FALLEN | rowan whitethorn x oc

CHAPTER TWENTY - a talk between gods

It wasn't until he had finished making his salad that he saw a scene from the future of someone he knew.

And, undoubtedly, that was even worse than peering into the untaken steps of those unknown to him, for now, he bore the burden of a not-yet-happened-consequence which he was forbidden from warning.

Yes, he thought to himself, it is hard, indeed.

His thoughts spiralled as he hung onto every conceivable scenario, as he envisioned every difference that came with a distinctive decision. Sometimes it was something as unimportant as the snack someone ate in between working shifts, or the sudden -and unexplainable- urge to choose a different path to go to school. And, other times, it was a life-altering decision, that even those who played the vision could recognize, deep inside themselves, the graveness of the choice vibrating within themselves. Like a confession to a lover, or a goodbye to a loved one. Or a sacrifice.

So Kilax sang a low tune as he chopped vegetables, while his psyche searched, desperately, for a happy moment. Anything. Just a future that was not already scarred with mercilessness and hollowness.

It took him longer than he would have preferred, but he found it: It was weak as it was implausible. But it was there, happy, still. So not all hope was lost.

A baby being placed in a male's arms. He looked down at the newborn baby, strongly crying, and he began smoothly rocking the baby from side to side. Then, he murmured three words to the baby, his child, and that was enough to make them stop crying. Almost as if the child had understood their father's words. Words of love. Vows of adoration and promises of safety.

The male let out a chuckle, amazed by his kid's big, attentive eyes, with the same colourful shade as their mother. He brought the baby closer to his chest, already shielding his family from the world.

He began crying. Tears of pure, free happiness. Because they had made it, and even as the world was scarred, his child was fine. Healthy. And unimaginably loved.

Kilax allowed himself a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips. New lives being born in the eyes of so much death always astonished him. Life after death was always a delightfully thought that filled him with something close to hope.

It was also distracting. Hopefulness, that was. So he blamed it on that when it was already too late for him to detect the new presence in his kitchen.

He wished it didn't, but his magic buzzed all around him as it recognized its sibling. Wariness and energy stiffened his corporeal body, his hand tightened its hold on the knife, and his senses sharpened with the familiarity of his uninvited guest.

"Hello, Kilax" She said, her voice melodic and subreal.

He refrained from letting out a sigh, for he knew she would notice it, and looked at her over his shoulder.

She was young, her form thrumming with healthiness and out-of-this-world beauty. Her long hands were clasped in front of her, and his eyes travelled from her strong-genetic silver mane to her tanned skin and shining -and highly controlled- pine-green eyes.

"Hello,"

Her lips curve almost imperceptibly, "Is that the kind of greeting I deserve after a millenium without seeing each other?"

He shrugged, "Do not pretend you could have not visited me earlier if you had truly wanted to"

Her eyes hardened, but her expression remained contained. "And do not pretend your exile was not completely self-inflicted"

"I never have"

"You always do"

He dropped the knife on the counter and turned on his heels to face the female that had sneaked under all his wards placed around his house, and forest. "Why are you here?" He cut straight to the point. He already wanted her gone.