Goddess by Liv Savell (autobiographies to read txt) 📕

do not think another day shall ever compare. The darkness consumed me as a party of bandits approached us on the road. I was afraid, and then there was nothing at all. 

I woke to blood.In my mouth, in my eyes, in my hair. And in my hand? A heart. It was firmer than I had expected, hot and dark against my fingers.I have never touched a heart, not physically. I remember now how strong it was. It must be, to beat away second after second, day after day, year after year. 

I stood in a field of bodies after the harvest. I killed but one of them—just one amid the dozen. I shouldn’t feel relief, not when Delyth bore the brunt of the killing, but I do. I am relieved even though that one is a monstrosity against my soul. 

I screamed. I wept. Or at least I tried to. Locked within myself, I didn’t do much at all. 

Delyth, bless her, swept me up and washed away the blood, though it will forever be with me. The smell of it. The feel of it, sticky and hot against my skin. Repulsive. 

But then, the most miraculous of things happened. On the worst day of my life, Delyth, who is often so taciturn, told me she loves me. 

And I love her as well. It is impossible not to. 

How can anyone love me when I do not think I even exist any longer? But she does. Delyth would never lie to me. She chooses me. She wants me. 

She loves me.

Chapter XXIII

Eleventh Moon, First Quarter: Eastern Branch of the Afonnieder

The raised edges of the scars running up her arms were sensitive to the touch. Meirin kept running her thumbs over them, startled each time by their appearance. She didn’t remember a moment of the Death God’s inhabitation though, Etienne had explained to her all that had happened in her brief role as host to Aryus.

By far, she was the best off of the Vassals. The priest who had been holding Esha was still sleeping but had been able to stand during the burial of Alphonse and Tristan. Gethin, on the other hand, could not regain his own feet and even now slept in a tent.

And then, of course, Alphonse and Tristan both had died.

Gratitude was a warm cloak about her shoulders. From her perspective, she touched the bone horn, said “Aryus,” then woke in a heap of limbs to watch the Gods step through flames in their original forms. An entire day was lost, and so many things changed. She hadn’t expected to survive and so felt directionless. Where did she go from here? What did one do after the end? And it was the end for her. Mascen was still free, and the Gods were gathered, debating the best way to trap him and confine him, but Meirin felt that her path was no longer aligned with them. Gethin was back, her task completed. She needed to return home.

From the shadow of her tent, Va'al coalesced, less appearing and more… thickening, as though he had been a part of that particular shadow all along. Meirin hadn’t seen him since Tristan had been buried, and even then, he had not stayed long. “It’s time to go,” he said, stepping into the circle of Gods. Esha braided her long, dark hair in the morning sunlight while Maoz fed a fierce-eyed bird of prey goblets of meat, and Enyo danced with eerie grace among the wildflowers that blossomed at her feet. None of them seemed eager to do anything but play in their new forms. Except, evidently, Va'al.

Aryus reappeared with a flash of light and a burst of petals, something they had been doing all morning to no one's amusement but their own. “Go where? Enemy lair? Dare split hairs in a dark affair?” They shot into the air, giggling, and winked out of existence again, showering Maoz with petals that made the beast God wrinkle his nose in distaste.

Delyth raised her head from the kiln of her sorrow, eyes dark as a snowstorm. “Alright. Let's go.”

Meirin’s hands were heavy, her arms weak as she lifted her fingers to face, brushing back her dark hair. She was in no state to travel. No state to fight. The draining of blood the Gods had performed had left her fragile. “We cannot go with you,” she said, her voice as tired as she felt. She was the least affected by her role as Vassal. Gethin and the priest would be even less useful. Their paths needed to separate now if Delyth and the others stood a chance of stopping Mascen. She had played her part, and now she needed to step aside so the others could finish what they started.

Etienne met her eyes and nodded before looking away again, as though he was not sure about what she would think of his next words. “I can go. Need to go.” He looked past her, up at Delyth, his expression set.

Va'al, though, only snorted. “You’ve all served your purpose. You’ll just slow us down.”

“Slow us down

till we drown

Mascen in some water.”

Aryus erupted into song above them, choking with laughter, and Maoz dusted yet more petals off his shoulders, his hawk lifting into the air with a scornful cry.

“The one of my blood will not hinder us,” he growled, half annoyed and half proud.

“I will go.” Delyth hadn’t been asking.

The memory of Etienne keeping Mascen from Enyo’s terrible sword came to mind. He wasn’t useless. In fact, he might be the most powerful mage in all of Thloegr. Perhaps Ingola, too, since he had figured out how to master both styles.

He was slow. There was no denying that. With human legs and a body made for scholarly work rather than exercise, Etienne wasn’t built for speed. But he looked determined, and he wanted to do this, she suspected, for Alphonse. “Aryus and Delyth have wings. Surely someone could carry him? He’s proven himself adept with magic