Your name is Jake Harley, and as an infant, you were chosen to be raised by a goddess.

You live in an underwater bubble with your sister and with Mother, watching the creatures of the deep undulate by. You learn to swim before you walk, you learn to bite before you speak.

You are to play a game, Mother tells you. You are to become a god, to soar through the stars like an eagle on gossamer wings.

You don’t really know what that means. But it sounds just smashing.

Your name is Jake Harley. You are eight years old.

“This is hunting,” Mother says. “The predator culls the prey, and both species are kept alive.”

You think that doesn’t make a lick of sense. How can the prey be kept alive if it dies?

“That’s life,” she says. “There are more prey than predators, and they are strengthened by the loss of their weaker members.”

“That won’t sound good to the ones who get done in,” you say. She smiles, gently, without showing her fangs.

“Sounding good is not the point, silly. Only survival and adaptation matter, in the end. Now, pick up your gun, and shoot down that dove.”

The dove is delicious.

You learn, after a time, to take pleasure in it. Jane never does, but she loves Mother so much that she doesn’t hesitate to please her.

You learn to read tracks and signs, to survive in the wilderness. You learn to savor the taste of fresh meat, of raw vital blood. It strengthens you, gives you life. When you are eleven, you are left on an island with nothing, not even clothes, to survive alone for a week by the skin of your teeth. The same is done with Jane, on a different island.

You made it through, but Jane… when Mother brings her back after the trial, she is shaking and crying.

“I’m sorry Mom, I’m so-“

“Shooooosh,” Mother’s voice is calm. “You have learned. You will try again in a month.”

Jane tells you only later, voice subdued, that she nearly died on that island.

Even though Jane walks like she’s broken and talks like she’s afraid, you don’t hold Mother to blame. You do not. You are stronger than Jane.

You practice your aim, you shoot swift and true. You kill an elephant and wear its hide. You are the eagle, blood on your feathers.

Jane takes up baking.

Your name is Jake Harley and you are fifteen years old. You and Jane are called into the main bubble, where Mother is waiting.

“As it turns out, we were wrong about you,” she says, without preamble. “You are not the chosen ones. You are not going to become gods. Our mistake. Anyway, you’re both old enough now, to grow up. So you’re going to leave.”

You are shocked, and your stomach drops into a pit. The eagle pushes her young from the nest. Fly now, or fall. You know this is natural, is normal, is-

You are not the eagle. You never have been the eagle, you only thought you were. You are going to fall.

Jane is crying, is screaming. “No, how could you, you can’t do this!”

You put your hand on your sister’s shoulder. “Mother, what did we do?”

“Mom, please,” Jane is begging. “Don’t you love us?”

The Witch of Life looks at you both like she is surprised. “It’s not about love,” she explains. “It’s not about you at all. I just can’t invest any more energy in you two. I’m going to take the bubble down now, so you should leave before you drown.”

Afterward, Jane says: “It was nice of her to warn us. She didn’t have to do that.”

‘Nice’ isn’t the word you would use. But you let Jane think so.

You live in the woods. You know how, both of you, and you’re stronger than you were at eleven. But still, you are cold, and one day you twist your ankle badly. You cannot walk, cannot hunt. Jane sets snares and catches rabbits for you, and brings you spring water to drink. You weaken.

After two days, Jane looks at the distant city lights and says, quietly. “Let’s try there.”

The city is frightening, so crowded and loud. You are scared, but Jane walks with her head high. She holds a trident, and is ready to skewer the doctor at the clinic, who calls security on her. She fights like a wildcat, but they overcome her.

Still, they treat your broken foot. Jane is allowed to see you a few weeks later.

“They took my fork,” she says, mournfully. “It was the only thing I had.”

After you recover, you wait for the police to release your sister. You visit the local church, but you don’t pray there. You can’t, not with Mo- with the Witch’s stained-glass eyes looking at you. But when you go back to the foster center, you whisper a wish to the Seer of Mind.

The trial goes smoothly, and Jane is released.

You want to skidoo, leave as soon as you can. You want to take Jane with you, back into the wild where things are quiet and pure as morning dew.

But Jane shakes her head. “We’re humans,” she says. “Not animals, and not gods. We should try to make a life here.”

