Hundreds of years.
It grew harder to help the wayward traveler find peace. The more time he spent in a fully inhuman state, the more pieces he lost of himself. Shattered souls were the hardest to piece back together. Itreus feared no recourse, however. He never lost hope. He had all the time in the world.
It was never too late for a soul to find peace.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Edvard never cared much for steam cars. His body jostled over the still-broken roads leading down toward Panagea’s center. With the giant chasm splitting across several divisions, little money filtered into the restoration this far out. Nobody wanted to live near Panagea’s greatest historical disaster. Nobody wanted to remember it occurred at all.
It still reeked of dead bodies. Edvard suspected no amount of time would change that. He swallowed, digging his fingers harder into the steam car’s wheel. The beds of his nails turned white. Though he remained half a mile out from where he would meet his son, he pulled the car off to the side and let the engine die.
The man closed his eyes. An insurgence of discomfort attacked him from the moment he received Nicholai’s letter. His son did not elucidate as to why he requested his physical presence, but the words ... the way they scrawled across the page ... they lacked the traditional ease of which his son penned his previous messages. The words were rigid. Cautious.
It tangled Edvard’s stomach into unexpected knots.
He felt Epifet. He was certain, though he could not see her with his eyes, that she hovered around him somewhere. Edvard ran his tongue across his dried lips, leaning back in the car’s seat. “What do you suppose it’s about?” he asked out loud, knowing she heard.
After a small onset of silence, Epifet appeared in the front seat beside his. Her back arched, as there was no comfortable way for her to sit with her wings pressing up against the seat. “I understand your concern. I tried to visit his dreams last night, but I am afraid I could not discern his exact thoughts.” Her face adopted a look of worry. “I feel his unrest. It is ... dense. Wriggling. Like a ball of tightly coiled snakes.”
Edvard pursed his lips together. “I suspected as much. He wouldn’t have summoned me to the center unless it was a matter of great importance, but ...” His words trailed away as he looked to the remainder of the walk he had ahead of him. “I can’t help but wonder why he wouldn’t expound in his letter.”
The goddess dipped her head to the side. She felt Edvard’s qualms fill the vehicle. The man carried them from his home in Kudgan to Panagea’s center, as if they were tightly packed into a piece of luggage. The pain it caused her came as a surprise. Epifet never suspected she’d lament over the mental anguish of Edvard Addihein, but she found herself placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’ll forgive me if I do not present myself.” A softness invaded her voice. “I delight in seeing his face, I do, but ... I think it would be best if he did not see mine.”
A small nod stemmed from Edvard’s neck. “I understand.”
Her stomach dropped at the sight of him. Epifet suspected it was Edvard’s own guilt that planted the fears in his brain. Guilt that, at any moment, his son would discover the flawed mortal behind the authoritative, powerhouse figure he knew growing up. “Do not fear so much, Edvard. You do not even know why he beckoned you out here. But whatever the reason, he is your son. He loves you.”
Edvard nodded once more, though he failed to make eye contact with the goddess beside him. After everything Edvard Addihein had done to his son ... depriving him of his mother ... sending him off to live with his grandparents ... allowing Nordjan to act as his guide when he took over as Southeastern’s Time Father ... betraying him, when Nicholai was on the run from the existing division leaders’ wrath ...
The man cleared his throat, patting the steering wheel. “I hope very much that that is true.”
Epifet watched as the Western Time Father convinced his legs to slide out of the steam car. He adjusted his vest, his tie, his hat. He exhausted every possible option to delay the inevitable. When he had nothing left to do, Edvard started walking. Epifet sat up, calling out after him, “Good luck, Edvard.”
The man turned back to thank her, but by the time he completed the motion, she had already disappeared. Summoning his last shreds of courage from the reservoir in his gut, Edvard continued on his path toward Panagea’s center.
It was a short journey over the busted up fragments of rubble. The circumstances made it feel like a century before he climbed the small hill. His eyes narrowed as he raised a hand over his face, shielding his vision. Nicholai’s silhouette on the horizon came into view immediately.
