Wish quartet the comple.., p.3
Wish Quartet- The Complete Series, page 3
part #0.50 of Wish Quartet Series
But he wasn’t.
Her magic unleashed again, charging at him with all the ferocity of an untethered hound. It meant to swallow him whole, break him apart bit by bit. Yet Creation’s own magic flared to meet it. From the moment she had set out to undo him, he was rebuilding himself.
No, more than that. His magic unraveled eagerly. It did not cancel her own but hummed overtop in harmony. The barren ground between them sizzled, crackled, split along with fissures that were quickly sutured into more perfect designs.
A trail of flowers now linked the two of them, and Creation continued forward.
“Don’t come near me,” Destruction whispered. The distrust in her voice pained him, settling like a vice around his newly formed heart. But he had faith in her, that somewhere within, if he could reach it, she would feel their bond as strongly as he had been born to.
Instead of saying so, however, he merely promised, “I will not hurt you.”
“Lies. You are of the pantheon, I can sense it. You’re a puppet of the same deities that split Oblivion in half, giving me the form I am now.”
“I am not of their pantheon.” He was not of them; was that true? He had been made by them. So, surely, he should count himself among their numbers? And yet . . . “I do not want them, I do not care for them. I am only here for you.”
A crackle of power seemed to rise off her skin, marring the air around her in waves. “To be their latest weapon against me.”
“I am no weapon.” Creation’s voice was strong, willing his point across almost sternly, but beneath the bravado, something desperate bubbled to life deep within him. He simply wanted to prove himself, simply wanted her to believe his words.
“Lies!” Destruction’s voice rose, and with it, her magic to match.
Creation watched as a shockwave launched from her. The grasses blew back and singed like a wildfire—all save for what was under his feet. Creation looked around him, trying to keep a handle on his power and just steep in hers for a moment. But as soon as the extent of the destruction became known to him, his magic surged forward and the glade was lush once more.
“I am here for you,” Creation attempted again, almost apologetically, though he didn’t know what he was apologizing for. “Please. Please, don’t be afraid.”
She laughed then, and there had been nothing in Creation’s short existence that had ever sounded more pleasing. Though, the sound wasn’t likely intended to be so. “Afraid? Why would I ever be afraid of you?”
Optimism filled his heart, though he willed his feet not to pull him closer to her, as much as they longed to do so. “I’m glad to hear it,” he still said eagerly, ignoring that she may well be belittling him.
“How did you come to be?” Destruction asked cautiously. “I don’t remember you among the initial pantheon when I was torn asunder. And if you’re not of them . . .”
“You were torn asunder? Or Oblivion was?” he attempted to clarify.
Something about the question caused Destruction to bristle, even as her magic spiked with contradicting emotion. Like defensiveness, or stubbornness. “Oblivion and I, We are the same.”
“Are you?”
She scowled and then demanded, “Answer my question.”
“I was recently made,” he answered, seeing no use in subversion. “Carver made my body. Life gave me a part of her power. Light awoke me.” Destruction scoffed, rolled her eyes, and folded her arms. “This . . . doesn’t please you?”
“And why would it?” she asked. “Why would this please me?”
The answer seeming so obvious, so deeply etched into his very being that it seemed impossible for her not to already know. Still, he tried to assemble the right words. “Because I was hand crafted only for you.”
Despite the honesty, Destruction bristled. “Made for me?” Her voice became as sharp as a razor’s edge. “You were ‘made for me’ by people who know nothing of me—by the people you somehow claim not to be a part of. The same divine who look and see me only as something to be controlled and tamed and leashed down.”
“That’s not—”
“I will not have it!” she proclaimed. “Go back to your masters and tell them that I am not beholden to them or to Chaos. I do not wish to be joined with her or their pantheon. I am my own woman, and nothing will change that!”
Creation watched as her eyes widened and lips parted. He could nearly feel her horror at the words she allowed to escape her lips. A confession. She was her own woman . . . a woman whom he’d known only in concept but saw now, with his own eyes, in all her autonomous glory. It was a glory that he . . . he . . .
His mind froze, and his heart sputtered.
An autonomy that he only wished he possessed.
“Nothing will change that,” he repeated softly, like a vow. A soft breeze rustled the trees and grasses as if in agreement.
Destruction stared back at him, searching, as if words seemed to evade her.
“Would you prefer it if I called you Zoria, then? Instead of the name the divine refer to you as?” he asked as gently as possible.
“What did you call me?” she hissed.
“Zoria, that’s what the mortals call you, isn’t it?” It came from the same knowing he had been born with. “They don’t call us by our names—Destruction, Chaos, Creation, or—”
“Creation.” The name seemed to stick with her. “Is that you?”
Warmth bloomed across his chest at her recognition. “It is.”
“Then let me use your name to say this: Stay away from me, Creation. Now and always.”
That warmth turned to frost in his veins. “But we are—”
“We are nothing.”
“You are everything to—”
Destruction raised her hand and Creation barely had enough time to react. The moment she unleashed her power, he caught her wrist and held it tight. Her magic exploded against him, washing over him like a violent tide. He weathered it and protested with his own power. Together, the glade shifted shapes and colors, spurred on by the relentless wave of death and rebirth.