You leave her, but not before she catches you a gift: a stray mutt, a pup, to be your hunting hound.

You name it Halley.

Your name is Jake Harley, and you are twenty-one years old. You work as a safari guide on the savannahs of Kenya. You speak English, French, Swahili, and Bantu.

Jane sends you money, twice a year, after Midsummer’s Bleed and around Hallowhonk. As the years have passed, she’s sent you more and more. You are glad for her apparent success.

Halley is a constant companion, and your closest friend.

One day you lead a safari for some reporters, and you are promptly hired by National Geographic to lead expeditions for them. It’s a living.

You uncover your first major archeological find at age twenty-seven. An ancient Egyptian tomb, so groundbreaking that it rewrites the history books.

It’s a form of fame, but you withdraw from the spotlight. You’ve never liked being around large numbers of people, and the archeological conferences are no exception.

Jane continues to send money, though you don’t really need it anymore.

Halley grows old, and dies in your arms.

You’re working full-time for the Smithsonian, and you have been to more countries by age thirty-two than most men ever visit. You travel off-world for a while, and you hunt beasts from at least thirteen different star systems, but not to eat. Instead, you dissect them and send their skins home, for science.

Your memoirs sell as well as Jane’s cookies. You call and tell her that you really don’t need her money. She insists that you take it. She tells you she’s getting married.

You do not marry, though you take lovers both human and alien.

Sometimes, you’re lonely.

Your name is Jake Harley, and you are forty years old. You have discovered and described eighty new species to science from multiple planets, uncovered sixteen ancient ruins from the dust, and written nine books. You have several million dollars to your name, and you live on a yacht.

You reunite with Jane around this time. By now, she is as filthy rich as you, and owns a baking empire. You feel badly for her, confined as she is by civilization, while you travel from world to world.

You play with your seven-year-old nephew for a while, then speak with Jane while the lad watches television.

“I’m going to retire,” she says. “I think I’ve had enough of baking.”

You ask her what she is going to do now, and she laughs.

“Hoo hoo! I don’t know! I’ll do whatever I want!”

She is happy, you realize. She has freedom, in her own way.

You both have your freedoms, so why do you feel jealous?

You age, but you never slow down. You hunt. You explore. You do not marry.

You never, ever pray.

Your name is Jake Harley, and you are eighty-five years old. Your hands are withered, your hair has long turned white and fallen out. You still occasionally take lovers, but that’s not on your mind right now.

You are attending Jane’s funeral service. Your nephew looks at you. He is holding an infant, his arms shaking. He is not praying, like some of the other funeral guests are.

He has not told you where he got the kid from. You don’t think he’s married.

You shake his hand, and wish him the best of luck.

Your name is Jake Harley, and it is not even a year since your sister’s passing. Half the profits from Jane’s bakery have been signed over to you, at your nephew’s insistence. You don’t have to do anything but receive a check twice-yearly.

One day, you visit one of the factories, and you see the meteor crash out of the sky. You reach the wreckage before anyone else. There is an infant. She is a little girl.

You know what this means, old memories like ancient artifacts preserved in the sand.

You will not let them get her. You will not let the Witch find her.

In time, you grow to love her more fiercely than you ever have loved before.

You name her Jade.

You find an island. An island seems like a good place to raise a child. You purchase it without ceremony. Jade is one year old.

You find a dog. You name it Becquerel. It is a strange dog, but is friendly, and you think it will make a good hunting hound.

You soon learn that hunts with Becquerel are not sporting, and decide he will be a guard dog instead.

When Jade is two, you find the Mage of Doom in her nursery, playing with her.

“She’s cute,” he lisps. “Took us a while to find you, you know.”

You tell him you are good at covering your tracks. Then you aim your gun and fire.

He falls to the floor, dead.

Gadzooks, you just killed the Mage of Doom.

He gets up less than a minute later, and tells you that if you want to try and kill him, you should at least give him a sporting chance.

Becquerel brings him far away, and you sit down. Your legs are shaking. You feel old.

“Pa,” says Jade. “Pa!”

“Yes, Jade,” you say. “I am your Grandpa.”

Jade giggles.

“May I hold her?”

You look over at your visitor. She is more considerate than the Mage. She knocked. You fired once, a warning bullet splitting the air over her head, and she held both hands out in surrender.

