Chapter 44 The Crumbling God

Chapter 44 The Crumbling God
Chapter 44:

Asher's POV

I woke to sunlight. Actual, real sunlight streaming through windows I hadn't seen in three years.

For a moment, I didn't remember where I was. The ceiling was wrong—painted instead of cosmic void. The bed was wrong—soft instead of non-existent. My body was wrong—heavy, solid, achingly mortal.

Then it all came rushing back. The breakdown. The crying. Clinging to my mother like I was six years old again instead of eighteen.

Shame hit me so hard I couldn't breathe.

I sat up too fast. My head spun. When was the last time I'd felt dizzy? Years. Maybe never since the transformation.

My room. They'd kept my room exactly the same. Action figures on the shelf that I'd loved when I was small. Books I'd read a hundred times. That poster of the solar system I'd insisted on hanging even though I could literally travel to those planets now.

Everything frozen in time. Waiting for a child who'd never come back.

Because I wasn't that child anymore. Would never be that child again.

I should leave. Return to my duties. The barriers wouldn't maintain themselves, and every moment I wasted here was a moment some reality could be collapsing.

I stood. Made it two steps toward the door before my legs gave out.

I caught myself on the desk. Breathing hard. When did breathing become difficult?

You're exhausted, the First's voice murmured. When's the last time you actually rested?

"Meditation between—"

Meditation isn't rest. You know that. You're running on fumes and cosmic will. Has been for months.

"I'm fine."

You collapsed within seconds of waking. You're not fine.

I hated when the ancient consciousness was right.

A knock on the door. Soft, hesitant.

"Asher?" Dad's voice. "You awake?"

I should say no. Should pretend to still be sleeping so he'd leave me alone.

"Yeah." The word came out rough. "I'm up."

The door opened slowly. Dad stood there holding a tray with breakfast. Toast, eggs, juice. Normal, human food I hadn't eaten in years.

"Thought you might be hungry." He stepped inside carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. "You used to love scrambled eggs."

Used to. Past tense. Because the person who loved scrambled eggs was gone.

"Thank you." I took the tray because refusing felt cruel. Set it on the desk. Stared at it.

Dad sat on the edge of my bed. Watching me with that expression I couldn't quite read. Concern mixed with something else. Fear, maybe.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Fine."

"Asher."

"I'm fine." Sharper than I meant. "Just tired. I'll rest a few hours then return to—"

"No."

I looked up. "What?"

"You're not returning to the void in a few hours." His Alpha voice. The one that didn't leave room for argument. "You're staying here. For however long it takes."

"The barriers—"

"Can wait." He leaned forward. "The Primordials can handle routine maintenance for a few days. Or weeks. Or however long you need."

"I don't need—"

"You collapsed." His voice softened. "Last night you cried for twelve hours straight. You can barely stand. You're not fine, Asher. You're barely holding together."

The shame intensified. "I lost control. It won't happen again."

"It needs to happen again." He reached for my hand. I pulled back automatically. He didn't push. "Son, you've been suppressing everything for years. Last night was the first real emotion I've seen from you since you were six. And I'm terrified of what happens if you go back to the void and bury it all again."

"I have to." Couldn't he understand? "Do you have any idea what I deal with every day? The things I see? The choices I make?"

"No. I don't. Which is why you need to tell me."

I laughed. It came out bitter. "Where do I start? Yesterday I watched a reality collapse because I couldn't seal the rift fast enough. Three million souls, just... gone. Screaming as their existence ended. And I had to choose—save them or save a different dimension with six million. Simple math, right?"

Dad's face went pale.

"Or the week before," I continued, the words spilling out now, "when I had to kill a corrupted guardian who'd gone mad from isolation. He begged me for help. Told me he just needed someone to talk to. And I put him down like a rabid dog because he was too far gone to save."

"Asher—"

"Every decision is a nightmare. Every day is impossible choices. And if I feel it—if I let myself care about the three million versus the six million, if I mourn the mad guardian, if I grieve for every reality I can't save—I'll go insane. So I shut it off. All of it. Become the weapon I need to be."

"You're not a weapon." Dad's voice was steady. "You're my son. And what you're describing isn't strength. It's suicide."

"It's survival."

"No." He stood. Moved to stand in front of me. "It's slow death. And I won't watch you kill yourself one emotion at a time."

"Then don't watch." I regretted it immediately. The hurt in his eyes made my chest ache.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Your mother and I bonded when I was weak. Injured. Barely holding on. And I fought it—the bond, the feelings, all of it. Thought caring about her would make me weaker."

I'd heard this story before. But I let him continue.

"I was wrong. The bond made me stronger. Not despite the emotions, but because of them. Caring about her gave me something to fight for. Something beyond duty and obligation."

