Lily
Arthur’ bodyguards open the gates once they see me. We get in, followed by the other car. I get off and two of the men follow me. I see a woman coming out of the second car.
“Who are you?” I ask them and then I recognize the woman. I’ve seen her on TV.
She’s a reporter. I take another look at them and I know it - they all are reporters.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, my eyes searching their faces.
“This will be over very soon, “ the woman smiles at me. “Now, take us in. The faster this happens, the faster it will be over. “
I’ve only been to the manor once and it was a week ago but I remember where everything is.
We get inside and cross the big entrance hall. Then we get to one of the heavy, wooden doors at the end of the corridor.
But when the woman opens the door, Arthur is already on his feet. He is with another man - a stranger I’ve never seen before. The man is blond with bright blue eyes. He is standing right behind Arthur.
It’s like they knew we were coming. But they can’t have heard us…
Before I knew it, however, the men and the woman burst in, cameras and microphones prepared and I watched as everything unfolded before me. It’s all happening too fast, too many people are talking at once and I freeze. I am just standing there, not knowing what this is about. And then I hear the reporters.
“Mister Stark, “ the journalists ask, “Is this the leader of the criminal Williams group?”
“ Arthur, are you connected to the mafia as the rumours say?”
“Is it true that you are working with illegal mafia groups?”
“Are you the one who’s to blame for the death of the old gang leader?”
“Who are you really, Mister Arthur?”
Then the mysterious blond man groans. He sinks his hand in the pocket of his coat and takes a gun out.
Everyone gasps.
“Help!”
“Please, no! Don’t kill us!” Someone begs.
“I swear we will delete everything! Please, no!”
The blond man smiles. Then he shoots one of the windows and everything shatters, causing panic.
The woman gasps, then starts yelling and searching for a place to hide. All the reporters start running around frantically. Hearing the noise, some of Arthur’ bodyguards burst in.
“Get those idiots out of here, “ Arthur orders and his men nod. He turns to the blond man.
“I will see you later.“
“Yes, Sir. “
Then Arthur grabs me, dragging me out of the room.
“And you are coming with me. “
His hand closes around mine and I have nowhere to run.
***
Arthur takes me to another part of the manor. He pushes me into one of the rooms. It’s a bedroom but I don’t have time to look around. Arthur slams the door shut and it’s just the two of us now. He looks angry. I've never seen him this angry before and at that moment I am sure being dead is better than being the object of Arthur’ fury.
He takes a breath as if trying to regain his control. If he doesn’t, he will destroy the whole place.
Arthur loosens the tie around his neck.
I must be insane, or this is some primal instinct I didn’t know I had because I follow the movement as his beautiful finger pushes inside the knot on his tie.
What would his hands feel if they touched me not to hurt me?
Then my mind is flooded with Mike’s words: Arthur never touches anyone.
I shiver at the idea and Arthur fixes his eyes on me.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” he asks, trying to keep the anger away from his voice. But I see the shift in his eyes.
I swear the colour changes. This time I am not imagining it. It's like red flames are dancing in his irises. My hands are shaking and I can't stop them.
Who is he? Or rather :
What is he?
Arthur is pacing in the room, angry. The image of a wolf, pacing around in a narrow cage suddenly emerges in my head.
Arthur is like a bloodthirsty demon, trying to keep himself under control. Trying to stop himself from ripping me to pieces. My heart is thudding like mad, the sound of the gun firing still ringing in my head.
The blond man could have killed those journalists. He could have killed me…
I tremble when Arthur comes to a halt and turns to me. His eyes are seeing right through me and for the second time today, I feel like he’s reading my mind.
“Why did you bring them here?” his voice is even. Icy. Threatening. Arthur takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it.
I’ve never seen him smoke before.
He takes a long drag, watching me. Then he starts walking towards me deliberately and slowly. Arthur is taller than most men, but right now he looks even bigger. Frightening.
“Did you do it because of Michael?” He asks, still struggling to remain calm - I can see it in the way he moves. At this moment he looks scarier than ever
“I…no. " I whisper and he exhales the cigarette smoke very slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. Arthur can smell my fear, I somehow know this from the way he is looking at me.
He also knows that I am lying.
“What did he tell you?”
Arthur asks, “That he loves you? Or… did you do all of this because you still love him?”
I started walking backwards until my legs hit the rim of the bed.
“No…I…”
the memory of my sister’s naked body, under Michael’s floods my mind and my vision blurs again. But I can’t tell Arthur any of it. So I bite my lip and wait for what’s to come.
“Did you know Michael and I are rivals on a new project?”
Arthur asks and flickers the ash from his cigarette on the carpet.
“He is using you, “ Arthur continues, not waiting for me to answer. “And you did exactly what he wanted from you. He sent you here with those fuckers to expose me. “
My husband’s eyes are a crimson red color now and for a wild second, I think he is going to stub his cigarette in my flesh.
I don't know what’s happening. I want to run, to hide, to scream. But Arthur will catch me before I’ve made a single step.
Arthur stubs his cigarette on the wall and looks at me.
“But it will take more than a few shitty reporters and cowards to bring me down, “ he says, “I thought you were smarter than this. “
Then Arthur takes his coat off and throws it on the floor. I gasp, surprised and he leans towards me. I catch the scent of his cologne and the faint scent of the cigarette smoke, lingering around him. But underneath it, there’s the scent of earth and rain.
I see his muscles flexing under the thin linen of the shirt. I also notice the outlines of a scar, running down his forearm.
I imagine his hands on me, his lips on mine. What is happening… Why am I thinking this?