“I’m not here to take Jade,” she said. “I only want to talk, like civilized people.”

You let her in, and now she is sitting at your antique table, flipping a coin absently. Behind her opaque glasses and dapper suit, she looks bored.

You tell her she cannot hold Jade, and she shrugs. “That’s ok. You know, I’m the one who freed your sister, back when you were a kid?”

You tell her you are grateful for her generosity, but you prefer not to be meddled with. You just want to live the rest of your years in peace and quiet.

“That can be arranged. You can keep Jade, too.” You didn’t ask about Jade, though you thought it. “We only want to train her, not steal her away.”

You remind her that they were wrong, before.

She flips her coin. “I wasn’t helping, before. We are certain, now.”

You ask how certain.

“V3RY, V3RY C3RT41N, J4K3.”

You fall into silence, blinking the teal out of your mind. You look at Jade. You imagine her in the wilderness, starving, eating raw meat.

“Think about it,” the Seer says. “I’ll be back.”

Later, you tell them no.

“You can’t come in ‘cause Grandpa says not to talk to strangers!”

You put your hand on Jade’s shoulder. “Jade,” you say gently. “Why don’t you go play with your toys?”

The girl looks up at you. “Mkay,” she mumbles.

You look at your visitor, dressed garishly in violet and gold and carrying a white staff. As soon as Jade is out of earshot, he says:

“You know, you can’t protect her forever.”

You are so, so old. You nod in acknowledgement.

“You want to turn her against us. We would rather not have to force her to do anythin', but if you succeed, then we will have to be harsh. Relent now, while she is young, and we can afford to be more gentle.”

You tell him that you will defend Jade until you perish. You know you are daring him, in a sense. But he does not move. He gives a long-suffering sigh.

“Bullshit, Mr. Harley. You are deceivin' yourself. You will perish long before we give up, and you know it. And no, that’s not a threat. That’s a fact.”

You appreciate his honesty.

“Listen,” he says, his voice calm. “We’re not goin' to hurt her. We’re not goin' to take her away. We are goin' to give her the best chance she has, to win. This is goin' to happen. It's fated to happen. Whether she fails or succeeds will hang on how we train her. We will help her survive.”

You pause. After a moment you say, “You are the most reasonable and tolerable of your people.”

He sighs. “I will take compliments where I can get them, Mr. Harley.”

“But the answer is still no.”

He is reasonable and tolerable. He nods. “Fine, but don’t lie to yourself. Your selfish desire to keep Jade away from us, mostly out of spite towards Feferi, is goin' to hurt her in the long run. Jade will suffer for your stubbornness.”

He gets up to leave. He pauses. “And don’t think that this is the last you’ll see of us, either.

Then the Prince leaves, and takes your hope with him.

Your name is Jake Harley, and you are a very old man.

You haven’t seen the gods for two years. It is time to teach your granddaughter to hunt. She holds her bb gun steady and shoots down her first sparrow.

Then she bursts into tears. “Oh nooooo! Make him better! Grandpa! Fix him!”

You never make her hunt again.

Your name is Jake Harley, and you are going fishing. It is not the first time you have done so. There is no big game on your island, but you enjoy occasionally pitting yourself against swordfish and sharks. Becquerel is watching Jade, so you have no fear.

Today, you hook a large marlin. It leaps magnificently, and you brace yourself against the railing for battle.

Then, very suddenly, the line goes slack. Thinking you lost the fish, you reel in your line.

All that remains of the marlin is its head, still hooked.

No shark, not even a Great White, could possibly swallow in one bite the entire body of a twelve-foot marlin. You feel a terrible dread creep into your heart.

Then, the dark form rises out of the deep. A black ropey arm, a tentacle, smashes off the front of your boat. The deck lists, and you stagger. More tentacles appear.

Your rifle is in your hand, and you fire. Several arms are hit, and flinch back, but it is not enough. The squid must be fifty feet long at least.

You see the tentacles. You are afraid. You can’t let them do this. Jade has no parents. You are all she has.

“Witch of Life, please, stop!” Your voice is nothing against the sound of your boat being ripped apart. “Feferi Peixes! Mother! Stop!”

And everything, absolutely everything, stops.

