Page 201 of Evermore

The casual reference to her true nature no longer brought tension to our gatherings. We had all adjusted to the truth of what Quill was. A child, yes, but also something ancient and powerful, a being who could one day reshape reality. Maybe destroy it. There was a trace of unknown within her. Her potential. There hadn’t been a Fera for hundreds of thousands of years. Most beings were known immediately. And no one knew of the journey a Fate must take to ascend. No one knew what life had in store for our girl. For now, she was simply our Quill, with sticky fingers and boundless energy and a heart too big.

Elowen brought platters of food, roasted meats, fresh bread, and vegetables from the gardens outside the city walls, newly replanted in honor of Jasper. As we ate, the conversation flowed around me: Tuck debating literature with Minerva, Thea describing her latest mechanical invention to an enthralled Quill, Thorne’s hand finding mine beneath the table in a gesture so natural it felt like breathing.

I watched them, my strange, beautiful family cobbled together from loss and chance and stubborn love, and felt something settle in my chest. The voices that had plagued me for so long were silent now, banished by my confrontation with the Fates. In their place was a clarity I had never known, the freedom to simplybe, without the constant battle for control.

After lunch, we made our way to the corner where Misery’s End once stood. The theater had been torn down after our final confrontation with Ezra. Too many ghosts, too many memories. In its place now stood a memorial garden.

At its center, a second bronze statue of Archer stood in eternal vigil, his expression that charming smile, but this statue showcased his fingers tangled in yarn. He would have hated it. And it made me smile. Directly across from him stood a second statue. That of a woman with a moth pin in her hair. Her features were perfect. Her smile, lethal, and of all things, I knew Harlow would have loved how the sculpture depicted the dagger on her thigh. There was one more, of course. A statue of a little old man with a needle in his hand and a gentle smile on his face. Thea’s masterpiece, built from her perfect memory.

We gathered around in comfortable silence. Quill placed a single coin at Archer’s feet, a ritual she performed weekly without fail. Thea added a small metal flower she had crafted. Thorne stood with his arm around my shoulders, solid and steady, a counterpoint to the ache that still bloomed when I thought of Archer.

“I miss him,” Quill said simply.

“Me too, Quilly,” I replied, drawing her against my side. “Every day.”

“But he would like this,” she decided, looking around at the garden, at the city spreading around us, at the clear sky above. “He would say it’s…”

“Bittersweet,” Tuck supplied gently.

“Yeah. Bittersweet. Like the chocolate Elowen puts in those cookies.”

As the others began to make their way back down the hill, Thorne lingered with me, his fingers laced through mine.

“You did it.”

I looked out over the city with its crooked streets and weathered buildings, its bustling markets and quiet corners. Smoke rose from chimneys in lazy spirals. The Underground stood empty, a relic of desperate times rather than a necessity.

“We did it,” I corrected him. “All of us.”

He turned to face me fully. “Do you ever regret it? Any of it?”

I didn’t have to ask what he meant. Did I regret becoming what I now was, neither mortal nor traditionally divine? Did I regret the choices that had led us here, to this moment, on this spot, with the weight of eternity before us?

“No. I’d change things. But I don’t regret it.”

His smile broke across his face like dawn. That rare, unguarded expression that still made my heart stutter when his dimple showed. “Neither do I.”

When he kissed me, it felt like coming home, not to a place, but to a person, to the one soul that had known mine across lifetimes. The connection between us, that which made us Evers, hummed with rightness, with the settled certainty that we had finally found our time, our place, our peace.

Later, as the sun began to set, casting the city in gold and amber, we gathered in the meadow at the Syndicate house. Lanterns hung from tree branches, their light soft and welcoming as darkness fell. A table had been set for our evening meal, simple but elegant, with flowers from the memorial garden as its centerpiece.

Quill chased Boo around the perimeter. Thea and Tuck argued about the proper way to season the roast. Elowen supervised it all with fond exasperation.

Thorne appeared at my side, offering a glass of wine. “You’re staring.”

“I’m memorizing,” I corrected him. “I want to remember every detail, exactly as it is.”

“We have time. All the time we need.”

That was the gift we had given each other, time, unmarked by prophecy or fate or the machinations of gods. Time to heal, to build, to love. Time to learn each other anew, without the pressure of impending doom or ancient schemes.

As we took our places around the table, I found myself thinking of Archer again. He should have been here, in the empty chair we still set at every gathering. He should have been telling outrageous stories, teaching Quill card tricks, making Thea laugh with his terrible attempts at cooking.

But his absence had shaped us too, made us fiercer in our love for one another, more determined to honor the sacrifice he had made. The hole he had left would never fully heal, but around its edges, life continued to grow, vibrant and resilient.

Quill raised her glass of juice, her expression suddenly solemn. “To family. The ones that are here and the ones that are watching. To us.”

“To us,” we echoed, glasses clinking in the warm evening air.