Chapter Text
The child was born to a mother who did not wake. A hush fell in the midwife’s tent as they were left with a baby slick with blood, entering a world they had no invitation to enter. They lay fragile in the folds of midwife’s arms, their breath shallow and uneven, as though the air itself had to be coaxed into their lungs.
The father left before the mother’s body had cooled. Grief, they assumed, though it was just as likely shame. He simply didn’t have the instinct to keep a child that had bore her face.
By nightfall, the newborn had been carried through the rain and left on the stone steps of the Church of the Spawned. Wrapped in a fraying shawl with no note or name.
When the priestesses gathered, called by the morning light, they found the child under the awning and they knew instantly that this was a spoiled offering, already tarnished by abandonment. It should have been cast into the lake that very night, its spirit cleansed in the dark, warm waters besides the temple. That would have been mercy, but the Spawn would not have accepted that sacrifice. So, with bowed heads and blood-bound vows, the clergy took the child in to house until the time came.
They named the child TwoTime. A life deferred. If the child lived long enough to walk to the altar under their own strength, the Spawn would take them properly then.
Amarah, devout and steady, was chosen to care for them. She was not asked if she wanted the child. She was merely told it was hers now, as the Hierophant believed Amarah would not fail.
TwoTime was strong-willed, but their body was a treacherous thing. As a child, only silk and the finest cottons could touch their skin without protest. Wool brought hives, linen made them howl, and when they tried to sleep in the cheaper sheets, they’d twist and writhe and weep, inconsolable, until their body exhausted itself.
Their skin bruised from being held too tightly, bones grew brittle, and joints ached when the seasons changed. The other children leapt through pews and dangled from the rafters, shouted through giggles, bit into raw roots, and sprinted barefoot through the dust. TwoTime sat on the inner sill of the stained windows and embroidered in silence.
Even menial tasks proved too much for TwoTime. They could not carry the water pail without shaking. Simple meal prep proved dangerous as a knife had once slipped while slicing apples, the wound had bled for an hour. No one let them near the kitchens again.
They tried, always tried so hard. Tried not to wince when a spoon scrapped the plate. Tried to smile through meals that turned their stomach. Tried to keep pace with the others, even as their knees buckled on even ground. They were a child who needed everything, but asked for nothing. The priestesses taught them to stitch wounds, to hem robes. They sewed bandages for the temple, took on the tasks too careful and time-consuming for the healthy, careful tasks with limited opportunity to be truly helpful. They could not dig in the fields without a rash, washing laundry brought welts to their arms. Yet they were sweet, pleasant, and polite. So polite, in fact, that no one called them spoiled to their face.
Amarah, who fed them by hand during the worst weeks and sat through nights where the child whimpered in their sleep, struggled with the weight of it all. There were quiet, bitter moments when she’d catch herself staring too long at their narrow face on the pillow, as if searching for some sign the burden would lift. The guilt always came afterwards and occasionally, she wept for thinking it. She began to hate herself twice over, once for the thought, and again for the care she still offered despite it.
TwoTime, of course, knew. They knew they were a burden, a silent weight the priestesses shuffled around, a broken vase no one dared to cast out. The other children never said it aloud, but cruelty didn’t need words. They rolled their eyes when TwoTime coughed, sighed when they stumbled, laughed when they cried. No one asked them to play or waited for them to catch up, so TwoTime filled any leisure time they found with reading. Devoured the temple’s books as if they might find something hidden in the margins. They preferred the ones about things bigger and older than the Spawn, stories where fate could be rewritten.
The church’s laundry lines stretched out behind the chapel near the tree line, where sunlight filtered through the forest edge and the air was inundated with birdsong. The other children hated this chore, hauling wet robes and underthings from baskets as big as they were, so it was easy to volunteer. TwoTime didn’t mind the task, the trees, the solitude. It made it easier to pretend they belonged somewhere. They were halfway through the last row, pinning damp altar cloths to the line, when a rustle from the underbrush startled them.
TwoTime froze, the forest was sacred, and forbidden, and full of stories that made even the priestesses cross themselves in sleep. TwoTime felt it prickle on the back of their neck, even the soft flap of linens on the line seemed to hush. Something was watching. They turned slowly, eyes scanning the treeline where the shadows pooled beneath the canopy. The stories they’d been told rose quickly to the surface of beasts that wore skin like cloaks, spirits that fed on essence, monsters who lured children to ruin.
