The Chthonic Spring
No need for the earth to crack open, nor to replicate the mortal world.
Morgan perceived he was being watched.
The black-robed spellcaster maintained his reticence as he pushed open the door—his movements were slow and languid, appearing relaxed and unhurried, in stark contrast to the perception of his true thoughts.
“Merlin, Dura, the Goddess of Life, is that right?”
The one questioned stepped into the hut. She listened as the question was repeated, and before giving a formal reply, she waved a hand, lighting a row of candles.
Morgan heard the hesitation in her tone.
“I am 'Merlin,' and also—Dura.”
A reply from one of the gods.
Morgan had never revered the gods. This fact was not only born from his first meeting with Merlin but was also deeply rooted in his daily demeanor.
Merlin (or rather, Dura) did not use this against him. She did not scold him and did not reveal her mystical form to him. Her voice was even as she answered his questions, speaking of her aid to the mortal kingdom.
The content of her words was no different from what she had told Morgan before.
She spoke of how true reality often held two kinds of good and two kinds of evil.
A sip of water that quenches one's thirst may, in another time and place, drown a struggling swimmer. The blade that slices an apple can, from another angle, strike a warrior's heart. Lush grapevines hang heavy, yet coiled around their trunks are the thick scales of a python. Rosy berries are vibrant, yet fit only for the jaws of venomous beasts.
The Twilight of the Gods is an eternal cycle, and a whole life is achieved through alternation.
“Humans are creatures in love with endings. Everything must have an end. Whether it is a vast romance or a narrow and insignificant life. Once a concept is given a narrative, it is bound to run its course and reach a conclusion, completing its own cycle.”
She said.
“All things must die, and I am no different.”
Morgan's thoughts drifted back to the magical trajectories written in the chambers of rest, in the manuscripts.
Her power was undeniable, so great that it turned pride and arrogance into what others called gifted eccentricities.
But it was her exquisite retellings—pieces of knowledge that defied logical deduction—that truly caught Morgan's attention. She spoke of history as if she had been there to witness it herself. Just as the little girl in Wildborn had an innate magical talent she was never told of but required guidance, Morgan's own growing skills, essential for deconstructing necromancy, had also been enlightened by Merlin's touch.
—So, was this a deception?
No.
Morgan had once guessed that what she concealed were variations of a true name, spells of endowment. He knew she had always been hiding something, for when he spoke her name, he could only ever feel a single vowel roll off his tongue.
Unfortunately, Morgan's guess had been too conservative, and Merlin's courage was far greater than he had anticipated.
Morgan had previously discussed with Merlin at length his disgust for the Death God's prolonged absence, the unlucky symphony of death that shadowed his every step. And it was with her company that he continued to study the connection between souls and the abyss.
To trace the paths of the gods.
Morgan was gifted, but only through nearly numb and exhaustive effort did he touch upon the fringe arts of stealing life and death. He had obtained magic concerning the spirit world; though he could not forcefully alter it, he could perceive the rotation of life and death.
Unlike the avatars and incarnations of deities, and distinct from the precedents set by the hunting gods Gorgonna and Lu, when a god chooses a mortal body as a vessel, the original soul is invariably annihilated.
Yet Morgan had never detected any sign of a divine proxy in her. What he saw was a mortal.
—Just one soul.
For a human, the power of the “First Merlin” as a mage was certainly sufficient. But for a deity, when compared to the utopia described in the inscriptions of the Arcadian fissure, her current power was clearly at odds with the “truth” of the supreme divine kingdom.
The authority of the gods was bound by rules.
The Goddess of Life had descended to the mortal world in her true form, not as an avatar. She was clearly lacking something upon her arrival, which was why her power remained insufficient.
Or perhaps she was inherently incomplete.
This was not winter, and so it was no cozy fireside chat.
She was not unaware that this fact could be easily unraveled by Morgan, yet she answered his every query.
Whether it was an indirect probe or a direct question.
She had promised to hide nothing, and to Morgan, she had hidden nothing.
Morgan had no intention of changing his attitude. He still called her Merlin, not Dura.
After succinctly arranging the identities between the Arcane Council and a god and swallowing the one question that intrigued him most, he decided against it. Morgan had tested Merlin as a human before; he knew he shouldn't be questioning Merlin as a goddess now.
So he ended the “interrogation,” declaring that he needed a good rest to sort through the “information” he'd received. After all, he was just a mortal, a lazy one at that, and dealing with gods was far too much trouble.
And since she, the Chief Mage, was a god, then it should be up to her, the all-loving Goddess of Life, to handle everything.
Morgan noticed Merlin looking at him. Her head tilted in thought, as if considering whether this new “job” he'd assigned her was appropriate.
But Morgan was only thinking that he needed to leave.
Quickly.
Because he did not see himself as a second Perseus.
He had no divinely bestowed crown of honor (that golden crown), no two arrows forged of gold, much less was he the master of twelve pomegranate seeds…
Before the rules were established, a mortal's resistance against a cruel fate could not be called injustice. At most, it was affectation and defiant doubt, for the power of the gods outweighs mortal pleas.
The meal on the table is only awaiting its consumption; a system that is entirely flawless and perfect is merely a sliver of utopia.
The gods are not immortal peacocks—no birds of Juno. They walk the mortal world cloaked in the shrouds of saints, tormenting mortals with the hardships of life—this was the truth Merlin had candidly shown Morgan, a truth they shared.
—Merlin, that Merlin.
Having just revealed her divine identity, she sat there and offered a small portion of her insight:
“When all the stories are over, I will plant a narcissus.”
The sentence was stunningly effective, stopping Morgan in his tracks, halfway out of his seat.
The Goddess of Life continued her slow addendum, this goddess born before Death itself, who had a place in the cycle of all things.
“You can help me pick one that isn't so… Pretentious.”
Morgan was ill-suited for overflowing emotions; he truly shied away from sentimentality. But at such a moment, he suddenly learned that the Goddess of Life also had a talent for complaining and sarcasm—
Morgan had wanted to hold the Death God's skull and sing a hymn, but that was based on necromancy and a personal vendetta.
He did not currently have a particular desire for a keepsake from the Goddess of Life.
“And place a crystal ball with my memories beside it?”
… It wasn't that he didn't want one at all.
Merlin's wand (or the scepter of the Goddess of Life) was placed casually in a corner of the hut. Her hair, nearly platinum in texture, coiled within her hood.
As always, a faint light coursed and ignited around her.
“You should have better examples, Morgan.”
She smiled.
The Goddess of Life holds her narcissus and walks through ancient times.
Morgan knew his reason was screaming that this was a mistake, but attraction itself requires no answer or defense.
He had walked with Merlin, with this god in hiding. With her, he had witnessed gods (her kin) fall.
He transgressed the boundaries of the divine.
No need for the earth to crack open, nor to replicate the mortal world.
With her, he made a pact: to slay a god with a god.
She is the falcon that beholds the silent;
It is she who shifts the labyrinth, who changes all things.
To steal the font of the gods, to part the sea of fate according to some rule, to rebel with the talent hidden among mortals. It had been following behind them for a long time.
In another story, it is she who raises her season, that which she planted and cherished…
The earthy scent of receding floodwaters fades as the warm orange glow of the setting sun floats helplessly, adrift in a mortal's divine domain.
The Chthonic Spring.
For the life that begins, for the death that is not yet ended.