“You are everything to me,” he finally finished. Destruction’s other hand raised up and he took hers in both of his. He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them gently. “You are what I live for.”
“You . . .” She stalled and simply met his eyes. “You don’t even know me.”
Creation was sure she meant the words as a protest. Yet, somehow, they seemed more open now, not quite an invitation but no longer an outright rejection. There was a rush of something happening between them—a sort of feedback loop where for everything she destroyed, he made . . . including their own relationship.
“Allow me to know you?”
“Why?”
“Because I—” Creation stalled. There should be an answer. It was right there, right on the tip of his tongue, right where he wanted to access it but . . . “I—”
Her face fell. “You don’t know, do you?”
He wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about her, to earn her trust and with it access to the deepest portions of her being. Yet, in the moment he needed to articulate that the most, he couldn’t find the words.
“You’re just doing what they command, after all.” She pulled away and an icy void rushed to fill the space she’d just been occupying. “You don’t feel anything. You’re nothing more than a shell. You only feel what they designed you to.”
Creation wanted to object. But silence was the only thing he was able to provide.
Destruction—Zoria, the woman who was his true companion—slowly shook her head. Pain welled in her eyes and he was now too far to wipe away the shining drops, like so many extinguished stars, from their corners. She turned and ran. He wanted to chase after her, wanted to stop her from being outside of arm’s reach ever again. But he couldn’t move. Her words cemented him in his spot.
His affections for her seemed so complete. So then why couldn’t he object to them being solely by design?
What was the true nature of his feelings?
What was the true nature of who he really was? Not just in relation to her, but to himself?
Seven
There was no telling how quickly or how far Destruction ran, but Creation felt the distance like a physical tear, his chest splintering beneath the strain. After finally being near her, touching her, however brief, his very being went into withdrawal at the loss.
This torture kept him rooted in his spot, feeling the whisper of Destruction’s fading magic taunt him for being unable to follow.
At least, that’s what he told himself. Or rather, desperately tried to make himself believe.
If he was being honest, it was less the agony of her distance and more the truth in her words.
Despite his immense knowledge, Creation had nothing to counter her accusation.
They were meant to be together; he was literally made to be with her. But what stake did such a belief have if it had been merely implanted into his mind, body, and soul? What value were his feelings if they’d been fabricated by the gods with a vested interest in their relationship’s success?
The invisible link between Creation and Destruction vibrated with a distant pull, too taut to bear any more force. On reflex, Creation reached for it, with one hand towards the forest as the other dug tense fingers into the meat of his chest—right over his heart, as though to keep every last bit of her in, no matter how small.
Their separation grew too vast. The link snapped. Creation stumbled, his legs suddenly heavy, pulled down by the weight of exhaustion and grief.
Deep, deep into the very essence of his soul, Creation knew their mateship to be true. He knew. Her magic swirling and molding about his own should have been proof of their destiny.
But questions and doubts still spiraled.
He found his feet dragging him not in the direction of her desperate flee, but elsewhere. To where, exactly, he was unsure. He just knew that if he didn’t start moving, he would become rooted forever to this spot.
Creation headed in the opposite direction, for if she relented to be with him only because he gave chase, then their relationship would be as solid as air.
Minutes, hours, perhaps even days, he wasted wandering the forest. Mortal time meant nothing to him and he rarely bothered to count it.
Every now and then, he would reach for a sapling or a dying patch of greenery, trying to relish in the feel of their rebirth beneath his hand. But after learning his magic’s response to Destruction’s, after knowing what true power had felt like, it barely passed for contentment, let alone distraction.
Eventually, his ears picked up distant sounds of life, the forest parting way for a man-made clearing, a small village opening amidst forged earth. He heard something akin to celebration, chanting voices mixing with cacophonous music and natural clatter. He followed the noise, at the very least curious to find source of such jubilee.
Though mirth was particularly distasteful now, Creation took in the sights and sounds with an appreciative acceptance. Whoever was being celebrated right now must have been important, their presence gathering the entire village’s attention.
Creation shouldn’t have been surprised to find Light there.
Amidst a large crowd of villagers, their clothes timeworn and faces marred with grime, Light stood tall and welcoming, his embodiment amongst the mortals as pristine as his one amongst the gods. However, here, he had donned the illusion of flesh (still glowing).
It made sense that, in his state of turmoil, Creation had inadvertently followed a path directly to one of his creators and the greatest divine of them all. His soul yearned for solace in the hands that made him. Though, whether he was looking for assistance, understanding, or reassurance, he was still unsure.
As Creation approached the mortals, he heard awed chanting, voices young and old proclaiming their fidelity to the one they called “Zeus.” Though he was moderately aware of the various monikers attached to Light, this name was unfamiliar; perhaps Creation had been given less of an unending knowledge and instead more of an applicable one?
