Revaramek the Resplendent - Chapter One Hundred Fourteen (Patreon)

When he withdrew from his dead vessel, grief and sorrow were all The First knew. He wanted to scream, but had no more voice. He wanted cry, but had no more tears to offer. So the world itself offered him its tears. Clouds burst to life above the desert, gray and churning. The winds sang his ancient song in mourning. They stirred the blood-stained sands, pulled them up into the storms, and tinted the clouds a wretched, red-gold color. When the clouds were full to bursting, when his grief spilled over, rain deluged the desert. Millions of tears cried by the world itself, for their fallen god, and for his beloved people he could no longer be part of.

Somewhere, in the world below, Mica howled to the rain.

The First wanted to howl back to her, but had no more throat, no more breath. So the storm howled for him. Lightning split the sky in great, red-gold bolts, as if the sand and blood had tainted even the world’s most primal elements. The thunder that followed was not an echoing boom, but an anguished roar, a grieving howl offered to all existence. Where his sorrowful bolts reached the earth, they transmuted the sand into black stone, a crystalized essence of his unfathomable power.

For days, his tears soaked the desert while his people toiled in the rain. Sopping wet, Mica bellowed her tale to all the urd’thin gathered to view the body of their First Chief. How the gods gave him courage to stand up against the men in robes, and their scaled beasts. How when he fell, that courage was passed onto each, and every one of them. How it inspired them to fight back against Those Who Came Before, who had returned to steal their people, and their homes. That the First Chief’s sacrifice would never be forgotten. That even the gods themselves mourned for him, and brought the unending rain. So it was that his life became Mica’s stories. Mica’s stories became their history, and their history became their culture, a bedrock upon which they based their lives.

Only when his tears threatened to flood his beloved world did The First pull back his storms. He did not want his grief to endanger anyone. So he sent his downpour across the desert, beyond the wasteland, and over the mountains. Till they reached the primal marsh, where more water would do no harm. There, through his storms, he cried himself out. For a month or so, it rained. By the time he felt a little better, he had no idea how many days it had been. No sooner was he back to light and understanding than he was already struggling with mortal concepts.

The divide between the mortal mind, and the infinite god’s understanding seemed sharper than he realized.

When he had grieved enough, he drifted back across the desert. He sent his understanding into minds, into memories, and perceived that they had held his funeral while he was crying into the marsh. Though he was sorry he had missed it, he feared had he remained, his emotions might have damaged his beautiful world. The First allowed himself to peer into Mica’s memory, to see what his ceremony was like.

They had built a pedestal for his body, from the ruins of their enemies’ camp. They piled wood around him, and when all the warriors gathered, they burned him in a great pyre. They all sang and howled for him, they cried and grieved and howled again. When they pyre burned out, Mica ordered his ashes gathered, to be spread across the desert on their journey home. The warriors went from village to village, to bring news of victory and loss. They stopped first at the village who suffered losses to the humans, and told them they had nothing more to fear. A memorial feast was held, and lives were celebrated. They planted new hand fruit trees in memory of the ones taken by the humans, and for the first chief. Each tree was planted along with a handful of ashes. At each village after that, the same ritual was repeated. Mica told her stories, a feast was held, lives were celebrated, and new life was planted amidst his ashes.

By the time they reached the village where Mica’s family lived, the ashes were almost gone. It was one of their people’s largest villages, now, and the same place he once called home. Though they planted a grove of trees for him there, Mica did not use the ashes to nourish them. Instead, she cast the last lingering vestiges of his vessel into their oasis, to disperse amongst the water, that they might all drink of him, and in their way own, have their god in their blood.

The First was pleased by all of it, and found himself longing to be part of the celebrations. He entertained the idea of returning to them in a new vessel, but soon dismissed the notion. What would his sacrifice matter if he simply returned to them time and again? The longer he spent among them, the more attached he would continue to grow. But this story was theirs now, and he had to let them live it.