Edvard couldn’t pinpoint his uneasiness. He should have delighted at the sight of his son. It was too few and far between that he enjoyed the luxury of seeing him in person. Stuffing his apprehensions down into his stomach, Edvard summoned a smile to appear on his face when he drew near enough to Nicholai to gauge his expression.
“Here at your request, my son.” Edvard extended both arms for a brief moment, but a quick attack of nerves returned them to his sides. An embrace left him too vulnerable. He pinched his lips together, holding out a hand instead.
Nicholai nodded, reaching out to shake his father’s hand. “Hello, Edvard.”
That he addressed him by name fired warnings in Edvard’s brain. The Western Time Father showed little emotion, not wishing to give away any signs of his discomfort.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Nicholai added, disbanding some of the tension. “It’s ... just something that couldn’t be done by letter.” With a recognizable hesitation, the man tugged at the collar of his shirt. “I ... don’t even know how to bring this up. I’m just going to come right out and say it.” He cleared his throat, removing his hat long enough to sweep his hand through his hair. “I ... I received word from a source ... that indicates you are involved in the death of Enita Addihein.”
Edvard barely heard his son’s final sentence. It was uttered with such haste, that most of the words bled together in a slur. He recognized enough of them, however, that a quick flash of culpability slid onto his face. Edvard felt his stomach give way, creating a hollow pit in his entrails before he replaced the stab of fault with unbridled stoicism.
His father’s silence came as a hit. Nicholai had hoped for an indication of insult. He wanted his accusation to be received in disgust, not stillness. Stillness left room for doubt. “I wanted to see your face in person,” Nicholai muttered, afraid by the look his father wore, that his allegation might be true. Unwilling to abandon the possibility of Edvard’s innocence, the Southeastern Time Father continued. He needed to hear him say it out loud. “I need to know if it’s true.”
At a fork in the road of his conscience, Edvard postured. It was a situation over twenty years in the making. One he feared the repercussions of every night, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year.
He had long ago perfected a monologue. Edvard knew exactly what he would say to Nicholai if he inquired about his mother’s death. Edvard would feign offense, tell him how ridiculous his accusations were—it was all planned out. Every word. Every falsified emotion.
The man closed his eyes. The monologue fell away from his head. He knew what it was like, to live with the guilt. He no longer wished to. Edvard Addihein grew tired in those twenty-odd years. Exhausted.
Fatigue aside, a clear conscience was a mixed reward. Perhaps he could carry the secret longer. To his grave. What would that do to his son? To live a life, burdened by the pain of unanswered questions ... it was a fate nearly as cruel as the one he subjected Nicholai to as a boy. A motherless, fatherless existence.
He was tired. Tired of punishing his son. Tired of running from what he had done to his wife. Edvard clenched the muscles in his stomach. He dragged his eyes from the unfocused place they rested on the horizon. He found Nicholai’s gaze. The words came out heavy, but he hauled them from the depths of his throat one letter at a time. “It is true.”
The feeling was an unexpected one. Though enough of Nicholai entertained the authenticity of Ganther’s claims to carry him to Panagea’s center, he had coated his spirit in an illusion of denial. This was not what was supposed to happen. He was to travel all this way, look Edvard in the eyes, ask him if he had killed Enita, and head back home, feeling the part of a fool, when his father chastised him for even thinking such a horrid thing.
His blood felt icy. It hindered his movements. A numbness crawled through him; a gift from his body, to protect his brain from further mental deterioration. Unsure whether or not he even breathed, Nicholai parted his lips. “Why?”
Edvard felt the weight of two decades of guilt exit through his fingertips, dangling limply at his sides. The reprieve was short-lived. New guilt invaded, feeding off the devastated look on his son’s face. “She ... wanted you so badly. Our attempts were largely unsuccessful. Enita knew of the gods and goddesses, as all the division leaders did.” His eyes fell to the ground. “I should never have told her of them ...”
