Look into the Sun.
The halls were frozen, their metallic innards echoing the steps of five men. Four of them protected the fifth with their own suited bodies, steadily accompanying his pace like doppelgängers. Artificial light flickered occasionally on their heads as they walked, a soft, violent blindness overtaking their eyes. The men’s breaths materialized against the atmosphere of a cold December morning, bodies yearning for either each other or a heavy woolen blanket. Regardless, they went on.
The several pairs of loafers stopped at what seemed to be a bank safe door, an assortment of gears, locks, and secretive mechanisms proudly exhibiting itself to the mere mortals staring at it. On a metallic plaque, not quite nailed on the door but almost, just almost, the words “Level 5. AMNESTIC PROTOCOL REQUIRED” shouted at the humans.
Nobody really wanted to open it.
“Truman, the keys.”
“Yes, sir.”
One of the broad-shouldered vultures fumbled with the contents in his left front pocket, his thick fingers clasping the keys with an expected shiver. The man next to him held his palm flat in the air between them, one foot quietly but anxiously tapping the granite floor beneath it.
“I have to open it myself.”
The four deathly figures stepped back, their eyes glued to the ground as if a bomb were about to drop. Their bodies, although respectfully stiff like a row of unfinished statues, twitched upon the slow unleashing of a beast, two beeps in a long row echoing down the frozen halls as the one in charge exposed his calloused fingers and tired eyes to red light. A set of rusty but nonetheless clean clicks and clacks ended with a bang inside the guards’ heads, their minds in unison as their backs laid flat against the wall shared with the dull, gilded door.
“Do not come in unless I explicitly ask you to. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
The four men held their breaths until the sonorous confirmation of their boss’s absence reached their ears.
His steps were solemn, softening as he abandoned the door behind him. He cleared his throat, feeling it ache and wither as his pupils burnt slow to the view in front of him. A rocking chair faced the abnormally wide window of the containment cell, the sun's early rays caressing the face of the one sat on it. A single blonde braid dangled from its head, its ends kissing the white tiled floor. A long, unintelligible whisper died on its lips as soon as the man's presence was clearer to it, back abandoning its cricking companion in a calm storm. It rose up steadily, feet remembering a usual path, tiny hands just out of its helper's reach. The man quickly moved forward, grabbing the rough wooden staff and tapping it on the tiny hands of the creature. It accepted the object, fingers lingering in his as if it wanted confirmation.
"It's you."
"Yes. I'm here."
Morgan let her move him towards the rocking chair, her bare steps slow, a burning feeling of don't-know-what creeping in her chest. He sat down clumsily, the chair's movement almost knocking him to the floor.
"You must get used to it, dear boy. You might have to acquire one of these in the future."
"I already have."
Ekhi's milky eyes moved incessantly against her eyelids.
"How long has it been? Since we last met?"
Her voice was light. It broke his heart.
Morgan bit the inside of his cheek, forcing his eyes to stay put by adjusting his thick, old fashioned glasses.
"Not sure. Perhaps ten years."
Ekhi tightened the grip on her staff, letting her small body's weight rest on it completely.
"How old is your grandchild?"
He bit whatever piece of skin his teeth found on his lips.
"He's turning three in March."
"Spring." Ekhi smiled weakly, eyes wide against the sunlight. "Blessed time. Your daughter, Amelia. How is she?"
"Good. Finished her PhD a month ago."
"Foundation?"
"No." Morgan relived his relief of knowing his daughter had no interest in the occult. "Medieval History."
"Oh. I was not aware of her fondness of the past."
Morgan's jaw twitched.
"I never told you about it."
"Right."
A deafening silence hovered over them like mute little cherubs, their swift wings not letting their bodies touch the ground. Ekhi walked slowly towards her crammed bed, letting her sore spine of a million years meet the gentle touch of the almost bare mattress. She let her staff fall to the ground, Morgan's eyes following its movement as if expecting it to die and never rise again. His trembling greenish eyes lingered on her limp left hand, infantile fingers twitching to the absence of a holder. They then followed her muted pupils, an inevitable river crashing against his own.
"Your wife, Alice. What happened to her?"
Those very sentences reminded Morgan of whom he was talking to. Ekhi was frightening.
"Breast cancer." His voice was dry. "There was nothing we could do."
Ekhi felt the absence of pain in his words. It filled her invented heart with anger, but she had no strength to let it spill from her lips.
"The Council." Her eyes moved to the ceiling. "What is it like to be one of them, Morgan?"
He could not prevent the tears running down his face like a waterfall. His damp hands covered his face, shame painted all over it in multiple fresh layers. Ekhi was cruel. She had never been cruel.
"I hate it." He let out in shaking whimpers, his knees falling to the ground. "Everyday I curse the moment I accepted it."
Morgan crawled towards the goddess like a wounded animal, dark blue chino pants gathering dust and loose golden hairs, hands slipping from the surface they held on to like a lifeline. Ekhi turned her face to the left, feeling the human's defeating breaths undoing his mind for her to see. Her left hand caressed his defined cheeks, thin fingers bathing in his still flowing tears. He held both his hands against it, letting his glasses slip from his nose and shatter beneath him.
"I'm sorry, Ekhi. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I failed you. I failed you!" Morgan weeped like a child against his mother's dress, clinging onto Ekhi's arm as if he feared it would disappear if he let it go. "I have done so much evil, I have cast so much pain unto others my whole life, but nothing…nothing as wretched as abandoning you. Nothing as vile and heartless as locking you out of my sight for a lifetime. If guilt could kill, I…I'd be six feet under. But I can't, I…I am not given such privilege."
His cords nearly shredded as he yelped on the floor, feeling the goddess leave her bed and kneel next to him, glass shards ripping her pearl white dress and staining it a slow, vivid red. She took him in her arms, resting his weakened body on her frail lap, left hand guiding his head against her neck. Her milky eyes gazed at the rising sun, ancient tears of her own caressing her doll-like skin for the first time in seventy years.
"Rest, my dear boy. Rest."