Archive of Our Own

When one was immortal, the days all seemed to run together. 

But he still remembered the day he first saw her, for it was the first time in many years that time seemed to stand still. 

It had been centuries since he had been taken into the court of the dark god, since he had been made immortal himself; an incredibly unusual honor for a human. But the dark god of the underworld, guardian of the living and the dead, patron of justice, was powerful, and had taken pity on an unassuming mortal orphan, granted him his power, his eternal life. 

And in his power, he chose to assist others, and in it, he found freedom. 

On that morning he flew low over the great city, its stone structures built proud and tall, glass shining in the morning sun. The markets were already bustling, the streets were full of human crowds, barking dogs, trotting horses. The houses were full of playfully-shouting children, of women spinning and weaving and cooking; the homey scents rose to mingle with the harsher smells of the city, with the clean fresh breeze. As he approached one of the great temples, he saw that its window glass was cut with a thousand colors, casting rainbows on the cobblestones and the floors within. 

He alighted on its roof, folding his enormous wings back along his back, the breeze ruffling through his feathers. The humans could not see him unless he let himself be seen, but he knew they could feel his presence; looking through the window at the painted murals on the temple walls, he caught his own image several times over amongst the myriad of other gods. It wasn’t completely accurate -- they had exaggerated the size of his wings, shoulders, arms, and hips, for a start -- but he was touched that they had gone to the effort. 

A ceremony was taking place within the temple. Young women in white, ranging in age from about seventeen to about twenty-five, veiled like brides, were lining up before the great stone altar. An older woman with short gray hair and a gold pin tying her robes together -- a senior priestess, he understood, the sigil on her pin marking her as a physician -- received each girl in turn. 

An initiation. He glanced up at the sky, at the ruffled blue, the silver sun. Today was a good, auspicious day for it. 

He passed through the window like water, perching on the ledge to listen. 

“-- Sister Dinah,” the senior priestess was saying, “you have shown yourself worthy of your post.” She withdrew the veil on the young woman’s head, revealing a shock of golden hair and clever, warm eyes filled with humor. “You will be assigned to the Temple Guard with Sister Helena. May the gods bless you.”

She bowed and received her own pin, then joined another young woman with glossy black hair, dark skin, and a proud, strong stance, now both bearing the sigil for the Temple Guard. He silently passed his best wishes onto them both. 

He watched as Sister Onyx joined the Temple Guard too, as Sister Victoria became a scribe, as Sister Silver would be placed among the illuminators and illustrators. All these young women would serve the gods, the senior priestess declared when the line was complete, according to their own passions and skills. 

He was puzzled, however. She acted as though the assignments were complete, when one more veiled girl remained standing, unplaced. 

Sisters Dinah and Helena were exchanging confused looks too; the girls whispered to each other. 

Then the senior priestess finished her speech. She cleared her throat, and turned to the last girl standing. 

“As for the last of our initiates…” She paused, moving forward one last time. Where she had once been authoritative, a new note crept into her voice. Awe? Pity? “She will not be joining the rest of the priestesses.”

Gasps rang out. 

“At only eighteen years old, she has displayed a rare gift. After much testing, the Temple officials all agree: she possesses ability of her own, only very occasionally distributed by fate. She is a Seer.”

The girls all gasped again, far louder -- then all began talking as one. He almost fell from his perch.

Seers were only born once every few centuries, if that. In all his years, he had never even seen one before; now his gaze was drawn, irrevocably, to the tall young woman, with her strong shoulders and arms, her elegant figure. Even under her veil, he saw her straighten up and lift herself, standing proud. 

“Sister Barbara will instead learn to hone her gift, so as to serve the people, the royal family, kings from afar, as well as the gods. When she has mastered it, she will no longer be known as Sister Barbara, but as the Oracle, speaking on behalf of both humanity and the gods.” 

The senior priestess withdrew a pot of ink and a wooden rod capped with a thick bone needle. The young woman bowed her head, keeping her face obscured even as her veil was pulled off. The needle was lowered to her forehead, but even though her shoulders tensed, she did not flinch, did not cry out, the entire time the tattoo was being etched onto her skin. 

“Rise, Seer.”

The first thing he saw of her was the black tattoo that now dominated her forehead, the symbol of the all-seeing eye. It was stark against her white skin -- and drew his gaze to the long, thick red hair that flowed around her shoulders, down her back; richly bright, arrestingly lovely.

Her face, proud and serene, took him even further aback. Not just because she was breathtakingly beautiful, though she was. Not just because her eyes denoted a thousand thoughts all flickering through her mind at once. 

But because when she finally looked up, she looked him right in the eye. 

Mortals were not supposed to, not without his letting them. But she saw . 

He found her chambers later, which were now being cleared out. He drifted to her window just as she bent to pack her belongings, tucking dresses, shoes, and what looked like a hundred heavy books into broad bags. The skin around her tattoo was flushed red, and her long hair was now tied into a braid. 

“What are you doing up there?” she said impatiently, startling him again. “Lurking in windows is rude, you know.”

He stepped through, moving to her. 

“So is talking back to deities.”

“Oh?” She fastened the last of her bags closed, then turned to face him for the first time. He was embarrassed to find that she was somewhat taller than him, even in his preferred form. Her eyes were arrestingly green. “You think you’re the first god I’ve ever spoken to?”

His astonishment must’ve shown on his face, because the corner of her mouth turned up. 

“I see them all the time at the temples, at their sacred groves or streams, with the animals or groups of people they’re patron to. And the dark god watches over my father; I’ve seen him around our house, our shrine, since I was a little girl.” Her smile grew. “Now he’s rude.”

He surprised himself by laughing.

“That’s true, unfortunately. Who’s your father?”

“Commander James Gordon, of the city guard.” She stacked her bags near the door, then extended her hand. “Barbara Gordon.”

“Nightwing,” he said, shaking it; he had been given many names, but that was the one he was known best by. 

“ That I knew.” Her quick gaze cast over him, taking in the simple black kilt that opened around his thighs, his face, his form. The broad gold bangles on his wrists, the gold hoops in his ears. The luminous blue tattoos that snaked over his shoulders and down his arms. It was almost all human; he preferred this form, the form he would have naturally grown into had he lived as a mortal. But the wings…

They were shaped like a falcon’s, so big that they dragged on the ground behind him while folded. The primaries, secondaries, and upper sides were pure black, deep as night. But the covert feathers that striped along the undersides’ tops and broke up the blackness were a vivid, deeply saturated blue, like the sea and sky at dusk, striping along to the top two primaries on each wing. When he extended them, they dominated the room. They carried him high and fast, they were good and strong. Other gods preferred less strenuous forms of transportation, but he loved the joy of flight. 

“So what brings you to the city?” Barbara asked, pulling her hand back, restraining herself. Her voice was still light, but he heard a cautious undertone. This was not a woman who trusted easily. 

“I like to be among humans. I aim to protect you, and it seems ridiculous to me to protect or care for people you don’t make an effort to know.”

“Hmm. Not the most lofty of gods,” she mused, tucking her hand under her chin. “Despite the wings and all.”

He moved a little closer. 

“I can be brought down to earth.”

“Oh?” Her smile was bright, almost a smirk. “I’d love to see that.”

She turned on her heel, her braid whipping; similarly, he felt his usual witticisms whipped from his mouth. 

“I’ll be staying in the room near Sister Leslie -- the senior priestess -- while I train,” she called at the door, lifting her bags. “If you ever do need to be brought down to earth.”

He smiled, then laughed. 

“I imagine I will.”