He watched their stories play out. He perceived their joys and their sorrows, their bounties and their hardships. Pride filled him as they took their first steps into the wasteland, and the strongest among them spread the desert, and brought the edges of the dead world back to life. Anguish filled him when unified tribe experienced its first natural deaths. He brought then, in the middle of the dry season, just so Mica would know he was there, watching over them. Hurting with them.

Through everything, Mica was their guide. Her oldest daughter trained beneath her, an apprentice healer and priest, who would one day take her mother’s position. Her younger daughter came to lead one of the expeditions into the wasteland, a small tribe of a dozen urd’thin, wandering into the dead world, to spread life in their wake. Just as Mica was once part of a tiny tribe, taking their first, uncertain steps through the world. And Mica’s youngest child, her son, inherited her healing gift, and when he was old enough, ventured to other tribes to treat their injured and ill.

The First knew then, that his story was going to be a success. Though he would watch over them, they did not need him. They had not come to reply upon him, and now, their lives were proceeding freely. Urd’thin were important to this world, just as he had hoped. As joyful as he was, it also felt strange not being a part of them anymore. Their lives went on, their world expanded, and he could but observe. They believed in him, they sang his praises, and yet they lived and died, failed and succeeded, on their own merits. It was just as he wished it, and somehow, it was not as satisfying as he hoped. The First was happy for them, but he could not help but wonder if he would be happier among them.

Nonetheless, The First knew he could not. If he returned among them, even in a new vessel, he feared he would begin to intervene in their lives. When they discovered what he was, they would sick more intervention. They would ask for sick children to be cured, for droughts to be eased, for ailing elders to be restored to vitality, for all hunts to be successful, all harvests to be bountiful…and he knew, in the end, he would give in. The First loved his people too much to live among them for long. He would seek to make them happy, and happiness would turn to reliance, and utopia to slavery.

It was better if they thought he did nothing at all. That did not make it easier to watch when something terrible happened. When floods and illnesses ravaged them. When a rakatch mauled a pup who strayed too close to the water. When anger between tribes led to a feud, and a feud led to violence. When blight ruined a year’s crop. When drought dwindled their oases. They cried out for him, they prayed to him, they begged for his help. He heard their prayers, and yet, he could not cure all their troubles. Instead, he did small things when he could not help himself. Distant rainfall to refill the groundwater that fed the oases. A larger, healthier crop the next year to make up for the blight. Forgiveness, planted deep in the hearts of the angry.

All in all, his people were successful, and he was certain they would thrive, even without him. That knowledge made it easier for him to stay his hand, when he wanted to save a life doomed by a poor decision, or force a village down a path he knew would better them. He remained ever watchful as his people grew, but forced himself to help only in the smallest of ways, or the most dire of circumstances.

Now and then, though, he offered unto them a miracle. In the moments he simply could not help himself, or the times when things just didn’t seem meant to end that way. When a pup slipped out of the house at night, and ventured too deep in an oasis, she would have drowned. But The First took pity, and sent a rakatch to take her back to shore, to her panicked parents. When a terrible storm ravaged the land, and would have decimated an entire village, he shifted the winds, blew away sand to reveal a ruin they could safely shelter in. A lone nomad, banished from his own village for foolish, youthful mistakes and now wandering the desert was bitten by a venomous serpent after whisking a lost pup away from it. The venom should have slain him, but The First let him survive it for his heroism.

Time marched on, and though The First longed to return to his people, he refused to give in to such mortal desires. Though he watched over all his people, he found his direct attention returned, time and again, to Mica and her family. Mica and Nemil remained loving parents, doting on their children even as those children took their own mates, started their own families. Mica’s oldest daughter returned home, pregnant with her first pup. By the time she gave birth, her younger sister had a pup of her own on the way. In time, her son fathered a child, and reach brought them back home, to get to know their grandparents.

