Archive of Our Own

She smiles, and holds out her bare hand. 

"Pleased to work with you, Doctor," she says; she doesn't have your name and her grin is full of teeth, but it's pleasant enough.

She is a young woman, white teeth and ashen skin, dusk-red hair and unknowable eyes; you can't put a name on their color, but the poet in you speaks of fool's gold, darkened by curiosity. Perhaps that old part of you is right, but you are a STEM major. It is not your place to draw such comparisons, only to research them objectively.

The lounge room is like the rest of the lab: clean, sterilized, illuminated by bright neon lights that would hurt your eyes if you hadn't spent the last decade and a half hopping around similarly bright corridors. The only fantasies are a rectangular mirror, seemingly carved into the wall, and a faded acid-green couch.

You have been here two years, and used to feel out of place— but nobody looks at you twice. Eventually you settled for the belief that your anxiety should not overshadow your accomplishments.

"Eden," you supply the newcomer with your name a moment late, and just then the smile reaches her eyes. 

"Eden. Have you ever been?"

Have you ever been? 

You've gotten a fair amount of commentary for your name. It's, well, the most famous garden you know. You've only been asked this one once before, and your heart chokes on your blood for a bated beat. You don't take her hand.

She laughs when you answer by the negative, but not at you. She's so pale— like the sunlight fears her. 

The mysterious woman slips her fingers over yours. They're cold. "Miss Spider," she says, and you wait for the joke just as you wait for your fingers to lace between hers —pallid silkweb on dark copper, like the shadow of a chain— but neither of these things happen.

"...is that your name?"

She nods, smile hovering around her cheekbones. Amused. 

Her thumb caresses the palm of your hand. Your eyes widen, and hers crinkle in joy. Oh. Her fingers are webbed? Something twists around your stomach, and you frown. "How do you wear sterilized gloves?"

You may have darker eyes, but she's the void that gazes back. Serene yet impish—

A fake, exaggerated gasp grates on your ears. "Do you doubt my integrity as a doctor of medicine?" 

"NO." You are not letting her fluster you. "I am merely expressing concern about standard procedure changes to accommodate both our regulations and your—"

"Shhh." She puts a finger over your lips, white chalk on your blackboard skin. "Don't worry. I can do my job." When she retreats from your space, you touch your lips self-consciously, glancing at the nearest reflective surface— you're surprised she didn't leave a stark mark.

You see her... around, over the next few days. You're not sure what exactly she is working on. Your colleagues like her, though you catch a few whispers— you aren’t the only one to find the newcomer unnerving. 

Somehow this doesn’t reassure you.

Have you ever been?

No, of course not. No sane human has been to the twisted garden in thousands and thousands of years… 

“Doctor. Focus, please.” 

Your superior’s voice lashes through your train of thought; you bite your lip. “Yes ma’am.”

Grey curls through her locks— she’s older than you, maybe two decades, three? Somewhere in her fifties or sixties, and for the last few months, a reassuring but strict shadow over your shoulder. Tonight her white coat swims together with the white walls; her bare face and hair are the only sign of life in the testing room. You look down at your own gloved hands, latex blue like they’re about to melt, and wonder if you’re feverish. 

Have you ever been?

You do your best to focus on the task at hand. 

“Whenever you are ready.” Your mentor’s voice is kinder somewhat.

You clear your throat and lean towards the intercom. “Testing session number…” you can’t read the blurry numbers, but you know them. “1103. Begin.”

You sway when you pull back to observe through the reinforced glass bay, and a hand catches your elbow to stabilize you. You almost thank your mentor, but it’s Her.

Miss Spider grins at you, canines prominent and eyes sly. Her nails burn into your skin, an anchor of pain in the daze that’s taken you over. 

She doesn’t let go. 

Instead, she eagerly leans forward, nose almost touching the glass. “What are we looking at here?”

“...nothing yet.”

“Ah.” Her voice is dismayed, but you can hold onto it for clarity. The nails digging into the skin of your arm, too. 

“Let the subject in,” you call out, to your senior’s approving nod. 

Beyond the glass is a circular room with a high ceiling, entirely sealed off besides the convex glass bay and a single guillotine door. The door is a hand’s length of iron; solid, disruptive lead weaved in the mechanism. 

It heaves open, perfectly oiled machinery, and the creature stalks in. The door slams back down behind it. 

The intruder hasn’t moved, and you realize with a streak of shame that she can feel your goosebumps.

As always, your insides churn at the sight of the abomination, but you let nothing show in your expression. It is emaciated by design, with spindly limbs four times articulated and a marked spine, but the golden skin is without blemishes. There are no eyes on its head, just a gaping maw of perfect pearl-like teeth and a straight nose.

