5. God Amongst Gods

Arms that lead the wind in a drunken dance. Hands that trail like a peacock’s tail feathers. Body balanced on one leg, turning in a slow descending pirouette, the other leg straight, toes pointed out, drawing circles in the fallen white. Even when the body is close to the ground it doesn’t waver or tremble, as if weight is but another trifle in the grand procession, possessed by a singular focus. When it reaches the lowest point between the cusp of flesh and earth, the body unleashes all the energy withheld, one arm outstretched, thrust and flight, a powerful but light prance from one foot to the next, resuming the dance upon landing.

Akraptor recognizes this dance. He’s seen it when Gwen practices, faster and stronger, but beautiful all the same. Now he’s watching their daughter make those very movements. She must’ve learned by simply watching, because Gwen has never taught her. Three-years old and already a genius in the making. He glances at his beloved, who sits beside him on the park bench, head resting on his shoulder, a proud grin spread across her face.

“I’m glad she takes after you,” Akraptor murmurs. “She’s a natural. Not to mention, she’s got your looks.”

Gwen laughs. “You’re saying that as if she doesn’t have your smile. Boys will chase after her like kites chase the wind, just to catch a glimpse of her joy.”

“They wouldn’t dare. I’ll stop every single one of them with my bare hands.”

“With those delicate hands of yours?”

Akraptor turns his head with a slight frown. “Delicate?”

“You do her hair better than I do,” she teases. “And don’t think I’ll ever forget the way you held her when she first came into this world.”

Akraptor can’t deny it. He remembers but a series of blurred images through a gaze clouded by a wellspring of happy tears. Flesh of his own flesh. Blood of his own blood. And eyes that match her mother’s silver stars, more beautiful than any that embellish the night sky. She is the best thing he has ever done after marrying the love of his life. Every little print left by those small fur boots in the snow is evidence of that. He leans his head against Gwen’s, a long, content sigh leaving his lungs.

Would it be too greedy of him to want for such small joys to never end? Perhaps deep down, he knows it is, and still, he continues to dream. They’re just small joys, he tells himself. Fate would not be so cruel to pay heed to the dreams of an insignificant soul like him. So Fate bestows upon him an answer, in the form of that thin stick in the child’s hands, a dried offshoot of a tree branch—something of a sky-splitting blade. As it sketches new constellations into the milky blue above, the space created by those long strokes manifest a door of light.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The tree-birthed sky-splitting blade meets another weapon of similar caliber—the real culprit of torn space—a sword that cuts the very air itself. Akraptor pales. His lips part to deliver warning, but his voice is lost. The shinsu around them has become so thick that it has become difficult to breathe.

The child jumps in delight at the sight of a playmate, unaware of the existence before her, a being that escapes all logic. In utter horror, Akraptor surges off the bench, but fingers fasten around his wrist, pulling him back down. He turns to meet Gwen with fiery panic, only to find those usual steadfast eyes quaking with fear. He’s never seen her like this. Trembling. Unsure.

Vulnerable.

The entity that steps out of the bright torn space is neither tall nor built, but still, he towers over them. Without realizing it, both he and Gwen have been reduced to their knees. A presence capable of distorting one’s perception of time. This is the might of a god amongst gods. A High Ranker.

“Gwyneira.” It’s a voice whose depth and weight both soothes and constrains. “You’ve grown up.”

The pressure surrounding them dissipates. They can breathe again.

“Elder Brother.” She answers, voice quivering. “I—”

“The Family Head’s patience has run thin.”

Akraptor swears there are hints of pity, perhaps even sorrow in the man’s tone. Were he and Gwen once close?

“I have been ordered to retrieve you,” the man continues. “You must return to the Citadel at once.”

“Mommy.” A small face with full cheeks peeks out from behind those flowing white robes. “Who is this big mister?”

Gwen doesn’t say a word. It’s not that she won’t—she can’t. The Names in her Family are not to be spoken lightly. Tradition honors that notion and blood seals it with threat of great consequence.

Akraptor gestures for his daughter to walk around. “Sweetheart, come over here.”

She clutches the stick close to her chest and waddles into his arms. He hugs her tightly, kissing her forehead. Her warmth is the only glue that keeps him from falling apart.

“That’s my girl.”

The man clears his throat. “I have orders to bring your daughter back as well. Along with this man.”

This man. In the eyes of the Family, he was no husband, much less a father. Heat swells in his chest, venom at his lips. He glares at their unwelcome guest, and the moon stares back, cold, unmoving, a god gazing upon an ant. Daring him to grow wings.

“Come on then,” the man sighs, turning his back to them, gesturing for them to follow. “The Family Head will wait no longer.”

When he disappears through the door of light, an inkling of hope begins to grow within the heart that remembers how to beat again. They could run. How far, Akraptor doesn’t know, but they wouldn’t know if they didn’t try. Then, he remembers the thickening of shinsu. The overwhelming power that could snuff the life out of him with a mere thought. He remembers fear. For his life. For Gwen’s. For their daughter’s.

Akraptor glances at Gwen, who nods reluctantly. With their daughter between them, they rise to their feet to discover the Fate that awaits them on the other side.