If I go home, I screw over Aron. My Aron. I take him out of the running. I look at my thread again. At that fraying connection to Earth. “What…happens if I stay here?” I whisper. “For good?”
He gestures at the Earth web. “Your connection here will snap soon. You will then only be connected to this world. To Aos.”
Fuuuuuck. “So I’m stuck here even after he ascends again? Assuming we win?”
He blinks. “Are you?”
I grit my teeth. It’s clear he’s playing with me. I’m not dumb. There’s something he’s not telling me. Scratch that, there’s a lot he’s not telling me. Instead, I pace closer to the thread tangle, forcing myself to really, really look at it. What am I missing? What am I not seeing that he expects me to see? I lean in and stare hard at the thread tangle of myself and Aron. We’re woven into the web all right, but something about it still strikes me as odd. I want to touch my thread and pull on it, to see where it’s anchored, but I don’t dare. What if I end up lopping my own head off? “I’m missing something big here, aren’t I?”
“Are you?”
I make an exasperated noise. “You realize this is the most annoying game ever?”
He laughs, the sound hollow and rusty, as if he doesn’t do it often.
“You said you wanted to talk to me. To give me answers. Here I am.” I spread my arms wide. “Waiting for answers still.”
The Spidae tilts his head. “You are not asking the questions. You are waiting for me to pose them myself.”
“I thought it was pretty obvious.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Let’s say Aron wins and wipes out the other two Arons. That leaves just him as the big winner, right?” When he inclines his head, I continue. “So, then he’s still in this web, yes?”
“Yes.” His eyes begin to gleam again.
“So he’s stuck on the mortal plane until…the High Father snaps his fingers and calls him back?”
The Spidae simply arches an eyebrow at me.
Yeah, I’m guessing that doesn’t happen. I turn and stare at the threads again. Okay, something has to happen for Aron’s thread to be severed—
Oh my god. I whirl around. “Aron has to die?”
He inclines his head again in an elegant nod. “Now you understand.”
“But I thought the point of this was for Aron to learn a lesson? To beat the other Arons out of existence so he can return the big damn winner?”
“That is what he has been told, yes. He will learn no lesson if he has nothing to strive for.”
I stare at the Spidae, feeling hollow. It’s like a punch in the gut. Aron’s doomed. None of this matters…because we’re all going toward the same end anyhow. “So the Aron I know will cease to exist?”
“No.” He crosses his arms over his chest and glides toward the web. “The strand that survives the longest becomes the dominant thread. His memories will remain, but all the ills—lies, hedonism arrogance and apathy—will be purged from him. He will return to the Aether to take up his mantle and continue on, serving as he should…until we repeat the cycle all over again.”
“All over again?” I echo, the words a sick whisper in my throat. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened, then?”
“All gods become corrupted eventually,” he agrees, reaching a long-fingered hand out and running his fingertips lightly through the web, as if petting it. “Too much power warps the one that holds it. An immortal loses the sense of who he is without a mortal anchor to tie him to reality. It happens to the best of gods, no matter the intentions. Even the kindest will turn their faces inward, dazzled by their own reflections.” He pulls one gleaming string, fingers it thoughtfully, then returns it to its spot. “Which is why the High Father purges them every millennium.”
I blow out a breath.
There’s no saving Aron.
Maybe you are my heart, Faith.
I’m too shocked to even hurt. This is all just a big game to someone up above, so Aron and the others can learn lessons and be better gods or something. It’s awful. “So…Aron has to die. Does he know this?”
“Do you think he would be fighting so hard if he did? He thinks winning will save you.”
And that makes the ache spread. Oh god. “But there’s no winning, is there? I have to die in order for him to win.”