You can’t peel your eyes away. The hands have thin, sharp fingers, the palm almost nonexistent. One of the six is raised off the floor towards the glass, and you shudder. 

“Injection one.”

You realize you said that with invisible strangulation in your larynx, and swallow. Miss Spider’s eyes dart towards you for a moment, before settling on the robotized arm lowering itself into the containment chamber.

Clamps on the floor have taken hold of the creature, but its withered wings are spread and shedding pristine feathers everywhere around it— the golden scales on them almost uncovered enough to peek through. You know Gerome’s team is handling the arm, and while that it is no easy task, you reassure yourself by thinking very hard that they haven’t messed that step up before.

“What are you injecting?”

The question fazes you out of your morbid fascination, and you answer the name of the compound mechanically. “A somniferous solution,” you explain.

Miss Spider pouts. “I knew that.” You can’t tell if she’s lying, but snort.

“ Please focus,” a stern voice asserts again, and you straighten up. 

Your eyes go back to the containment unit in front of you. “Yes ma’am,” you say, detailing the subject’s behavior. You’re not technically in charge of taking notes, just coordinating the procedure, but you scribble down a few words nevertheless. It’s taken slightly longer than usual to settle down— but the robotic arm retreats, successful.

“Prepare for injection two,” you tell the intercom, then you decide to spell out the compound for the woman digging her nails into your arms. Her eyes glaze over at the fifteenth letter, and her grip loosens,webbed hand falling back to her side. 

You are smug.

Another mechanical arm rotates out from a container in the ceiling. This one is equipped with a small drill— the patch of skin that your team is aiming for is too tough for a mere syringe, no matter how strong. The metal glints at the neons, twinkling like a deranged, elongated star. When the drill reaches skin the air distorts, metal hued with golden reflections, and the abomination smiles down at you.

The glass between you is a one way mirror. There is no way it could see you with its eyeless head, but somehow you feel it watch you. Pressure behind your eyeballs flashes gold into your vision. 

It keeps staring at you when the drill whirrs into its metallic skin, and you almost feel the shrill ghost over your skin; it keeps staring at you when the injector empties itself inside, doesn’t even flinch, it just keeps staring at you staring at you staring at you staring—

An alabaster eye tears opens on its forehead, and the angel sings.

Have you ever been?

By any means, the sound could not reach outside its casing; somehow it shrills and reverberates through your brain, and you almost don’t notice the glass shattering a second later.

Someone screams. It’s you.

Miss Spider throws herself between you and the shards, you and the angel— you and I — but I swat her away like the speck of dust she is. Her body hits the wall with a snapping sound, powerless.

I snarl at the old lady behind you. Her fingers are clenched over a horrified mouth; she’s frozen in fear, as she should be. Takes a single step towards the door. 

She can leave, for all I care. You’re the only one I want.

My neck twists to let my head face you again, ichor dripping down my blind eye. I know you are here, I smell you, taste you in the air. I see me through your eyes. You are afraid.

I lower my mouth to your forehead to kiss it. How unfair, how tragic, how limited you are now. We need to leave this place. Go home to the garden. 

Open your eye.

You shudder to the touch of my lips. You don’t understand, not yet, little one. Too far from the place your soul should reside in. I will guide you home.

I spread my wings, wrecking through the delicate instruments in the room. There is a wound in my side, and sloth through my veins, slowing me down. An inconvenience. My fingers spread around your frail body, each big enough for you to sleep onto. Are you hurt? No glass hit you, that stupid woman was good for something, at least. You should have seen her back. She was bleeding, glass embedded all the way through to the bone.

Oh. Oh no. Do not cry. You are safe with me. Weep not for these weak creatures, dear. You would be crying all day. 

You don’t stop crying, so I slither my body around you, limbs scuttering into novel angles to accommodate you. One wing to shield you from those nasty lights. You glow best in the gold-flecked darkness, dearest. 

I take a second to lick the wound on my side closed. It is a hindrance. My neck has to stretch out an extra snake-length to reach it without moving my shoulders, but that is not one. 

I find the little wretch instead, digging her pointy fingers under the single shredded scale. 

The idea is laughable. She is bare handed. The stink of fear permeates the room, thick and heady. My ichor runs down the back of her hands, over the webbing between her fingers. 

How is she alive?

I remember the glass that struck her back, the crack when her neck hit the wall. This one does not carry the scent of blood anymore…

No matter. I dedicate a hand to tear her off me— I wrap my fingers around her midsection, I pull, and she is flung to the wall again,

And she is flung to the wall again.

And she is flung to the wall agai—

I hold on and shred open the skin of the monster. I win.

Gold leaks onto my hands, my arms, my clothes, stains them. The flesh pulsates under my fingers and the angel shrieks again, angrier, but it can’t tear me off. 