The squid’s tentacles hover in midair. The flecks of sea spray are suspended. The water is no longer rushing to flood the deck. And in front of you are two goddesses.

One is the Maid of Time, She Who is Both Beginning and End. You don’t know why you add the honorifics; you never have before. It’s something about her, in particular. She commands respect, the way the others don’t.

The other is the Witch of Life. Mother. She looks exactly as she did when you were a lad.

The Maid speaks first, her voice Tinged burgundy. “i t00k the liberty 0f anticipating y0ur last request”

This was not what you would have requested. And though you know there’s no point in asking, you do ask:

“Why?”

“I knew you’d never give it up,” Feferi says. She sounds, not sad, but… resigned. “We can’t have you interfering with this. Everything we’re doing hangs on Jade.”

“So this is what you do, when you can’t dissuade someone, Witch of Infinite Mercy?” You are a bitter old man, and you simply cannot call her ‘Mother.’ Not aloud. Not again.

“Everyone becomes food some day, Jake,” she says. “Death begets life. Besides, is there any way I could have dissuaded you?”

You know there isn’t. Your love for Jade, short sighted and utterly hopeless as it is, transcends anything the goddess could say or do.

But you failed. The Prince of Hope was right.

“Don’t hurt her,” you whisper, your heart in your throat. “Don’t let her fail.”

“We w0n’t,” says Aradia.

You nod, and brace for the blow. It doesn’t come.

“Actually,” says Feferi. “You don’t have to take our word for it. What do you say, Aradia? Shall we show him?”

"Yes," says the Maid, and takes your hand.

You are not on your boat. You are back at home, in the sitting room. You notice that the books on the shelves look different, and some of the furniture is rearranged. There is a dog bed, and Becquerel is curled up in it, sleeping.

After you recover from your disorientation, you hear Feferi calling, her voice Tinged a royal pink. “JAD—-E!! YOU )(AV—-E A VISITOR!!!”

A voice calls out: “Coming, Fef!”

Then Jade comes down the stairs, and you can’t breathe.

She grew up. She grew up, while you were gone.

Her skin is dark from the sun, and her hands callused from working outdoors. She is wearing sensible clothes, and no shoes at all. When she sees you, she shrieks with delight, like she’s still a small child. “Grandpa!”

“My girl.” Your voice is choked with emotion. “My girl.”

You embrace her, and she is so tall. How can that be? How can she be a young woman, so quickly?

She is talking, so fast, stumbling over her words. “Oh my gosh, can I show you my shooting range? Can I show you my dream bot? Can I show you my garden? Can I show you my music?”

She leads you by the hand, talking the whole while. You see her shooting range, and the dream bot, and the garden, and you listen to her play the bass guitar, mournful and resonant. She is a talented girl.

Then she says, “I’m so glad you came today. Because I’m actually going to leave tomorrow. For the new universe.”

What?

“I’m kind of nervous, really.” She’s looking at her hands, fingers tied with string. “But I think I’m ready. Sollux says I am.”

You can’t breathe. She smiles at you. “I’ll be fine. I’m a really good shot. And Sollux is actually going to be coming with me, you know? He says he’ll be by my side the whole time. I can do this.”

The gods can lie. You want to say. They lie and throw you away.

You realize that tomorrow, she may very well die, sacrificed, a calf’s brain thrown into the fire. You want to tell her, tell her everything, but you cannot. You cannot ruin her happiness, ephemeral as it is.

“…Grandpa?”

“Jade,” you say. You swallow. You want to give her freedom. Will she feel free, knowing that she is trapped by fate? Will she be free, if she is a goddess? “Show them what for, my darling.”

You are about to tell her to be careful, to not give her trust away so easily. But before you can say it, you see the Maid. She taps two fingers to her wrist. It’s a universal signal.

“I can’t stay, dear.”

“Oh,” Jade looks disappointed. Her voice is quiet, solemn but steady. “Well… I guess this is goodbye, then?”

She hugs you again. “I love you, Grandpa. I’ll make you proud.”

It is the gods she will make proud. You realize then how deeply and completely you have lost.

The Maid touches your shoulder. “I love you, too, Jade,” you say. “I’m sorry that I-”

And then you are on the crumbling deck of your ship, and the tentacle crushes you in one blow.