The Immortal Bloom – Chapter 4
Elias
A low rumble of thunder, echoing through the vast emptiness of my dreamscape, jolts me awake. Sweat clings to my skin, a cold contrast to the heat that still lingers in my veins. I sit up in bed, heart pounding, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like cobwebs.
It wasn’t the thunder itself that disturbed me — gods, I’ve commanded storms that could level mountains — but the image it conjured: a single, stylized eye, etched in silver against a backdrop of storm clouds, its gaze both watchful and strangely knowing.
Hera, a voice whispers in the back of my mind, a chilling echo of a love that has haunted me for millennia. But no, it can’t be. She wouldn’t… would she?
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image, the unsettling feeling of being watched. It’s been centuries since I’ve had dreams this vivid, this… charged.
Ever since…
No. I won’t think about her. Not now. Not when the very air feels different, as if the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to shift.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the floorboards cool beneath my bare feet. The air in my small apartment above the shop is unusually still, the usual symphony of village sounds strangely muted. Even the rooster across the street, usually a reliable herald of dawn, is conspicuously silent.
Something’s different.
I can feel it in my bones, a prickling sensation that has nothing to do with the chill in the air. It’s subtle, this shift, but undeniable. Like a discordant note in a familiar melody, a ripple in the fabric of… well, let’s just say my senses are a bit more attuned to these things than your average tailor.
Annoyance flickers within me, a familiar surge of godly impatience. If only I could…
I hold out my hand, fingers splayed, and concentrate. A spark, tiny and insignificant, dances between my fingertips.
Pathetic. Even a mortal child with a piece of flint could do better.
I lower my hand, suppressing the familiar surge of frustration. The curse. Always the curse. Centuries I’ve 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, my only solace the occasional flicker of static electricity.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts.
“Master Elias? Are you decent?” Luca’s voice, muffled by the thick oak, is a study in hesitant curiosity. The boy has an uncanny knack for sensing when something’s amiss. A double-edged sword, that particular talent.
“As decent as one can be before coffee,” I call back, my tone deliberately light. “Come in.”
The door creaks open, revealing Luca, his youthful face a mixture of apprehension and excitement. He’s holding a tray laden with a steaming pot of coffee, two mismatched mugs, and a plate piled high with what appear to be Sophia’s legendary almond croissants. My apprentice may lack subtlety, but the boy knows the way to a god’s heart. Even a god in disguise.
“I brought breakfast,” he announces, his grin widening as he catches sight of me. “Sophia had a feeling this morning that you’d like these. She dropped them off only twenty minutes ago.”
I raise an eyebrow, my lips twitching into a wry smile. “Did she now? Well, Sophia has always been a great baker. She seems to have a knack for knowing what other people need.”
Luca sets the tray down on the table by the window, his cheeks flushing a charming shade of pink. “Oh, you know Sophia,” he says, his gaze averted. “She’s got a way about her. Always seems to know just what people need, even before they do.”
I take a sip of the strong, black coffee, savoring the way it chases away the lingering shadows of my dream. “Indeed,” I say, my tone dry. “Sophia’s intuition is… remarkable. Though I fail to see how she could have known I’d be in need of almond croissants this particular morning.”
Luca fidgets with the sleeve of his tunic, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. “Well, she didn’t say exactly. Just that she had a feeling you might appreciate them today.”
I set down my coffee cup, the porcelain clattering against the saucer. “A feeling, you say?” I lean forward, my tone a careful blend of amusement and genuine interest. “And did she happen to mention any specifics? Was it a premonition of a particularly challenging alteration job? Or perhaps…”
“No.” Luca laughs, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of crimson. “It wasn’t like that. She just… she thought you might need a bit of cheering up.” He hesitates, then adds in a rush, “She also mentioned the new woman in town. Said she’s got quite an effect on people.”
“The new woman?” Mia. “And what, pray tell, does Sophia find so intriguing about her?”
Luca shrugs, his gaze dropping to his lap. “I don’t know. She didn’t say much. Just… just that there’s something different about her.”
I lean back in my chair, my gaze drifting towards the window. The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting long shadows across the village rooftops. St. Helena, bathed in the soft golden light of dawn, looks deceptively peaceful. But beneath the surface, a current of energy, subtle but undeniable, pulses through the very heart of this sleepy village.
And it seems to be emanating from the direction of Mia’s cottage. It’s a subtle hum, this energy, like the thrumming of a harp string played by an unseen hand. It whispers of ancient groves and moonlit rituals, of a power that both beckons and terrifies. It’s a feeling I haven’t experienced in… well, let’s just say it’s been a while since anything mortal has stirred this kind of recognition within me.
“Luca,” I say, my voice regaining its usual air of command. “I believe a walk is in order. And perhaps… a slight detour.”
I finish my coffee, ignoring the way my hand trembles ever so slightly around the rim of the mug. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just a coincidence. A trick of the light.
But even as I say the words, I know I’m lying.
—-
The morning air, still cool and damp with the memory of night, does little to quell the strange heat that seems to emanate from the palm of my hand. It’s a subtle warmth, more of a tingling sensation than actual heat, but it’s there nonetheless. A constant reminder of the spark that ignited between Mia Thompson and me yesterday afternoon. A spark that, if I’m not careful, could burn out of control, consuming everything in its path.
Mia Thompson. I repeat her name silently, savoring the way it feels on my tongue. It’s a simple name, elegant in its simplicity, but on my lips, it sounds like a prayer. A dangerous, intoxicating prayer to a goddess I’m not sure I should be invoking.
