Forever and a Knight

by Bridget Essex

  I glance across the room at Attis, who's currently being embraced tightly by Kell, who's also whispering something in her ear. Attis' soft, happy expression recedes as she holds Kell out at arm's length, her eyes narrowing. She shakes her head once, twice, leaning forward and speaking lowly.

  “I just don't know what to do,” I tell Holly. My stomach clenches as I look to her, leaning against the window so peacefully. Happily, I realize. “Can I...can I ask you something?” I say, stepping close. Holly glances at me with a furrowed brow, but she nods. “What do you know of what happened...with Attis and Hera?”

  “Oh, God,” she mutters, biting her lip as she shakes her head. “It was terrible. It was over ten years ago now, but Attis has never forgotten. Honestly, today she seems happier than I've ever seen her. I hope you know that,” Holly tells me quickly.

  “But she's never been able to forget,” I tell her, my heart sinking.

  “Josie,” says Holly gently, pushing off the wall and rubbing my shoulder in sympathy, “these are questions you should be asking Attis. Have you talked to her about this? About Hera?”

  “No,” I say miserably, taking a deep breath. “I mean, how can I even bring that up? Is your dead lover coming between us? That's really not the kind of conversation that—”

  “It would be hard to talk about, I understand that,” says Holly, crossing her arms in front of her, “but you need to talk to her about it. This is a huge decision you're about to make, whether to go back home or not. I don't know exactly where Attis factors into that decision... I mean, you guys are together, right?”

  “Yes,” I tell her simply, with a slight shrug. “But I think there's something holding Attis back. I'm falling in love with her,” I tell her, surprised that I'd be so vulnerable and open, but Holly has a kind face, the kind of face you tell big, vulnerable things to. And I think that out of all people in the universe, she'd understand about falling in love with a lady knight.

  “Listen to me,” says Holly then, leaning close to me, her brows furrowed and her eyes bright. “I let Virago go. It was by accident. She was drawn back to her world after the Boston Beast dragged her through—”

  I feel the world fall away from me as I stare at her with wide eyes. “What?”

  “The Boston Beast,” she says impatiently, waving her hand. “It's not important. What is important is the fact that I realized after she left that I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. I'm not telling you what to do, or what I think you should do,” she says, holding up her hands to me in a gesture of surrender, “but I'm telling you that whatever decision you make, whether you go through that portal or not, I want to make absolutely certain that you know exactly what you're getting into. It's almost impossible to come and go through the portals; you have to pretty much be decided that this is what you want to do. There are rarely second chances in life,” she tells me, her voice pleading. “Just...think about everything. Think about what would make you happiest, and then, good God, do that thing. That's all that matters. Love, really, is the only thing that matters,” she says quietly.

  “Beloved!” Virago shouts jubilantly across the room, “Cenla has challenged me for your hand! Should I duel to the death, my love? I must defend your honor!”

  The brocade-wearing woman shakes her head, laughing and holding up a hand. “I said you were beautiful, Holly, and she thinks this is a challenge! Can I not offer a compliment?”

  “Virago, remember that Cenla told us our curtains were beautiful, too” says Holly, laughing. “And if you're going to duel, please do it outside. Remember what happened last week...”

  When Holly looks back to me, her cheeks are pink, and her smile is almost flustered as she tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Knights,” she tells me with a laugh.

  “She's so smitten with you,” I tell her softly. I take a deep gulp of air, and then I speak the truth, even though it sounds terrible: “I wish Attis would look at me the way Virago looks at you.”

  “Josie,” Holly says gently, leaning close to me, her brow furrowed, “she does. Attis and Virago are two very different people. I think your worry is clouding what's right there...right in front of you. I mean, I'm one to talk,” says Holly, holding up her hands and shaking her head. “But, seriously...you need to speak with Attis about all of this. I think you might be surprised at what she tells you.”

  “Okay,” I whisper with a weak smile, nodding. “I'll try.”