It doesn’t have the strength, the right.

Its spindly fingers are a weak pull backwards. They break when I lean forward to bite.

The abomination shrieks one last time, spraying me with gold, but the venom burns through its veins and the infection starts spreading from its horrible eye. It’s like Medusa’s disease, the golden skin petrified into a friable, pasty marble. Its teeth fall when the white reaches them, then it’s obscenely long neck stills, its shoulders—

I jump off its body before it starts to crumble under my weight. I need to pull you out from under it, before its rot buries you.

You’re crumpled into a ball, sobbing under the feathers when I part them. Your clothes and your hair are a bit of a mess from being tossed around, but you don’t look hurt. I’m glad.

“Eden?” Your name tastes like a breath of fresh air, especially now. You twitch when you hear your name, lift your head towards me. Tear marks stain your dark cheeks with gold dust. On you it’s beautiful.

“It’s going to be okay.” I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to make damned sure it doesn’t make a liar out of me. “Come here.”

You hesitate. Your warm brown eyes look black, sheltered by the semi-obscurity. 

“Come on. I need to take you to safety.” The other doctor ran for help a long time ago. We need to disappear. I open my arms for you, and after a moment, you crawl forward into them.

I scoop you up and stand, step away from the crumbling corpse. The stone rot is gaining into the feathers, and they fall one by one, ghostly. Alright—

The door slams open and we both cringe to the noise. Heavily armored people flood the room. They haven’t noticed it’s dead yet— who would? No human could kill an angel so easily. 

I hold you tighter. Your long locks falls over my shoulder.

It’s going to be okay. 

The world tilts, very slightly. Just enough to be out of sight. Just enough for the people to disappear, for places to grow translucent.

Silence.

The angel is still there, turning to dust. They exist on many levels, like places. Here, just a little off reality, its feathers are blood red. 

...I turn away. “I’m bringing you to my home, alright? We’ll be safe there.” My voice is soft, as soft as I can make it. You’ve been having a day.

You nod, curled in on yourself, shoulders hunched. That’s alright. Rest.

I start walking. You aren’t heavy.

There are no humans here. A crystal cobweb stretches over the purple sky, glittering softly. I see translucent fireflies, bigger than my arms, but none of them even try to touch us. They are rightfully afraid of the solid beings in this dimension of glass. 

I don’t like the silence. Even the shock of my feet hitting the translucent ground seems muffled, and the understimulation frustrates me— but I can’t afford to make a mess and break things now. What should I do..?

Perhaps you deserve quiet… but I can’t bear it, so I sing. I feel my voice bounce off the glass structures, and they sing along, a distorted but harmonious echo— nothing more than what their nature lets them be.  

...it’s not a long road home, even on foot. My arms don’t grow sore, but your breathing does quiet, lulled by the melody and the rocking of my arms. 

We reach the foot of an apartment building. Crystalline roots wrap around it, chiming protectively as I climb the stairs, but they let us pass. You stir, and I pat your back, trying to be reassuring. “We’re almost there.”

You nod. You haven’t spoken in a while, but your cheeks are definitely dry now. An improvement…

I open the door, close it behind us, and let us tilt back to the world you know. The walls regain their consistency; the crystal fades, its chime a resounding memory, and I set you down on my couch. 

You pull your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. Your eyes stray away from me. You’re still wearing your dusty lab coat, and so am I, so maybe explanations can wait until after a shower..?

“So.” I clap my hands and you flinch. Bad idea bad idea bad idea. Okay. Okay.

“So,” I try again, without loud noises. “Are you… feeling alright?”

You open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. 

“...take your time.”

You shuffled into yourself, like you want to be smaller. 

“How about we wash up first? Does— Does warm water sound good? You can borrow my clothes.”

You think about it for a minute, then nod. I let myself release a breath. “This way.”

When we gather again in my living room, you’re a little more relaxed, a little more open. A lot less dusty, too.

It’s not big, but I like to think it’s comfortable. There’s a couch and a thick blue carpet, and curtained windows that face west. The furniture is old wood now, but polished with care, welcoming. Yeah. I like to feel welcome.

The sky floods the room with a precious late afternoon glow, red and gold huing the walls a warmer color.  

“So.” Third time’s the charm.

You finally, finally look at me. Deep brown eyes, warm, flecked with gold thanks to the sunset light.

“You were dead,” you start, which is an entirely fair point to start with. Unwelcome, but fair.

“Ah. Yeah.”

You gesture to me, standing in fresh grays and purples, and very much not dead. Not even wounded.

“I got better this time?” I try, but you won’t have it.

“ How ?” Anger sparks in your expression, now that even exhaustion’s run its course. I suppose all you want now, is to understand the mess you’re in.

Which, again, is fair.