"That's different—"

"It's exactly the same." He moved closer. "You think detachment makes you a better guardian? It's making you sloppy. Last night you said you almost died because you hesitated. That hesitation saved your life, Asher. Made you human enough to question, to think, to react instead of just executing protocols."

"The protocols are there for a reason—"

"And they're failing." He touched my shoulder. I didn't pull away this time. "You're failing. Not because you're not strong enough or powerful enough or dedicated enough. Because you're trying to be a machine instead of a person."

"Machines don't make mistakes." My voice cracked. "People do. And I can't afford mistakes when millions of lives hang in the balance."

"So you'll make no mistakes but lose yourself completely? Become a perfect weapon with no soul?" He squeezed my shoulder. "That's not what your mother and I wanted when we let you take this burden."

"You didn't let me. I chose it."

"You were six years old." His voice broke. "You were a baby who had to become a god because the universe demanded it. And we failed you by letting it happen."

"You didn't fail—"

"We did." He pulled me into a hug. I stood rigid, uncomfortable. "We should have found another way. Should have protected you better. Should have kept you from bearing this alone."

"There was no other way."

"Maybe not then. But now?" He pulled back to look at me. "Now you're here. Safe. Home. And I'm not letting you go back to that void until you remember how to be human again."

"I don't have time—"

"Make time." Alpha voice again. "Consider it an order from your father."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist I was needed elsewhere. But the exhaustion was overwhelming now. The weight of twelve years of suppressed emotion pressing down.

"I don't remember how," I admitted quietly. "How to be human. How to feel without drowning. How to care without falling apart."

"Then we'll teach you." He guided me back to the bed. "Starting with breakfast. Sit. Eat. Like a normal person."

I sat. Picked up the fork. The eggs smelled good. When had I last noticed how food smelled?

I took a bite. It tasted... like something. Not just fuel. Actual flavor.

"Good?" Dad asked.

"Yeah." The word came out surprised. "Really good."

He smiled. Small, but genuine. "Your mother makes the best scrambled eggs. Always has."

We sat in silence while I ate. Normal. Domestic. Almost painful in its ordinariness.

"Can I ask you something?" Dad's voice was careful.

I nodded.

"Last night, when you were dreaming. You kept saying a name."

My hand tightened on the fork.

"Maya."

The name hit me like a physical blow. I set down the fork carefully. "I don't want to talk about her."

"Why not?"

"Because she's safe. She's happy. She's living a normal life without me. And that's how it should be."

"Is it?" He tilted his head. "Or is that what you tell yourself to justify staying away?"

"She doesn't remember me." The words tasted like ash. "I made sure of that. Wiped her memories clean so she could have the life she deserves."

"And you've been mourning her for twelve years."

"I don't mourn—"

"You cried her name in your sleep. Begged her not to go. That's mourning, Asher."

I stood abruptly. Moved to the window. Couldn't look at him. "She was five years old when I left. A child who needed protecting. I protected her. End of story."

"By making yourself forget she existed?"

"I didn't forget." The admission escaped before I could stop it. "I tried. God, I tried so hard to forget. But she's always there. In every decision, every choice, every impossible moment. I wonder if she's safe. Happy. If she ever thinks about the friend she doesn't remember having."

Dad was quiet.

"And it's destroying me." I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. "Because I can't afford to care. Can't afford to wonder. Can't afford to feel anything for a girl who has no idea I exist. But I do. I care so much it physically hurts."

"That's love, son."

"It's weakness."

"No." He stood behind me. "It's the only thing keeping you sane. The one connection strong enough to pull you back from becoming the monster you're terrified of."

"I won't drag her back into this world." I turned to face him. "She almost died because of me. I won't risk her again."

"No one's asking you to." He held up his hands. "But maybe... maybe you could stop punishing yourself for caring. Stop treating love like it's a disease you need to cure."

"Love makes you hesitate. Makes you weak. Makes you—"

"Human." He moved closer. "Which you still are, whether you accept it or not. And fighting it is killing you faster than any cosmic threat ever could."

I wanted to argue. But the exhaustion was too much. The weight too heavy.

"I don't know how to do this," I whispered. "Be the guardian and still... feel things. Want things. Care about things."

"Then learn." He pulled me into another hug. This time I didn't resist. "Stay here. Rest. Let us help you figure it out."

"And if I can't? If the feelings are too much and I break completely?"

"Then we'll be here to put you back together." He tightened his grip. "You're not alone, Asher. You never were. You just convinced yourself you had to be."

I leaned into him. Let myself be held. Let myself be weak.

And for the first time in twelve years, it didn't feel like failing.

It felt like coming home.