Between his duties, he visited frequently during her training. It was expected to take years longer than the other young priestesses’; her meditation, her mental exercises, being taught to focus her energies enough to see the future or anywhere in the entire world, to call upon any one of the gods so that she might ask them questions, it all looked draining, exhausting. Frequently, she would stumble from her training long past nightfall, having only broken to eat and take necessary walks. 

“I don’t have time to make friends,” she said briskly when he asked if she was lonely, poring over ancient texts, instructions and notes from ancient Seers. “I barely have time to see my father.”

Then she shoved an armful of papers into his arms. 

“Can you quiz me?” she said, and it sounded less like a question and more of a demand.

He stared for a moment, torn between concern, offense, and laughter. 

“Barbara, I’m a god . I’ve been alive for five hundred years, I can take any form, bend the very air and sky to my whim, and see into four dimensions. Yes, I can quiz you.”

She raised a hand, indicating go on .

“Well then…?”

“Heavens,” he deadpanned, “you’re going to be excellent at telling people what to do with their lives.”

“Perhaps that’s why fate blessed me with this gift,” she returned wryly. 

He lifted his hands.

“Who am I to question fate, then?”

Occasionally though, when he flew in to greet her, she would be sleeping, or training, or visiting with her father. Commander Gordon was getting older, by human standards, but he still glowed to see his daughter. Admittedly, the poor man seemed frequently puzzled by the mystical concepts she was learning, that she attempted to explain, but he still listened. 

“Try explaining this to your husband someday,” her father sighed, mustache twitching above his winecup. “Perhaps he’ll be smarter than me.”

Barbara paused. One finger traced the rim of her own. 

“Seers don’t marry,” she reminded him gently. “We can’t, remember? We give all of our lives to our work, to the gods and the rest of humanity, so marriage is forbidden as long as we live.”

“Oh, Barbara…”

“It’s alright.” She put her hand on her father’s, both muscular, both rough. “Who would ever want to marry me, anyway?”

The wind ruffled softly through their house. 

Time folded around him like light when he was among the other gods. Days, weeks, years could pass far too quickly; he had spent decades warring on evil, dark spirits and demons, with friends and companions, protecting humans that aged and died before he got a chance to ever see them again. 

His feathers fluttered as he folded his wings back, as he went to see one of those companions. He found her in a little nursery, bent over a cradle; her glowing silver hands brushed the sleeping baby’s head as gently as a summer breeze, and as he approached, he saw that a truly enormous sword was strapped to her back, gleaming and sharp. 

When she lifted her dark head -- the two of them could be brother and sister, he thought -- stars appeared to shimmer in her hair and dress. Unlike him, she had been born to divinity, but she had never made him feel lesser for it. 

“Demons prowl this household,” she fretted. “The father has invited some terrible scorn down on his family’s head.”

“You’ll protect them,” he promised, taking her into his arms. “You always do.”

She kissed his cheek, then withdrew. Up to that point, the humans had often depicted them in art and song as a pair of lovers, which amused them both. To fall in love with each other was as ridiculous to them as falling in love with their parents or siblings. They had always had others in mind instead. 

“How’s that girl?” she asked after a moment. “It’s been a couple years, hasn’t it?”

“She’s -- not really a girl,” he managed to say, floundering briefly. “She’s a grown woman, and wise beyond her years.”

“She’s young though, even for a human,” she mused softly. “With a good long life ahead of her.”

She unsheathed her sword and glanced out the window, waiting for the demons to come. Two blades appeared in his own hands, and he stood at her side. 

“I look forward to meeting her, when she first calls on me. From what you’ve told me, I think I’ll like her.”

He thought of her wry laugh, her sparkling eyes.

“I don’t see how anyone couldn’t,” he found himself saying.

Months more passed, and Barbara moved again, this time out of the cloisters entirely. A particular shrine had been built in the heart of the city, millennia ago, for seekers to go to when they need to ask questions of the gods, and for the blessed Seers to live there and hear the will of the gods and answer. Her living area dominated all but the nave and sanctuary of the shrine -- which was tall, sloping upwards like the heavens, with high windows that slanted light down on her and future seekers below. 

He flew to the underworld, passing like water through the earth, to ask the dark god about this process. 

Half-hidden in the shadows, veiled in black, his father quietly stroked his chin. The great black hound at his feet lifted its head; flocks of bats, his sacred animal, chittered in the smoky mist. 

“Seers are always women, and this one is clearly no exception,” the dark god said eventually, his voice like a growl. “They not only have the power to see anywhere in the world with focus, but with still more effort, they can see glimpses of the future -- and even summon our presence.”

He shifted from foot to foot, knowing this. 

“She must guess which god will be most likely to know the answer to a query or solve a certain problem. She must be able to reason how to use the knowledge she gains from her Sight to help her seekers. It will take a great deal of wit and wisdom.” His father settled back into his throne. “What’s more, she must do it only with the help of her birth family and the priestess sisterhood, as marriage is forbidden to her as long as she lives.”

He already knew this last point too, but something about it made his feathers rise anyway. 

His father looked at him, and something odd entered his expression. 

“And you must never forget. She may be gifted, but she is still human. With every potential human pain and death ahead of her. To get attached to her will be agony to you both.”

His body did not function the same way a mortal creature’s did anymore. Still, inside his chest, he could have sworn he felt his heart seize.

He floated at Barbara’s side as he watched her read. The ancient meditation texts and mystical writings had been put aside for the moment; she nursed a cup of tea and instead made her way through an epic poem, chuckling or scoffing to herself at intervals. 

“You can say it,” she said after a while.

“Say what?”

“‘Why reward yourself for reading with more reading?’”

He just laughed softly, gently brushing her shoulder with a feather. His wingtip neatly swept her hair over her shoulder, letting it tumble down over her collarbone. 

“I most certainly understand being unable to rest,” he returned. “I can hardly ever sit still; there’s always something else to do, another person to assist, another monster to fight. Reading sounds quite pleasant to me, really.”

“And lesser work is its own kind of rest, I believe,” she remarked. “But even for an immortal being, that sounds very intense.”

“I can take it.”

Barbara was quiet for a moment, unusually so. Then she surprised him by turning around and taking his hands in her own. Her grip was rough and firm, strong fingers squeezing his own. Her hands were so cool, compared to an immortal’s blazing heat, but all of a sudden, all he wanted was for her to never let go. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have to.”

Silence echoed. He felt acutely aware of every flicker of air, of the tiny glow of the candle on her desk, of the imperfect human roughness of her fingers. 

He cleared his throat. 

“Well, what about you? You never need help, eh?” He pitched his tone to be teasing and light.

“Ah, never.” She shook her head back like a wild mare with her mane. “You know me, I hate to be told what to do, and I can handle anything life throws my way.” Her eyes glinted. 

He remembered the dark god’s warning, born of having seen other Seers live and die before. Remembered that she was still only human. 

But even so, looking at her now, listening as she spoke with perfect confidence, it was difficult to imagine anything ever bringing her low. 

“Yes, I do know that.”

“Hmm, good.” 

His wingtip was still snared in a lock of her hair, and one of her hands now moved to sweep it aside. But she paused, fingers gently tracing the feathers -- the tip of one moving along the delicate quill. 

A kind of longing entered her expression.

“You know, perhaps,” he said abruptly, “someday, we can go flying.”

Her head snapped up. 

“That seems unlikely.” Her tone returned to normal, before it softened one last time. “But thank you.”

He clutched her hand in his own, and his heart seemed to beat faster once more.

The senior priestesses praised her quick learning, her aptitude. She grew prouder every day, glowing from within. Though some whispered jealously against her, she only laughed; she had no time for those so far behind her anyway. 

