* * *
Every night for the past three years, I have dreamed the same dream. Every night I relive my walk through the bloodstained corridors on the day of the humans’ attack. Every night the blood grows redder, the silence thicker, the eyes of the dead more accusing. And every night, the corridors stretch farther into the distance.
This dream is different.
Trees rise up in every direction, their upper branches brushing heights my vision cannot reach. Higher than the clouds; higher than the sun. Light filters through the leaves to shine in softly shifting dimples against my skin.
Above me, the world hums with life. Every branch holds another structure, each one unique, all straining upward toward the sun as they twist with the curves of the tree trunks. Their windows flicker with more lights than a hundred starry skies. Bridges of wood and rope stretch from one tree to another, and across them all, Lura’e talk and shout and laugh as they hurry forward or stroll without purpose. This is the world of my parents, and their parents, and their parents before them. A world untouched by the humans’ flames.
And before me stands a figure who makes it all look as worthless as the ashes the humans gave us in its place.
She shines with a light so dazzling I can only stand to look for a fraction of a second before I turn away. But that single glimpse burns her image into my eyes. She stands twice as tall as me, taller than any Lura’e I have known. Her simple gown flows to the earth in waves of green. Her ears rise up in graceful points from a summer-golden waterfall of hair. And her eyes…
Her eyes contain worlds.
I prostrate myself before Her. “Queen and Mother, I offer myself to You—”
She shakes Her head; waves of radiant hair ripple down Her back. “There is no need for that.” Her voice is soft summer sunlight on my skin. It is a blanket wrapping me in warmth on the coldest winter night. It is the laughter of my sisters, before they were taken from me.
My voice fails. My lips snap shut.
“Stand up.” She speaks gently, as a mother to a child. Still, my pulse pounds through my veins as I scramble to obey.
Once again, I raise my eyes to Her. Her radiance sears itself into my vision, as if I were staring at the sun, as if I were adrift in a sea of fire. A cry of pain leaps from my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut. Apologies burble from my lips as ghostly afterimages dance behind my eyelids. “I… I’m sorry, I… I can’t…”
“I did not come to hear you apologize for being mortal.” Her voice echoes with quiet amusement. Her fingers brush my cheek; the touch burns like a brand. “I came because My servant was in need, and she called for Me.”
In Her presence, my plea feels like presumption of the most dangerous sort. How had I dared to speak to Her? How can I dare it now? But the memory of Sasha’s confession of love helps me to find my voice.
“You know the threat we face.” I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Her voice holds more sorrow than I could feel in a thousand lifetimes. “Yes, My Elia. I know.”
“Without Your guidance, we will do the unspeakable—or we will die.” My strength burns away into nothing under the heat of Her gaze. “Please.” I whisper the word. “Help me. Help us.”
I tell myself that by “us” I mean the Lura’e.
“Oh, Elia.” Her words envelop me. “You are young. You do not understand.” A gentle sigh, the music of a breeze through summer leaves. “I wish this did not fall to you.”
From birth I have served my Goddess. From birth I have trusted Her. From birth I have loved Her.
Her presence cannot fill me with fear. Her words cannot fill me with doubt.
And yet a chill of uncertainty creeps through my bones.
The wind hisses through the trees, whispering secrets in a voice too low to hear. In front of me, the light of the Goddess burns as brightly as the flames that took our forests from us.
“You fear My sister. You dread the destruction She will bring.” The love in Her voice should be sweet syrup on my tongue. Instead I taste only ash. “You were raised to serve life, not death.”
I nod in answer. Everything She says is true—and yet it does nothing to banish the dread that courses through me.
“But life and death spring from the same root. Life cannot exist without death, nor death without life. When you call upon My sister, you call upon Me. From Her power, from the humans’ deaths, your forests will grow green again.”
She motions at the beauty that surrounds us. The heart of our people, the life the humans stole. At Her gesture, the trees bend in a graceful dance, scattering new patterns of light across my arms. But the sun’s warmth no longer touches me.
The high priestess spoke the truth.
There is no other way.
From birth I have served my Goddess. From birth I have known my purpose.
What am I, if I do not obey Her now?
“Do not let your prisoner’s fate trouble you.” The music of Her words clashes with my thoughts, fills my head with disharmony. “Soon his kind will be no more than a memory, and the trees of the Lura’e will fill the skies once more.”
I love you, Sasha whispers.
I take refuge in the words of ritual. “I am Your hands upon this earth. As You guide me, so I shall obey.”
Although I cannot look at Her, I sense Her smile like a glowing coal against my skin. I feel Her love twist around my heart.
I open my eyes to darkness.
In place of the forest, the cold stone walls of the temple surround me. In place of Her voice, there is only silence.
Beside me on the mattress, the key gleams in the dim moonlight.
Before long, the sun will rise.
And when it sets again, the Sleeping Goddess will awaken.
* * *
I replace the key before the high priestess wakes.
I know what I must do.
Celestial Page 11