The Immortal Bloom – Chapter 2

Elias

The rhythmic snip of shears against fabric is a symphony only I can truly appreciate. Each cut precise, measured, a testament to centuries of honed skill.

Mortals call it tailoring. I call it… a test of my rapidly dwindling patience.

Centuries threading a needle with a flick of my wrist. Centuries spent mastering the art of diplomacy, of commanding armies and shaping the very fabric of existence. And now? Now I spend my days hemming trousers and taking out seams. Hera would find this hilarious.

My shop, tucked away on a quiet side street in St. Helena, is my sanctuary. Not from the clamor of the world — though it’s peaceful enough here, for those who find solace in the mundane — but from the stifling expectations of… well, let’s just say my usual clientele is a tad more demanding. And a lot less likely to throw lightning bolts when displeased.

I glance around the shop, taking in the familiar sights and scents. Bolts of luxurious fabrics line the walls, a rainbow of colors and textures that would make even Iris jealous. My antique sewing machine, a relic from another era, sits in the corner like a faithful sentinel. The air is thick with the scent of lavender and beeswax, a combination I’ve found keeps the mortals calm and the moths at bay.

In the window, a half-finished suit jacket hangs on a mannequin, its lines clean and sharp. It’s for the mayor’s upcoming reelection campaign. If only he knew his tailor once dressed kings and gods. But then again, ignorance is bliss, isn’t it?

Here, I’m simply Elias, the tailor. A master of my craft, yes, but still just a man. Or at least, that’s the illusion I’ve meticulously crafted. It’s amazing what a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a carefully cultivated air of aloofness can achieve. Though I suspect the suppressed power humming beneath my skin is what truly keeps the mortals from starting anything with me.

Luca, my apprentice, bless his eager soul, bursts through the door, his face flushed with excitement. “Master Elias,” he exclaims, his voice echoing through the shop, “you won’t believe who just walked past!”

I raise an eyebrow, setting down the silk waistcoat I’ve been working on. Luca, despite his best intentions, has the subtlety of a hurricane in a china shop. “Do enlighten me,” I say, my tone dry. “Was it the baker’s cat again? I told you, that feline has a penchant for dramatic entrances.”

“No,” Luca insists, his eyes wide. “It was the new woman. The one who moved into the cottage on the hill. The one with the…” He trails off, searching for the right words.

“The one with the what?” I press, a flicker of amusement dancing in my chest. The boy’s enthusiasm is almost contagious. Almost. It’s been centuries since I’ve had an apprentice this young, this… unsullied. It’s almost… refreshing.

“The one with the… aura,” Luca finally blurts out, his cheeks turning a charming shade of crimson. “She’s… different, Master. I can feel it.”

I suppress a sigh. Luca, despite his many talents, has a tendency to dabble in the mystical. A side effect, I suspect, of growing up on a steady diet of his grandmother’s fantastical bedtime stories. “An aura, you say?” I ask, picking up a needle and thread. “Perhaps she’s misplaced her halo. Or maybe,” I add, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “she’s hoarding the good pastries from Sophia’s bakery.”

Luca laughs, the sound high-pitched and innocent. “But Master,” he persists, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, “I swear, there’s something… special about her. I saw it in her eyes. It’s like…”

“Like what?” I ask, my patience wearing thin. I have a waistcoat to finish, and a god doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Even by his own divine hand.

Luca opens his mouth to answer, but before he can utter another word, the bell above the shop door jingles, announcing the arrival of a customer. I glance up, expecting to see Mrs. Petrov, back for the third time this week to adjust the hem of her dress. Instead, my breath catches in my throat.

Standing in the doorway, bathed in the soft afternoon light, is the woman Luca described. And gods above, he wasn’t exaggerating. There is something different about her. The moment our eyes meet, a spark of energy sends a jolt through me, straight to my…

It’s been a while since I’ve felt this kind of electricity.

She’s even more captivating up close. Her hair, the color of burnished copper, catches the light, framing a face that would make a sculptor weep with envy. Her eyes, a vibrant emerald green, hold a hint of sadness, a flicker of something… haunting. She’s beautiful, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s as if she carries an invisible weight on her shoulders, a burden that makes her seem both fragile and infinitely strong.

She hesitates at the threshold, her gaze darting around the shop as if unsure of her surroundings. Her eyes land on me, and for a moment, the air crackles with an energy I haven’t felt in a while.

It’s unsettling, exhilarating, and utterly intoxicating.

For the first time in centuries, I feel something.

“Good afternoon,” she says, her voice soft but clear. It’s the voice of a woman who’s used to being heard, even when she whispers. “I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

I rise to my feet, my usual grace momentarily forgotten. Luca’s wide-eyed gaze is on me, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not now. Not when she’s standing here, looking at me as if I’m the only man in the world.

“Of course,” I say, my voice a low rumble that surprises even me. It’s the voice of thunder, of command. I haven’t used it in… too long. “What can I do for you?”

She steps further into the shop, her gaze sweeping over the bolts of fabric, the antique sewing machine in the corner, the half-finished garments draped over mannequins. She moves with a quiet grace, her every step measured, deliberate.

“I need curtains,” she says, her gaze finally settling on me. She sighs.“I could buy them online, but the price to have them shipped here… It’s just too much and it’s important that I have some privacy in my new home.”

I nod, my mind already racing with possibilities. I don’t usually sew curtains, but I’ll take the job if it means I’ll see her again.

“Of course, I understand,” I say, my voice regaining its usual smoothness. “Why don’t you tell me a bit more about what you had in mind?”

She hesitates for a moment, her fingers toying with the strap of her bag. I recognize the gesture, the subtle tell of a woman accustomed to guarding her secrets. It’s intriguing, this mix of vulnerability and strength.

“I moved into the cottage on the hill,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “And there’s nothing on the windows. The sunrise has woken me too early the last two weeks and I could really use the sleep.”

“So, something dark for the bedroom. I see.” I glance at the heavier fabrics and wonder which would work best. “And for the rest of the house?”