Goddess Rising

The figure before her was real, not one of the phantoms that had tormented her recently. It stood still, lips pressed together impatiently.

“I can’t stand.” Her voice creaked and came out lower than she intended, but the figure understood it. He reached down, grabbed her arm, and helped her to her feet. There was no sympathy on his face, only business. Once Aria was on her feet, he turned and walked through the mist. For a moment, she feared colliding with the wall, but it let her through.

The darkness of the passing was disorienting again. She stumbled, and when the light returned, she was on her knees. The man waited only long enough for her to rise before resuming his trek. Habit kept her eyes on his feet. They were bare, like hers. When he touched the ground, they sank barely an inch into the clouds.

Clouds, not a lake. Though the scenery was similar, this was a different place. She had gone through two portals to enter her cell, but only one to exit it. Here, there was no lake; there was no water within eyesight. Only the clouds surrounded them.

Again, the world flickered, then there were people. Four men stood at attention on two sides of a door. They gave her guide a once-over but made no move to stop them. The door itself opened as they approached it. It was one of the largest she had ever seen, half of a circle and constructed solely of light. She thought she could have walked through it. She suspected that she was wrong.

Past the door, she found the strangest corridor of her life. She could see no walls, but there was a sense of being enclosed. There were no more clouds, but a fog seemed to take the place of walls.

Two sets of workers passed her. They walked briskly. One set carried steel bowls filled with shimmering water. The second set carried gold trays and moved too quickly for a second look. They hugged the walls of the corridor while Aria and her guide comfortably occupied the center.

Another door approached them, much like the last, though its light bore a reddish hue. This one did not open. Instead, her guide stopped and reached for a bowl on a stand beside the door. He dipped his hands into it until they were submerged to the wrist. Then he pulled them out, let them drip into the bowl, and wiped off the remainder with a white cloth on the same table. Next, he repeated the process with his feet, dipping them, one at a time, into a bowl on the ground beneath the stand. He did not dry them off. As he walked back to the door, the water left imprints of his feet on the black floor. They mingled with other imprints, likely the workers they had passed.

Back at the door, the guide waited silently. Another pair of workers burst through the doors. They walked less solemnly than Garo’s attendants. They were brisk. Their eyes were not downcast. One met Aria’s eyes, wrinkled his nose, and then walked around them with exaggerated gestures. Aria paid him no attention. Armored as she was between simmering hunger and settled helplessness, whatever prejudice the man bore could not harm her.

“Should I wash?” Her voice was better, more solid.

“There is no need.”

It was only a rite for subjects, then, not prisoners. She wondered at its meaning. Clean hands and feet to enter the god’s presence? At least, she hoped that was their destination.

The door opened suddenly but slowly. It broke in two halves and swung inward, almost as if it was made of wood.

The guide hurried forward. He kept his eyes straight, so Aria did the same. She was tired of looking at feet, and exhaustion was wearing out her conscientiousness.

It was a bedroom. An arched window stood across the room, almost as wide as the door and with an arched top. Through it was a view so breathtaking, her feet came to a halt. A many-peaked mountain with the snow glittering like diamonds, a lake - not the same as the previous - and colors, so many colors. It resembled a painting, and that convinced Aria that it was real. After all, the king of all the gods could have any view he wished.

Remembering herself, she knelt.

There was a chuckle. “I’m over here.”

The voice nearly brought tears to her eyes. She shuffled around to face it, still keeping her eyes down. “You honor me with your presence.”

“Hardly, I’m sure, but I hold no grudge. Look at me.”

The Black Prince sat on a chaise flush against the wall. It was a patchwork of colors. In another place, she would have called it tasteless, but with the view from the window still in her mind, it provoked no such thought. He had a blanket wrapped about himself, hands tucked in like a child with a cold, but he was in high spirits.