Air brushes against my skin, cool and empty in the places where Rosco’s fingers had been entwined with my own. The void had filled with a pang of longing, the pull of something I desire for myself. It’s sensations like this, that pass below my radar when my true eyes are open, the things simply too small to see when I am infinite. I desired to hold on a little longer. I wanted the feel of his hand in my own. Not because his skin was warm, I had known it would be, or the texture of his hands, rough from hard work, but because he had reached for me when he usually pulls away. I quickly came to the realization I enjoy being close to him, and every time he allows me closer, I feel a rush of pleasant excitement. A rush I find myself seeking to feel again. When my head is not so filled with all the things I know, I am troubled by all the things I feel. I wonder if this is what Mother wanted me to learn as I climb the steps, passing through the doorway into this temple of insults. The heels of my boots click against the polished stone floors, yet another eccentricity of being physical I may have never have bothered to notice I enjoy if I had not taken the time to shut out all the other noise.

The Temple’s grand hall spans the majority of the ground floor. Large pillars divide the space into three areas. The walls to my left and right pitted with alcoves, each holding a shrine dedicated to a specific mountain spirit, worshipers and offerings cluttered around them. The center space holds Manarow’s shrine. It is significantly larger than all the others; a great cutting of stone from his mountain, respectfully arranged atop a beautifully carved and decorated dais.

One sensation I could have gone without, is the way my blood boils seeing heretic priests fill the ears of impressionable followers with grotesque lies and empty promises. Seeing the greedy smiles on their disingenuous faces as they urge broken families to leave further offerings among those already pilled so high the shrines they are meant for are nearly buried underneath. My memory is vast and unending, yet it does not need to delve deep to show me ghosts of my past layered over what I see here. My own beautiful marble temple layered over stone. My followers offering praise and thanks were these offer tears and pleas. My priests, the men and women I had once chosen to speak in my name, that I had shared my very essence with and trusted with the care of my people- Every eye turns on me as my pain, my anger, my sorrow pours out of me in waves, shaking the very foundations of the earth.

“Manarow!” My voice thunders. I need to get this over with quickly and get out of this wretched place before I do something I said I wouldn’t, “I would speak with you!” The ground shakes again, but this time it is not a physical rumble, something only I can feel. A quake in one of the worlds interlaced with this one. The spirit realm trembles at my call, yet the one I seek does not answer.

The head priest begins to trot over, eyes bulged, cheeks puffed with indignation. He is even more vile than the others. All he has done, he has carried out only for his own gain, his countless achievements, his villainy and underhanded deeds, to build his own power. This wretch cannot even hide behind the thin vale of desire to serve his fake god. The disgusting excuse of a man opens his mouth to begin his tirade and I shut it with a snap of my fingers. I know his heart; I do not need to hear his words, or I will surely do something Rosco will scold me for. I honestly don’t mind Rosco’s scolding; I just would rather see him smile. A collective gasp rises from the followers as the damnable priest begins to panic. The eyes on me are turning from curiosity to a collective look of awe and fear. I pinch at the bridge of my nose. It may be that this sort of thing is why people always seem to have such a bad impression of me. I wave off the attention and everyone present returns to what they were doing before I came. Humans are not the crowd I wished to draw.

Manarow may not have responded to my summons, but I notice a few of the smaller mountain spirits have come to see what caused the commotion. They linger in the shadows, muttering quietly among themselves.

“Why do you hide?” I ask them, “You know who I am.”

