The Sun did not answer.
I picked at my food but didn’t raise any of it to my mouth. “May I . . . May I speak freely, Your Majesty?”
His lip quirked. “You have not asked for permission before now.”
“Then I have it.”
He nodded.
“I think that is selfish.”
His reaction was subtle: the slight lifting of His head, the tightening of the corners of His eyes. “Is it.” It was more a statement than a question.
“We give our lives for the stars. For You.” I measured each word carefully. “Our lives are fleeting, yes, but they are worthy. Is it so much to ask, to be remembered?” My throat closed, and I swallowed to force it open. “A gift of remembrance, from the greatest being in the universe.”
“I am not the greatest,” He whispered.
“To us, You are,” I pressed. “When You dine with a future star mother, and she asks, ‘Tell me about the others,’ I want You to say my name and where I came from. I want You to tell her about me.”
He studied me for a breath before asking, “And what would I tell her?”
I placed my fork beside my plate and folded my hands in my lap, reflecting on that. “You should tell her that I spoke out of turn often, and I made poor replicas of Your face in string, but that I was kind to Your servants and spoke my mind. You should . . . You should tell them what You think of me, Your Highness. You should speak of me fondly. As the bringer of a star. As the mother of Your child.”
He considered this a long moment. Dropped His gaze. “You are right, of course.”
“I am not stupid,” I added. “I know You are the Sun. I know You have great responsibility and great power and do not have the time to learn every intricacy of who I am. But neither should You shy away from me because my death makes You sad.”
For a moment, I thought the fire around His shoulders flared, and yet His color seemed darker, like the heart of a Sunset.
Several seconds passed, neither of us touching our food.
I traced the edge of the table with my thumb. “What is it like . . . to die?”
His diamond eyes found mine. “You are asking the wrong person, for I cannot.”
“But You have seen death,” I said, and He nodded. “Since the beginning of time—”
“I am hardly that old.” He sounded almost affronted. “Time has no beginning, regardless.”
I smiled. “For a very long time, then.”
He straightened in His chair. “Why should you ask after it, Ceris?”
“Should I not be curious about my future?”
He frowned. “I suppose.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There will be accolades for you, on Earth Mother and in the heavens. Your spirit will pass on to an elite hereafter where gods and godlings live only to serve you and your loved ones.”
“My loved ones will come as well?” I interrupted.
“Yes. Those connected to you will be shown the road to paradise upon their passing.”
Warmth not unlike my star’s bloomed in my chest. So it was all true, the fate of a blissful heaven. I would see my family again. I would see Caen, too, if he chose that path. And why would he not?
“Your body will be sent back to your home, crowned with treasures of gratitude. You will be honored among your people. That is the way.”
I clasped my hands together. I knew my fate, but it did not yet seem real to me. But His words were . . . comforting. “Thank you. May I postpone the end of our meal with one more inquiry?”
He waited for the question, ever patient.
“What will she be like, when she is born?”
Turning His plate a few degrees, the Sun said, “You believe her to be a girl?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if it was merely a desire for the child to be like myself or mother’s intuition. I was new to all of this.
He considered for a moment, long enough that I took a few more bites of my meal. “I do not know if you will be coherent enough to know.”
“All the more reason for You to tell me.”
He almost smiled at that, but His diamond eyes shimmered in a sad way—not that a god made of fire would be able to weep.
“It will be bright and brilliant,” He finally answered. “But it will be painful.”
I set down my fork, my throat tightening once more. After a few heartbeats of silence, I asked, “Will she see my face?”
His countenance softened. “They always do.”
I nodded and sliced into a piece of meat, but my appetite had waned. I expected death would come quickly—mortals were not made to survive such things. But I wished with all my heart that I would be able to claw on to life long enough to see my baby’s face. To hold her. To know her.