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The Powers generally cared little for their agents, their devotees, if they had the capacity to care at all. But the Falling Titan cared less than most. Simon found that out quickly.
Coming down from the dizzying embrace of freefall to find himself safely on the ground, staring up in awe at the painted sky, he felt more at peace, and more lost, than ever. Life had been simple before then. He’d finish his apprenticeship and become an artist in his own right, whether continuing to work in his mentor’s shop or striking out on his own. But now the figurative clouds parted and he could see the endless expanse of the heavens, how could he keep caring about the placement of every little brushstroke after that?
He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had to do something.
As the centuries passed, he started to meet others in similar situations, though never one that served his god. Sometimes he found allies, those who loved the mystery of the sea, the places not even the sun could see, but didn’t understand his love for the endless open ocean. Those who loved the highest peaks of mountains for their solitude, not the height, not the way the air got just too thin, not the little nagging thought goading you to just let gravity take its course.
But he quickly realized something was different about them. They moved through the world with a certainty Simon never understood. Like they knew what their purpose truly was. Like they believed the world was small enough for destiny. He watched Halley grow his ranks of devotees, watched Mordechai’s family become more and more reclusive over generations. He tried, just once, to take that same leap of faith.
It was only when he came up from the bottom of the ocean, gasping and spluttering despite no longer needing air, head pounding from the rapid decompression, staring at the cut cable that had once held his diving bell, that he realized he had fallen to the same fallacy. He believed he deserved a destiny. That the universe was simple enough for him to change it with just a single diving bell and a few dozen sacrifices. He knew then, he couldn’t do this alone.
It took a long time to recover from the failed ritual, and he once again felt lost. He pursued petty things. Luxury, notoriety, wealth. And so he assumed the identity of Simon Fairchild, and so he crossed paths with Harriet.
Harriet Fairchild who watched him with those pale, knowing eyes. Who knew he wasn’t really her grandfather even though he called himself Simon. Who didn’t say anything as long as he kept funding her sailing excursions, and her occasional airplane trips.
They didn’t really talk until she came to him, knowing eyes wide like she’d seen a ghost, pale with shock so her freckles stood out like constellations. And she told him everything. The airplane that went down with her in it. Waking up unharmed in the wreck next to the corpse of the pilot. She didn’t talk about how she got back. He wasn’t sure she knew. But she did talk about the dreams. The flying, or falling.
“Is it wrong that I liked it?” she asked, “That I could have died, but part of me enjoyed the fall?”
“Does it matter if it’s wrong?” Simon asked.
Harriet frowned, “What do you mean?”
“Surely anything powerful enough to judge your thoughts would have other things to do?” Simon’s god did, at least. It must have better things to do if it left Harriet, its fledgling acolyte, to fend for herself.
Well, she wouldn’t fend for herself. She had him.
“And what if I wanted to fall like that again? And I wouldn’t care if I took someone with me?”
Simon chuckled, “Then I suppose you’re just like me.”
And so Simon, centuries after the sky took him as its own, took on his first apprentice.
Over the years, Simon found more like Harriet, and like his younger self, those marked by the Falling Titan but set adrift into the world like shipwrecked sailors clinging to driftwood and life rafts. His little family became something more. Their business ventures fed their god with a few divers dragged into the depths, or a plane or two going missing. And they spread fear in their own ways.
But he’d never encountered anyone quite like Michael Crew.
Mike, unlike Harriet, unlike most of the Fairchild family, did not consider himself lost. He had been part of the world of gods and monsters almost as long as he could remember, and he spread terror with a grim sense of duty. He did not move through the world like Halley or Jonah, calculating how every move would benefit their ultimate goal. He moved on instinct, knowing he could only see an infinitesimal part of the big picture, and trying not to let how much he still didn’t know get to him.
But it did. And when he fell, Simon would be there to catch him.
There always seemed to be a storm when Mike came to visit, shivering in the rain, his oversized clothes clinging to his tiny frame, making him seem even smaller against the backdrop of rolling fields. There was a routine to it. Simon would take his soaked jacket, give him a blanket and tea, ask what was wrong.
“I don’t understand,” Mike finally said, sitting in front of the fire wrapped in the blanket, watching the rain come down and the lightning flash. He subconsciously reached up to touch his scar, “Why do I have to be like this? Why can’t I just have a normal life?”
“Because you got unlucky,” Simon said, “That’s all there is to it. No fate, no grand cosmic order. You were dealt a bad hand, and normalcy was never in the cards. All that’s left is to adapt, or die. And I, for one, am delighted that you chose to adapt. Most never make it that far.”
“Is that how it is for everyone?” Mike asked.
“Not exactly. For many it is. But some seek power, and will pay any price to get it. And some never know anything but the pull of their god. I met someone who was quite literally a doll once, built purely to serve the Stranger. She was, probably still is–”
“Were you unlucky?” his eyes, grey-blue like the sky right before a snowstorm, fixed on Simon.
Simon smiled, something warm in his chest as he sat back and considered all he had. His home, his success, his longevity, and most importantly, his family. How destiny hadn’t led him here but pure, uncaring chance, and his willingness to adapt to it.
“Quite the opposite, actually.”