Divine Rivals

Recipe for an egg banjo, as cooked by one Private Marcy Gould: Fry an egg over the fire in your cast-iron skillet. Make sure the yolk is bright and runny. Take two thick slices of buttered bread and put the egg between them. You’ll undoubtedly be asked by your fellow soldiers if you are going to eat all of it. Don’t worry; you’ll eat every last crumb.

It was eventide, the moment between darkness and light, when the constellations began to dust the sky and the city lamps flickered to life in reply.

But time will slowly heal you, as it is doing for me. There are good days and there are difficult days. Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you—a shadow you carry in your soul—but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter. You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound. Others who share your pain will also help you heal. Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams.
You are not alone.

Back in the quiet of her chamber, Iris opened the window and listened to the rain. The air was cold, brisk. A trace of winter lingered within it, but Iris welcomed its bite and how it made her skin pebble. It reminded her that she was alive.

“You’re nineteen,” she guessed. “But you have an old soul, don’t you?”

“It feels like wearing shoes that are too small,” she whispered. “With every step, you notice it. It feels like blisters on your heels. It feels like a lump of ice in your chest that never melts, and you can only sleep a few hours at a time, because you’re always wondering where they are and those worries seep into your dreams.

Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you’ve so carefully encased yourself in? They see what they want to see in you—the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you’ve made mistakes, all the times you’ve failed, all the times you’ve hurt them or disappointed them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes. How do you change something like that? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?

I love the words I write until I soon realize how much I hate them, as if I am destined to always be at war within myself.

One person. One piece of armor. I’ll strive for this. Thank you.

There are good days and there are difficult days. Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you—a shadow you carry in your soul—but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter. You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound.

“Why didn’t you say something yesterday?” Because I didn’t want to cry in front of you. Because I don’t want your pity. Because I’m holding myself together by a thread. “I don’t know,” she said.

If this was the life he wanted, then why did it feel so hollow?

“You still didn’t answer why I should send you, Iris Winnow.”
“Because I want to write about things that matter. I want my words to be like a line, cast out into the darkness.”

I wonder if this is how it feels to be immortal. You’re moving, but not really. You’re existing, but time seems thin, flowing like a current through your fingers.

And I shouldn’t hope. I shouldn’t try to send this. I don’t even know your name. But I think there is a magical link between you and me. A bond that not even distance can break.

“There is always a choice. Are you going to let your father write your story, or will you?”

I can tell you right now that this world is about to change. The days to come will only grow darker. And when you find something good? You hold on to it. You don’t waste time worrying about things that won’t even matter in the end. Rather, you take a risk for that light.

“These days, I think anything is possible, Iris.”

iris: transitive verb: to make iridescent.

I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain.

Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels.

She closed her eyes. She thought of Carver, but she fell asleep to the metallic song of Roman Kitt’s typing.

“I fear I don’t run, Kitt.”
“I beg to disagree. You were like wildfire in the field yesterday afternoon.”

She unfortunately had to sit on Roman Kitt’s lap, nearly all the way to the front lines.

because surely by now he knows your writing is exquisite, and above all he knows that he doesn’t deserve you and your words and he never will.

He didn’t want to live in a world without her and her words.

It’s odd, how quickly life can change, isn’t it? How one little thing like typing a letter can open a door you never saw. A transcendent connection. A divine threshold.

And I want you to see me. I want you to know me. Through the smoke and the firelight and kilometers that once dwelled between us. Do you see me?

She held up her handful of letters. And she said, “You.” Roman was silent for a beat. He drew a deep breath and whispered, “Me.”

Roman “C.-is-for-Carver” Kitt

I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it’s that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are.

No,” Iris said, drawing his eyes back to hers. “I prefer salty over sweet. I prefer sunsets over sunrises, but only because I love to watch the constellations begin to burn. My favorite season is autumn, because my mum and I both believed that’s the only time when magic can be tasted in the air. I am a devout tea lover and can drink my weight in it.”

I’m just furious mortified upset seething afraid.

Her pulse was beating like a drum, but she drew a deep breath and whispered, “Read to me, Roman.”

“Gods, where was I before I interrupted myself?”

It’s not a crime to feel joy, even when things seem hopeless.

Even when the world seems to stop, threatening to crumble, and the hour feels dark as the siren rings … it isn’t a crime to feel joy.