Her learning was all that mattered, her growing strength. She ran free through the streets when other women her age might already be at home with a baby or two, or seated all day at a market stall. Her white initiate’s dress rippled behind her like a cloud. 

Jealousy was powerful, but it was not her only enemy. Her eminent father, as commander of the guards, had already accumulated too many grudges, too much hate. 

That hatred festered as Barbara, proud and happy, moved and flew freely. 

She was at the market on a crisp, cold day, bags of goods and new scraps of stories in her bags, long hair flying like a flag upon the sharp wind. She bought a warm drink and sipped it as she walked, completely at peace. 

“Oh, Miss Gordon?” a voice called, and she turned. 

The crossbow bolt sliced through her in an instant. When she fell, liquid sluiced in an arc -- food and papers scattered with the spray of dark blood. She hit the cobbles as people screamed and ran. 

The blood seeped into the cobbles and ran. A bloom of red grew on the white belly of her dress. 

The shooter laughed, hacking and cold and cruel, growing higher on each beat. He stepped into the road to complete the job, to make her agony and humiliation most true. 

He did not see the oncoming horse when he was done, the creature blinded and panicking from the light off the crossbow bolts. 

The horse’s rearing, stamping hooves tore her dress further, and froze the smile on her attacker’s face into rictus. 

The gods had not yet seen this. She was alone. 

When he saw her again, her attendants and physicians having all left, her father collapsed in exhaustion in the chair next to her, he fell to his knees at her bedside -- in a very human way. 

She looked at him with exhaustion and scorn. 

“What can you possibly still want with me?” Her voice was hoarse and bitter. “Satisfaction in your own perfect, immortal self?”

“Why didn’t you call on me?” he asked, his tone plaintive. “I would have come to you.”

He reached for her, and she withdrew. 

“I don’t need your help or pity,” she said coldly. “You may be a god, but I can still get by without you.”

“Barbara…”

She looked away. 

“Do you have any idea how it feels, to be humiliated like this, to be brought so low?” Her fist clenched in her bedsheets. “I will never feel like this again. I cannot.”

Clearly against her own will, her voice broke.

“I must get to the point where I am never defined by anyone else, but only by myself. Where I can be powerful, no matter what anyone else does or thinks. Never again...I cannot…”

She turned further to the side, refusing to let him see her cry. 

But he did not leave. Instead, he took her hand. 

And for a long time, until she fell asleep again, he remained by her side. 

The last few months of her training, interspersed with her physical recovery, she did mostly alone. She kept her window closed at night, and he knew that he may not come in. But he watched nonetheless, as she meditated and read and struggled through her exercises, and he knew she saw him. And she did not tell him to leave. 

Birds alighted on her windowsill, and she occasionally opened her curtains for them, breathing deep, hands on her unmoving thighs. Chirping little songbirds during the day, silent owls at night. His sacred creatures. She let them stay, let them sing. 

She met Sister Dinah again, who had been assigned to guard the Seer’s shrine. They began to talk more, sometimes against Barbara’s will, but Dinah was as warm-hearted as she was stubborn. Something quickly grew between them, and he was glad to see it. 

As the weather warmed again, the senior priestesses declared her training finally over. She protested her pain, her physical lack. But her teachers were calm and convinced. She was ready. 

So she would begin. The shrine awaited. 

As Barbara settled, she opened her window at night once more. They talked for hours, each recounting their own exploits. Even his adventures and fights seemed insignificant compared to what he knew she dealt with daily, both in her body and in her mind. 

“I see my first seekers tomorrow,” she murmured. “If they expect some pretty, whole-bodied nubile priestess, they’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“Their loss,” he declared firmly. “You’re more educated than any other human I know, and that’s just the progress I've seen in the last five years. You’ll be wise and helpful, I know it, and that’s what matters.” He paused, suddenly tentative. Nervous and shy. “And besides...you are pretty. Beautiful even.”

She let out a noise that was half a laugh and half a scoff. 

“I’m serious! I’ve always thought so.”

“You mean before? ” She became bitter again. “Besides, you’ve seen thousands, millions of beautiful girls in your life. You’ve lived with goddesses . I may be great, yes, but beautiful? What am I to all the women you’ve known?”

“Barbara, I --” He struggled for words in his frustration, his desperation to be heard. “ Listen to me, you ridiculous, stubborn woman. I see this spark in you. Not just what you can do, it’s -- there’s something in who you are, something I’ve never seen in hundreds of years.”

She became quiet. Her hands braced against her cane chair with its wooden wheels. 

His breath came out in a rush. 

“And with or without your legs, whether you believe me or not, you are so lovely.”

Her breath hitched; she blinked rapidly.

“You are such a strange man,” she managed to say at last. “And not just for the obvious reasons.”

He laughed softly even as he choked back a sob, lowering his head. Their foreheads almost touched, and his heartbeat raced. 

He wanted to shower blessings on her head. He wanted her to always know her own beauty and worth, he -- 

But he had only known her for five years. A long time for a human, but not for him. She would inevitably feel pain, she would age and die in a fraction of his life. 

And yet at that moment, it didn’t matter. He thought nothing of it, for all he wanted was to spend that time with her anyway.

“I warned you. You are being a fool,” his father chided him, his tone freezing. “You are leading yourself into nothing but heartbreak.”

The other young gods of the underworld, his siblings, who had been taken in after he had, watched from the shadows with a mix of interest and pity. 

“I cannot believe this, or you. After all I’ve taught you, you’ve abandoned your senses enough to fall in love with a human?”

He flew up, skin bright as the sun. The glow of his power pierced through the gloom, banishing the mist. 

“I don’t need a lecture from you, ” he snapped back. “I don’t care what you think of her.”

“It’s not her I’m concerned about. She may be powerful and clever, but she’s still a human. Still mortal.” Despite his tone, he suddenly saw the sorrow and concern in his father’s eyes, and his anger abated. “Like I told you. What will you do when she inevitably suffers again? When she dies?”

“I have a long time left in her life.”

“And then you will have even longer afterwards. You will spend the rest of time, as long as human civilization lasts, without her. Will it be worth it?”

He froze in place. Then his form shrank again, and he descended to the dark cave floor. 

His siblings all sighed. 

“I can’t listen to you,” he said at last, and then opened his wings. 

“Nightwing --”

He flew, flew back through the earth and back into the open air. Trying to leave the conversation behind him. 

They called her the Oracle, the Voice of the Gods. 

His friends swiftly became acquainted with her, and glowed to speak of their encounters. The humans were in awe of this strange, powerful woman, some still jealous, but some worshipful. A few even called her a goddess in human form. 

He entered the shrine behind the altar and watched, listening. The incense had already been lit, and the shrine smelled fragrant with heavy smoke and amber. A modest sacrifice of grain had been laid on the altar, and was already being consumed by divine fire, gold-flamed. A king’s messenger was waiting impatiently, but she paid attention only to the grain-givers, the seekers in their peasant clothes. They were watching her in turn, and were enraptured. 

He could not blame them. She had traded her simple white dresses for an elegant, flowing gown of brilliant green, and a mask in a darker emerald, etched with a stylized woman’s face. She was bedecked in gold, strange symbols around her neck and bangles on her wrists clinking with every movement. Her beautiful hair had been sheared short, but was still brilliant as fire among the smoke and piercing sunshine. Underneath her gown, her arms and shoulders were powerful, sweeping elegantly through the air. 

“I call on the Goddess of Truth,” she was chanting, her voice low, echoing through the shrine. “Protector of women and girls, divine princess, queen of warriors, defender of love. Approach, Divine Lady, and answer me. Goddess hear me, listen to me: I command you to speak, to assist these people.”