Light finally noticed his presence, his seemingly omnipotent gaze dragging lazily over his form as if he’d been expecting him. Perhaps he’d been aware of Creation’s wandering from the moment he’d left the glade. From the moment he’d—somehow, impossibly—failed at his singular purpose.
Through some inherent understanding, Creation followed the unspoken order to filter through the crowd to Light’s side. The villagers took him in with a similar sense of wonder, hands grasping for but not quite touching his golden tunic.
“Chosen of Zeus,” some whispered.
“Hair white like snow,” others observed. “Are you the God of Winter?” It seemed the mortals possessed a similar innate ability to identify divinities as the divine themselves possessed to recognize each other.
“He is no god,” Light announced. “But he is a well-loved son of mine and the Demigod of Creation.” Light held out a golden hand, motioning for Creation to approach.
“Son of Zeus,” one said. It seemed to catch like wildfire across the crowd until someone else uttered, “A prince of gods.” There seemed to be agreement toward that. “Prince of Creation.”
“While I have heard your prayers, it shall be the powers of my son that will give you what you desire.” Light turned to Creation. “Come, you shall assist me.”
Creation gave a small nod, and they began walking through the parted crowd of onlookers, all bowed with their foreheads against the dirt. In lieu of bringing up his concerns surrounding Destruction, Creation opted for the more immediate inquiry. “Do you not have followers who call you Ra?”
“Those who wish to worship at my feet are free to call me whatever they wish,” he replied, tone free of emotion, which Creation couldn’t decide if he was relieved or unnerved by. “Light, Jupiter, Zeus, Ra, the praises still reach my ears—all I need to do is listen. As easily as the words and actions of the gods and demigods beneath me.”
A chill ran down Creation’s spine; the iciness beneath his words might not have been noticeable to the mortal ears of the villagers following them, but Creation felt it like a chiding hand upon his shoulder.
“You know you were made for this,” Light offered simply, his eyes never leaving the mortals they passed. He paused from time to time, reaching out to lightly cup the faces of some, run his fingers through their hair, or brush a thumb across their foreheads, their temples. “She should have responded to your sway as easily as I can sense that you have responded to hers. Do not let her actions dissuade you.”
An involuntary flush rose to Creation’s cheeks. What Light was saying was truth, pure fact, and yet it left him feeling a bit breathless. Perhaps it was his new body’s reaction to his embarrassing failure. But at the memory of Destruction within his grasp, her nearly luminescent gaze as all-encompassing as her magic, he found he couldn’t lie.
Instead of bringing voice to these thoughts, however, he heard himself parroting on half-second delay, “I was made for her.”
At this, Light spared him another glance, an eyebrow raised. Under his calculating gaze, Creation wanted to fidget, possibly squirm, but he kept his face impassive and his shoulders square.
They came to a stop, and Light spoke louder, no longer just for Creation’s ears. “Loyal subjects, my son shall bless your fields, bring them to life once more.”
Creation looked ahead of them, noticing for the first time that they’d walked to the edge of town. There, sloping slightly, was a stretch of farmland gone barren. Creation could almost see the threads of life and possibility that had been torn apart.
Had Destruction run through here on her desperate flight?
His magic rose, as if trying to assist him in pushing the thought away. Creation brought up his hands with it, casting his essence across the fields. The yellowed grasses greened, and the hard soil became dark and rich—teeming with life again. But, that which was already growing and thriving, his magic did little for.
“Do you see, now?” Light asked.
“I do.” His magic responded best to things destroyed, ended. In every way, it had been designed to work with hers. The celebrations of the mortals lauding him as their prince faded. Instead, he heard Destructions words, harsh and bitter at the back of his mind:
You’re nothing more than a shell. You only feel what they designed you to.
“Yes . . . designed . . . but does that mean this bond between us . . . this connection . . .?” Is she right?
A flicker of emotion passed over Light’s face. Annoyance.
“You are but a tool, Creation,” he said, voice not quite angry, but close enough to have some of the nearest villagers recoiling in fear. Creation almost did the same; it took far more strength than he was aware he possessed to stand his ground. Especially as Light turned the full force of his glare on him. His voice carried the same debilitating authority as the magic radiating off him in waves, and Creation very nearly knelt in submission at the onslaught. “Just like you have shown here, this day, you are meant to follow orders and do as you were made.”
Much like Destruction’s words had left him frozen, Light’s ultimatum had his knees locking in place, tension holding his neck and spine in a stranglehold.
“Your very reason for existing, the only reason you have been gifted life at all, is to control and temper Destruction on behalf of the pantheon. This life, bestowed upon you with great mercy and benevolence by your makers, serves that single purpose alone. Nothing more.”
“He shall save us from the Demigod Zoria and her trail of destruction,” some of the mortals closest whispered.
Creation fought the objection that there was nothing, truly, to fear from Destruction. She was merely scared and alone. He had sensed much in her, but true malice wasn’t among them.
As his rage hadn’t just been nearly tangible, Light relaxed his shoulders and reached toward Creation’s tense frame. Strong fingers, warmed by their internal light, carded through his silver hair, letting it fall with a gentle touch over one of Creation’s wide-set eyes.