  Holly reaches forward, and then she hugs me tightly. “Good luck, Josie,” she tells me, her face wholly sincere as she smiles encouragingly.

  The sound of breaking glass fills the room, followed by a roar of laughter.

  “Oh, Lord,” Holly mutters, but she's laughing as she rolls her eyes and mutters something about “knights” again, and then darts away to see what could possibly have just happened. “Virago, my love!” she shouts pointedly above the chaos. “Why don't you be a dear and start the festivities? Why don't you tell us a story?”

  A roar of ascent accompanies Holly's words, and then—like a magical spell has come over the crowded room of women—everyone finds a seat and settles down, nursing their drinks as they turn, as one, to take in Virago, standing in the center of the room...standing a little sheepishly over the remains of what looks like it was once a teacup.

  “Sorry, beloved. I got carried away with demonstrating the hack and slash dance,” says Virago, leaning forward and sweeping up Holly in an arm and a passionate kiss. Virago then bends down easily, crouching as she picks up the pieces of the teacup in one hand and deposits them in a small woven basket by the door.

  Attis is suddenly by my side, her pale cheeks warmed, I realize, by a bit of liquor as she presses her mouth fiercely to mine. She tastes like something finer than beer, something a little like grapes. Wine? Attis puts her hands around my waist; then she draws my back against her front as she sits down on one of the plush seats by the window, drawing me down onto her lap. She threads her fingers through mine, then leans her head against my shoulder as I lean back against her.

  “Virago is a lovely storyteller,” Attis whispers to me, her breath warm and soft against the skin of my neck. I shiver a little, then relax against her as she holds me tightly to her, her arms wrapped around me in a sweet embrace.

  Virago clears her throat; then she stands in the center of the room, her feet hip-width apart, bowing her head, and when she looks up at us, her eyes are flashing.

  She begins, her eyes bright with an intensity that transports me, and apparently everyone else in the room. “There was once a star,” she breathes, raising her hand.

  ---

  This was the very first star, the very first thing that ever existed, and whether she was a star who became a goddess or whether she was a goddess who became a star, we'll never quite know. Either way, the beautiful goddess shone, bright in an endless sea of darkness, and she was the only thing in existence, or so she thought.

  And she was very lonely.

  “Is this all there is, this sea of darkness?” she asked herself, one dark day. She shone brighter and brighter, trying to illuminate anything other than the blackness that surrounded her, but there was nothing else to see but the dark. “This cannot be all there is,” she said to herself. So the goddess rose, burning brighter and fiercer, determined to find something other than herself in this sea of darkness.

  She traveled a long, long way, tiring and resting and tiring and resting again. She went on and on forever, trailing light out behind her as she searched for another. But she journeyed in a sea of darkness, and she could not quite be sure if she was going in circles or if she was journeying as far as she thought she was. Had she even moved from her spot in space? She didn't know, but she kept believing, as she went, that there must be something besides her. There must be.

  Finally, the goddess could go no further. She collapsed, miserable, exhausted, in the sea of darkness, feeling herself sinking into the black. She closed her eyes, felt her brightness dim. She didn
't see any point to exist in this lonely place of nothingness if there was nothing else besides her.

  And that's when strong hands lifted her chin, when strong hands picked her up from the sea of darkness, embracing her tightly. That's when her heart pressed against another.

  The star goddess opened her eyes, and they were immediately filled with tears, for—before her—stood another star goddess, standing tall and strong. This star goddess was lovely, everything the star goddess had been searching for, but it wasn't that that touched her so deeply. It was the fact that, when the star goddess looked into the other's face, she knew now that she was no longer alone. That this perfect creature, by her mere existence, proved that there was something better in the universe than endless darkness and loneliness.

