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Okay, so maybe this isn’t the future. I think once he’s back, the Lord of the Fifth Garden is going to have a lot to do to restore his realm, and not just be sitting around staring at nothing to contemplate existence, or whatever. How did the guy get things done before he vanished?
I don’t even know what he’s looking at, so I take a few steps closer and angle myself so I’m looking over his shoulder, squinting to see into the distance in the gathering darkness.
It takes a bit of squinting, but I finally realize that the rock on the hill gives as close to a clear view of the gate to the Fourth Garden as can probably be found in the realm; I mean that doesn’t involve the castle towers and a telescope.
My heart twists in my chest. Arawn is the Lord of the Fifth Garden. He’s attuned to the whole realm, he knows when people enter it. Why would he sit here, waiting to see someone cross through the gate with his own eyes?
The only reason I can think of is that he’s waiting for Rhiannon.
He’s a death god. He must have known when she passed out of the mortal realm. So now he’s come here, to sit and wait for his love to appear.
Except she’s not coming.
She never makes it past the Fourth Garden. The gate won’t let her pass. And then she spends however many years lost in Chaena’s icy domain, wandering the glacier maze. While Arawn sits here. Thinking that the woman he’s waiting for abandoned him for a chance at paradise or reincarnation.
Because what else is he to believe, I realize. She died, he felt it, he had to have. What else could have happened, other than that she hid herself, and slipped through his realm like a thief in the night.
I watch, heart-sore and heavy eyed, as time speeds up. The light moves, and the trees grow, and all the while, Arawn sits and waits, the lines of grief on his face etching deeper, and deeper.
I don’t know why it happens. Maybe its self protection. Maybe it’s the realm reacting to the pain and misery of its lord and trying to shield him. But as Arawn sits there, unmoving, as if ready to wait for all of eternity, the stone folds up and around him, growing over the centuries until it encases him in a kind of shell. I don’t know what Arawn thinks of it, because he hasn’t moved or reacted for years before the stone started flowing. It’s like watching the stop motion of a flower blooming.
Time keeps racing past me, and, cut off from its lord, grieving in his stone tomb, the Garden starts to wither. Trees crumble to dust on the mournful wind. The castle falls to pieces, grass shriveling. The birds all fall silent, and the gentle twilight fades to a hellish kind of darkness, red streaking across the sky.
A pressure builds behind my eyes, and my ears pop. Nausea churns in my belly, and the aching weight of tears presses against the back of my eyes. With a desperate twist, I yank the helm off my head.
I never thought I’d be so grateful to see ash-choked skies and black stone again. Or to see Ares who watches me with concern in his dark, dark eyes.
He catches me as I stumble, bracing my shoulders. Then he scowls, taking in my tear streaked, red face.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
I just shake my head, gulping down air. I’m not sure I can tell him out loud without crying. It just seems so sad, that two people could love each other so much, and yet that love was what tore them apart. Arawn’s been here, all along, waiting and thinking himself forgotten.
I fumble for the necklace, pulling the little wire mesh pendant out of my armor. This, at least, is something I can fix.
“Rhiannon,” I call, holding the pendant cupped between my palms like it’s a spark I can’t bare to let go out. “I summon you.”
Between one heart beat and the next, she’s there before us. Ares doesn’t start, but his eyes narrow as he looks her over.
There’s a desperate hope in her face that’s almost painful for me to witness. Rhiannon clutches my hand, the edges of her form blurring slightly, as if a ghost could shiver.
“Did you find him?” She searches my face, her grip a little too tight. “Is he here?”
“He’s here.” I have to repeat myself a couple times before I’m sure she actually hears me. “He’s waiting for you. You just need to wake him up.”
I actually have to take her by the shoulders and turn her to face the stone formation. Rhiannon’s brow furrows, her eyes darting before she looks at me in confusion, like she thinks I might be playing a kind of cruel joke on her.
“He’s there, I promise. He’s sleeping, and the stone formed around him.” I give her a little reassuring squeeze. “He’s waiting for you, Rhiannon. Call him.”
I sound a lot more confident than I feel. I really hope this is going to work, but I honestly have no idea if it will. Gods don’t usually die. I mean, it can happen, but it’s a pretty big deal. Like, a cosmically big deal. Gods that fall into torpor, it’s usually because their worship has faded and they lack a connection to the mortal world. I’ve never heard of a deity falling into a sleep like state from grief.
Rhiannon flies to the stone, and doesn’t even hesitate before placing her hands on it. “Arawn,” she whispers, her palms dancing over the odd, porous rock. “I’m here, my Lord. I’m here. I’m so sorry it took me so long, but I’m here with you now. Won’t you speak to me?”
Nothing moves. The wind howls through the crags, blowing stinging dust and tugging at my hair.
Rhiannon swallows, hard enough that I can see the bob of her throat. She blinks rapidly, fighting back tears. “Arawn? I’ve missed you. So, so much. Every day.”
I wrap my arms around my stomach, biting my lower lip. It hurts to listen to her plead with the rock, trying to coax some kind of response from it. Can he just not hear her? Has the Lord of the Fifth Garden just faded too much to come to her call, no matter how long he’s waited for it?
