All right. This isn’t the response Envy had expected.
Staying their weapons, all combatants register the constellations detaching from above.
Just like that, the world changes shape.
Just like that, the stars fall.
29
Sorrow
The sky collapses.
As the constellations break apart, asterisks plummet like comets. Great globes of lights arc from the canopy, spearing the universe in sharp, white blasts. Thousands of immortal heads tilt, a colony of faces unhinged by the spectacle.
Sorrow follows the trajectory. The memories string together, freezing her in place.
Grenades whistling above mortal soldiers. Mine fields detonating. Bodies tangled in barbed wire.
Except this isn’t the human realm. These aren’t grenades. And they don’t whistle.
They’re celestials, and they chime like serrated discs of silver—polished yet piercing reverberations that grow louder and louder as they cannon toward the cliffs. Though both are almighty, stars in the Peaks are infinitely smaller than those of the human realm. However, the former possesses a greater radiance, even from an impossible distance.
The spectacle is mesmerizing and so magnificent that it takes her seconds to remember: Anything that falls will eventually land.
With the first crash, the ground ruptures. The single star punches the earth, its crater spewing lambent shards across the summit.
The world revolves. Sorrow vaults off her feet, soars through a funnel, and hits the grass. She shrieks the instant her hip slams into the ground, her molars jostling in her skull.
Batting hair out of her face, she glimpses a riot of incoming asterisks. They rain down, cannonballing from the firmament.
Archers roll like marbles while others scramble to dodge the maelstrom. Some deities tumble over the grass. Some sprint, evading the celestials.
Constellations slash their way from the canopy, drive their ancient fists against the cliffs, and then splinter into fragments. Every descent causes the landscape to quake. Sorrow struggles to rise on all fours, then tosses her head this way and that, frantically scanning the panorama.
Where is Envy? Where are her friends?
What about Echo and Siren?
Sorrow crawls across the carpet of blooming flowers, trying to squint through the flashes of light. But it’s too bright to permeate the distance. Visibility of her peers’ side of the battle wanes, so that she can’t tell if the fortification still stands or if it’s been blown to smithereens.
Yelling everywhere. So much yelling.
Sorrow pats her chest, realizing that she’d lost her grip on her weapons. The longbow, quiver, and arrows lay scattered over the grass like detritus. She crawls, reaches for her bow, then launches backward from the crash of a nearby star.
Ramming onto her back, her bones rattle. She skids across the dirt, pain tearing the flesh of her arm, spots bursting behind her eyelids.
A distant voice bellows…her name? Is it calling…her name?
Dazed, Sorrow flops over. She shakes the dust from her mind, the electric buzz of anxiety peeling through her belly.
Someone is hollering for her. Someone is terrified for her.
That someone is a male.
The bluff vibrates, rippling as Sorrow drags herself to a sitting position. Again, she scours the vista. This time, she skewers through the divide, her gaze plowing into a pair of panicked eyes.
There he is, alone in a patch of grass. The stars have thrust him to the ground, where he teeters upright on his knees, his hair a black banner whipping in the wind, his chest bare and littered with contusions.
He’s alive. He’s alive and in one piece.
Envy’s stricken features lock on to hers, relief wiping clear any remnant signs of fright. Sorrow understands that relief, because it floods her as well.
That, and another emotion. One of numerous dimensions, forged by a million sights, and sounds, and tastes, and scents, and textures. It’s the same emotion reflected in his pupils, blessedly accessible from her vantage point. Moreover, it’s tangible enough to blot out the chaos.
Balanced on their haunches, they stare at each other.
And just like that, she knows what this is. And he must know, because his visage blanches.
This is what the legend spoke of. This is the myth’s truth. This is imperfect, and sentimental, and vulnerable, and empowering.
This is love.
The ruler’s earlier words return to Sorrow: Then, convince us.
Fine, because she’s not about to sit here and let the celestials pummel her. Not when there’s so much to live for.