Before his eyes, her skin glowed from the inside out. Behind her, he saw a familiar form shimmer into being: a tall, muscular woman with curly black hair and a regal, lovely face, a golden rope on her hip, bedecked in red and blue armor. One of the very most powerful of goddesses, who glowed with the same light that Barbara now did. When she spoke, so did Barbara; the two voices echoed as one.

“Go back to your village, and I will be with you,” the goddess and Barbara said together. Kindness and strength inflected both their voices. “When you take your neighbor to court for his crimes, you need only speak the truth, and your case will prevail. Money for the court will be provided to you. He will answer for what he has done. Justice will be done, I swear to you.”

The two seekers fell on their faces and thanked her, over and over. The goddess smiled, and, behind her mask, he knew that Barbara did too. Then she vanished, and Barbara’s skin and voice returned to normal. 

The seekers left the shrine, and the king’s messenger approached, clearing his throat obnoxiously. He placed an enormous bag of gold coins onto her lap.

“Great Oracle,” he began nasally, “The wealthy, wise, and powerful King Alexander requests your presence at his court, effective immediately. He wants you to advise him on matters of war, as he knows you can see the movements of the enemy.”

Barbara tilted her head to the side, looking at him coldly. 

“I will not assist your king with his war crimes,” she said, her voice caustic. “The gods do not look favorably on those who use human suffering to fill their own already-overflowing coffers.”

He smirked to himself. The messenger spluttered, apoplectic. 

“And instead of the good news of my agreement, you may go back and tell him that next time, he can come speak to me himself, like anyone else, instead of sending his sycophants to darken my door. Get out.”

The messenger hissed, enraged:

“Your arrogance will get you into trouble one day, woman. Despite what you may think, you yourself are not a goddess.”

“And your king is not divine either, despite what you may think. Now, get out, or Sister Dinah will throw you out.”

Sister Dinah, at the door, snickered to herself as the messenger ran with his tail between his legs to his horse. 

Barbara didn’t turn around before she addressed him. 

“Been busy since I last called on you?”

“Yes, and you clearly have been too.” He fluttered to her side. “Voice of the Gods, huh?”

“I know, it’s a bit pompous.” She removed her mask, and though she looked weary, he actually saw her smile a bit. His heart leapt. “But I didn’t come up with it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dinah peer inside. He let himself shimmer into existence for her to see too, instead of just Barbara, and he heard her gasp softly from the doorway. 

“Well, it shows how much you’ve already achieved, even when I’m not around. You should tell your seekers to ask for my help more,” he advised teasingly. Then, genuinely: “You know I like seeing you.”

She actually ducked her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks pinkened. 

“Sure, I’ll take some problems off your companions’ hands,” she murmured, her smile growing. “And besides, you could stand to visit more. For one thing, it seems like you and my guard are long overdue for an introduction.”

Dinah stumbled into the shrine, openly gaping. She took several steps forward, looking between her friend and the source of her worship -- lifting one hand reverently. 

Then she said:

“Barbara, you didn’t tell me how much the murals do not do him justice.”

Barbara buried her face in her hands while he laughed.

King Alexander sent a barrage of written threats. So almost at once, the sisterhood assigned the devout Sister Helena to join the shrine’s guard too; she was stoic, brooding, with a well of pain in her heart, but she and Barbara chipped away at each other’s defenses, and Dinah’s warmth quickly began to soften her as well. The three women soon seemed to form a sisterhood of their own, as the line of pilgrims outside the shrine grew every day. 

Mere months had passed. But the pull had grown yet stronger, and he found himself looking for excuse after excuse to spend time with Barbara, to assist her city, her seekers, to bless her new friends with bursts of strength and good fortune. 

“Do you remember?” she asked him one evening, after the shrine had been closed up for the night. “Who you were before the dark god made you immortal?”

He was startled. It was very unlike her to dwell upon the past. 

“I just feel like you know everything about me now, so…” She spun her hand, as though trying to make light of this fact. “Turnabout’s fair play.”

He closed his eyes and conjured up the ancient memories. Almost all of them were good ones, up until they were cut off by screams and blood. 

“I was born human,” he recited. “To a family of traveling acrobats.” He remembered his father’s laugh, his mother’s smile. The roughness of his father’s mustache, the scent of his mother’s perfume. What they looked like, what they had passions for. How they loved each other, and him in turn. He described all of this to her, desperate not to forget. “When they came to this city, they angered a local petty criminal by refusing to pay or be intimidated by him, so he sabotaged our act.”

She took his hands in her own. He took a shaking breath, feeling very unlike a god. 

“After we fell, the dark god, my father, came, wanting to see why not all of our souls had gone to him. My human parents were gone, but I was still just barely alive. He was touched by me, I’m still not sure why, and so saved my life by making me immortal.” He smiled crookedly, feeling his eyes well up. “He has a soft spot for children. My siblings and I were all young when he made us each immortal; but we had to have been. It’s beyond the power of a single god to turn even a young adult immortal. Children’s lives are much more malleable.”

“Interesting. And what a strange soft spot for someone so fierce-looking,” she murmured. One of her hands reached up, stroking away his golden tears. 

“You never can tell, just looking at him.” He blinked hard, gazing down at her. “And what about you? You lost a lot of your family too.”

“I don’t want to think about that,” she muttered. Her grip on his hands tightened. “My mother and brother don’t deserve my remembrance.”

“Remember it for your own sake, then,” he suggested gently. His tears left a shining puddle on the floor. “You’ve been in a lot of pain in your life, Barbara, I know, but look at you now.” He ran a finger under her eyes in turn. “Look at what you’ve become.”

She blinked rapidly. For a long moment, the two stared at each other, eyes locked.

“I can’t afford to commit to anyone,” she murmured. “It’s just going to get us both hurt.”

“I don’t care if it hurts me,” he swore. “I don’t. But...Barbara, what do you need?”

“Time,” she managed to choke out, “I need time, I just...I can’t be the woman you need right now.”

“That’s alright. That’s alright.”

She breathed out softly, running her hand over his face.

He was not sure who moved first, only that all at once, her mouth was on his; he gasped, then instantly twined his fingers in her hair, slipping into her. She sighed softly against his lips, opening her mouth into his. 

Then she pulled back.

“I can’t, we can’t,” she whispered, canting her forehead against his. 

“That’s alright,” he sighed. 

Then she kissed him again, little kisses, over and over. He moved back towards her, feeling humbled, feeling in awe. 

The sun slanted through her window, and he bent, just to be closer to her. His wings opened off his back, every feather catching the light, until every tiny piece of him seemed to glow from within. 

Barbara’s kisses were uncountable, in the brief time that followed. All hungry, almost ravenous. He was far less surprised than she was when she was the first to pull him into her bed, white sheets sliding to the floor as they twined around each other. The pink and gold sunset gave way to a deep blue night; the stars were out and shining by the time their hunger was sated.

“If it makes you feel better,” he said to her when she lay panting, her face and chest flushed deep, “I’m sure it’s been longer for me than it’s been for you.”

She rolled her eyes and suppressed a laugh, before pulling him in for another kiss. 

They lay there by each others’ sides, listening to each other breathe. Then her smile faded. 

“We’re such fools,” she sighed. 

“Maybe.” He closed his eyes. “But I don’t regret it.”

Her silence was her only reply at first. 

Then he felt a very, very slight movement of the air, indicating that her hand had moved -- and was now hovering tentatively over his back. 

“You can touch them, if you want.”