Manara comes forward. A young mountain, but tall and proud, “We do.” She consents, crossing her arms and rising her chin, “Why have you come, Lord of death? You’ve been gone for some time, and we are the first you visit upon your return? Why? you are not our master; it is not your place to judge us.” She is deflecting, intentionally provoking me, but to what end? Behind her the others are nervous. Mountains are too proud to tremble, but the ones gathered here are close to it. Mountain’s fear nothing aside from their makers, for who else could topple them? Yet something has these few willing to toy with my anger. And I am quite angry. They’ve made a mess of things here, that I have to clean up. I am angry that the moment they were unsupervised, they sought to abuse their power and our trust. But mostly I am angry that the ambitious fools have hurt themselves in the process. They are broken and changed, and I am not the right god to heal them. Do they not know how much it hurts me to see them this way? And yet they look at me with fear in their eyes. What have they done that causes them to see me as a danger?

“I have not come to judge today,” I sigh, “I only wish to speak with Manarow.”

Manara holds her ground, but I see the others falter, whatever resolve they came with weakening. “As you can see, he is not here.” Manara shrugs, “If you wish, I can pass along a message, when I see him next.”

My hand goes back to the bridge of my nose, “When will you see him?”

“Could be a while yet,” She muses, “he is rather busy, as am I.”

I smile, “Then maybe you can answer my questions in his place?” knowing it will stroke her ego to be treated as equal to her grander brother.

“Maybe,” she puffs, “What is it you want to know?”

“Why does Manarow not answer his followers? Since he wanted them, does he not also care for them?”

Her eyes dart to the mass of gathered worshipers, eyebrows creased with worry, “It is not as if he has to.” She answers smoothy, clearing her expression before returning her gaze to me.

It seems she is determined not to be helpful. I may as well hurry this along and glean what little I can from her evasions, “What do you know about the disruption in the spiritual energy?” I ask plainly, noticing the others shift nervously behind her, “or the missing people?”

“Humans go missing,” she bites out, “they are frail and finite; it is not abnormal for a few to be lost. And our energy has had many disruptions since you left. There is nothing amiss here. If that is all you wanted, you can go.” Her tone is dismissive but her posture defensive, arms tightly crossed, shoulders risen and tense.

“I am not your enemy Manara, and I am not a fool. I know there is something very wrong here. I want to help. Please talk to me, tell me what has happened.”

“Manara,” Little Manadora steps forward, “maybe we should-”

“Be quiet!” Manara snaps at her sister, sending her flinching back to her shadow, “We don’t need him here. He wants to act like our savior when he’s the one who disappeared? A savior we don’t need because everything. Is. fine.” Fiercely punctuating every word. “And you,” flipping back to face me, her tone a complex mix of hostility and politeness “Don’t feel the need to continue looking for Manarow; he’ll only tell you the same things I have. I’ll inform him you’ve returned and came to greet him. I’m sure when he has more time, he will gladly come to visit you. Until then,” offering a flourishing bow, “The Mana Mountain range welcomes you home.” fleeing along with the others back to the spirit realm. I can’t help but sigh, pinching my nose again. My water spirits would never speak with my sister this way. Why is everything under her dominion so, so disrespectful.

I close my physical eyes to better focus on my true power, using the tiniest drop to see all this place has to tell me. Mother told me not to, but I guess my sister is not the only one who taught the spirits rebellious. I breath in, as the hazy picture before me becomes clear. I count the ants and cobwebs, feel the stones, the earth, the air. Sort through the many souls and everything that makes them, from the first spark of their existence to every life they have lived until now. I see everything, know everything, feel everything, and for that briefest of moments, the uncertainty I have come to know is gone, as I become one with the infinite. Cataloging the onslaught of information, I look for only what is useful to me now, in this endeavor. I don’t want to cheat too much. It seems Manarow has truly not been here in some time. His mountain suffers in his long absence along with the people who have chosen to follow him. There is also an intense charge of power here, twisting and crackling under its own weight. Every prayer he’s stolen since his last visit here lingers in the air, even the benign praises the spirits are meant to live off of seem stuck, unable to reach him.

When I open my eyes again, a long slow breath leaves me. This problem appears to be much worse than I originally thought. I raise my hands to sooth my throbbing temples, battling the beginnings of a headache. Another unpleasant sensation that comes with physicality.