In his devastated state, Edvard Addihein looked like half the man Nicholai remembered from his childhood. Once a proud, revered leader, Edvard stood taller than any individual Nicholai laid eyes on. But now, watching him, he looked to be nothing more than a husk. A hollowed-out version of his former self.
“She prayed for you,” Edvard continued, forcing himself to find Nicholai’s face. “It was discovered that her prayer invited a goddess back into Panagea. A crime the division leaders saw as ... unforgivable.”
His heart felt as if it shrank from within his chest. Nicholai found himself bearing his teeth. With a deep breath, he tried to maintain his composure. His efforts failed. “So, you punished her? You punished her ... for bringing me into the world?”
“It was a mercy kill,” Edvard replied, his tone more beseeching than he wished it to be. “I loved her, Nicholai.” His eyes went dry, though the confession destroyed him. He had no tears left for Enita. Not anymore. Not after the gallons he had already shed were pulled from his mourning body. “She went painlessly in her sleep ... after bidding you goodnight. She perished at her happiest. That is more generous than any punishment the other division leaders would have unleashed on her if I had waited for them to come take her.”
“Mercy?” Nicholai’s indignation choked his speech. Gentle eyes turned dark, flashing with an injection of uncontaminated resentment. “How long have you deluded yourself into believing that holds any truth to it at all? You are a gods-damned Time Father, the highest-ranking authority in all of Panagea! You could have stopped them!”
“I was young.” Edvard pressed his lips together, clenching his jaw. “I had been trained to believe that what Enita did was treason. I was afraid they’d strip me of my position.”
“Your position was more important than her life?” Unhinged, Nicholai dug his fingers into his palms to keep himself from lunging. The cold metal of his artificial hand did little to temper his rage.
Edvard remained immovable in his stance, prepared to absorb the aftermath of his sins. “I made the wrong choice. I just ...” His face twisted at the memory. “I didn’t know it at the time.”
Nicholai’s blood fumed. Anger of this level was an unacquainted emotion. He harbored no experience in dealing with it. Thrusting a finger forward, he removed his feet from Southeastern territory and advanced into Edvard’s personal space. A victim to his rage, he scowled. “I have half a mind to—”
A figure appeared. A shield, placed between Nicholai’s wrath and Edvard’s body. Epifet’s fingers wrapped around Nicholai’s metallic forearm. Her naked feet dug into the hard ground to stop him from advancing farther. “Nicholai.” The single word poured from her lips with love. With piteousness. “Stop. This is not who you are.”
The Southeastern Time Father’s eyes widened. He halted in his tracks. Those eyes ... that voice. Though he last saw her in a world that wasn’t his own, nearly a year ago, he recognized her immediately. “Epifet ...”
The Goddess of Fertility. It all made sense. She was the one who helped his mother. He knew, then, why she assisted him in the in-between. Why she spoke to him with the love of a matriarch. She had to love him. She helped create him. “Did you know about all this?” Nicholai asked, his wild eyes searching her own for answers. “His betrayal to my mother?”
Epifet’s gaze softened into one of sadness. “Enita was a special woman. I loved her too.” The goddess reached out, to place her hands on Nicholai’s shoulders. “I mourned her death like a sister. She was the first human to return purpose to me in hundreds of years.” Strands of hair spilled over the goddess’s shoulders as she hung her head. “Your mother, above all else, embodied the love of the human spirit.” Epifet raised herself. She locked on to the angry man before her, her glassy orbs shining with reason. “Nicholai ... she would have forgiven him.”
The goddess neither confirmed nor denied her knowledge of Edvard’s betrayal. She didn’t have to. Nicholai knew, in her words, in her tone, that she was aware. He pulled his shoulders free from her touch, glaring. “She no longer has that choice.”
“You are hurt. Understandably so.” Epifet brought her hands to her chest, her voice forgiving. Though she did not wish to appear, she could not bear the sight of Nicholai’s torture. “Please. I am asking you to honor her by doing what she cannot. Forgive him, Nicholai. It’s never too late for a soul to find peace.”