“I saw you die! You were— the glass ripped right through you— you were bleeding, and then it threw you and there was a crack —”

“Mm. Yeah I. This isn’t the easiest thing to explain.” I scratch my head. “I…” You’re glaring at me. “I’m going to try.”

Your eyes spell doubt, but you nod. “Thank you.” You pull on the gray shirt I gave you. It’s too big, my shoulders are larger than yours.

I cross my arms. “Alright. Do you know what a save file is?”

“Of course.” You nod again, dubitative.

“I have… that, kind of. In dimensions almost like this one, there is a copy of me, which also knows I exist in the same way. When my body is damaged, I can overwrite it with how I know it’s supposed to be.”

You aren’t looking at me like I hoped you would, not with stars in your eyes, but not how I feared either.

“You’re serious,” you state, with only a tad of disbelief.

“Mmyep. I hate dying, though. It’s cold and deafening. More light than I care for.”  

“You’re…” You scoot away, until your back hits the edge of the couch. “You’re like them.”

“No! No, I’m not. Do I look like those things to you?” I make a grand gesture that achieves nothing besides accidentally opening the curtains. Oh well. 

“...they take many shapes. That is why the study of them is endless.”

I shrug. “I’m not an angel.” I’d rather change the subject actually. “Neither are you, if you were wondering.”

That gives you pause. You’re looking out the window, the reddening sky and the burning sun half hiding behind the rest of the city.

“You know why it wanted me.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“It… it was digging its claws into my mind.” You shudder. “Why..? Why me? It didn’t just want to escape…” You mutter on, trying to understand— eyes fixed on the landscape like it’ll give you answers.

...you poor thing.

“What do you remember from your childhood?”

“Eh?” That question surprises you. “I don’t know, it was… normal? Happy? It wasn’t always easy but I got along with almost everyone around me by the end, I had good grades… Both of my parents are alive and well..?” 

“Interesting.”

You narrow your eyes. A bit of the red sky stays trapped in your irises. “Are you going to say something crazy like I made it all up or I’m adopted?”

I smirk and wink. “Maybe.”

“This isn’t funny!”

“To you, maybe it isn’t.” I feel just a little bit bad to tease you, but you’re kind of cute. I shrug and lean on the couch’s armrest. “Your memories are probably real, at least.”

“Probably?”

I gesture vaguely into the air. “I don’t know! What I can tell you, though, is that you right now are not a human being.”

And so I ask again— this time rhetorically.

“Have you ever been?”

I meet your eyes, and suddenly, you look sick. You don’t interrupt. 

“You’re Eden.” I wait a moment, for recognition, but I don’t see anything. “I’ve been looking for you for a while.” 

“...I know what my name is.”

...fine. I’ll get to the point.

“You. Are Eden. The garden.”

You frown. Specks of dust dance in the dying of the light. “...what.”

“You are the garden of Eden. It’s you.”

I thought you would shuffle away from me again, but you lean forward with a serious look on your face. “How?”

“Why is the speed of light three hundred million meters per second or so? Hell if I know.” I shrug. “That’s how it is.” 

You do not seem satisfied with that answer.  “It is only that because we defined a meter to be about one 299 792 458th of what the maximum speed of our universe lets a photon travel in one year.” RAAAH DON’T SASS ME

I pout, and you… laugh.

It’s hesitant, not quite there. Not so soon. It’s a sound that chimes with the crystal web beyond and the dying sun outside; it’s a sound I’d love to hear again.

You stop when you notice me staring, and I think I see you blush. You look away.

“Sohmyeah.” I’m very loquacious. “You’re— Your soul, is the garden.”

The sun’s agony is almost over, its corpse lying behind the trees and buildings outside: it douses your skin with blue gloom. 

“...let’s suppose I believe you,” you say. I smile.

“Yep, let’s.”

“What happens now?” I feel your eyes follow me when I shut the curtains closed again.

“...they’ll come after you again.” In the young night, I hear your shuffling more than I see it. “I’ll protect you again.”

I reach out to pat down where you are. I land on your shoulder, your long locks brushing against my hand. I think you’ve curled up again, you sway back and forth. 

I sit next to you. I don’t think either of us minds that it’s dark.

Have you ever been?

“...we’ll go there tomorrow. Make your answer to that question a yes.”

I see a shape move in the obscurity. Your dreadlocks when you nod, I suppose.

“You know,” you say suddenly, “I’d been asked before I met you.”

I tilt my head in question, but I don’t know if you can see it. You go on anyway.

“ Your name is Eden? Have you ever been? ” You sound… bitter. “I was maybe… thirteen, or fourteen. I laughed. It was innocent.” 

I don’t know if I should be surprised about this, or by the fact that you’d only been asked once before, but it makes sense. It takes special circumstances to tell your kind apart from regular humans, especially now that your garden has decayed to that extent. 

