Swathed in the bruised colours of desert-at-dawn, Laia's steps were hurried. The sun was chasing her, Taniyn's wings stretched across the sky to lift that circle of gold higher and higher. An eternal motion the goddess danced with Itri, constantly switching places.
Laia couldn't linger on the sight, or she would be late — late for this assignment, as her father had so eloquently put it the evening before. Her fingers were sticky with honey when he had entered her chambers, her plate of dates still overflowing as she sat in the windowsill and watched a smattering of stars press into the rolling dunes.
''Tomorrow, at dawn. Don't be late.''
He had given Laia no time to reply before the door had shut behind him again, and she had stared at that spot he had occupied. The air seemed to bend to him, to the might the head of the council carried with him. It was his weapon, as was the sword to a soldier. The book to a scholar. The word to a preacher. Aridam Saitada only needed himself, and he would bend the world to his will — break it, if he had to.
And Laia was that which melted iron, shattered stone, broke glass. She was his weapon in the dark, not his daughter but a thing he could use at his will. She already felt the pain throbbing in her hands again.
So Laia did the only thing Laia was truly good for: she ran. Not entirely, not all the way, but she ran from the heavy weight that hung in the air. In her house, it suffocated, even when she heard her siblings talk and laugh, even when she heard the gentle thrumming of her mother on her harp. She wrapped a shimmering azure shawl around her shoulders, climbed out of her window, and ran.
And her night had become one of music and dancing. It was the glittering notes of laughter in the air, as the warmth swelled with the heat of several fires. It was that of people who didn't know what she did for her father, who only looked at her and saw the Laia who brought them flowers each morning. The Laia who picked up a pretty pebble she saw on the streets, and gifted it to a lone child whose face lit up at the colours reflected in the stone. The Laia who twirled under the stars, whose hair seemed made of spilled wine.
Oh, how she wished she could take that Laia and press her like a dried up flower into the pages of a withering tome. How she wished she could scatter her to the wind and watch how she became one with the elements, swept to a place where no one knew torment or anguish.
That Laia, wasn't the one who lowered her gaze as she entered a dimly lit alley, pushing past a pair of stony-faced men who stood guard at the double doors. This was a Laia who listened to her father list the crimes of the man who kneeled before her. This was a Laia who reached out her hands and touched her fingers to his temples. This was a Laia who closed her eyes as the man screamed, and who willed herself to a different place where she wouldn't have to listen to his pain given sound.
And when her father told her to stop, so he could continue his interrogation, she slipped an orchid into the man's pocket just as Aridam turned away. She couldn't speak, for whenever she was made to do this, something inside of her broke. It was irreplaceable, unable to be mended, and it lodged into her throat like a shard of glass. What could she say, to make this all better?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
So Laia did the only thing Laia was truly good for: she ran.
And when the sun hung high enough for the markets to hum with life, she re-emerged. Her hands ached underneath the bandages. With a shudder, Laia remembered the sound as stone had hit bone.
Like lightning, cleaving her in two,
again and again and again.
And when the Anunnaki with the healing hands had regarded her, his expression had morphed into pity. He, too, seemed to hear the words echoed in his ears,
again?
Laia only hoped Jasia would not look at her similarly.
Her favourite vendor on the corner of the street had packed her little basket with extra sweets. An Anunnaki like her, Laia always made sure to never touch him directly when she gave him her coins. They had brushed fingers once, and he had looked at her strangely, like he could see all the pain wrought from her hands.
She had moved away like something had seared her from within. And though her smile had been bright, meant to soothe and ask for forgiveness, Laia didn't want to linger. Who knew, what he would see when he looked too closely? ''Thank you! May the goddess bless you.''
And off she was.
The path to Jasia's house was a map unfurling in her head. She had walked it so often, she could trace the stones even when she was robbed of all her senses. Perhaps it was that tether between them, that pulled on her like an invisible rope even as she walked, a connection that had stood firm and steady from the first day they had met.
Through the narrow and winding streets of Alryne, Laia walks, smiling at the sight of the Odajick home shielded by its neighbours. She has been there often enough to know that the front door doesn't immediately unfurl into the living area, but rather carves a path to a staircase that Laia quickly climbs. She knows that the rest of the family won't be home at the hour, but the muffled sounds coming from Jasia's workplace are indicator enough that her favourite Anunnaki has kept to their arrangement.
Jasia was her refuge, a sanctuary away from the slicing reminders at home. They had a ritual of sweets and gossip, of Laia watching while Jasia worked, and Jasia listening while Laia weaved a necklace of flowers as she spilled the contents of her bleeding heart to the little creatures that walked around Jasia's workplace.
They greeted her as she pushed open the door, a mechanical dog happily jumping up against her legs as if it might be made of flesh rather than threads of metal. But that wasn't all that greeted her.
''Laia!'' Jasia's voice was tinged with nerves, hands flying like she was trying to catch the particles of dust that danced in the air like a torrent of invisible rain. She stood from her spot at the wooden bench that was littered with metal parts, as the man who was holding one of her sketches turned to look at Laia.
''Two for one. I do enjoy when my work is made easier,'' he said. His voice was velvet, yet there was a roughness that lingered underneath, threading through like the ocean might try to weave a path through stone mountain. Laia had never seen this man before. She had never heard Jasia speak of a man. Was this it? Had her friend found love?
The corners of her lips twitched, as if wings were willing them upwards, curving them into a smile.
The man shook his head. ''Ah, I am afraid you are mistaken, dear little Laia.'' He dropped the sketch and stood, and the energy in the room shifted. Laia's grip on her basket tightened on instinct.
''Perhaps I would benefit from growing wings like Taniyn and Nieba. Maybe I would be more recognizable, then. As I was telling your fellow Anunnaki here,'' he turned to Jasia, and though Laia couldn't see, she thought he might have winked at her, given the nervous smile that tinged Jasia's face berry-red. ''I am the god Zilar, and I have come to invite the two of you to the gods' palace in Limuria. You, along with other Anunnaki, will be given the chance to become a god.''
This seemed to rouse Jasia into action. She hurried over to Laia, taking the basket from her hands to tug her closer into the workplace. ''I know what you're thinking, and trust me, I did not believe him, either. But this — '' Jasia took a deep breath to calm herself down. She was still pulling Laia along with her to table, closer to the god, and her feet seemed to move faster than her mind could, causing her trip.
Zilar seemed amused, in a way only someone who never had to deal with the mundane and humiliation of such human emotions could.
''It's true. He's Zilar, the god Zilar. He showed me. And he thinks we can be gods. Us, Laia. The two of us. Can you imagine the good we might do?''
Laia forgot about the god's presence as she stared into her friend's face, the eagerness displayed in her smile, shining in every soft slope and curve.
Good?
Could she do good?
Could these hands be used for something other than hurt?
Could she right the wrongs she had been forced to make?
Was this her chance?
Her idle afternoons with Jasia already seemed so far away, ripped from her like a foal from its mother, like a bone that had sprouted from her ribcage like a wayward branch had been broken off, and she had to keep breathing with its sharp pain pressing into her flesh.
But Laia smiled, and she looked to the god, and she said, ''When do we leave?''