Chapter 18 — Morning of Clay and Bread
(Lysander POV)
The rooster's cry pulls me from the only real sleep I have known in millennia. The small inn room smells of ash and flax, faintly sour from the bucket of yesterday's washwater in the corner. I lie still, listening.
Outside — footsteps, doors, human breath synchronized with light. Villagers rising with the sun. The rhythm of living; no cosmic pulse, no divine hum. Only people greeting another day.
I sit up slow. My body makes no ache despite work the day before; strength hums quietly within muscle and tendon, disguised beneath skin that looks deceptively fragile. It's strange to possess strength that could shatter mountains, yet lift a cup as though it might break.
The floor creaks when I stand. I change into plain linen, cinch the belt around my waist, and glance out the window. The first blaze of dawn spills copper across the thatch. In the yard below, a dog stretches and yawns beside stacked hay.
Something stirs inside me — not reverence, not nostalgia — something gentler. Belonging.
By the time I step into the lane, the chill is leaving the air. Elira's bakery sits near the square, already busy. A faint line of smoke unravels from her chimney like the first whisper of prayer.
She's there outside, sleeves rolled past her elbows, arms coated in flour to the elbow. The sight stops me. In the void, creation was effortless; here, creation requires hands that knead, backs that bend, patience that stings.
She glances up as I approach, sweat already at her brow. "Lysander! You're early," she says, not pausing the rhythm of her blending. "You can bring in the water pail if you don't mind."
I nod and lift the wooden bucket by the door. It's heavier than it looks — yet weight means something new now. Substance. Purpose. I carry it easily, but set it down carefully, not wishing to remind the table how strong I am.
We work in sync without needing words. She shapes bread; I grind grain on the old stone wheel, its rhythm grounding. The air fills with the smell of yeast waking, a living scent that clings to skin and memory.
At last, heat begins to rise from the oven stone. The dough waits in neat rows.
When she waves me to sit, I hesitate, uncertain again of custom. She only chuckles. "You've worked; you've earned your breakfast."
She lays out slices of rye, still warm from dawn's first batch. Beside it: a rough clay bowl of goat cheese, an apple cut clean and uneven, a small pitcher of ale.
Nothing divine, nothing celestial — mere breakfast. Exactly what I crave.
I take the bread in both hands, watching steam rise through the crust. The smell fills every hollow place inside me. My fingers break it — soft interior, the crunch echoing faint as falling ash.
When I bite, salt from the cheese meets the sweetness of grain, grounding every part of me. I chew deliberately, eyes half closed. The texture reminds me that I exist.
Elira sits opposite, doing the same. She eats without mannered restraint, as though hunger were simple truth, not shame.
"This tastes better after work," she says.
I nod. "Everything does, when earned."
She laughs. "That's because you're new to toil. Ask again after ten winters."
"Ten winters is a mercy compared to how long I've waited for food to matter."
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing at the odd phrasing. "You talk strangely sometimes."
"Bad habit," I say, and bite another piece before I can say more.
Children play outside, their chatter drifting over the fence. The world here doesn't rush. It builds: each tiny motion meaningful because it's mortal.
Elira wipes flour off her forehead. "You really don't know much about this region, do you?"
"No," I admit. "I… forgot much of what came before."
"That's fine. Most travelers do." She passes me a hunk of butter. "The lord's road runs east; it leads to markets in three days. Maybe you'll find a trade there."
The idea of a trade — a purpose defined not by destiny but by labor — roots inside me like new sprout in tilled soil.
"I'll help you here a while," I say. "Until you tire of company."
Her smile reaches her eyes this time. "We could use strong hands. Try not to crush the dough."
I grin faintly. "I'll remember."
I pour ale into a clay mug. When I drink, the liquid hits my stomach like sunrise inside stone. Warm, alive, imperfect. Tiny imperfections — sour edges, uneven tones — make it real.
The bread cools fast on the table, fading from steam to scent. I watch crumbs scatter in morning breeze, taken by sparrows that dare the window. Every fragment continues a story of sustenance.
For the first time, I understand what creation was for: not infinite wonders, but enough. Enough warmth to silence hunger. Enough company to make silence gentle.
By mid‑morning, light spills through the shutters, dancing across our faces. My forearms are dusted pale with flour; her laughter breaks often between the rhythm of shaping loaves.
When she catches me looking too long, she flushes. Charm again — that misplaced glimmer buried in this mortal flesh. I avert my eyes before the world mistakes it for arrogance.
Outside, carts roll on cobblestone. The sound of horses blends with clatter of shutters and the caw of crows. This living music would have shattered the void with its complexity. Now it feels like prayer answered through noise.
By noon, the bread loaves stand cooling in sun‑dappled rows. Elira leans on the doorway, stretching her arms. "We'll rest a bit before supper," she says.
I stand beside her, watching villagers barter near the well. Their laughter carries.
"It's strange," I murmur, "to see a world move that doesn't need saving."
She laughs softly. "Not everything broken needs a hero."
Her words strike something deep. Perhaps that's the final lesson of the entity's gift: not to fix heaven or hell, but to live where neither exist.
When the day fades, I remain at the bakery's porch. Children call goodnight to each other, the scent of fresh loaves following them home.
Elira closes the shutters and hums a tune as she locks up. Her voice carries faintly through the hush—a sound impossibly more sacred than all the choirs of time.
I sit quietly, hands clasped, marveling at how slow the heart can beat when peace has no enemy.
And for the first time since eternity unbound, I think to myself: I can stay here. Just live.