I couldn’t see you on my own. I had to bait it into reaching out to you, and even then, until it broke out… it was only a hunch.

“You know how angels can take many forms.” You sway back and forth, comforted by the repeated movement. “He looked to be a kid my age, maybe a little older. Grabbed me by the hand and told me he’d walk me home, but he took the wrong path.” 

I hear the fabric rustle when your hands clench. “I told him. This isn’t the way my house is. He laughed and kept walking. He wouldn’t let go of my hand.” Oh that’s terrifying. “I think he noticed I was getting scared. He smiled at me, and that’s when I saw his eyes. White and blind and sclerosed.”

I don’t notice I’m leaning towards you until I feel your hair brush against my forehead. You push me away, not gently, but not harshly either, and go on with your story. “I was terrified. I thought he was going to kill me. You know how they are. You know why we’re at war.” You’re shivering. Are you cold? “They call us the Liars. They say God must have been so angry we betrayed Them, that we stole the knowledge of right and wrong, they say throwing us out of the Garden wasn’t enough. They want revenge, because they say we’re the reason God is gone.”

I want to hug you. Would you allow me? You stay silent like you’re waiting for me to add something, and when I don’t, you add another bitter thing. “And we want the Garden for immortality, fools that we are.”

“You’d say that is foolish?” I sound almost offended, even to myself.

You lean against my shoulder on your own, and my breath stays caught in my throat. “Of course. What gives us strength to survive is the fear of an end.” You take a breath and continue. “Angels are afraid of free will. They refuse to eat the fruit of the garden, not realizing that they already have been given what they fear most. You saw how they blind themselves.” Your skin is so cold. “And humans... are greedy out of fear, too. They want it to disappear entirely, not realizing how it’s not shameful— how it’s a part of what makes them what they are.”

“So what will you do?”

“...I don’t know.” You sigh. “Are you really going to take me to the Garden?” 

I nod, even though I don’t think you can tell. I’d need to turn the lights on. “Yes.” 

“Can I change anything?”

“I don’t know.” I know what you might do. I know what it might do to you. Might and maybes. It’s a truth difficult to acknowledge, sometimes, the uncertainty. It’s scary, but that is the point of free will. 

Humans are said to have been created in Their image. Perhaps the Creator did not wish for a puppet show. What was the snake but another creation, one last hope to finally let something that They didn’t control grow? 

“Why do they want me there?” 

That much I do still know. “They believe you can fix the broken garden. That you are the missing piece of their home.” 

“Am I?” 

I smile, invisible in the wispy night. “We will see.” I feel your shoulders, wrap my arms around them and bring you closer, on my lap. “How did you get rid of that angel?” I half expect you to hit me and scramble off, but you accept the embrace. You’re so cold. I’ll help you warm up. 

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

Your nose is cold against my neck. “He spread his wings and asked me if I thought it was right that he was scared of a broken future.” You laugh, but the sound is mangled like you’re choking. “I didn’t understand. I was a child. I said anyone would be scared of something that seems bleak, and then he frowned. He let go of my hand and left.”  

“Huh.” Interesting. “And what would you tell him now?” 

You huff. Your breath’s a little warmer on my skin. Good, that’s good. “That he was being a brat.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? Why so?”

“I realize now. He wanted me to say no. He wanted me to say it wasn’t right that he was scared. And… maybe it wasn’t. In an ideal world, nobody would need to be afraid, whether they’re an angel or a human, but it’s often fear that motivates us to move and improve. Fear exists not to damn us, but to protect us. It’s good to be afraid to some extent. The point is not to not feel it— it’s to learn how to handle it, and act even though we’re afraid.” 

Can you tell what my expression is like? “You’re quite wise.”

You shrug, leaning against me a little more. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. That’s just what I think— what I thought about and the conclusion I reached.” 

“I see.” 

I let the silence sink into us for a minute. You don’t seem to mind, and slowly warm up. I should’ve given you socks. 

“We should go to bed.” I feel you nod against my chest. “Do you not mind sharing or should I stay on the couch?”

You snort. “I don’t mind sharing. It’ll be nostalgic. Will you let me call my parents first?” 

“Of course.” I unwrap my arms and you are free, hope off to where you left your clothes.

...I like you, quite a lot. Less for what you are, and more and more because of who you turned out to be. 

I change into pajamas and head to bed, waiting for you with my eyes closed. You’re quite delightful, Eden. You were worth the chase.

The next morning, we set out for the garden. I don’t know what you told your parents, and frankly that’s not my business even if I can’t help but be a little curious. I heard you call in sick at work too— claiming you escaped while they weren’t looking or something, but you needed time to recover from the adventure. Clever little thing. 

