Page 419 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Idiot. A wave of fear had robbed me of the most exquisite kind of lover. Even so, even here in the heart of The Middle, I couldn’t help but bathe in gratitude because he was fucking here. Even if my libido was trying to drive me to madness, I couldn’t begrudge it, because for one too-long minute, he wasn’t. I’d take madness over his absence.

Wiping the back of his arm over his mouth, he said, “Nah. That’s why we’ve been in trouble—why the mortals have been in trouble. Souls who haven’t even mastered their own impulses seek to force their convictions onto other people. Even those who usually set out with the best of intentions—advocacy, for example—end up making decisions for an entire populace based on their very limited education and lived experience. You can be a doctor, but your education is still limited when it comes to… carpentry, or electricity, or mining, is it not?”

“I fear none of those were electives,” I said, smiling. I’d missed hearing him talk like this. Missed the sound of his voice as he worked through ideology, worked through solutions. Wasn’t sure he’d ever share these pieces of himself with me again—gods knew I would’ve deserved his silence, his reservations.

“And yet politicians seek to dictate entire cities, counties, states they’ve never lived in. People whose lives they can’t even comprehend. The inner-city mayor knows very little about the needs of the rancher, and the rancher knows very little about operating in a territory rampant with crime syndicates. But both would make demands of the other.”

“So, this is how you walk among hierarchies without your ego bristling,” I observed.

“Oh, it bristles. Just not enough to compromise my convictions. My principles—freedom chief among them.” He tucked the bottle away and slung the pack over his shoulder. “I’m not so naïve—not so deeply steeped in my own cognitive dissonance—to think I wouldn’t think, act, speak just like them if I only had their lived experiences. Most people are doing the best they can with what they have. But pressure is real. Pressure on the scale of governing a populace is not for the weak of heart. And it compounds over time. One decision dominoes into another; one mistake settles weight on a conviction never engineered to bear the load. A taste of power cultivates the craving for more. Perhaps the blessing of being a soul—of the ability to trigger past life memories—is gathering empathy for those experiences one life after the other. Like reading a book with a character so compelling, you can step outside your own paradigm and develop sympathy for a life you’ve never lived—but intensify it, because you have. It brings with it a certain… understanding mortals aren’t given a chance to foster.”

“Have you seen good mortal leaders?”

“Rarely. They usually die rather young,” he said dryly. “Nothing incentivizes murder faster than power in a species under the belief that it’s limited. But the reality is, if Man intends to make a change, he cannot lead in truth until he masters the six inches between his ears and the energy here.” He tapped his heart twice. “After all. There are only two ways to influence the world.”

“Only two?” I drawled skeptically.

“Look who’s getting optimistic in her old age,” he teased.

“Old age,” I scoffed. “Look who’s talking, you geriatric—” My taunt was cut off as his hands flew to my waist and tightened, tickling me until a screech flew from my lips. “Okay! Okay! You’re just a… sex…decil... sex-deci-mcentarian?”

“Oh, piss off,” he barked a laugh. Before I could blink, I found myself shrieking and upside down, hung over his shoulder. His broad palm came down on my ass with a clap and my laughter cracked off the tree trunks, echoing back to us as he spun me in a circle.

“Aren!” I shrieked, laughing so hard it hurt. “Stop it, oh my gods, I’m gonna puke!”

And just like that, I was on my feet again, both of us laughing, my hand flying out to steady against his corded arm as he shook his head affectionately. A low rumble of thunder had us both glancing through that tight gully between the mountains, and I canted my head as a wall of gray formed on the horizon. And the sheer granite walls… almost looked carved.

“You’re a shit stirrer,” he observed.

“Sometimes,” I chirped, still relishing his presence, his laughter. “But I’m not wrong.”

“Technically—technically, you’re the cradle robber now.”

“What!?” I squeaked, shaking my head as we both glanced up to Brody in his tree and then to Jason and Rika where witch and cat were sprawled out against the mossy earth. We headed in their direction. A nap sounded fucking fantastic, but if another storm was rolling in, we all needed to get moving.

“No, no. Think about it. You’re officially my senior.”

“You’ve cracked. The Middle finally did what battle never could.”

“I am only six months old, thank you very much.”

My feet stumbled over nothing, eyes widening as I looked up to those bright blues. His lips quirked sideways. “Aren.”

He shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. “Technically—you enticed our maker to give me another shot. Technically, you gave me a rebirth—and the clear skin to prove it.”

“Aren,” I repeated, stunned by the sentiment. Something in his gaze said he wasn’t exactly joking, that he really did view this as a new beginning. “Well. As your senior, I should warn you that a storm is rolling in.”

His smile softened slightly. “Hmm. We should probably keep moving.”

“We should,” I agreed, just as Brody’s feet hit the dirt behind us.

“A humdinger of a storm, kids.”

“Do we keep tracking or build a shelter?” Rika asked sleepily. “What kind of storms will border Grayshell? If it’s anything like that sandstorm⁠—”

“I don’t think so,” Aren said quizzically. “If I knew my predecessor half as well as I thought I did…” His words wandered off, a furrow forming in his brow as he stared out towards the horizon—toward that odd little canyon—as lightning flashed across it.

“Uh… teach?” Rika prodded.