Nicholai’s look of treachery remained. “It’s too late for Enita,” he whispered, his declaration leaving him in the form of ice. His head twisted toward Edvard, his tongue filled with venom. “You’re dead to me. Western and Southeastern can maintain their political ties. I will not punish my people for your crimes. We will uphold the current standards regarding imports and exports between divisions, but you and I ...” He shook his head, unwilling to stand the sight of him any longer. “We’re done.”
Unable to do anything other than watch as his son walk away, Edvard held his spine rigid. Before long, Nicholai was out of his sight. Still, even with the body and shadow of his son gone, the Western Time Father found himself incapable of turning away.
The loss felt tangible. What little of his son he had earned back from his past betrayal was gone. Not unlike his wife. Edvard held no belief that the dead could hear the living. If they could, he surmised that Enita would not want to listen to the man who betrayed her so greatly. Still, he found himself whispering an apology to the wind. “I am so sorry, Enita. I ... have done poorly by our son.”
There was nothing left to do but return to Western. To return to what he knew. What he earned. His title was all Edvard Addihein had left to his name. If he were to analyze his past actions, he would have guessed that was what he had wanted all along.
If that was so, why, then, did the walk back to the steam car feel so empty?
He did not hear Epifet moving alongside him. The goddess walked without sound. He felt her instead, a powerful force filled with sympathy. “His wounds are fresh,” she said, trying to bring comfort. “When they scab over, he will forgive.”
“No,” Edvard replied, shoving his hands into his pockets as he continued toward his vehicle. “This is unforgivable. Something no passage of time will heal.” He knew. Experience taught him such. If he could not find clemency for himself, it was an arrogant, foolish man who would expect Nicholai to forgive.
Epifet stopped walking when they reached the steam car. She watched the Time Father crawl into position and rest his hands on the wheel. “He will forgive you, Edvard.” She tilted her head, empathetic. “He is half of Enita. He does not have it in his heart to hate.”
“Please, Epifet,” Edvard dug his fingers into the unyielding material of the steering wheel, “I know I have no right to implore a favor from you, given our history, but I must make a request. Anger makes men irrational. Particularly those who have no experience with it.” He turned to her, his eyes suppliant. “Please be sure that Nicholai returns to Nenada safely.”
Sh
e stared without speaking, searching his face. Assessing him. After a moment of quiet, the goddess nodded. “Of course, Edvard. You have my word.”
It was merciful that starting a steam car required thoughtful steps. It allowed Edvard just enough time to free his mind from the taxation of recent events. As soon as Epifet was gone, the vehicle rattled on toward Kudgan. However, he found the unpleasant thoughts returning along the way.
They attacked him in waves the entire ride home. The drive was not short. It was fitting, perhaps, to have countless hours of karmic debt lifted from his soul in the endless journey back. He earned every second of blame he felt. But Edvard Addihein had experience living with the guilt. He’d lived with it for the last twenty years.
The skyline crawled with flashes of orange and violet by the time he returned the vehicle to its place outside his mansion. Streaks of red slithered across the setting horizon as if someone had gutted the sky. Edvard removed himself from the car, hauling his body up the staircase leading to his home. They seemed more numerous than usual. Or, perhaps, his legs were simply more exhausted than they had been in some time.
Exhausted, like the rest of him.
Edvard’s eyes narrowed when he saw the door to his homestead ajar. It creaked when he pushed it open. The lanterns inside were not lit, but the golden light of the setting sun crept through the glass windows. It was enough to cast a glow on the body that laid on the floor.
A footman. His footman. Edvard spied the blood around the dead man’s head. It still caught the light, shimmering on the surface of the liquid. He couldn’t have been dead long.
A shuffle upstairs caught his eardrum. Edvard’s focus flew to the grand staircase. He reached back, removing the knife he kept on his person. Save for the small shambling he had just heard, the mansion was quiet. Strange, for a building typically teeming with bodies.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 115