  For the other star goddess had come into being at the other end of the universe. And, like the first star goddess, had waited and waited in her sea of darkness, waiting for something to change. Waiting for some reason to be. The sea of darkness was so vast and so wide, and she couldn't imagine that there was anything beside her, but she gathered her courage to her heart, and she set out in the blackness, searching for something else. For she, too, was utterly lonely.

  The two goddesses embraced, and the two goddesses kissed, and where their bright, shining hearts touched one another, sparks began to fly, hissing sparks that arced through the endless sea of darkness, transforming the place. Whereas there was just darkness before, velvet blackness that was all-consuming, now there were the two goddesses and the many sparks, and, from there, everything else began to grow.

  The two goddesses loved one another fiercely, and from their love, the worlds began to form.

  The one star goddess became known as the great silver bear—the Ursa. And from her magnificent, strong heart, she turned the planets around and around until they were done and born. And the other star goddess became known as the great silver seal—the Selkie. And from her magnificent, kind heart, she turned the stars and moons around and around until they were done and born. And both goddesses loved one another so much that all existence came to be through their love.

  When they were all said and done, when all creatures were made and set in their places, the Ursa and the Selkie looked down at their worlds, and they watched the people try to live. But it was hard, in the beginning; life was difficult for everyone and everything, and the people were so cold. They, too, were lost in the dark.

  “Let us give them one last gift,” the two goddesses said together. “Out of love all things are made, after all.” And they kissed, the Ursa and the Selkie. And this kiss—this kiss was so beautiful, so passionate, that the sparks that fell from their lips began to fall through the sky, hurtling toward the ground.

  These sparks were stars, falling stars that fell through the heavens, landing at the feet of the people. The people lifted the stars in their hands, turning them this way and that, gazing down at the gift their goddesses had given them.

  And those stars were the very first fires. The very first gift of many that the goddesses have given us.

  And that night was the very first Festival of Stars, that night that we celebrate this night, for this is a festival born of love, like all great things.

  ---

  My heart is thudding in my chest as Virago finishes the story, sweeping a flourished bow to applause and cheers, the women raising their mugs and glasses to her in a very messy toast (most of them are already really drunk).

  I stare at Virago, my mouth open, as I think about that star goddess...

  The goddess who was, or so this story says, a silver bear.

  “Attis,” I begin quietly, turning to glance back at her, but she doesn't seem to hear me. Attis is rising, pressing a kiss to my shoulder as she gently pushes me off of her lap to stand and stretch.

  “We've got to get going if we're going to have camp set up by the time the stars begin,” Attis tells Virago, stepping forward as she takes the other knight's forearm in her hand, gripping it tightly, as Virago grips hers. “We'll see you tomorrow, though, the both of you, yes?” asks Attis, her head to the side as she flicks her bright gaze from Virago, who stands before her, to Holly, who comes to stand beside Virago. “We'll get this all sorted...tomorrow,” says Attis quietly.

  We'll get this all sorted. I'm assuming she means...me.

  I take a deep breath, my heart thrumming blood through me as I bite my lip nervously. I might be going home tomorrow.

  But there's something that's bothering me, and I really need to know... “Virago,” I say, stepping forward as other women come and go, clapping the knight on the back for the delivery of her story or telling her she's out of a particular kind of beer (some problems are, apparently, universal). “Virago, that story you just told—it's a great story, by the way,” I tell her quickly as she turns, smiling to me. “Um...the silver-bear-goddess-person in the story...”

  “The Ursa,” Virago supplies easily. “One of our goddesses that we worship here on Agrotera, though she's one of the older ones, to be sure, just as that story is one of the older ones. But it's always good to tell it around the Festival of Stars. My mother told me that story when I was very, very small,” she says, her full mouth turning up at the corners as her eyes glitter with unshed tears. “And that was a very long time ago. But I love telling that story because it helps me feel closer to her. Like she's still part of these festivities, even though she's long gone.”

  “That's...that's lovely,” I tell her, taking a deep breath. It is lovely, and I feel like a heel for bringing this up now, but I soldier forward. “I just think it's strange, that it's a silver bear in the story. There's another silver bear, right?” I ask her, lifting my brow.