Mica and Nemil were as loving to their grandchildren as they were to their own pups. They laughed and played with the young ones, carried them on their shoulders, taught them games, snuck them treats when their parents weren’t around. Mica told them stories, and Nemil sang them songs. The First perceived a great swell of happiness and pride, that lingered in Mica and Nemil even in the hardest times. The joy they experienced, seeing their children grow up and take their place in the world, to have children of their own…

It was like nothing The First had ever known. Even as a mortal, it was something he had never been able to experience. He knew he could dig into their minds, and perceive their happiness through them, but it was not the same. As deeply as he loved his people, the love they shared for each other, and for their children, was greater still. That was the love Mica spoke of. The love Mica made him promise to seek, someday. She knew that warm, wonderful feeling, and she longed for him to know it, too.

One day, he would.

As Mica grew older, she abdicated her High Priestess position to her eldest daughter. Though her daughter lacked her healing, her shaping power was nearly unparalleled among her tribe. She could call the rain, and part the storms, and yet she swore to her mother never to abuse such power. Mica’s other daughter had strong shaping as well, and with a little healing ability. Her son had healing even stronger than Mica’s. Together, their tribe was in good hands.

Mica and Nemil continued to support their tribe, offering advice, and stories ripe with wisdom, even as elders. Despite that, they spent their twilight years relaxing, and enjoying their lives. They swam in the oasis, they ate and drank, and they talked a lot about the future of their people, and the memories of their youth. Mica even told Nemil the truth about The First, and about their people. She felt guilty for withholding something so momentous from the one she loved most, and on an isolated stretch of sandy oasis shoreline, she admitted to him they once called a god friend.

Nemil took it all in stride. He trusted her too much to doubt her word, and they had lived through too much together for him to feel to bothered by their place in the world. Their people were thriving, and that was all that mattered now. He did admit, in a way…it was nice to know they were being watched over. And then teased her about being relieved that all that time she spent alone with The First was only for secret talks about constructing their world, and not for more illicit rendezvous.

They were a nearly perfect family, and it shattered something deep inside The First when Nemil died. By then he was quite old, and one night, his heart simple stopped while he slept. When Mica woke, realized he was gone, and sobbed into his cold fur, it took every fiber of strength The First had not to bring him back for her, not to make them both young again, and let them live their lives all over.

But sometimes, stories had to end, and Nemil’s story was over.

The First brought rain, dreary and gray and cold, to wash across the village. He wanted Mica to know his heart was breaking with her. When she first heard the rain, she lifted her tear-stained face from Nemil’s chest, and stared out at the window a while. She cradled her lost mate, and slowly turned her eyes towards the ceiling. The First knew she was looking up, at him. She smiled, just a little, and bowed her head in thanks.

When they burned Nemil’s body, Mica’s children had to help her stand for the ceremony. She cried the whole time. Though she was meant to give words, she could not squeeze them past her sobs. So her children spoke for her, talking of their father’s love, his devotion, and his tireless work to make their tribe a better place, to do his duty, and bring their world back to life. For his mate, for his children, for all of them. Each child in turn could not make it through all the things they had to say before they too, broke down sobbing for their father. They all hugged their own pups and their own mates extra tight after that.

That night, for the first time since his death, The First came to Mica in her dreams. He had no words to offer, no wisdom to share, no visions to grant her. He was not there for stories or philosophy, he was only there to bring her comfort, and share her grief. In the dreams, he hugged her, and let her sob against his fur. He stroked her back, smoothed down her ears, and let her pour her sorrow out for as long as she needed. When morning broke, and the dream had to end, Mica kissed his nose, smiled at him, and thanked him.

When she woke, she went to each of her children, and each grandchild, and hugged them all. Together, they planted a tree for Nemil, amidst his ashes, as was tradition. When she could find her voice, she told stories of their youth to her children. Stories of her favorite moments with her mate, of laughter and joy, and feasts and celebration. There had been enough tears already, and now she wanted to speak only of happiness.

By then, Mica was old, too. Her sandy gold fur had long faded, tinged now with gray and white. Though she could have given in, could have let herself fade in hopes of seeing Nemil again, that was just not her way. Instead, she soldiered on for years longer, serving as her tribe’s wise elder. As the years passed, her grandchildren grew old enough to have pups of their own. By the time Mica was able to hug her great grandchildren, she was a frail old thing, helped through the village by her family. But hugging her descendants, holding their newborns in her arms, singing ancient songs in her raspy voice, it brought her the same joy and happiness it had when she first held her own pups, and their pups.

