal a beautiful man who looked as if he’d never been ill a day in his life. Her heart leaped before dropping like a satellite in a degrading orbit.

  Once he regains consciousness, for the next day or so, he will appear fine—better than fine. And then . . .

  “You are awake,” she heard herself say.

  He stepped out and shrugged into a robe. “I have been for some time.”

  She recalled the running footsteps—his physicians rushing toward the recovery tank. “You told your doctors not to come.”

  “I told them to wait. I didn’t want to disrupt our moment.”

  She blinked.

  He smiled. “Remember, the tank is touch-sensitive. You never hold me like that when I am out of it—I wanted to savor your embrace a little longer.”

  She hesitated. But hesitation was for people who had the luxury of time.

  “Who said I don’t hold you when you are out of the tank?” she countered softly, wrapping her arms around him.

  They couldn’t avoid the physicians for long.

  After what seemed barely a minute in each other’s arms, there came polite but insistent knocks on the door.

  “Tell them to fuck off,” murmured the prince.

  Vitalis emitted a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “No, you’ll meet with them, but I’ll sit next to you and hold your hand under the table.”

  As it turned out, the conference room in the bunker didn’t have a central table, only a circle of padded chairs. The one reserved for Eleian was wider than the others and easily accommodated them both, sitting shoulder to shoulder. Vitalis was unsure about the etiquette of hand-holding without the concealment of a table, but her husband took her hand in his and that was that.

  “Your Highness,” began Betria, “based on current data, there is a high probability you will see a catastrophic decline in your health and wellbeing. We had hoped that it would be forestalled by the radiation burst of the Pax Cara Event. But that is still eleven standard days away. Our most pressing decision now concerns whether you should undertake the trip at all.”

  Vitalis’s hand tightened on her husband’s.

  “My chance of surviving the next collapse is at best ten percent,” said the prince. “Shouldn’t I hasten to Pax Cara? We are gambling on the theory that a strong dose of Pax Cara radiation can cure me. If that’s the case, then the background radiation might keep me alive until then.”

  Betria shook her head. “In a state of collapse, Your Highness, your chance of surviving both the trip and the days remaining until the Pax Cara Event is no better than that of staying here and weathering the storm.”

  Vitalis stopped breathing—she had underestimated the severity of the situation.

  “It is my professional opinion, and that of my colleagues,” continued the lead physician, “that you should forego the trip to Pax Cara. No dead man has ever been revived by a dose of radiation, however strong or unique. Remaining on Mundi Luminare has its drawbacks, but we’ve fought the same battles before and we’ve always won.”

  “I understand the preference of the medical team,” said her husband quietly, but without hesitation. “I owe my life to your dedication and hard work and for that I can never be grateful enough. Under any other circumstances, I would defer to your judgment. But on this matter, my mind is made up. I will accompany Her Highness to Pax Cara.”

  She stared at him. Were she one of his physicians, she would have advised the exact same thing. Stay put. Keep d
oing the tried and true. They were not talking about taking a chance on the Pax Cara Event anymore, not when there was a ninety percent chance he would die before the event even began.

  Betria looked unhappy but unsurprised. “Your Highness is sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, an answer without any vacillation.

  “In that case, the medical team’s opinion is that we should leave as soon as possible for Pax Cara, before Your Highness’s condition further deteriorates.”

  “How soon can we leave?” the prince asked his chamberlain.

  “The Pax Caran government is expecting you, sire, but not for another two-and-half standard days. This isn’t an official visit but we must still alert them to any changes in your itinerary via diplomatic channels—and receive their formal response. I’d say not before the middle of the night.”

  “Then let’s set the departure at dawn,” said the prince.

  “Did you not hear what your lead physician said? You have a ninety percent chance of dying before the Pax Cara Event even begins!” Vitalis was shouting and she didn’t care. “Remember you told me that you found one instance of someone accompanying the Chosen One to the Elders’ Temple? I can tell you exactly what happened. It was a standard millennium ago. They were sisters—the Chosen One was the younger sister and the older sister decided to go with her. Touching story, right? Well, their remains washed up a day after they set out.”

  They were sitting on a black sand beach at the base of an enormous cliff—or rather, he sat and she paced furiously, kicking up sprays of sand behind her. Elsewhere on Regia Insula the sea was locked in a permanent spat with the landmass, but here a deep cove shut out the roaring surf, and the turquoise water was as maddeningly calm as her dying husband.

  “I never really had much hope for the companion,” he said softly. “If people regularly returned from such a trip, there’d be a crowd following the Chosen One at every Pax Cara Event.”

  “Why? Why go for such odds then? Why choose a ninety-percent-fatal trip just so that you can do something that is almost one hundred percent guaranteed to kill you?”