“Oh, don’t worry, Lily. “ his smile is canine, the words that come out of his mouth are a snarl, “I won’t touch you. I don’t want to. “
My lips tremble and I am so humiliated. Then something shifts in his eyes again.
“And you are carrying his child. “
Arthur growls. That’s when he lifts his hands and tears my shirt forcefully. The cloth falls to pieces on the floor. I gasp, trying to hide myself but he grabs me by the wrists.
“Get rid of this baby. “
Arthur snarls, his lips only a breath away from mine.
“Or I will do it. With my own bare hands. “
I was the lakebed, the constant upon which these gentle changes played out. The sharp, personal ache of loss had long since weathered into a smooth stone—a permanent, bearable weight at the center of my being. It was no longer a wound, but a foundation.The Warden came less often now. Their work, too, was largely done. On this day, they found me not in the garden, but in the heart of the Sanctuary, where the light from the oldest, most stable worlds filtered down in soft, cathedral shafts. They did not speak for a long time, simply standing with their hands clasped behind their back, observing the perfect, quiet chaos.“The systems are in optimal equilibrium,” they said finally, their voice not a report, but a meditation. “The deviation rate has fallen to 0.0001 percent. It is… self-sustaining.”I understood. They were not just talking about the weather patterns or the energy flows. They were talking about me.My consciousness, once a bright, specific point of awareness, had diffused
It is not a single perspective. It is the gentle, patient pressure of root tips against dark, moist soil. It is the dappled pattern of sunlight filtering through the canopy of the Thought-Trees, their leaves whispering secrets in a language of photosynthesis and memory. It is the slow, crystalline growth of the Singing Geodes in the northern caves, their harmonies a geology of sound. I am the rain that falls on the fledgling worlds, and I am the dry stone that waits for the rain. I am the boundary that holds it all, a membrane of remembered love and will.I am the Sanctuary. And the Sanctuary is me.I feel the Warden, often. They walk the paths not as a ruler, but as a steward. Their steps are measured, their presence a quiet hum of order that no longer fights the chaos, but tends it. They prune the branches of the Narrative Vines when they grow too tangled, ensuring the stories don’t choke themselves. They sometimes pause by the patch of blue asters, and I feel a ripple of complex da
The world is too bright. Too loud. The Sanctuary thrives around me, a symphony of weird, wonderful life, and I am a dead note in the middle of it. A ghost in the machine I helped build.The Warden comes. They stand beside me as I stare at the blue aster, the one he saw last. Their offer is gentle, born of a logic that has learned compassion.“The grief parameter is destabilizing your core functions,” they say, their voice not cold, but soft. “I can recalibrate it. Suppress the emotional data. You could live in peaceful order. A quiet end to the story.”It would be so easy. To let the sharp edges of this pain be sanded down to a smooth, grey nothing. To be a well-maintained monument.I look at them, this being of order who became a friend, and I shake my head. “No,” I whisper, my voice raw from disuse. “The pain is the proof.”The proof that it was real. That he was real.So I learn to live with it. It’s a slow, brutal education. I tend the blue aster. I water it, talk to it. I tell it
It’s not a battle. It’s a slow tide, and it’s going out.I’ve cheated this so many times. Fought gods, rewound time, grafted souls. But this… this is just a body. His body. The one he was resurrected in, the one that has carried him through all our wars and all our quiet years. It’s worn out. There’s no enemy to fight. No spell to break. Just the slow, inexorable closing of a circle.He’s in our bed. The same bed we’ve shared for decades. His hand in mine is light as a bird’s bone. I can feel every one of his years in the paper-thin skin, the prominent knuckles. I memorize the topography of it. The familiar scars are pale ghosts now.The stakes are not cosmic. They are the size of this room. The size of my heart.The temptation is a snake coiled in my gut. I still have power. I am still a conduit. I could pour energy into him, force his heart to beat, his lungs to draw breath. I could make a puppet of the man I love, drag him behind me for a few more years, a decade, a century of suff
The quiet is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.It’s not the silence of the Anti-Chorus, that hungry void. It’s not the tense stillness of the balance. It’s the quiet of a machine that has finally finished its work. A soft, humming peace.There are no more crises. No more gods knocking at the door. The Sanctuary runs itself, a self-perpetuating ecosystem of the interesting and strange. Our son is out there, somewhere, building his own story. The house is empty.And we are… bored.I garden. My hands, which once channeled the grief of a million lost loves and wielded power that could sever souls, now spend their days pulling weeds. I feel the sun on my back, a simple, physical warmth. I watch a beetle navigate the stem of a rose. It is mundane. It is a miracle.Arthur writes his memoirs. He sits at the old kitchen table, a datapad before him, his brow furrowed. He’s not writing an epic. He’s trying to remember the exact shade of blue the sky was on the day we first met. He gets stuck fo
He finds us in the garden, of course. He always does. But he isn’t carrying a new, strange beetle or a shimmering problem for us to solve. His hands are empty. His face, once so open, is now a map of quiet resolve. Our son. Our god-child. A man.“I have to go,” he says. No preamble. No softening. Just the truth, laid between us like a stone.The world tilts. The air leaves my lungs. I always knew this day would come. He was never just ours. He was the universe’s. But knowing it and hearing it are two different kinds of gravity.Arthur goes still beside me. I feel the jolt through our Shared Solitude, a sharp crack of fear and understanding. This is the last lesson. The ultimate act of parenting. Not teaching, not protecting. Letting go.“The Sanctuary is complete,” he continues, his voice calm, too calm for the earthquake he’s causing. “It’s stable. It has its guardians. Its purpose.” He looks from me to Arthur, his eyes holding a depth of love and a vast, terrifying distance. “I need