Chapter 8 — The God Who Bled for Me
Shards of light still hissed in the sand when silence returned.
The Saint's laughter had vanished into the dunes, leaving only the smell of scorched stone and the faint hum of power fading from the god's hands.
Elian stood frozen, heart pounding, staring at the thin cut along the god's palm—he had bled. The sight of it felt impossible, sacred, wrong.
The god looked down at his hand as if surprised by it. A drop of gold slid from his skin, landing in the dust and burning it to glass.
"Are you hurt?" Elian whispered.
The god's mouth curved faintly. "You sound worried for a monster."
"You're not—" Elian stopped himself, unsure what truth his mouth was about to commit to. "You saved me."
"I also brought her here," the god said quietly. "The moment I woke, the world began to remember its wounds."
He turned from the ruined fire, and for the first time since Elian had known him, his shoulders sagged. The unearthly poise faltered; he looked… tired.
Elian stepped closer. "You're bleeding still."
The god glanced at the gold line across his skin. "It will seal."
"Let me—please."
Without waiting for permission, Elian took his hand. The touch jolted them both; warmth flared beneath Elian's fingers, too bright, too alive. He tore a strip from his sleeve and wrapped it clumsily around the wound. When he looked up, the god was watching him—not with the distant curiosity of a deity but with something darker, searching.
"You should not touch what you worship," the god murmured.
Elian's pulse leapt. "Then stop me."
The words came out breathless, reckless. The god's jaw tightened, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he lifted Elian's wrist, studying the faint pulse there.
"You are trembling," he said.
"So are you."
A flicker of amusement touched the god's eyes—then vanished. He released Elian's wrist, stepping back as if distance could dissolve what had just sparked between them.
"She called you," he said, voice low. "The Saint spoke truth. Someone—or something—spoke through the bloodline that once bound me. Tell me about the voice."
Elian shook his head. "I don't remember words. Only a feeling. Like warmth under my ribs, guiding me to the desert. It wasn't cruel."
"Not yet," the god said. "Kindness is how the divine learns your name."
Elian sat heavily on a fallen column. "Why do you speak of gods as if you aren't one?"
"Because I am no longer certain what that means."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint echo of distant bells—the same sound that had heralded the Saint's arrival. The god turned toward the horizon, eyes narrow.
"They'll send others."
"Then we should hide," Elian said quickly. "There's a village east of here, near the river gorge. It's poor, forgotten. They won't look for you there."
The god's gaze returned to him. "You would shelter me?"
"You saved my life. And until I know the truth about all of this… yes."
For a moment, the god simply looked at him—as though trying to reconcile the audacity of a mortal offering him refuge. Then, very softly, he said, "You are braver than the ones who call themselves holy."
"I'm terrified," Elian admitted.
"Bravery is only fear in motion."
They began walking as dawn crept up behind the dunes. The god's wound glowed faintly through the cloth, and Elian caught himself glancing at it again and again. Gold light pulsed with his heartbeat.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
The god smiled without mirth. "It reminds me that I am still bound to flesh. Pain is the hymn of mortality."
Elian hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning in him since the first night. "What did you mean when you said I was the only mortal whose touch doesn't burn?"
The god's eyes flicked to him. "My curse rejects life. Every creature born of my creation recoils from me. But you…" He reached out, fingertips brushing Elian's throat. "You carry part of the chain that held me. Iron binds iron; flame recognizes its twin."
Elian swallowed hard. "So I'm safe because I'm… cursed too?"
"Because you are mine," the god said simply.
The words struck through him like a bell. He should have stepped away. Instead, he met that terrible, beautiful gaze and whispered, "Say my name."
"Elian."
It came out like prayer and command at once.
The wind around them stilled. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but that name between them—the sound of belonging. The god's hand moved, almost without thought, tracing the line of Elian's jaw, the curve of his mouth.
"You should not look at me that way," the god said.
"How?"
"As though I could be forgiven."
Elian's breath caught. "Maybe you already are."
The god laughed softly, but it broke halfway through, turning into something like pain. He leaned closer, forehead almost touching Elian's. "You do not know what you offer."
"Then show me."
The god froze. For a long moment he simply stared, the air between them charged with things neither dared name. Then, slowly, he drew back—just enough that the night air could slip between them again.
"When I was worshiped," he said, voice hushed, "I thought love was another word for obedience. You make me doubt that."
"Is that a bad thing?" Elian asked.
"For you, perhaps."
They reached the river gorge by midday. The village was little more than a scatter of clay houses and prayer flags bleached white by the sun. The people bowed automatically when they passed, mistaking the god's unnatural grace for nobility. Elian led him to an abandoned shrine on the edge of the cliffs.
Inside, dust lay thick over a forgotten altar. Faded murals covered the walls—figures of light and shadow entwined, indistinguishable from one another. The god looked up at them and smiled bitterly.
"They once knew the truth," he said. "That light and dark are not enemies, only lovers who can't share the same skin."
Elian touched the mural where two hands met at the center. "What happened to them?"
"They learned faith could be weaponized."
The god turned toward him again, and whatever distance had survived the journey dissolved. His fingers brushed Elian's cheek, trailing down to his throat.
"Why do you still trust me?" he asked.
"Because I want to," Elian said simply. "Even if I shouldn't."
The god's breath touched his ear. "You tempt me toward ruin."
"Maybe ruin's what you need."
Their lips met—slow, uncertain, then burning. The world outside the shrine vanished; there was only the taste of dust and divinity, the sound of two hearts learning the same rhythm. When they finally broke apart, the god pressed his forehead to Elian's shoulder, trembling.
"You shouldn't love me," he whispered.
"Too late."
For the first time, the god smiled without sorrow. "Then may the world end beautifully."
Outside, the air shimmered—the sun splitting into seven halos across the horizon. The Council of Light had seen the flare of divinity at the shrine.
And far above, in the unseen heavens, a woman's voice—soft, amused, unmistakably divine—whispered:
"Let him love you, Elian Vale. He always destroys what he loves."