Page 73 of These Immortal Truths
“Yes. He’s one of the good ones, but every heart can be swayed. I don’t know his well enough to trust it.”
She settles back down onto the mattress. “I was fond of him,” she hums, thinking of his dark eyes and warm smiles. “He was a good friend through those years.”
The laugh he gives is so breathy she feels it as much as she hears it. “Considering he kept you secret, I’m inclined to believe he felt the same about you.”
She smiles, pleased at the thought. Her hand drifts back down to his scar, tracing the outline. It’s strange to think that she’s carried a literal piece of him for all these centuries, but there’s a strange sense of comfort in it too. “Did it hurt?”
“The most worthwhile things usually do,” he says, but there’s no bitterness in the words. His smile is lazy as he glances down at her. “I think you’ll find that I would suffer it ten times over if it meant the same result.”
She leans her head against his chest, his heartbeat in her ear and her hands tracing patterns on his skin. “Is that how you always knew where to find me?”
His answering hum confirms her suspicions before his wordscan. “I need only to look for the missing part of myself.” He places a kiss to her crown, hand reaching up to play with the ends of her hair. “It all seemed quite literal at the time, but now I’m not so sure.”
She smiles against his skin. “Tell me a story.”
“True or fantastic?”
Anna doesn’t even need to think about it—the world outside her flat is brimming with enough truths. They’re shouted from the street corners, headlines parroted by newspaper boys who can’t always read them. “Fantastic.”
He leans his head back against the headrest, eyes staring up at the ceiling. “Once, in a time before gods, there were only people. The land was rich, the oceans plentiful. And at the center of it all, was a tree. Some say the roots span over continents—that they hold the world together.” He shrugs. “Which is nonsense, of course, but when standing under the branches, you feel small enough to believe it.”
“There was magic flowing through its limbs; a power as miraculous as it is cursed. Funny thing about magic, it’s never where you look. You can seek it for a lifetime—generations even—and so long as you’re searching, you’ll never find it. True magic,ancientmagic, comes to those who stumble on it. Those lost souls that happen on a trail where there shouldn’t be. Who search for shelter in a cave only to find themselves tucked between giant roots.”
“So people stumbled, the way they’ve always done. And they gazed up at the tree that touched the clouds, saw its majesty and its might, and felt the magic humming in their bones. They rested in its shade, ate the generous wealth of food growing at its base, and returned home with an abundance of health and energy they’d never known. And the world was balanced.”
“Then, one day, a man looked up into the branches and decided what was offered wasn’t enough. He climbed. Why, no one is sure, but as he scaled the branches, he noticed the magic felt stronger. Thicker. Then he saw it—a sun, golden and ripe, small enough to hold in his palm.” Khiran’s arm rises, reaching for something she cannot see. “He plucked it from its branches, bit into its flesh, and he and the world were changed forever.”
His hand drops, head turning to kiss her temple. “Magic comesas a gift to some and poison to others. It has the power to darken hearts—make them greedy, make them cruel.” He pulls a loose curl away from her face, letting it fall through his fingers. “And yet, in the same breath, it can help one reach their fullest potential.”
Anna stares up at him, the phantom taste of a magic tasted nearly a millennia ago still fresh on her tongue. “Khiran?”
“Hm?”
“Is there any truth to that?”
“The most fantastic stories always hold a thread of truth,” he murmurs. “Otherwise, they’re just stories.”
He doesn’t offer more and Anna doesn’t ask for it, but his words stay with her long after she dozes off and wakes up to cool sheets and an empty bed.
He takes her to all the places she wouldn’t have taken herself.
The ballet on a Tuesday, because she made an offhand comment that morning about only ever having seen pictures of a ballerina. He insisted there was no understanding what ballet was until it’s experienced. He’s right. The image she had in her mind couldn’t live up to the way the dancers move, the way they pull emotion from her chest with a combination of music and a body language that speaks all languages. Next month, he takes her to the opera and drapes her in magic and jewels that feel more real than they are. He takes her to all the clubs, fills her nights with jazz and liqueur that burns a path straight to her heart. Each time a different dress but always with a glamour over her skin. He never offers, but he doesn’t fight her when she insists, either. He runs his warm palms over her exposed skin, a quiet regret lining his eyes.
Anna shows him her favorite places to eat—the mom and pop shops that serve coffee all day in stained white mugs and serve hot cakes on chipped plates. They trade experiences like trading cards, making a game of showing the other something they haven’t hadthe joy of seeing. Khiran has a far greater advantage in this game they’ve started, but Anna’s surprised by how many things she’s able to show him for the first time. There’s a comfort in that—in knowing that even a god who can be anywhere has yet to see everything the world has to offer. Perhaps that’s one of the beauties of immortality she overlooked. She could see every inch of the world, and by the time she was done, it would have changed all over again.
Because Khiran was right. Everythingdoeschange. Now, more than ever, it feels like those changes are coming faster than she can keep up. Discovery after discovery. Invention after invention. Only a century ago, she was forced to sacrifice candles if she stayed up past dark. Now, the city hums with electricity—the power of lighting a room as easy as pressing a switch. Cars and trains make travel easier and more accessible than ever, and telephones allow family members to hear their loved one’s voice across cities.
The changes are nothing short of miraculous—dreams turned into realities.
All things she would have never seen, never experienced, had she not accepted a peach from a stranger’s hand.
And yet … there are times where she looks around at all the world’s progress—all the innovation—and feels an uncomfortable churning in her stomach.
Khiran walks with her, their arms linked, through Central Park. September days are pleasant, but the mornings have begun to carry a chill, nippy enough for her to hold the collar of her light coat closed with her free hand to ward off the chill. Most of the leaves are in the process of changing, painting the landscape in vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows and carpeting the ground. The park is her favorite thing about the city—a breath of nature. She feels more at home with leaves crunching beneath her feet than cobblestone; with birdsong instead of a sea of voices and machinery.
The world has become louder, with its cars and its radio. The city populations keep growing, the streets more crowded. Some days, it’s enough to make her miss the quiet and isolation that came with the countryside.
“You’re wearing the most thoughtful expression,” Khiran says, a smile in his voice. “What are you thinking?”