His breath rushed out in a gasp as her fingers traced down over his wings. Her strong hands were so gentle, running over the powerful muscle, the delicate feathers. Like he was something precious and rare, something she would never dare break -- something she never would get to touch again. 

When she reached the end of the wing, he pulled her close again, embracing her. His wings slanted upwards into a kind of shelter; she sighed and snuggled in against him. 

Over five hundred years old, and completely undone by this woman’s touch. 

He pressed a kiss to her hair, hoping that even the smallest motion could convey how he felt for her. 

“I love you,” he swore some time later.

Her eyes went wide with fear -- and then she smiled sadly.

“Yes, I knew.”

He kept coming to her shrine, even when she did not call on him. While she was bound to her city, while she grew used to her chair, he traveled the skies, wind on every feather. He could not give up his freedom, nor could he leave her behind. 

So he returned with stories, with gifts. He brought her rare books, exotic flowers and foods and cream-white shells from distant shores, dresses of gold or beads that shimmered like light. In return, she gave him a place to rest after battles and adventures, grew him fragrant wildflowers and herbs on her windowsill, cooked meals with those strange foods, took the shells and listened for the sound of the ocean. 

“Even though it’s just the blood rushing through my head.”

“What are you talking about? I’m sure it’s the ocean.”

She laughed and eventually agreed. 

There were so many people that worshipped him, so many people that he served. But there was only one of her. 

“I love you,” he heard her whisper one night, when she thought he was asleep. 

He knew how much courage it took her, even when she didn’t know he could hear. 

When he did sleep, his dreams were all in green. 

He met his friend in the skies, the stars wreathing her hair. 

“I haven’t seen you this in love in so long,” she murmured. “And never before in this way.”

“What makes it different?” he asked her. 

“You loved gods and goddesses, before. You were already assured of their strength, of their power.” She gazed meditatively out into the night sky. “When immortal beings love humans, we see something else in them: something extraordinary. And something that, to them, is entirely unique.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“How is your son?”

Her son was half-human, a demigod, gentle and powerful, like his mother. Demigods could be killed, like their human parents, but were tougher, stronger, had some abilities of their own, and did not die of natural causes. They were a link between the aloof heavens and the humble earth, and prompted their divine parents to visit that earth more -- and to love it. 

“He’s well.” She blinked slowly. “Which is more than I can say for his father.”

She turned and faced him. 

“The problem with humans is, they are capable of great selfishness and cruelty as much as they are capable of other greatnesses.” 

There was no judgement or hatred in her voice, only weariness. He put a hand on her shoulder. When she spoke again, it gave way to something else. 

“I don’t claim that your Oracle is a perfect woman, but that is why considering all the weight of free choice, the pain of human restriction and fragility, and all the endless pressure of such a short life...I know that you are in awe of what she is becoming despite everything. And you should be.”

Kings and queens flocked to her doorstep now. Feared generals consulted with her frequently, one of them, a big, frightening woman with tired eyes, even going so far as to grudgingly admit her respect. 

He saw Dinah and Helena almost every week, followed by more priestesses, young guards, and respected warriors. He loved their tenacity, their good hearts, the fierce way they showed their devotion to their gods and to each other. 

He remarked to Barbara that they now saw each others’ closest friends as often as they saw their own. 

“We know each other so well,” she said in return, shaking her magnificent head. “We can’t help but intermingle. You are one of my closest friends.”

He was so touched that he was momentarily speechless. 

“My name was Richard Grayson,” he said after a moment.

“What?”

“When I was human. All those years ago. That was what my parents named me.” He breathed out, and the knowledge filled him. “Richard Grayson. Nobody’s called me that in so long, but…”

It hung in the air between them. 

“I’m not sure I was ever satisfied being fully human,” she admitted. “I always aspired to great things as a child, to reach up and grasp every star. People always laughed at me, or told my father to put me in my place, but I was as stubborn as I am now.” She swept her arm expansively. “I wanted all of this.”

“And now you have it.” He slid his hand upwards, curling in her hair, cupping her face. “Barbara, you should be in awe of yourself. Of what you have become.”

She placed her hand over his, briefly closing her eyes. Her breath shuddering. 

“I love you,” she said out loud at last.

He pressed his admiration to her lips. 

One afternoon they lay in her bed, surrounded by angry letters from powerful individuals that she had stacked in the kindling pile, and, closer to the bed, gifts from grateful pilgrims. These ranged from bursting wildflower bouquets and home-cooked dishes and elaborate, but humble hand-thrown pots to bolts of silk and dripping strings of diamonds and rare perfumes, spices, that filled her home with a thousand heady aromas. 

“This feels like the heavens,” he remarked, leaning into her pillow, “and I would know.”

Her smile felt strange, more reserved. Over the last few weeks, she had quickly become more withdrawn, easily ill, pale and lethargic. He worried about her, about her stress. 

“We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we?” she remarked all of a sudden.

“...Yes. Nearly a decade now.” He gently arched his wing over her, shielding her from the sun’s glare. The light was now softer where they lay. 

“Not long for you,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but not insignificant.” He cupped her face. “Barbara, I love you. I want to marry you.”

She took his hands from her. 

“You can’t, my love.” Her voice was rough. 

“I know. But we should. We should be able to.”

“But we won’t.”

They were both quiet. He suddenly could not think of anything but his own longing and pain, and so quickly sought to change the subject away from it. 

“Barbara, is something wrong?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been ill --”

“I’m not ill, you fool.” Her voice was still sad and angry, but now filled with affection too. “I’m pregnant.”

He gaped. 

Over five hundred years, and as much as he strived and longed to care for others, he had never had a child of his own. Panic briefly overtook him -- and then a great, all-consuming joy and love. 

He felt a sudden, deep bond with his parents, with his father. 

As he did, he instantly wrapped her up in his arms, and she did the same, matching him for strength, for desperation, both laughing as they cried. 

Though marriage was forbidden to Seers, there was, as the bemused priests and priestesses admitted, technically, no rule preventing them from having children -- because it had simply never been done before. 

Her father was knocked over with shock, and her friends were beside themselves with glee. They knew her secret, but publicly, despite pressure from everyone, everywhere, she absolutely refused to name the father of her child. 

General reaction to this was deeply mixed. Many former seekers sent her praise and well wishes, expressing hope for an easy birth and a healthy child. Older women clasped their hands and slipped her herbs and advice, young brides shyly asked to put their hands on her belly, as though she had the power to grant them the same blessing. They appealed to the gods in her name. But at the same time, her pregnancy inspired deep, irrational anger. Parents pulled their daughters away from her as though she were contagious, men jeered at her and made suggestive remarks, and she received a flood of enraged letters saying she had deconsecrated her sacred place by giving away her body, calling her child a bastard and herself a whore. Worse were the ones who sneeringly remarked that Seer or not, how did a cripple like herself expect to bear and raise a child? Divine powers had their limits.

“You can tell they’re not going for wit or originality,” she said dryly while he read this in a fury. Blue flames emerged from his hands and engulfed the slander. “Look, it’s not worth it to get yourself worked up over the frothing vitriol of rabid imbeciles. People love excuses to cut down powerful women and those who don’t stay within the bonds of society. That’s all this is.”

“Here here,” Dinah called from the door, eternally the eavesdropper. “Don’t worry about them, you just focus on preparing for your new arrival, alright?” She paused. “And if it’s a girl, I wouldn’t mind her being named after me.”

“Go take a walk, Dinah,” Barbara said instead, and her friend offered her a smile before she headed off. 

He realized that he had grown in his fury, hands still blazing, wing-tips shimmering with harsh light. He shrank back down to human size, exhaling softly. 