There was something about the love that bound families together that The First desperately wanted to know, and understand. Not by perception, but by living it as a mortal. By the time Mica had reached her last days of life, The First was no longer sure he wanted to be a god, anymore. It pained him to no end, to understand that he had the power to help them, and yet he could not. It was anguish watching Mica age, knowing in his heart of light that he could make her young again, he could let her see her great grand children grow up, and their children…He had that power, and yet he bound himself from using it.

This was Mica’s story, and stories had to end.

When the end of Mica’s story came, he wished that he did not know he had the power to prevent it. What good was it, to have such power? What good was being a god, if it brought him only pain? For his people to be free, they had to live and die, without his interference. But that inference could save their lives, ease their pain…and yet, then they would be free no more. The First supposed that was the great puzzle of godhood. Save them, and enslave them to reliance upon a god’s power, or give them freedom, and doom them to inevitable death, and the sorrow it brought.

How did mortals deal with it?

Mortals did not have to make the choice. For them, they knew the end would one day come, and they accepted that.

The First did not want to have to make the choice anymore, either.

Perhaps, he thought, he should offer the choice to her, instead. If any of his beloved creations deserved a chance to break the rules set forth by the universe, it was Mica. Late in the evening, on the last day he expected to her live, The First built his vessel out of sand. Not since he died in battle had he given himself a mortal form, but he wanted to appear to Mica not in a dream, but in her waking hours. After the sun had set, he placed his vessel outside Mica’s home, at the far end of the oasis, and settled his consciousness into it.

The physical world came as a shock to him. Even in the darkness, the air was warm, pressing against him like a weight. The breeze ruffled his fur, and made him shiver. It carried the scent of the oasis water, the aroma nearly overwhelming. Breath filled his lungs. Sand shifted under his feet, giving way to packed earth along the trail that led to her entry way. His legs wobbled with their first steps. Mica’s home had no doors, just curtains made of hides draped across the entryway and windows to keep out the insects at night.

The First pushed the curtains aside, and slipped in. Her eldest daughter was curled up on a padded mat, asleep. Lately, her children took turns staying the night with her, in case she needed anything. They all knew their mother’s age had finally caught up to her. Her breath rattled in her chest, and she often needed assistance just getting around. The First kept himself shrouded, and before he went to Mica’s sleeping chamber, gently lulled her daughter into a deeper slumber. No sense waking her.

Mica lay in her own bed of thickly padded reed mats, feather-stuffed pillows and animal hide blankets. She was still awake, staring out a window at the stars, a smile on her white-furred muzzle despite the rasping of her breathe. The First stretched his perception to her, and found that she ached in many places. So he eased her pain, and her breathing. Mica put a hand to her chest, took a clear breath, and then laughed to herself.

“You know, for all the years I knew you…” Mica’s smile grew, and she perked her ears, without looking back at him. “I never knew your name.”

“I never had one.” The First approached her bed. “May I sit with you?”

“Of course.” Mica tore her gaze away from the stairs, and sat up, leaning against one of her pillows. “You should have gone with Etchka. For your name, I mean.”

The First settled down onto her sleeping mats, scooting up alongside her, careful not to pinch his tail. “Etchka?”

“It means Father, in the old tongue.”

“I know what it means, Mica.”

Mica rolled towards him. Still smiling, she set her bony hand atop his, and gave it a squeeze. “And are we not all your children?”

The First stared down at her hand, finding her smile contagious. “So you are.”

“I see you’ve forgotten to wear clothes again.” Mica giggled to herself, then clicked her teeth. “You gave us a bit of modesty, and yet you never remember it yourself.”

“I based you on others, I had seen.” He looked down at himself, then tugged his tail around to drape it over his lap. “Is that better? Or I could make clothes, if you prefer it.”