Not like they could disbelieve you anyway; I made sure nothing could record my little stunt.

“How are we going to go..? It’s far, it’s crawling with angels, and there’s the border to worry about…”

I smile very mysteriously. “I have my ways.”

“Can you… teleport?” 

Ah, it’s true that you have no clue about who I am still. About what I can or can’t do, besides that I can die. I’m surprised you didn’t ask more. “Not quite.”

We take the bus. 

You’re making disgusted faces at me the whole first half hour, and then you get bored of it, around the time we leave the city behind for villages-dotted dry plains and hills. 

“Don’t you have a more efficient way of going there? The bus isn’t going to cross into a warzone.” 

I shrug. “We won’t need to go that far.” 

We get off the bus after about one more hour. We’re still quite far from the frontier, but that won’t be a problem much longer. 

The landscape feels immense, cliffs sinking abruptly into a sea like the hills were torn to shreds. The grass looks burnt in places, shrubs and rocks making up a lot of the monotony;  the rare trees grow twisted in on themselves.

Still there is an undeniable beat of life.

“What’s your plan?” you ask again, now that we’re far from unintended ears. 

“Easy.” I don’t think you like my smile. “The angels want you there. They’ll bring you home.”

“What?!” you snarl, grabbing my arm fearlessly. “You’re going to throw me at those things?!”

Your fingers dig into my arms. I think back to what you told me about fear— you aren’t scared of me anymore. The irony is amusing.

“I’m not going to throw you. I’m going to bait them again, and they’ll take us to the garden. Easy peasy—” 

The anger in your eyes turns cold. 

“Again.” 

Ah. 

“You baited them before.” 

...I don’t like the cold. 

“You… It was you. I thought it was weird that it just… broke out like this, then of all times— it was you.” Your fingers squeeze my arm tighter, your other hand grabs my collar. You tremble, with rage this time. “You sabotaged the lab— They’re not supposed to be able to affect people there, we have security! It broke out because of you, it was you —”

I raise my hands in the air, trying to appease you. “Hey, hey—” 

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” you growl. “Am I wrong? Did you not facilitate that angel’s breakout?” 

...I’m not a liar. 

“…no,” I sigh, “no, you’re not wrong. It was me.” 

“Why? To find me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

I tilt my head to look at you better. My collar’s going to be a mess. “Because I had to find you. I don’t know everything.” And it’s better that way.

“ Why? You said you weren’t one of them!” 

“I’m not.” The fact that I don’t look sheepish seems to unnerve you more. “...if I explain myself will you let go?”

You hesitate. 

“I haven’t lied to you yet, have I?” I say it without the smirk teasing my lips, and you let go. You cross your arms.

“...let’s walk while we talk.” I beckon you down a road you don’t see, but you don’t budge. 

Fair enough. 

“...you’re precious.” A slight flush colors your cheeks, barely noticeable. “You’re a precious part of this place. These angels are blinded, but they cherish you, if only out of desperation. You may be the key needed to shatter their self-imposed illusions and set things… a little more right. Despite everything, I do want what’s best for this world.” 

Your eyes watch my every twitch, unreadable. I feel like my worthiness is being judged. I’m… nervous. I haven’t been nervous in centuries. The things you do to me… 

“And if I’m not?” you ask.

“....if you’re not what?”

“If I’m not the answer?”

I tilt my head to the side and smile. “Then I saved a cute girl for myself.” 

You splutter and groan. Start walking in the direction I said, and I follow after you. You don’t realize it yet but you know the way better than I do.  

The path is dirt, the grass almost dead until you walk by it. Then it shudders, it recognizes you walking home; in a last stretch of strength it bows to you and expires for the last time. The breeze kisses your face and your hair and my clothes; the sea down below glimmers, eager for your touch— eager to finally be put to rest. 

You walk fearless by the edge of the cliff, eyes scanning the sea for the telltale shadow of the garden. I know you’ve never been, but its decaying body is visible from far away; the towering ruins fall heavenwards. 

Ah, there it is. You stop when you spot the Garden, miles and miles away, in the middle of the clawed out bassin that is this body of water. 

It’s breaking apart, disconnected from its soul, shattered remains dutifully ignorant of gravity. The tinier pieces are so high that planes cannot safely fly in this area, it would be too dangerous, and on top of the debris, the Garden is overflowing with aggressive feathered shapes— many big enough to be seen even from here. Some are living fire, some look like wheels with many sclerosed eyes; some twisted with many heads and some are pure light, impossible to directly look at. 

You swallow. Your hands are trembling. 

There is a war here. Helicopters circling the island, boats armed to the teeth to contain the abominations in their home. 

