The Hollow Heart by Marie Rutkoski
THE GOD
WHEN I WAS A ROSE, blooming on a bush outside the city walls of Ethin, the rain fell on my soft, silent head. The sun forced me open. An ice wind came and went, chilling me, casting a thin glaze of ice over my petals and down my stem, so that I looked made of glass. I did not die and I did not fade, for I remained a god, no matter my form. When the sun came again, the ice melted and dripped away. I bloomed again.
Mute, I watched the human world. The hummingbird that delved inside me. The velvet nights. The snake that hid from the sun in the cool of my thorny branches, my serrated leaves. My presence in Ethin violated the promise the pantheon made, each to the other, never to return to the mortal realm. Yet one does not wager with the god of games and neglect to pay her due.
As I watched the sugarcane grow in the distance, and yearned for a human, any human, to take the path that led to me, I watched the rest of the world, too.
In Herran, Kestrel lay on her back in the grass, head pillowed on Arin’s lap as he sat, the scent of summery earth carried by the breeze. Two horses wandered nearby in the meadow with its haze of blue and violet wildflowers. Arin, looking down at his wife, traced the curve of Kestrel’s cheek with a speckled yellow feather.
Are you asleep? he asked.
Yes, she answered.
Do you think you might ever tell a simple truth when asked a simple question?
She opened her golden eyes and smiled. I love you, she said. Is that a simple truth?
It will do.
I had a dream like this once, she said. Long ago, when I was in the Valorian capital, and you were far from me, and I missed you. Am I dreaming? If I am, I don’t want to wake up.
Don’t wake up.
Kestrel closed her eyes again. He felt her grow heavier. As she slipped into sleep, he counted her freckles. Ninety-eight. They would fade, come autumn. He was beginning to feel hazy with the heat, with the soft pleasure of her head in his lap, when she startled awake.
Bad dream? he said.
She shook her head, her braids rustling against his trousers. She reached for his hand and placed it flat against her belly. I felt something, she said. I felt something move inside me.
He didn’t dare hope. Her face was alive with wonder.
It felt like a tadpole, she said.
Still he could not speak.
Arin, I think I felt a baby.
He saw her brush away a drop of water that had fallen like rain onto her cheek. She sat up and kissed his wet eyes, kissed the scar that sliced down from his brow into his left cheek.
Are you happy? Kestrel asked.
Yes. He held her to him. The yellow feather fell to the grass.
Yes.