“You’re fine, you silly thing.” Mica squeezed his hand again. “If anything, it’s endearing that all your power remains balanced by all your naivety. Besides, I may be old, but I don’t mind a chance to look upon a handsome male, undressed.”

“Am I handsome?” The First licked his nose. “I did not intend to be.”

“Well, you’re no Nemil.” Mica laughed and shook her head. Her smile faded for a moment. She sighed, and old ghosts drifted across her eyes, flickering memories of happiness and sorrow. Mica’s smile soon returned and she patted his arm. “You know, Etcha. You look just as you did when I first met you. I’ve grown old, and frail, and white, but you’re still young and spry.” She lifted her hand to shake a finger at him, her tail flicking against the mat. “That’s cheating.”

“Would you rather I appeared to you as old as you are?” He tilted his head, perked an ear, and then scratched around one of his horns. “I can do that, if you wish it.”

“No, no.” Mica turned away, gazing out the window, and up at the stars, again. “Only we get to grow old. Whether curse, or privilege, old age is meant only for mortals to know.” A wistful expression washed across her face, her ears half-perked. “Besides, the years have been kind to me. A little frailness, at the end, is a small price to pay for a life well-lived.” She sniffed, and rolled back towards him. “I hope the years you’ve been away have been kind to you, as they have been to me.”

The First did not know how to respond to the that. He took a breath, and held it till his mortal lungs ached. “More often than not.”

“I’m not sure I’m convinced.” Mica snuggled up against him, laying her slender muzzle against his shoulder. “You’d not lie to an old friend, would you? Emphasis on old.” She stroked his arm with her bony fingers, smoothing his gray fur. “What’s it been like, for you? Being…being a god, I mean.”

The First leaned his head over to rest it against hers. “You want the truth?”

“You already know the answer to that question.”

“Lonely.” The First’s voice softened, his words wandering and aimless. “Being a god is…lonely. I struggle…more often than not.” He closed his eyes, his ears drooping. “I miss you. I miss…all of you. Companionship. And I hate seeing you die, knowing I could save you…and yet, also knowing…” He trailed off into a whimper.

Mica’s voice was a gentle, sympathetic whisper. “That you have to let us die.” She lifted a hand over her head to stroke his ears.

The First nodded one. “It pains me. Sometimes, I want to cry, but I have no tears but the rain. I want to be held, and I have no form to hold, nor anyone to hold me but the cosmos. But the cosmos is cold, and uncaring. I think I am weary of being a god.”

“Then stop being a god.”

“What?” The First opened his eyes again, blinking at her.

“At least for a while.” Mica turned her head to nose at his cheek. “We will go on without you. You’ve seen to that already.”

“You’ve seen to that, Mica.”

“I’ll take as much credit as you’re willing to offer, but the remains the same. Surely, we can do without you for at least a little while. You, more than any of us, Etchka…” Mica cupped his muzzle in her hands, tilting his head towards her. “Deserve a rest. Deserve a chance to live a life, a chance to know love, to have children, and see them grow up.”

“I would…” The First blinked away sudden, hot bleariness from his eyes. “I would like that. It has been…a great pleasure to see your children grow, and your grandchildren. I think the only ones happier for them were you, and Nemil. I should…like to know that happiness, someday.”

“Then know it.” Mica pressed her nose to his, her words washing across him like a warm, comforting fire on a cold day. “A long time ago, I told you that one day, I wanted you to find love, to have a family. Make yourself one of us, and live a life. Your life. Not for us, but for yourself. Know love as we know it.” Mica kissed his nose, smiling. Even in her old age, hope shone as bright embers in her eyes. “Etchka, it is time to let your loneliness end.”

The First swallowed, struggling against a stubborn lump in his throat. “Perhaps…you are right.” He licked one of her ears, smiling. “I came here to comfort you, and yet, here you are, lecturing me about life.”

“I never did do what you wanted, did I?”

“No Mica. You did better.” He shook his head, laughing. “You always did better.”