A branch cracked and TwoTime stumbled backward, the basket of wet linens tilting with them. The trees themselves seemed to lean in closer, the underbrush parting as an unfamiliar shape moved closer. The stories said not to speak or even breathe. The silhouette moved behind the green, wide-brimmed and unnatural. TwoTime imagined horns, fangs, a thousand eyes. Their heart pounded like a war drum threatening to burst out of their chest when a voice finally cut through. “Whoa,” it has said, startled and surprisingly ordinary. The shape straightened and stepped into the light, but it was not a beast or some monstrous spirt, just a boy who stepped carefully from between two broad-bellied trunks. Perhaps they were a bit older, than TwoTime, but somehow, they were also unlike anyone TwoTime had ever seen.
They were tall, but not imposing. Their face was mostly shaded by a wide, soft hat speckled with wildflowers tucked into the band. Their hair gathered in thick locks tied loosely at the nape. Their clothes were a patchwork of earth-tones, sage, clay, faded blue, layered like leaves in autumn. There was dirt on their hands, and they carried the scent of crushed thyme on their sleeves. Tucked into the crook of one arm was a bundle of mushrooms and roots, and he blinked at TwoTime, curious. “Didn’t think anyone lived this far in.” He looked surprised to see anyone at all. TwoTime opened their mouth, but no sound came out. This person didn’t belong to any story they’d been told. Their world only had two kinds of strangers, gods, and dangers, but the boy just scratched his head, looking more confused than anything. “…You okay?”
TwoTime only took another step back, causing the basket to roll away, spilling its contents onto the grassy earth. Yet TwoTime didn’t move to pick them up, only stared, mortified at the stranger, face tight with alarm.
The boy frowned, “Ah, shoot. I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was soft, rounded with apology. He set his harvest down, and then brought his hands up as he approached carefully. “Here, let me…” He mumbled, crouching down, careful not to get too close, and began gathering the scattered fabric. “These yours?”
That had TwoTime’s tongue darting out nervously to wet their lips. “They belong to the temple,” they said, each word crisp and formal, “I am tasked with their care this cycle.”
He smiled gently, brushing a bit of grass from one of the sleeves. “Well, I don’t mind helping. They’re clean, yeah? Be a shame to let the mud take them.”
“I… I would not expect you to assist,” TwoTime said stiffly, watching him gather another robe. “You are a stranger and not beholden to the rites of upkeep.”
The boy glanced up, amused but kind. “Well, no, I guess I’m not. But I’m still a person with two hands. Seems like the decent thing to do.”
“That is… appreciated.” TwoTime responded quietly, unsure of themselves.
“Anytime,” He said as he handed them a tunic, his fingers brushing theirs. “I’m Azure.”
TwoTime pressed the tunic to their chest as if it were a shield. “I am called TwoTime.”
Azure raised a brow. “That’s quite a name.” TwoTime’s gaze darted down. Azure’s hands stilled over the last bit of fabric, but he didn’t pry, just gently offered, “Still nice to meet you, TwoTime.”
Their voice came quieter now, hesitant but hopeful. “It is nice to make your acquaintance, Azure. Though, pardon my curiosity, you are not one of the acolytes, nor do you wear the braid of a pilgrim. May I… inquire as to your place of origin?”
Azure gave a soft laugh, more breeze than bark. “Sure. I live out here. Little place near the ridge, west of the stream. Just me and the trees.”
TwoTime blinked. “You… live in the forest?”
“Yeah.” Azure tucked his hands into his patchwork sleeves. “Not a lot of folks bother with it.”
“But…” TwoTime’s brows drew together. “That’s because it’s sacred,” TwoTime blurted, and then shrank under the weight of their own words, as if they’d spoken out of turn. “There is no village that way. No outpost or sanctioned trail.”
“I know,” Azure said, grinning like he’d been sneaking berries. “That’s kind of the point.”
TwoTime stared, overwhelmed by a thousand conflicting rules and warnings. “You reside unsupervised? With no guidance? No protection?”
“I’ve got a roof, a stove, and a garden,” Azure replied. “Not much else I need.”
