When We Were Still Human by Vaughn Foster (best ereader for textbooks .txt) 📕

act, Avia thought, were the dragon fire dancers. Flame and body moved as. Being undead also granted more than just a morbid display. If a body is not sealed in place by flesh and blood then it is inherently more flexible—in movement and in power. On several occasions, the flames would explode out the base of their necks in contained rings in time with the beat.

Avia, as much as she hated to admit, was actually enjoying herself. She was four again, and her mother was sitting next to her, pointing at a troupe of dancers in front of a line of elephants. Everything was new, and colorful, and exciting. Whether she had created Yoni ex-nihilo, or a Greater Spirit just took the form of the toy, it was the circus that had birthed him and her first experiences in the aether.

But that was age four. The older she got, the more bitter she had become. At first, nothing interested her. Before she knew it, apathy gave way to anger. The loud noises, the flashing lights, the performers and costumes—it wasn’t just an irritating sensory overload. The whole performance screamed fake. Nothing was real; instead everything thrived in stupidity and gimmicks. But this...

Red, orange, and blue flames came together as the dancers flipped and spun in intricate clockwork. It was beyond power and magic. It was art. The other acts had captured her attention conceptually, or with shock value, but this moved with the passion of life itself.

The dancers held hands and threw their heads back. Fire poured from both mouth and neck, consuming their heads as each color—red, orange, and blue—met at the ceiling and combined into a single white pillar. They held the light a few seconds longer, then dropped to their knees, plunging the room into darkness.

No one moved. No one, Avia included, had the capacity to speak. Through the darkness, tiny glowing specks rained over the audience. They were white, but transitioned into a mix of the original three colors.

The spectacle shattered the spell and the audience leapt to their feet. Applauds and whistles cracked the air like their lives depended on it. Avia’s gaze drifted past the multicolored embers to the still-kneeling silhouettes. She smiled.

This was real.

The spotlight soon returned and the ringmaster took center stage again.

“What do you think of the show?!”

The audience erupted in response. The ringmaster waited a moment for them to die down, then continued.

“As I’m sure as you all know, we have one more act. It’s beautiful, it’s terrifying, it’s...” He raised his head and that wicked expression again shadowed his face. “An act of the gods. May I present! The Lost Twins of the Northern Kingdom, Freya and Freyr!”

The audience roared as the spotlight shot up at two individuals already leaping off the high ropes.

“Oh my god,” Gemini collectively whispered. Avia glanced to her left to see Paris’ mouth drop. “It’s really them.”

Avia turned back to the ring. With legs hooked in one of the rope swings, Freyr reached out as Freya dove towards him. In one motion, he threw her into the air, stood up on the wooden swing bar, then caught her on his shoulders. They waved to the crowd with huge smiles. Their movements were so fluid that it took Avia’s eyes a moment to catch up.

Then there was the music. Avia glanced down to see a full orchestra spread around the perimeter of the tent. Their selection was what you would expect to be played in a circus, but there was more to it than that. It was in a minor key. Parts were added, then it dropped a third. Violins and pianos soon bled into the organ, and she could feel them beginning to tell a story. She closed her eyes and found herself connected to an ancient narrative. Accompanying the music was an image of the twins running into the forest to save their citizens.

Freya flipped off her brother’s shoulders to one of the hanging rings, then threw herself to the nearest platform.

And it worked. They had saved their people and mercilessly defeated the hunters with the ease expected of two former Vanir.

The organ and cellos crashed into the room and Freyr appeared to slip. He stumbled back but still had a confident smile. Freya swung forward and wrapped her legs around his waist, her upper body supported by just her index and middle finger.

But the battle wasn’t over. Like a reel of film, the images continued to roll through Avia’s mind. Something had surprised Freyr, caught him off guard. He wasn’t concerned, having the utmost trust in his sister—but what he didn’t know was that she was barely hanging on herself.

The music pulsed through the room and Avia began to sweat. She looked around but no one else seemed to feel it. It was like the aether was bleeding a dark presence into the room. She looked down at the ring and saw what looked like dancers crawling out of the ground. When they had lined up, she realized they were nutcrackers garbed like 18th century French soldiers.

They didn’t move naturally. There was a delay to each step and none of the fluidity of the dragons who danced before. As they creakily moved their arms and legs to the haunting music, Avia quickly realized that their movements weren’t their own. Coiled around their wrists and ankles were thin black strings. She couldn’t tell if the strings were physical or magic, or if anyone else could see them.

“Paris!” she hissed, shaking the Gemini’s shoulder. “Castor!”

Paris was frozen in place, mouth ajar as she stared ahead. Looking around, Avia realized that the entire tent was benumbed under the spell. The piano rolled and she looked back to the high ropes. Freya dropped her brother at the nearest platform, then swung back to her own. They smiled and waved at