Lights spark around Sorrow and Envy, the shower of constellations whisking their hair. They swap gazes, and when he gives her a repentant grin, she mirrors it with a lopsided one of her own.
And they run.
Barreling toward each other, they pump their arms. Sorrow’s lungs saw through her chest, and her body shrieks with pain, and she doesn’t care. Her boots pound across the summit, leaping to the left, then jetting to the right as she skirts around falling debris. Although the summit throbs, she keeps steady on her feet, desperate to grab him, desperate to be held.
The lake is the final boundary, its surface reflecting a millennia of raining stars. Sorrow and Envy dive. They plunge, and they come up for air, and they crank their limbs.
They swim, and swim, and swim. Over the last few leagues, the water gets shallower rather than deeper. Submerged only to their waists now, they’re able to stand upright. Drenched, they wobble across the final stretch like besotted, suicidal ducks.
“Envy!” she screams.
“Sorrow!” he shouts back.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”
“I know. I kn—”
“I didn’t mean to. I would never hurt—”
“Dammit, I know!”
“I love you!” Sorrow cries.
That, Envy hadn’t known. He really hadn’t because he stumbles, slipping on the words and almost going down. Sorrow does, too.
Getting a second wind, Envy charges. In the lake’s center, she flings herself against his naked torso. He catches her, his arms open and then crushing her to him. Thrown together, they’re a clinging, trembling, gasping mess.
The celestials drop around them, fracturing the cliffs and walloping the water. This could be it. Exposed like this, they’re clear targets.
But at least they’ve made one more choice. At least they’ve chosen this before it was too late.
Bowing their heads, they hold tight.
Soon enough, more sets of arms sling around them, expanding the circle. The familiar scents of friendship envelop Sorrow. Whiffs of pine, and mint, and sandalwood, and vanilla, and peonies, and leather.
Love. Andrew.
Anger. Merry.
Wonder. Malice.
Tears pinch at Sorrow’s eyes. As one, their band forms a ball of light—their very own star. They wait, and wait, and wait.
The quaking ceases. The ringing vanishes.
And the stars stop falling.
30
Envy
Silence. Nothing but complete silence.
They might as well be submerged under water. It feels as if the world has gone to sleep, the sensation ethereal yet earthly.
A body shuffles in his arms. Envy stares down at the face peeking from behind a curtain of hair. Sorrow blinks, her bottomless pupils reflecting his. When he strokes her cheeks, she nuzzles into him. At the contact, noise lurches to the forefront, breaking the surface.
First, her breath stirring with his.
Second, the brush of leaves, grass, and flowers.
Third, the ripple of water as it licks through his trousers.
Envy lifts his head. Sorrow follows suit. And so do their friends.
Small craters glazed in stardust disfigure the summit, white flames pinch the air from broken lanterns, and the glowing motes take up residence in the trees,
like strings of fairy lights. It’s the approximation of a majestically gruesome wasteland.
The dragonflies return, cautious as they hover above the stargazer. The great monument to the Fates, which stands pristine under the hemisphere.
In the midst of that, footfalls approach. Detangling themselves, Envy and his friends break from their huddle to inspect the summit fully. They find themselves the rapt focus of every gaze on this cliff—including the five bedraggled and injured rulers who hobble nearby. Slowly filing along the water’s edge, a bleeding drove of archers marvel at the scene: a small pack of rebel deities, who’d embraced during a shower of stars.
None of the monarchs appear stoic or regal, only dazed. The promise of a smile graces the ebony-skinned goddess, her torn butterfly gown flapping in the wind.
Like his friends, Envy’s gaze travels from sovereigns, to mentors, to archers. Siren. Echo. Harmony. Even Anger’s Guide, Tempest.
Pity, Kindness, Surprise, Confidence, Courage, Trust, Confusion, Guilt, Hope, and Joy.
Nostalgia, Delight, Bliss, Cruelty, Shame, Fear, Suspicion, Shock, Pride, Spite, and Grief.