“I wish everyone could see you the way I see you,” he admitted at last. 

She smiled sadly and took his hand in hers. He bent, placing the other over the curve of her abdomen, feeling where their child was moving. 

“I could say the same for you. Maybe love really does blind us.”

“I disagree.” He thought of all the many times and many years that he had loved. “If anything, I think it makes us see each other more clearly.”

For once, she was silenced. 

The quiet was only broken by a man at the door, stumbling inside, clearly blind drunk. He raised bleary eyes to what he thought was her alone, and pointed an accusatory finger. 

“Th’ll just let any common slut in the temples, ths’ days...whr’re the pretty, perfec’ girls here when I was a boy? Now th’let legless ugly girls do the job.”

“I suppose that makes me a very un common slut, then,” Barbara returned, eyes cold. “Now, do me a favor and leave. Sister Dinah’s not here and she’s much kinder than I.”

“Oh, really?” It came out as one slurred word, ohrel-y . He withdrew the sharp meat knife at his hip, brandishing it. “An’ if I used this on you...wht’re you goin’ to do about it --”

The heel of her hand in his diaphragm drove out all his breath in a single gasp. A backhand full of knuckles to his face, a blow to his legs, and when he fell, dropping to the ground, she seized him by the front of his shirt, her expression like thunder, teeth bared like a she-wolf. 

She loomed large, as fierce as a goddess. 

He decided to assist this image. Growing behind her once more, he dropped the veil, letting the enormous wings, smoldering with cold fire, appear to unfurl behind her back as her eyes blazed, her hair like rich flames in the temple’s light. 

The drunk blanched, wailing and begging for mercy. 

“Let this be a lesson to you,” she said, and he spoke at the same time as her, their voices one. “Don’t insult me or threaten my child in my home. Now begone.”

Her fist shattered the bridge of his nose, and he stumbled out, crying in terror. 

Both of them calmed in an instant. 

“You’re very frightening,” he observed. “I mean, I expect it from myself and my peers, but with you --”

“You put off?”

He kissed the inside of her wrist, then bent to kiss her neck, in reply, and she laughed brightly. 

Another young girl, a temple initiate, was the first to find Barbara some months later. Hoping for help and advice when she had not received it from anyone else, she went to the shrine to ask it of the Oracle...and to her shock, she found her struggling, suffering, terrified in her own lack of knowledge of what to do. 

“How far apart are the pains? That tells you how close you are to delivery,” the girl told her, provoking an astonished look. “Oh, my mother’s a physician and a midwife. I -- I had one of my own, once. I know these things.”

“Very well. What’s your name?”

“Stephanie.”

“Stephanie, I can’t get to one of the city’s midwives right now. Please call your mother, get the senior priestesses, whatever you can, as long as it’s as soon as possible.”

“I’ll help you,” Stephanie swore, and indeed she did. 

He had been far away at first, doing battle with a monster that threatened to devour an entire village, and did not realize at first what was going on. It was only when he stopped, cleaning his swords on the grass, that he heard it from afar: the young girl’s appeal to whomever was listening, her prayer for help. 

He flew back faster than light, and passed through every city wall into the room to finally see it: his lover on her back, red-faced, screaming and swearing in a way that would make a hardened pirate flinch, the senior priestesses flocking around her, Stephanie kneeling behind her, holding her with calmness, breathtaking maturity for such a young initiate. The girl’s mother was at the front, speaking with equal calmness, professional and frank. 

“-- you’re very close,” she was saying, and her daughter nodded eagerly. “Just a few more seconds before it comes.” She wiped her forehead, exhaling sharply. “It’s unfortunate that the father isn’t here, though.”

Barbara turned, and even though her eyes were glazed with pain, she saw him, inhaling suddenly. Stephanie turned to look too, curious, and he let her see him too, letting her know that she had been heard. The girl’s eyes grew very wide, and she lowered her head in reverence as he approached, placing his hand on Barbara’s forehead, his other interlocking with her fingers. He saw her blink back tears. 

“ Thank you, ” came the whisper, before the last bout of screams, before the baby’s cry pierced the air. 

Their son was a gift, precious beyond anything he had ever been offered. Naming him after his human father, he was continually astonished by how similar they looked, the hair, the eyes, his features intermingled with Barbara’s own. When he cried, he could hear it from anywhere on heaven or earth, could fly in an instant when Barbara was busy or tired. Sometimes he would hold or attend to him, and sometimes he would watch mother and child together, the baby in a sling around her chest while she attended to pilgrims or called for advice, sleeping or cooing and squirming or nursing. He would blink an eye open, landing upon his father, and he knew that this tiny baby could see as clearly as his mother, and of even this little accomplishment, he was proud. 

Some of the other gods were deeply derisive of this. 

“You have important duties,” he was scolded, over and over. “Yet you lower yourself to common drudgery, when demigods are raised by their human parent for a reason .”

His friends with children of their own, however, told him to cherish his son, no matter how infuriating or exhausting having a baby with human needs could be. 

For time was no concern to a god, but a parent’s enemy. It flew by as their son began to grow, strong and healthy and full of life. A strange birthmark on his back also began to grow as he did, deep blue lines along his skin, till by his fifth birthday it became clear: a tattoo of feathers, of little folded wings, denoting that he was something a little more than human. 

He grew up in the shrine, running around in the fields outside the city, until Barbara, true to form, would force him to the books, hammering home the importance of education when he whined. He had inherited that desire to move, the taste for freedom. But for years, he still slept in his mother’s bed more often than his own, and sometimes, he would slide in next to them. His lover and little son would open sleepy eyes and smile at him, and curled together, despite their unusual circumstances, they felt like a true family. 

So the boy laughed at children his age who tried to mock him, who tailed after him and jeered, “Where is your father? You have no father.” He knew the truth better than they did, and so when he refused to be hurt or humiliated, so like his father in his cheer and his mother in his pride, they quickly gave up. 

All seemed well, in individual moments. For a while, he did not feel the time slipping away, the years passing. 

Until the day he left for several months on a series of important quests, and when he returned, he realized to his shock how much his son had grown -- how he was a baby, how he was small, no longer. 

That very same evening, amongst her brilliant red hair, Barbara found a thread of gray. 

His world all seemed to come crashing down at that moment. Outside he smiled, inside he was in despair, when his son bragged about how he would soon be old enough to be apprenticed, when, in bed with Barbara, he noticed the beginnings of lines around her eyes and in her tattooed forehead. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked when he rolled away from her afterwards, shielding himself with his wings, trying not to cry. For yes, their son would probably live as long as he did, would never age past forty, but had he not just been his baby? How could he have lost so much time already?

Barbara’s aging did not fade her beauty, far from it. But they were a warning, a notice that previously, he had been able to ignore. 

He was running on borrowed time. For once, the situation was completely, entirely out of his power, his control. 

But turning back to her, he swallowed his tears. 

“Just tired.”

“Didn’t even know that was possible for you,” she replied, pressing her lips to his. “Maybe you’re getting old.”

When he laughed, he tried not to let it sound like a sob. 

Powerful as she was, she had visions of her own future sometimes. Something strange, something grand and frightening, that left her pale and shaking, contemplative, refusing to look back at her family. 

He begged her to tell him, but she merely returned to her work.

And he wondered at this way in which they were similar. 

Their baby was only a couple years from becoming a man by the time he apprenticed himself to a medicinal guild, expressing a desire to help and save people that made both his parents proud. Stephanie, their old friend, offered to help coach him; she was an accomplished physician now, and beautiful enough that two of his divine siblings, a sister and a brother, had followed in his footsteps. They -- not unlovingly -- tussled for her affections, which she found both amusing and flattering. 