  Virago pales a little, glancing at Attis. “Well, yes. There was,” she says, lifting her chin. “But—”

  “We'll see you tomorrow, the both of you,” says Attis, her jaw clenched, and then she has my arm in her grip, and she's pulling me backward, out of the warm, infectiously happy rooms to the cold chill of twilight on the balcony. I hardly have time to scoop up Wonder before we're out in the cold.

  I put Wonder under my coat and do up the buttons as I watch Attis, my brows furrowed. Attis shuts the door behind her and shakes her head once, letting out her breath in a long sigh. Her sigh comes out into the air between us like smoke, spiraling upward toward the very first star of the night, peeking out of the deep blue heavens.

  “What's wrong?” I ask her, drawing my coat closer to me, feeling the weight of Wonder rest against me. She begins to purr under the warmth of my coat.

  “I was the only one,” says Attis then, lifting her chin and staring deeply into my eyes. “I was the only one who saw the bear that day.” Her jaw is so tense, and she sighs again as she leans forward, running a gloved hand through her hair.

  Overhead, a shooting star arcs across the sky, dragging a trail of light across the brilliant blue.

  “The only one,” I repeat softly. “But...Hera was killed by the bear...”

  “When I reached her,” Attis says woodenly, “she was dead, lying face down in the shallow water of the river. There was the silver bear standing next to her, in the mud, her head pointed toward Hera. When the bear saw me...” Attis takes another deep breath. “She opened her maw and roared at me. There were wolves everywhere; there was the chaos of battle... She roared, and then she just... She just vanished. Disappeared. I told the knights what happened, after I took Hera to try to be resurrected. They said they'd seen no bear, that it hadn't actually happened. That the extreme trauma of losing Hera meant that I'd seen something that wasn't there. Virago believed me...sort of,” says Attis, raising a single brow artfully. “She knows that I'm calm and steady,” she says gruffly, “and that I never make things up. That I see what's really there, even when there was no other evidence than the fact that I say I saw the bear. But I've never stopped believing what I know I saw. And then you...you saw the bear. There were bits of fur on your blanket. You saw her. And you saw her again.�
��

  I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I reach up, brushing my fingers over the locket lying in the hollow of my throat. “How do you know it was the bear who killed Hera?” I ask her.

  “Because I know,” Attis tells me quietly.

  And then, as I watch in shock, tears spring up in the corners of Attis' eyes.

  “I know,” she repeats brokenly.

  A wash of pain floods through me, and I do the only thing I can do; I step forward, I wrap Attis tightly in my arms, and I hold her to me. Wonder, for once in her life, remains quiet and doesn't protest. “I'm so sorry,” I whisper into her ear, and then a great sob wracks Attis, a sob that seems to come from the deepest part of her.

  “I was... I was right there, and I couldn't save her,” says Attis after a long moment of silence. That one sob was the only one she allowed herself. “I was right there,” she repeats, her words and eyes haunted, “and I couldn't save her.”

  I hold her tightly, feeling the familiar flare of ache deep inside of me, too.

  I take a deep breath.

  “One night, when I was twenty,” I tell her, taking a step back and holding her gaze, “I had too much to drink. I was driving a car. It's like a carriage, I guess, on your world, but it's powered by a motor. It was powered and steered by me.” I take a deep breath, tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes, too. “I'd had too much to drink, but I lied to my sister. I said I was fine to take us back home, but I wasn't fine. I got us into an accident, a bad accident, and my sister...she died. I've spent every day, since that terrible night, blaming myself. And, yes, analytically, it's my fault. But I know now that Ellie wouldn't want me to live every day of my life as some sort of penitence for making a mistake. If you could have saved Hera, you would have. No questions. I know you now,” I whisper, holding her gaze. “I know that you're strong and fierce and utterly courageous.”