“Glad to have you approval.” Mica smiled at him again, then snuggled up to his side. Her bony frame was frailer than he’d have imagined her to be. “So, comfort me, you said? Am I dying, then?” Then she gasped, her eyes widening. She sat up straight. “Wait, have I already-”

“No.” The First settled some pillows behind her for her to rest against. “But soon. I just…wanted you to be comfortable. To have companionship. I didn’t want you to be afraid. And…” He wrung his hands, mortal nervousness left icy wings fluttering in his belly. “I thought I might offer you a choice.”

“Oh?” Mica leaned back against the pillows. “And here I was, about to ask you for a favor. Although…” She lay her head against his shoulder, and draped an arm over his belly. “I suspect what you’re offering is quite different from what I mean to ask. So.” Mica glanced up at him. “You first. What choice have you come to offer?”

“Do you wish to live another life? I could make you young, again. Yourself, or as someone else. All you have to do is say yes, and you can live another lifetime, watch your great grandchildren grow up. I…” The First swallowed, and as Mica’s eyes got wider and wider, he stroked her ears. Her fur was thin, now, and white, but still soft. “I know which choice my heartwants me to make, and I know which choice…which choice the universe tells me I must make. But for you, Mica…I want it to be your choice. This story began with you, and so…it’s only fair I leave it up to you, when your part in it ends.”

Mica’s ears trembled as she stared up at him. Her dark eyes were wide, shining and fearful. For a moment, he saw not in urd’thin reflected in them, but the cosmos itself. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, squeaked, and then then lifted her hand to point to the pitcher of water nearby. The First did not want to leave her side, and so the water poured itself into a cup, and the cup floated to her hands. Mica grasped it, and took a long drink, then heaved a heavy sigh.

“I expected you to make such an offer, and still I was not ready to hear it put to words.” She took another drink. When the cup shook in her grasp, The First put a hand over hers to steady it. “Could…anyone be ready for such a choice?”

The First tilted his head, one ear perked. “It is not a challenging question. It only requires a yes, or no.”

Mica rested her head against him again, handing him the cup. He set it aside, and she twined her fingers through his. “Only you would see it that way. You’re right, though. The answer is easy, and the answer is no.”

The First sagged a little, his ears drooping. “As you wish it, then.”

“Not the answer you were hoping for, I know.” Mica squeezed his hand, rubbing her thumb against one of his fingers. His fur ruffled beneath her pad. “And do not mistake my refusal for a lack of gratitude that you would offer me such a chance. But Etchka, I have lived more life than I ever should have. If not for you, and your…grand story, I’d never have lived at all. I have seen my children grow, I have seen my grandchildren’s children born, I have spread the ashes of my great love, and I have watched my people grow from a speck, in the sand, to a civilization bringing a dead world back to life. To ask for any more than that would be…selfish. All stories must end. As tempting as the offer is, I have lived a long, satisfying life, and I am ready for my ending.”

The First took a long, slow breath. “Such quiet strength, Mica. It awes me still.”

Mica managed a little laughter. “You gave it to me.”

“No…” He shook his head, smiling at her. As he spoke, he smoothed down bits of her fur sticking up here and there. “No, I gave you breath, and blood, but this strength in you? You forged that yourself. Ask me your favor, Mica, and it will be done.”

“You said you came here to comfort me, did you not?” Mica watched him stroke her fur, still holding his other hand. “Does that mean you plan to remain at my side, until the very end?”

“If you wish it, of course.”

Mica glanced at their twined fingers. “I have already said my goodbyes to you, a long, long time ago, when you died in my arms. It would be fitting, in a way, if I were to die in yours. But…if it does not break your heart too badly, I should rather die with my children. I have not…said my goodbyes to them, nor they do me. The others are coming to visit in the morning. I know…” She sniffed, burying her face in his fur as if to hide her tears. “I know you want to be here, for me, at the end. But it would mean everything to them, to me…if they were the ones here with me, when I breathe my last. So that is the only favor I have to ask. That I live till morning, and that I get to say goodbye to my children.”