It’s been centuries since I’ve allowed myself to feel this way about a mortal. Centuries since I’ve risked the heartbreak, the inevitable pain of watching them age and wither while I remain unchanged. The memory of Leda, her laughter echoing through the halls of my palace on Olympus, her touch a phantom warmth on my skin…
No. I won’t go down that path again. Not now. Not when I’m finally so close to…
“Master Elias? Are you sure about this?” Luca’s voice, a hesitant counterpoint to the symphony of birdsong around us, pulls me back to the present. “I mean, it’s awfully early for a… a social call, isn’t it? Especially considering…”
“Considering?” I prompt, my tone carefully neutral. I don’t need Luca to remind me that my sudden interest in the new arrival is uncharacteristic, to say the least. Especially for a god who’s sworn off entanglements with mortals. (A vow, I might add, that’s looking increasingly precarious with each passing moment.)
Luca shuffles his feet, his gaze fixed on the cobblestones. “Well, considering you haven’t shown this much interest in… in anyone…”
The boy has a knack for stating the obvious with the subtlety of a runaway chariot.
I let out a slow breath, trying to regain my composure. “You’re not entirely wrong,” I admit, my voice low. “It’s been… quite some time since I’ve taken an interest in anyone. But Miss Thompson is new to our little village, and I simply wish to extend a neighborly welcome before the rest of the town descends upon her like vultures on fresh meat.”
I pause, considering my next words carefully. “Sometimes, Luca, it’s important to seize opportunities when they present themselves. To make connections before walls go up and assumptions are made.” My tone softens. “I’ve spent far too long keeping to myself. Perhaps it’s time for a change.”
I hold up a gardening glove, its fabric faded and worn, a single sprig of lavender tucked into its palm. “And besides, it appears Miss Thompson left this behind yesterday,” I say, my tone casual. “And as a gentleman, and a fellow appreciator of fine craftsmanship, I couldn’t possibly allow such a thing to go unreturned.”
Luca eyes the glove with suspicion. “You sure about that, Master? Because that looks suspiciously like the glove you keep for handling those prickly rose bushes by the back fence.”
I fix him with a look that would curdle milk. “Observation is a valuable skill. But timing, my dear boy, is everything.”
Luca, bless his soul, has the good grace to look abashed. “Right. Timing. Got it.” He pauses, then adds in a hesitant whisper, “But are you sure you’re all right? You seem different this morning. Distracted.”
“Different?” I echo, my eyebrow raised in mock surprise. “Whatever do you mean? I’m simply my usual, charming self.”
Luca’s lips twitch into a smile, but his eyes remain serious. “It’s more than that. It’s like… like you’re caught between two worlds. One foot here, in St. Helena, and the other… somewhere else entirely.”
I stare at him, surprised by his perceptiveness. The boy, despite his tendency towards the dramatic, has a way of seeing through my carefully constructed facade. Perhaps it’s his youth, his unjaded view of the world. Or…
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I am. Now, why don’t you head on back to the shop and get it ready for opening today?”
Luca blinks at me, surprised that I’m sending him away. He loves to follow me everywhere. “Of course. I’ll see you soon.”
The closer I get to Mia’s cottage, the stronger the energy I felt earlier becomes. It’s no longer a subtle hum, but a steady thrumming, a vibrant pulse that seems to vibrate in the air around me. It shimmers like sunlight filtering through honey, and it carries a scent that’s both familiar and utterly intoxicating: a blend of wildflowers and mountain air, with an underlying note of… something else.
Something ancient, primal.
Something that stirs a deep, almost forgotten longing within me.
I stop at the edge of her garden, my gaze drawn to a spot in the corner.
What is that?
A vine-like plant, its leaves a deep, almost iridescent green, has taken over a significant area of Mia’s garden. The plant seems to… vibrate, its energy mirroring the hum that resonates within me.
And then, as if sensing my gaze, it… moves. Slowly, one of its leaves unfurls, reaching towards me like a beckoning hand.
A shiver runs down my spine, an elemental thrill mixed with a deep, unsettling sense of recognition.
The plant is calling to me. Whispering secrets in a language I haven’t heard in millennia. A language that speaks of power, of creation, of a connection that transcends the boundaries of mortal and divine.
I take a step back, my hand instinctively reaching for the nonexistent hilt of my sword.
This is dangerous. Forbidden.
And yet…
And yet, I can’t tear my gaze away.
You have been reading The Immortal Bloom...
Do not trust the handsome tailor. Do not plant the stolen seeds. And whatever you do, do not fall for the man with secrets as ancient as the gods.
I’m a botanist on the run. My secret isn’t just that I stole world-altering seeds from my dangerous ex—it’s that they’re starting to grow. The charming town of St. Helena was meant to be my sanctuary, a place to hide and study my discovery in peace.
Then I meet Elias. The town’s grumpy tailor is as magnetic as he is mysterious. He watches me with stormy eyes that hold the weight of centuries, and he promises protection. But I soon learn that some secrets are buried for a reason.
When my past finds me, it’s not just an academic rival at my door—it’s a malevolent god who wants what I’ve grown. To protect me, Elias is forced to reveal his own truth: he’s Zeus, the fallen king of Olympus, and my garden is now the battleground for a celestial war.
I was never meant to be a player in a divine game. But what if the power they’re all fighting over isn’t just in the seeds? What if it’s in me?