TwoTime looked genuinely rattled. TwoTime had never heard someone speak like that. Not in the temple, not in the books they were allowed to read. “You’re not afraid?”
Azure gave a soft huff of a laugh. “Of the woods? Not really.”
TwoTime stared. “But what of the Spawn?”
Azure blinked. “The what?”
“The Everborn. He who wakes the dead again.” Their voice took on that strange, practiced lilt, “We give thanks to the Spawn, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever.” Azure’s brows raised, caught between confusion and a quiet kind of concern as TwoTime carried on. “He has suffered for us endlessly, and through pain, we come closer to him. When we give of ourselves, and mark ourselves as faithful. And if we’re worthy… we’ll respawn too.”
Azure observed them cautiously. “You mean like, come back to life?”
TwoTime nodded, eyes wide. “When the time comes.”
“That’s what they told you?”
TwoTime didn’t answer immediately. They glanced down at their arms, over the sleeves hiding a plethora of scars, then back up. “It’s what we believe. It’s why we endure.”
Azure was quiet a long moment. Then, gently, “Do you believe it?”
The question was a rock thrust into a still pool. TwoTime’s brow furrowed with thought and they glanced toward the trees, toward the temple spires they could see. “I must,” they said, but it was softer, less certain. “Everyone does.”
Azure didn’t push. He just gave a slow nod, gaze thoughtful. “That sounds… hard,” he said finally. “Living like that.”
TwoTime looked at him sharply, like the words might’ve been blasphemy if spoken in the wrong tone, but Azure hadn’t said it with pity or judgment. It was merely some type of acknowledgment. “We endure,” TwoTime enthused, quieter this time, “That’s what matters.”
Azure bent to pick up the last fallen robe and passed it over with a small smile. He watched them reach for the laundry line, pinning the last corner into place with that careful precision that had been trained into them since childhood. He shifted, gently curious. “Do they teach you everything in the temple? About the world? About other people?”
TwoTime hesitated. “We learn what we must. What the Spawn wills.”
“But have you ever gone further?” Azure asked. “To the village? To the river past the ridge?”
TwoTime stiffened. “We are not meant to stray. Not until the time comes.” As if their whole life had been put on layaway for some grand, unseen purpose. Azure opened his mouth to say more, something kind, but TwoTime suddenly went pale. Their eyes darted past him, down the sloped hill, a familiar figure was cutting through the morning fog. Amarah. Her stride was slow but certain, her temple robes trailing behind her. TwoTime turned to Azure, alarm tightening their frame. “You have to go,” they whispered, urgent now. “If she sees you, I’ll be punished.”
Azure blinked. “What? Why?”
“You’re not… sanctioned. You’re unwelcome…” TwoTime’s voice cracked. “Please.”
Azure studied them for half a heartbeat longer, took in the panic beneath the surface, the desperation blooming beneath their composure and nodded. “Okay,” he said softly, stepping back into the trees. “I’ll go.”
TwoTime didn’t breathe until the green swallowed him whole. They turned just as Amarah crested the hill. “Finished already?” the priestess asked, gaze flicking to the full line.
TwoTime nodded, hands neatly folded at their waist. “Yes, Sister Amarah. All completed as instructed.”
Amarah’s eyes lingered a moment longer than usual on the felled basket, but she only gave a brief nod. “Good. Come inside. Morning prayer begins soon.”
TwoTime followed, but they glanced once, over their shoulder, toward the woods where the stranger had disappeared. Their steps moved through the familiar stone halls, past flickering sconces, but their mind lingered outside beneath the heavy green canopy where sunlight dappled like broken glass, where warm hands had touched theirs without judgment. The congregation had begun to gather, heads bowed, voices hushed as they took their places on worn cushions. TwoTime slipped quietly into their usual spot, spine straight, hands folded, eyes forward. The sermon began but the words did not reach TwoTime.
They knew the verses. They’d heard them all a hundred times but it sounded different now, almost hollow. Their gaze drifted to the stained glass above the altar, the depiction of the First Descent, all sharp lines and godly wrath. The Spawn had brought order and with it they had demanded sacrifice. All who obeyed would return, but what if they didn’t? TwoTime’s pulse was loud in their ears. They didn’t hear the closing prayer. They didn’t bow with the others. They only looked down at their own hands and wondered why, for the first time, they had begun to doubt.