Love had found others too, over the last few years. Ordinary priestesses were not subject to the same restrictions as a Seer, and Dinah had finally gotten married, while Helena happily cycled through new lovers, and several of Barbara’s other friends found life partners and had children of their own. Several of his own friends and family managed to settle down too, and almost everyone seemed content. 

Except for him. Barbara complained of her back aching more now, her neck and shoulders getting stiffer. More silver seeped into her hair; her father was old enough to have trouble walking himself. Her already-poor eyesight grew worse. 

More admirers came to her shrine every year, bedecking it with flowers and paintings and mosaics of colored glass that the windows cast a thousand rainbows from. Because of her, offerings on their altars burned day and night, prayers rose up every day to the heavens, and the words and requests of the gods themselves were always heard.

“It’s too bad there’s nothing we can do to repay her,” they often sighed. “She’s devoted herself entirely to this life.”

It was true, she only had a few hours a day to herself, on average. Even then, she received constant letters, but still managed to prioritize the ones from their son, who devoted reams of paper to his mother, talking about his days, about what he was learning to do. His father watched over him from afar, keeping him safe.

When the allotted time passed and their son finally returned home from his apprenticeship, he was tall and straight-backed, less fidgety, more focused, but still bright and cheerful. He embraced his parents, smiling patiently when both exclaimed over how mature he looked. 

“Everyone keeps asking me where I got my tattoos,” he remarked, shifting aside the fabric on his back and shoulders to reveal the blue etchings, each feather on his skin immaculate. Wings trembled in the air. “There’s a woman I met who’s also apprenticed there, who, um…really took note. I’ve been seeing her for some time now.”

“Son, you --”

“Who is she?” Barbara demanded, cutting both men off at once. “What’s her name? Do I know her, does she have any history of --”

“Mama, please,” came the protest, their son looking only slightly nervous. “I’m not a child anymore. And you two met when you were younger than me.”

“Gods, and it feels like an eternity ago,” she sighed. “I’m almost fifty, but do I feel older. I feel like I’ve lived the lives of everyone else in this land as well.”

“Well, you look awfully ravishing for having lived so many lives,” he flattered to cover the lump in his throat, and she made a face at him while their son groaned and turned away. “Look, John, let your mother meet this woman. Let them like each other, and let you two be sure of one another. You might end up sharing the rest of your time together, and that time is important.”

“I suppose if I’m going to take advice from anyone about how to share a life…”

“You should! And you should be with who you really love while you can. You never have as much time as you think.”

Barbara rolled her eyes warmly at him, not realizing how serious he was.

His friend clothed in stars personally blessed his son’s marriage when it occurred, as he had done for her son previously. He watched himself become a grandfather, his grandchildren beginning to grow up, watched his golden reflection in rivers and seas not change -- all while Barbara kept growing older. The kings and queens who’d previously owed her favors died, and their children inherited their gratitude. 

She buried her father, and was inconsolable for weeks afterwards, crying in a way he had never seen her do; he held her and did not let go. 

Then when she fell seriously ill only a year later, he flew into a panic. He appeared in dreams and sent the best physicians in the city to her bedside, hovered next to her for days on end, shirking his duties. Pilgrims sent her messages instead of seeing her in person. Their own son tended to his sick mother, for once not smiling, not sleeping for night after night. 

His own father, the dark god, appeared to him in the shadows, saying nothing. 

He didn’t have to. 

Even when she recovered months later, fighting her way out of the worst of her fevers, she was severely weakened. She fought the physicians’ advice to stay bedridden; instead, weary and pale, she wheeled her chair back out to the nave of her shrine, to the burnt offerings and candles and incense. 

“All the smoke she’s inhaled over the decades in that tiny, airless little place has damaged her lungs, and caused the sickness in them,” one of the physicians said. “If she insists on sitting in that smoky little shrine all day again, then she’s going to get ill again, worse next time. She might not survive another bout.”

The dark god bowed his head.

“I have seen this before with the last few Seers,” he muttered, to his son’s distress. “Continually inhaling the smoke and fire damaged their bodies, though, thankfully, most were not stubborn enough to keep receiving people in the shrine. But those that did keep doing so…”

He fell to his knees, wings crumpling around him like broken petals. The dark god sighed. 

“You must convince her to move out of there, or you’ll lose her sooner.”

He went to see Barbara again. To his surprise, the seekers she was receiving this time were none other than their son, daughter-in-law, grandchildren, and a potential new grandson-in-law, who looked exceptionally nervous in the wake of her regal, piercing gaze. Even in her weakened state, she had the bearing of a queen. 

He took her in, though he had done so countless times before. The tattoo on her forehead, her lovely, clever eyes, were all shot round with lines; she moved more hesitantly and stiffly, even in her chair. Her freckles had faded somewhat from years indoors, and from the way she leaned forward, straining, her eyesight was definitely worsening still. The beautiful vibrant red of her hair had been entirely swallowed by silver now, falling like water down her back instead of flames. 

He loved her still. He loved her so much the idea of losing her now was agony. It had not been long enough, it would never be long enough. 

As they left the shrine, their son and grandchildren looked up and saw him in the rafters, and they all smiled and waved to him, catching Barbara’s attention. 

“Come down, love,” she mouthed, and he flew to her side. The rest of their family filed out, and the candles flickered behind them. 

He leaned into her, with all the affection of their relationship when it had been new. She hummed softly and slotted into him, born of decades of habit. 

He almost forgot that they weren’t married. 

“You need to leave this shrine,” he said after a minute.

She didn’t hesitate, and he knew that she had expected this. 

“And what? Shut myself away from all the people still relying on me? Leave behind the other gods?”

“That is not what I --”

“I know you don’t want me to leave people behind, merely to give the work to the other priestesses. But no. This is my work. And I refuse to give it up to lie in bed for the rest of my life.”

It all boiled over all at once.

“At least you would have a life!” he burst out. He grew, despite himself, looming over her as she glared. His voice boomed. “You stupid, stubborn woman, if you stay here, you’ll die!”

“And if I leave this place, if I make myself useless, give up the purpose of my entire life? ” she shouted back, her eyes blazing as his must have been. “Is that not a kind of death? How can you ask me to cut out all of what I am, just to lay quietly at home?” Her voice was cold. “I wouldn’t have believed you would be so cruel.”

“In trying to keep you alive? ”

He so rarely displayed the extent of his power, except in battle. But outside the shrine now, the sky was darkening, the winds began to shriek. The candles and incense all blew out as one. 

If he wanted to, he could level the entire shrine.

“How can you refuse to do what will keep you alive?” It was a shout, but it was also the beginnings of a sob. “How can you so easily let yourself leave?”

Despite the oncoming storm, despite his power, she was not afraid. Her cold anger melted, and her expression became one of astonishment -- then understanding. 

“How can you do that to me?” he found himself saying. And as he did, he hated himself for losing control, for his selfishness, and for her seeing it all. 

She looked at him with sorrow as he shrank back down, collapsing in on himself. Then she sighed, extending her hand. 

“Richard Grayson.”

He didn’t take it at first. 

“This is what I was born to do. Of course I don’t want to die, to leave you and everything we have here. But all that I am, all that I’ve done, all that I’ve become…” She gestured around. “When I was a girl, I joined the priestesses not to serve the gods, but because I thought I would find freedom and a voice, find my place in the world. And I was young and headstrong and self-centered, but I was right for my ambition. Because of it, I found my power, and I found my place in the world through helping other people. And because of it, I found my friends, found you, and made a family through it all, didn’t I?”