“Of course, Mica.” The First lifted her hand and gave it a soft lick. “And you could never break my heart. May I stay a while, yet? Until you fall asleep. When the morning comes, you will see the sunrise, and your children.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t stay.” Mica leaned up, and kissed his cheek in gratitude. She wiped her eyes, then returned to laying her head upon his shoulder, and her arm across his belly. “So. If this is the end…I cannot help but wonder…”

“Peace, and happiness.”

“What?”

The First only smiled. “You are wondering what happens next. After you die. Peace, and happiness. That’s the answer.”

Mica smirked at him. “Is that the truth?”

“It’s what I believe.” The First draped his arm across hers, caressing it. “The truth is that whatever happens next is someone else’s story to tell. It seems beyond even my realm of…perception. Maybe another story is what comes next. Borne again, in some other place, some other life to live…like a great cycle. From each ending…” He trailed off, reminded, of something strange he’d once perceived, a long time ago, on the day his vessel died. “A new beginning.” When Mica gave him a strange, confused look, he bumped her with his nose. “Peace and happiness, Mica. I am sure of it.”

“It’s a lovely thought. But do you believe that?”

“Balance. All throughout this existence, this spiraling universe, I see the cosmos strive for balance. And life is difficult, painful. Even in its happiest times, it is stressful, challenging back. And if death is the balance to life, then what better way to balance pain and hardship, with happiness and peace? There are things even I don’t understand, and I don’t know what awaits you next, but I genuinely believe that you’ll find happiness and peace. With Nemil, I think.”

“I like that.” Mica closed her eyes, but gestured at the ceiling with a frail arm. The First could almost see her painting her thoughts across the sky. “Whatever I find beyond that veil? I am…more grateful than you’ll understand to have had this chance to live. To have known joy, and sorrow, to have seen my family and my people grow. Even if I find only nothingness, I would gladly accept it, to have lived such a life. All stories, after all, must end.”

“Whatever happens, Mica.” The First settled his fingers over hers when she lowered her hand. “Your stories will go on, even when your life has ended. Your people will tell their children the histories you helped craft. Long after this world has forgotten your name, your stories will survive. Even when we die, our stories persist. And your stories, Mica, will be a part of your people forever more. So in a way, you too, will persist.”

“It’s not godhood…” Mica’s voice was a drowsy murmur. “But I’ll take it.”

“You’re falling asleep.”

“I noticed.” Mica snuggled against his warmth. “Do you think that’s wasteful? To spend my hours asleep?”

“I think that’s a question only you would ask.”

Mica tilted her head back, a playful smile on her muzzle. “I do want to be well rested for my death, after all.” She laughed to herself, then laid her muzzle against his chest. “If I were younger, I’d stay up all night and talk to you. But I fear I cannot stay awake no matter how much I may desire it.”

“You need not be awake to spend time with me.”

“No, I suppose not.” Her words slurred together a little, and all at once, she glanced up at him, a devilish grin on her face. “I just remembered I killed you, once. Not many people can claim they’ve killed a god. At least not truthfully.”

“Yes, you did.” He laughed with her, stroking her ears.

“Didn’t stick long, but…I shall claim victory, nonetheless.” She settled her head back down against him. Her breathing grew slower, more even. “I know I’ve already said it…thank you. For…for everything.”

“It has been my absolute honor, Mica.” The First choked back a sudden sob threatening to overwhelm him. “Tell me…what would you like to dream of?”

“Dancing…I miss it. I used to love to dance on the sands…”

“I remember.”

“And…existence. What…what did you call it, when…you showed me the truth?”

“The cosmos.”

“Yes.” Mica smiled as she slowly dozed off against him. “I should like…to dance. Amidst the cosmos.”

“And so you shall, Mica. So you shall.”

As her last hours whiled away, as her breaths dwindled and her heart knew its last beats, Mica danced amidst the stars. She spun through a nebula, and it cloaked her in its beautiful red-gold stardust. The stars sang their song of creation, and Mica danced and danced across existence itself. She knew no fear, no pain, only carefree joy.

Until the sun rose to wake her for the final time, Mica danced across the cosmos.

All the while, The First cried into her fur.