The ground shakes, followed by an ear-shattering explosions. I scan the sky; a plane got too close. The remains of the vehicle fall into the sea as the pilot is caught by claws of flame, and the last thing I can tell is happening is their parachute catching fire.

This is as close as we can get without getting caught in the crossfire. 

“So… you will ‘bait’ them here.”

“Mhm.” It’s easy. I’ve done it before. I shouldn’t feel the echo of the nervousness you evoke. The expectations .

“Won’t they attack you?”

“Oh, they probably will,” I shrug. “Maybe tell them not to.” Scandalized noises. Well, maybe I’m not a thorough planner. Maybe I don’t like planning for things. It’s boring.

I stand at the edge of the cliff, as close as I dare. Deep breath. “Alright, here we—” 

“Wait!” 

I freeze. 

“I have… I have one last question,” you say, looking to your feet. 

I smirk. “Last? I’ll give you two.”

You groan again, but recover your seriousness to ask your question. “How did Eden die?” 

“Hm?” 

“If I’m… the garden’s incarnation, or something. Why was I gone?” 

I tilt my head. “I wonder. Eden’s a mysterious place. Maybe you will know.”

You’re frustrated. I can tell you are. But I can’t tell you everything. “And you?” you ask, “Have you ever been?”

I stare out at the garden, falling apart over the horizon. I picture how it used to be, puppet-angels and puppet-people and lush and peace, unknowable and boring; two trees and a fruit and a trial. I miss it, almost.

“Yes.”

And so I spread my arms and sing to the sea, and the faraway the chorus of angels stills. You feel their eyes on us, you hear a million million wings spread and take flight. They know the call, the melody I’m singing, and they rain upon the sky ravenously. 

...I hear you hide behind me, feel your small hands clutch the back of my jacket. I want to tell you we’ll be alright, but my voice is taken. 

The angels land by the hundreds on the cliff, and the rest fills the sky with fire and blind eyes. There’s hardly any blue left at all. They listen to the song, captivated, and their old, discordant voices join; my song is wordless, but theirs is your name. 

“ Eden Panacea, home of our home. Soul of the Garden.” 

Among the chorus there is one who spoke. I let the song quiet to hear them and step aside to let them see you, but you take my hand forcefully. 

I’m surprised they haven’t attacked me yet. That other one didn’t hesitate. They seem impatient, desperate, but they don’t leap into violence. 

You squeeze my hand— your eyes are wide with surprise. “You’re the angel from years ago…” I whip my head back to them and stare at the newcomer, eyebrow raised. 

There is a certain oddness to their appearance. Unlike many they choose to appear somewhat humanoid, though different from what you described. 

...the sclerosis on their eyes is cracked. Uh.

“Welcome,” they say, pacifying the other angels with a gesture. Some of them fly away, though most seem compelled to stay. “Welcome to you... Eden. As for you…”  They turn to me. “Angel-Killer, Unknowable One. You have brought her to us. Why?”

“Maybe I don’t like broken toys,” I shrug, and the audience bristle. You elbow my ribs. Ow. 

The blind eyes narrow. “You should know better than to lie.” 

I groan. “You guys call a lie everything that’s inconvenient for you! That statement had no truth value either way.” The angel’s five arms are crossed with impatience.

“Miss Spider,” your voice whips, “shut up.”

I shut up.

“Um… Angel. You wanted me to go home.”

“That is correct.”

“Then… can you fly us there?” 

“I could, if that didn’t make a liar out of you.” 

“...what?” You frown, confused as I am. 

“I can taste a lie in your head. In your throat.”

...it dawns on me. I raise my hand for permission to speak. You roll your eyes and nod, and I whisper in your ear. 

“Tell them about fear.” 

I see your eyes widen from the corner of mine when you remember your own words. 

“...wouldn’t it be better to speak in the garden?” you ask for a moment. The angel seems to consider the idea… shrugs, wings spread. “If you will speak, then that will be satisfactory,” they agree, and extend their hand. 

You take it without letting go of mine. 

I expected this to be more dramatic, frankly. We are led to the back of another angel, a large one, whose spikes part to accomodate you (but not me), and the Garden draws closer. The other angels are a protective whirlwind of feathers; the human weaponry can’t dream to reach us, for all that they must be incredibly freaked out by the movement we cause. 

...it’s disagreeable, the idea of dying. It’s painful. I don’t mind too much the lack of fuss.

Your expression is unreadable, but I think you recognize the ruined garden. It certainly recognizes you; the trees battling the twisted magic of this place finally relax when you near, the grass stops stubbornly straightening in every direction. Crystals chime and dim, rock crumbs to dust under your touch. Even the strange levitation seems to quiet.  

You don’t let go of my hand when you dismount, you still don’t let go when that one angel leads you to a ledge you can talk from. 

