Page 23 of The Winter Goddess

The Sixth Life

I stayed there sprawled in the snow like I had so long ago, and I thought about power.

As a god, I would not have been able to die. I would have lain there and let the snow pile up until it choked the world around me. What did it matter if the world ended in my grief and pain? I would have lived. I had not cared; I had wanted them to die.

Danu could have saved Enya. Perhaps not from death, I understood that now—but at least from having to live a life she did not want. Yet Danu had not done it. Just as she had not stopped the famine that had brought Fia to this mound. Each time she’d had the choice—to tell the truth or save herself—and each time, she’d chosen herself. I grimaced, disgusted at the thought, but knew I had done the same as a goddess.

It was an endless, selfish power we gods had—power that we used on a whim, granting or refusing prayers according to our own desires. What had it done for humankind to know the gods lived? Only given them false hope.

I did not want the power, the immortality, anymore. I did not want the ice in my fingertips or the breath of all the cold winds on my lips. I did not want to look down and see my skin turn blue. I wanted only to return home, to my croft on the hill—to bring my bees honey water, eat bread that I had made with my own hands, and lie in bed with Fionn and listen to his heart beat. I wanted no more of godhood: I could see now, the cost would not be worth it.

And perhaps —I had a sudden rush of hope, as though the sun had just shone on the dark recesses of my mind—perhaps I did not have to ever get it back.

My skin tingled with relief as the realization pierced me deeper and harder than ice. I would live this life with its mortal pains—pains I felt even now, in the coldness of my hands, my numb ears and frozen toes, my shivering body. I would let time pass too slow and too fast; I would never have enough of it. But I would toil with my hands and find meaning and home and love.

I was mortal, and I would bargain with Danu, ask her to let me remain so. In exchange—and the thought came with only the barest pinch—I would keep her damning lies. And if I died as a mortal, she would not have to fear that I would give away her secret; the worship she so desired could go on and on and on. I could die and I could join those I loved. Failinis, Dagda, Siobhan, Enya.

Mór.

I began to cry at the thought, at the relief of it, because at the end of this life, no matter how long or short it was, I would hold her again.