Though many are missing, too. The ones who have fallen, their lifeless forms scattered amidst the wreckage. Among them: Anticipation, Disgust, Calmness, Sympathy, Triumph, and so many more.
The rest stare, speechless and…awestruck? That’s a strange reaction for what just happened. Or perhaps it isn’t.
If two deities can choose love over lust, they’ll become a force of influence, along with those closest to them.
Once more, Envy glimpses Sorrow’s countenance, a radical sensation cinching around his heart. He can only describe it as endless, without shapes or borders, a hybrid of placid waters and rushing rapids.
That’s not all. Envy inspects the faces of his friends.
Love’s raven-haired mischief and curiosity.
The minty scent of Andrew’s purity, tenaciousness, and selflessness.
The turbulent passion and resilience of Anger, whose olive complexion has blanched from the wound swathed in Envy’s shirt; the stubborn trooper had risked his blood-clotted gash, in order to make it out here.
The unapologetic spirit of Merry, with her theatrical blush and dazzling eyes.
The museful, inquiring, and forgiving nature of Wonder, with her wildflower corsage pinned close to the scars that Envy and his friends had unwillingly made.
The diabolical intellect and ferocious devotion of Malice, his blond waves encapsulating the visage of a devil.
Strung together like this, the experience is sweetly prismatic, forged of plentiful colors and every emotion Envy has ever known. This is what it means to belong to others. And that’s when he realizes what each of them mean to him.
We’re family.
That’s what Merry had said. That’s what they are.
They’re messy. They didn’t ask to be bunched together, and they’ve sometimes made the worst of it, but they’ve usually made the best of it. They’ve done awful things to each other. They’ve done precious things to each other. They’ve given and taken. They’ve been threats and saviors. They’ve behaved conditionally and unconditionally. They haven’t been perfect, but they’re still here, protecting one another.
That’s love.
In the middle of this lake, at the heart of the Peaks, this is love in its many facets. The love of friendship, family, and passion. Perhaps this is the final key, with Envy and Sorrow choosing love over lust, choosing to grab one another under a perilous sky rather than stay apart.
Their destiny. Their decision.
And perhaps that kindled the domino effect, with their friends joining in.
Each of them, foolish and selfish and vicious. Each of them, fragile and susceptible. Each of them, strong and weak. Each of them, flawed by their mistakes. Each of them, empowered by their victories.
Each of them, created by destiny and led by decisions. Each of them, touched and torn and tempted and transcended.
Each of them, no better or worse than humans. Each of them, connected with mortality. Each of them, so very alike.
This is what they’d had to do—unite beneath the falling stars, brave the onslaught as one, and prove that love is power. It’s magic unto itself. It can move worlds and conquer battles, and it can survive.
Perhaps this has mollified the celestials’ wrath. Perhaps this is what it takes to inspire, to understand there is no hierarchy between deities and humans.
Creating an equilibrium isn’t about redefining these things. It’s not about finding a middle ground between separate entities.
There is no middle ground. They’re not separate at all.
They’re one and the same.
To strike a balance, is to understand that fate and free will are one power. They’re two sides of the same coin. Knowing that, understanding that, and embracing that is the key.
Disarmed, the rulers wade through the water, their gowns and cloaks trailing moonlit puddles behind them. Nodding with Envy’s group, who spread out to let them join the circle, the ring broadens like a much-needed breath. Though Envy keeps Sorrow close, strapping his arms around her midriff.
For some reason, the goddess in butterfly gossamer regards Sorrow with a satisfied twinkle.
“Convinced yet?” Sorrow asks.
The female inclines her head. “I think we’re about to be.”
***
The constellations have returned to the sky, having spoken their truth.
It’s time for their subjects to do the same.
Every soul bears the hardship of gathering the fallen and setting the bodies within beams of starlight, where the souls fade peacefully. Some weep for their lost classmates, some cannot muster a sound. Many deities take it in stride, while others don’t.
After an hour of silence, the throng retires for a period of recovery and reflection. Whatever needs to be said deserves time.