I really thought it would be dramatic. Maybe not an epic battle, but not your soft voice carrying through the air, not unlike how you talked last night in my arms. I didn’t think the angels would listen like they do— I didn’t think the stone would crumble from their eyes from words alone, just because they could not ignore you. I feel the garden slowly sink and I didn’t think your presence alone would put it to rest.

...no, I thought it might. I just didn’t hope it would. You grew on me...

Fascinating. Is this how this story ends, down? Quiet words like ashes carried by the wind? 

“Miss Spider?”

You break me out of my reverie. You look tired. The angels are quiet, too, murmuring among themselves. Talking about what they’re going to do, I suppose, now that their last hope has betrayed their expectations. 

“Yeah?”

“What will you do now?” 

That’s an excellent question. “I haven’t decided yet. This seems to be wrapping up surprisingly nicely.”

“...I’m… the garden is sinking into the sea.” 

Ah, you’ve felt it, too… of course you did. It is you. “Yeah. Should probably return to the continent before it’s submerged.”

... that garden is you. Will you die when this broken place is finally, finally put to rest? I thought you might ask, but you don’t dare. You know I know the answer to this question. You know why I didn’t tell you about it. You wouldn’t have come here, and you needed to.  

“Do you want to see the trees before you leave?” you ask in a timid voice.

Oh. The tree of immortality, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. Are they still alive in this long-twisted place? You would know better than I. 

“Sure.”  

You lead me by the hand, the pieces of the garden gently floating by your feet to form a path when necessary. “You seem to be in your element, for someone who had no clue about this yesterday.” 

You laugh. It’s a tired sound, too. You’re tiring out quickly. “It’s… strange.” 

The trees are pretty nondescript. They look like the most generic thing you could imagine when you think of a tree, whatever that means. Not dramatic at all. Can’t even tell them apart unless you know beforehand, which I do, but you don’t. 

Puppet-angels and puppet-people and lush and peace, unknowable and boring; two trees and a fruit and a trial.

“Did you know that everything is stardust?” you ask me. “The stars fuse atoms together. Anything heavier than hydrogen is star-forged, and blown across the universe when they die.”

“I knew that,” I huff. “I’m more knowledgeable than you give me credit for, Eden.” 

There’s a moment of silence before you speak again. 

“Do you think this is why God is gone?” Despite everything, the trees stand strong— Nevermind. You pluck a fruit from each one and they start to wither. 

“What are you doing?” Something swivels inside me, something old beyond morbid fascination. Almost fearful, yet… no, this isn’t fear; it’s anticipation. Excitement. 

“I’m hungry,” you say monotonically, but you don’t bite into either fruit. You hold them out to me. “Pick one.”

“...what.” 

Your arms tremble from the effort, weakening already, but you speak anyway. “It was so boring to know everything,” you say, holding the fruit as steady as you can manage into the noon light. You examine the shiny skins, neither bearing any recognizable mark. “It was so boring and lonely. Everything was predictable. There was nothing to fear, nothing to drive Them.” 

You smile like you’re crumbling along with your garden, which is what you are doing, but you speak with certainty. God left Their will in the Garden. 

“So They thought maybe they would do like the stars. They broke Themself into a million million little pieces so more could be built out of the dust of Them. So they could feel fear and free will and incompleteness a million million times, angels and humans and everything else. And you, Miss Spider, you and I both, because from it we were taken, we are dust.”

So you hold out your fruits. Knowledge or Deathlessness. 

“And to dust we shall return,” you say cheekily, before sobering up. “I know you don’t really want to tell me what exactly you are. You are strong, but you said you could die, didn’t you? And you know this place. I can tell. You helped us… so much. Take it. This isn’t a bad offer.”

“Will you eat the other one?”

“Sure,” you shrug. 

I take the one in your left hand. We sit down to eat, your legs almost giving out under you, to eat and to watch the Garden sink and die. You don’t know which fruit is which, and I don’t think you care. You know which one I’ll take, selfish, chaotic being that I am. You want to spend your last moments with a friendly face and a warm hand in yours.

You raise your fruit to your mouth, and I bite mine. The trees wither, their last mission accomplished. 

It tastes sweet; the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, yet equally sour. Indescribable. Familiar.

You know I can die, if only for a time. It’s painful. It’s inconvenient. To a being who lives for eons regardless, it’s a weakness. You must be surprised, then, when the garden freezes and suddenly stops sinking into the seafloor— a rush of vitality sinking out from the ground, heavenwards. 

There’s something clogging up your throat when you speak. “Why?”

I smile, sharp teeth and ashen skin, and squeeze your hand in mine.

You stare for a long time, not quite believing. “About you,” you say. “...about God.” You ask me the real question you’ve wanted to ask, for a while now.

“...have you ever been—?”