I thought of His touch against my skin and shivered.
He didn’t mean to hurt you, I reminded myself, but my body remembered the agony regardless.
The Sun took a seat at the other end of the table. “Ceris.” He nodded to me.
I nodded back. Once He reached for a piece of bread, I began to help myself. Whatever I wanted suddenly became within my reach, and soon my plate was full of food. My stomach was tight with trepidation, but both my star and I were hungry, so I spooned soup into my mouth. It was warm and light and slid pleasantly down my throat.
We ate in silence for a little while, long enough for me to finish most of my soup and start on the pheasant. Hating the quiet, especially since I so rarely had company, I asked, “Do gods need to eat?”
The Sun looked up at me, His diamond eyes brilliant and mesmerizing. “Need, no. But We enjoy the same pleasures as mortals. I do, at least.”
I nodded.
He considered me a moment. “I hear you’ve depicted Me in bundles of yarn.”
Again, my new form kept me from flushing, but I felt the heat of the statement. “N-Not yarn, Your Majesty. Threads . . . an embroidery. A story for the eyes. For my star. Our star. So that she—or he—might one day look at it and know me, in a way.”
The Sun nodded, His eyes cast down to the meal before Him. “I see.”
Silence floated between us. I took a few bites of a honey cake before speaking again. “What were they like, the star mothers before me?”
He did not look up from His plate. “There were many before you, Ceris. The same number as the stars.”
I looked up at the night sky, taking in the expanse of stars. The moon was never there—I hadn’t seen the moon in five months.
“The last few, then,” I pressed. “What were they like?”
The Sun set down His utensils and folded His fiery hands beneath His chin. “Must you ask?”
“Must I not?” I countered.
He pressed His lips together for a few heartbeats before speaking. “I would do a poor job of answering. I could tell you their names, but I know very little about them.”
A new pang echoed in my chest. “Why?”
He met my eyes fully. “I do not revel in their deaths. Mortal life is so fleeting, but it is still life. It is still gone, when a star is born.”
I studied His face, which seemed to become more human the longer I looked. My shoulders slumped. “Why must the stars be born? Why must their numbers always be the same?”
He investigated me like I was a book in a foreign language. Even from across the table, He seemed very close, like He could simply reach out and turn one of my pages. “Stars were one of the first things the universe created. They are the source of its power, and Mine. Starlight is the reason the worlds spin and move through the heavens. The reason the tides rise and fall, the reason rain falls and fire burns. Without stars, the rest of it ceases to exist.”
I had never considered this, and my food went untouched for a full minute while my mind tried to grasp His meaning. “Does not the Earth Mother turn Herself? Or Tereth move the tides?”
“You asked Me if gods eat. No. Not in the way mortals do.” He lowered His hands to the table. “But We, too, survive on starlight. The Earth Mother would not turn without the stars. The Sun would not burn. Even those who devour darkness would be unable to do so without the stars.”
A heavy breath escaped me. “I see.”
“When even one star dies, there is suffering. Thus it has been given to Me, and mortals, to keep the stars burning.”
“If the universe made them”—I chose each word carefully—“then why not make them immortal as well?”
His lip ticked, like what I’d said was amusing. “If it had the ability to create an endless source of power, it would have done so. Stars are the most noble of godlings. They burn brilliantly and nourish everything around them. But everything we are given comes at a cost. In order for stars to give of themselves, they must be able to die. That is why they must be born of a mortal.”
My mind traced back to our earlier topic. “How many star mothers before me?”
Any mirth the Sun felt dissipated.
I cleared my throat and took my questions another direction. “How often does a star die?”
The god looked away from me, taking another piece of bread that He didn’t eat onto His plate. “It depends. Fifty years might go by, or two hundred. The universe is not cruel.”
I took another sip of soup and washed it down with too-sweet wine. Once my palate was clear, I said, “The star mothers are mortals, but their passing hurts You. That’s why You don’t get close to them.”