Plus, Anger can barely stand any longer.
Envy and Sorrow trade a silent glance. Should he ask her to stay with him? To go home with him? Or should they wait, just for a little while?
Presumably, the tradition between dragonflies and immortals changes for tonight. Or else the creatures have taken pity, because they welcome all riders.
After Sorrow flies off with her Guide, Envy engages in a stream of farewells. His friends return via dragonflies to the Astral Sea, he reunites with Siren, and then he embarks on his own aerial trip home, where he collapses in bed. What follows is the longest sleep in his life, fleeting moments of wakefulness filled with thoughts of purple hair and a wry mouth sipping currant nectar.
When their people have refreshed themselves, they return to the site of combat and the place where deities come into being. They congregate around the stargazer, crowding the telescope’s dais. Envy has donned charcoal trousers, a loose ivory shirt of woven silk, and a gray ankle-length coat accented with a pattern of currants around the cuffs. His heart hammers at the prospect of seeing Sorrow.
The instant she appears, their eyes lock. Envy’s cheeks prickle, just as a flush surges to her own complexion. Their feet carry them, until they meet on the platform. He struggles to contain himself, wanting to bumble a hundred endearments, but they have other matters to address.
The Court summons the children, who weren’t allowed to participate in the fighting. This includes that nameless moppet with the dark sprig of curls, who materializes beside Siren and Echo. The child’s cramped face exhibits frustration beneath those glossed eyelashes, but the peeved expression dwindles when he spots Envy and Sorrow.
Envy nods. By comparison, Sorrow and the moppet wave at one another with enthusiasm. They must have bonded during her time on the dark side.
Envy finds his voice and leans over to murmur, “You’ve made a friend.”
“What can I say?” Sorrow whispers back while staring at the crowd. “Faith and I have the same taste in makeup.”
“His name is Faith?” Envy feigns insult. “I’
m jealous. He told you but not me?”
Perhaps it’s too soon for teasing. His attempt falls flat, because Sorrow gives a noncommittal shrug. Although she stands beside him as their band aligns with the Court, a splash of doubt leaks in. What happened on the battleground…had that been temporary? Has this period of rest given her second thoughts?
Where do they go from here?
Siren catches his eye and gives him a dry look, coaching Envy not to get ahead of himself, nor to jump to conclusions. One thing at a time.
Anger’s gash is slower than usual to heal, but the wound has at least closed, and one can never call the stubborn archer feeble. The opportunity for rest has done him well, restoring his complexion, as well as providing him with the energy to attend this meeting. He shuffles forward, bolstered by Merry and Malice.
The goddess in butterfly gossamer addresses the mélange of deities on the Court’s behalf. It astounds Envy that none of their subjects can rightly pronounce the five sovereigns’ names, so ancient are their chosen monikers. They are simply identified as the Court and formally referred to by the materials of their archery.
Azurite. Crystal. Lava. Pearl. Agate.
“In the lifetime of an immortal,” the ruler begins, “this quarrel between celestials and rebels has been ephemeral. Yet for many of us, it feels as though it has latest an age.” She spreads her arms. “Perhaps it has. This conflict might have ignited long ago, since our very inception. It is a slow culmination of our destinies, as well as our choices. Yet finally, all sides have spoken, as have the stars.”
Anger straightens as best as he can. “This is the route we needed to take, born of circumstance and action.”
“Fate and free will are matched,” Love says. “Neither can exist without the other.”
“Neither is perfect,” Merry trumpets, lacing her free hand with Love’s.
“Both are messy,” Andrew adds, taking Love’s other hand.
“Both are flawed,” Wonder professes. “And we’re stronger for it.”
One by one, eight rebels link hands with five rulers.
“At last, we have reached the brink of renewal,” the butterfly ruler says. “To see a disparate band of immortals prove that love not only exists amongst our people, as it does in humans, but that it empowers them, we must conclude that deities and mortals are equal.”
Transcend Page 28