He cried. He finally let himself cry openly. 

“I wouldn’t have had my human life turn out any other way,” she said. She bent and kissed his forehead. “This is my work, my purpose. I won’t give it up, I can’t, any more than you can give up who you are. But you need to trust me. And I’m going to make you a promise, my love.”

He looked up at her through shining tears. Assurance was in her eyes, like she knew something that he did not. 

“I’m going to try to find a way to stay with you nonetheless. Until the very end. I swear it.”

He flew, fought, and she attended the crowds. So many people who loved them both, in much the same way. He flew home to her and she scanned the skies, and he kissed her more than he ever had previously. 

It was only a handful of years, but for a moment, they did manage to hang suspended.

Then the illness came back, far, far worse than before. 

He had been larger than life. Now he bent by her bedside and wept continually, refusing to leave her. It was unthinkable to him that there would be a last time, that there would be a point after which he would never see her again.

Their son knelt next to them, frozen at forty, faster and stronger than a normal human, just a little bit of the wind clearly in him as he moved. He spoke softly of his own work in helping others, how his daughter, their youngest granddaughter, had just been the latest to give birth.

“Our family will never die,” he said softly, touching his mother’s forehead. “The world will never forget you.”
Shadowy figures filled the room. His immortal family, watching with sorrow. His father, the dark god, silent, his face drawn, in mourning himself. 

“I don’t intend on it.” Then, at last, she turned to look at her lover with near-blind eyes. 

“I’m so stupid. I should have married you,” he managed to say through his tears. “Damn the rules. To me, you have been, and will always be, my wife.”

She blinked hard, reaching out to touch his face one last time. 

“I know.” Her voice was steady and quiet. “I love you too. I should have said so sooner, but I always did. Always will. My dear friend.”

Barbara let him cry for a moment more, then said:

“Will you let me be alone with John for a moment, please?”

Still crying, he faded into the wind, into the warmest breeze that touched her cheek like a last kiss. 

Knowingly, she looked around the room at his family, then turned to her son.

“I think it’s time.”

He bit his lip, nodding at his mother. 

“Do you think it’ll work?”

“I hope so. I will do everything in my power to make it so. But if it doesn’t, if I do die right now…” She kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

He nodded, eyes sorrowful, fearful. 

She smiled bravely. 

“But let me say too that your father and I will see you again, and soon.”

He would walk the earth for a long time yet; knowing his fate, she was at peace. 

Then Barbara took a deep, long breath, looking around the room at the shadowy figures that were beginning to melt away. 

Then, one last time, she began to speak words of power. 

“I call on the gods of the heavens. God and goddess, both and neither, every deity of the earth and sea and sky, if I have ever spoken to you before, come to me now. Approach, Divinities, and answer me. Gods and goddesses hear me, listen to me: I command you to speak, to come to me one last time.”

The shadows sharpened, just as the room began to fill with light. Dozens, then hundreds of figures of color and light, of all shades and sizes, some human-looking, some not, all filling the one small room at her bequest.

So much power at her call; the room shimmered with energy. 

The dark god spoke first. 

“Why do you call on us now? Your soul is minutes away from joining my kingdom. There’s nothing we can do.”

She thought of something she had been told a long time ago, about something that was beyond the power of any single god. 

“Not individually. But perhaps you can all grant me this, together.”

They were silent.

“Give me immortality. Make me a goddess, as much as any of you.”

The silence stretched out for a moment, outraged.

Then the room exploded into noise. 

“ Absolutely not! ” the thundering consensus eventually was. “Even if that was possible, which it is not, it is beyond your place to ask for that kind of boon from us. Not even any of the other Seers ever asked for such a thing! Immortality is a great gift, and to ask for it is just not d--”

“ You owe me! ”

Her sickness temporarily shed, her voice rang out. The room was silenced once more.

“ All of you! You owe me! For all the favors I have arranged for you, the thousands of offerings, millions of prayers, for the life I dedicated to assisting others, to assisting you!” She gestured with strength. “ Look at me! I gave my life to this work, even at my worst, I did what I had to do.” Only then did her voice break slightly. “Even when it killed me to do it.”

She leveled her expression at her lover’s friends, then at the dark god with his flock of other children. His expression was carefully impassive, as though it might crack at any moment. 

“Look at what I have done, every day of my life for decades, what I have built, and look how you all flourished because of it. Look at those who still need me. You all owe it to me to at least try. ”

Quiet. 

Then one of his siblings spoke. 

“She...is right. We do.”

Murmuring. 

“We are gods ,” someone else grumbled. “Are we going to do this just because she asks it?”

“Well, we always have,” pointed out the woman cloaked in stars, to some laughter. “Very well, we will try.”

They all ringed around her, these powerful beings she had spent her life speaking to. Unafraid, unintimidated, she stared up at them, even as she felt herself growing weaker. 

The dark god, the lord of the underworld, put his hand on her forehead. A hundred more surrounded her. 

Then he began to chant, in a language she did not understand, centuries or even millennia old. The other voices rose in harmony, all as one, as their power all flowed into her all at once, like a thousand live wires.

She screamed as it all filled her at once. The pain was worse than the sickness, worse than childbirth, worse than the shooting. Shaking, her body out of her control once more, the power all flowed into her, overloading her senses, as the world lit up in a million colors and she rose up, her body a lightning rod. 

All went black.

It didn’t work. Gods, my family, Richard, I’m so sorry...

When she opened her eyes again, the world seemed a thousand times clearer. 

He had taken to the skies, wheeling on the wind. It brought no pleasure, no relief, as he waited for her to call him down again. 

She never did. 

A sick pit opened up in his stomach, and he realized that she never would. 

He fell from the skies like he’d been shot, crumpling down to earth. The air rushed over him as he sobbed, sobbed like his heart was breaking, and he hated himself for not going back on his own, just to see her one last time. 

“What are you doing down there?”

Turning instantly, he was about to wheel on the owner of that soft, gentle question, to snarl at them for intruding on his grief --

-- but the words died in his throat. 

For a fleeting moment, he thought it was her ghost. For she looked not like she had just been, but like she had when she was much younger, when they had first confessed their love for each other: eyes clear, skin smooth and glowing, tall and strong, hair streaming upon the wind like fire. Her dress flowed and rippled around her like a living thing, her jewelry shone like sunlight, and behind her, a pair of great black wings, even greater than his own, edged with the purest, more brilliant green, were open upon the wind. 

He shot up, rising until they were eye level, staring in shock. One hand extended, stopping just shy of her face. 

She smiled and took his wrist, pressing it to her cheek as she told him what had happened, as he kept staring, drinking her in, almost not daring to believe it. 

Then he looked down. 

The edge of her skirt had slightly blown up, revealing that her legs were still too thin and weak, slightly crooked. 

“Eternal life and power,” she explained softly, “but even the gods have limits. I still will never walk again.”

“Oh...oh Barbara…”

“It’s alright.” Her eyes shone, and she tilted her face into his hands. “I don’t need legs. I have everything I ever wanted.”

In the streaming sunlight, they both cried openly. 

“ We have everything, now.”

“No,” he managed to choke out. One of his hands, trembling, took hers in his own, tracing his thumb over her bare finger. “Not quite everything.”

The legend of the Oracle ascending directly to the heavens persisted, and the humans all continued to tell the story all she had done, ending, for now, with how one of the gods had fallen in love with her and after a lifetime, had finally made her his immortal wife. Some said that they still visited earth, to visit family, friends, descendants, never forgetting them and how they had loved. 

And so long after the last candle in the shrine was blown out, they were never forgotten.