I AM

PART I

The Child of Frost and Stars

She was born from the frost that gathered in the deepest corners of the forest, where the sky met the earth and the stars fell like silver embers from a violet night. They drifted through the darkness in shades of silver, blue, and pale gold before disappearing among the trees, where their light lingered long after dawn.

From the moment she could remember, she felt ill-suited to the towering walls that enclosed her father's great fortress. Her father often told her that her mother was one made from the earth and the sky, a soul born from the meeting of two worlds, where the roots of the earth reached upward and the heavens whispered back.

But what was she to make of that?

Two worlds, when she could barely understand the one she lived in?

There were no portraits of her mother. No painted likeness hanging upon the walls. No memories preserved in faded tapestries or written upon old pages. Only stories.

Yet those who had known her mother said there were traces of her daughter everywhere. Not in some extraordinary mark that could be seen or named, but in the quietest parts of her.

She carried the same gentleness in her expression, the same stillness that came before the first snowfall. Her features were soft, her eyes the colour of the earth after rain, and there was a purity about her that seemed untouched by the shadows of the fortress that surrounded her.

She did not know whether that was a gift or a burden. To resemble someone who existed only in stories was to carry a memory that was not her own. A longing for a woman whose voice she had never heard, whose hand she had never held, yet whose presence seemed to follow her like a whisper among the trees.

Stories of how the earth seemed to awaken beneath her footsteps. How the flowers turned toward her as she passed. How the forests grew quiet, as if listening to the sound of her presence. Stories that made her feel as though her mother belonged to something far greater than the walls of the fortress that had raised her.

She often wondered if her mother looked down upon her when the sky filled with stars. If, among the countless lights scattered across the darkness, there was one that watched over her. One that carried a memory of the woman she had never truly known.

There were always hushed whispers when they spoke of her mother, as if the very act of speaking her name might awaken something long forgotten. As if the sound of it could break a barrier that had once kept two worlds together, before those worlds were torn apart.

Silence lingered within those halls like a living thing. It clung to the stone corridors and settled in the shadows of forgotten chambers. Even the laughter that had once filled those passageways seemed unwilling to leave, its echoes drifting through the fortress long after the voices themselves had faded into memory.

Often, she found herself wondering about those who had walked beneath the vaulted ceilings before her, and what dreams they had carried within their hearts.

Sometimes she wondered if she was being foolish. If these thoughts, these questions that wandered through her mind, would once again make her father frown.

He was a silent man, but not without pride, the kind of pride inherited from generations who had carried the weight of their name before him. His lineage stretched back to the time when the first elders had spoken to the Gods and believed the earth itself was sacred.

Sacred as the altar that once stood at the centre of the ancient hall, where the first vows had been made and the first promises between worlds had been spoken.

Now she sat at the edge of the garden, where wild ivy crept between weathered stones. Before her loomed a dark figure, vast enough to steal the warmth of the afternoon sun.

It was her father.

Or rather, the memory of the man he had once been.

She lifted her gaze to the stony visage of what had once been a man, a man who, perhaps, had once stood where she sat now, filled with hope, wonder, and the certainty that the world beyond the fortress walls belonged to him.

 

PART II

The Whisper Beneath the Stone

She studied him from where she sat, watching his profile as his gaze wandered toward something far beyond the walls of the fortress. His jaw carried the unforgiving angle of a man shaped by stubbornness and resolve, as though he was always listening for something just beyond reach. Always searching. Always waiting for a summons that never came.

He carried the presence of someone who had learned to endure rather than live, someone whose silence had become as familiar as his own shadow. Yet she often saw what lay beneath the severity he presented to the world. There were moments when the pain behind his eyes revealed more than he intended, when the weight he carried briefly slipped through the cracks of his armour.

And then, as quickly as it appeared, it would disappear.

The walls would return.

The distance would return.

She would look away, knowing that if he realized she had been studying him so intently, he would offer her the familiar frown that she had come to know so well.

This was their daily ritual.

She would sit at the edge of the garden, waiting beneath the shade of the old trees, and he would eventually find his way to her. They rarely spoke. They did not need to. Somehow, in the quiet between them, they communicated far more than words could ever express.

She knew what would come next.

He would extend his hand.

And she would take it.

Together, they would walk beyond the garden walls and follow the ancient path that wound toward the edge of the forest.

A path he had walked countless times before.

A path she had never been allowed to walk alone.

PART III

The World That’s Divided

The forest line lay ahead, and as always, we took the path to the left.

I had asked my father many times why we never walked the other way.

The path to the right was not hidden. There was no gate that prevented anyone from entering, no warning carved into stone, no guards standing watch. It simply remained untouched, disappearing beneath the trees as if the forest itself had chosen to keep it apart.

I had never seen anyone take that path.

Except once.

I remember the day clearly, though I do not remember why I was standing there. Perhaps I had been wandering the halls as I often did, searching for something I could not name. The fortress was full of places like that, quiet corners and forgotten rooms that seemed to hold stories no

one ever spoke of.

I had stopped on one of the landings of the great staircase, where the tall windows looked out toward the endless green beyond the fortress walls. From there, I could see the vast forest stretching toward the horizon, the trees moving gently beneath the wind.

It was a view I had seen countless times.

But that day, something was different.

At first, I thought it was only the movement of the trees. A shadow shifting between the branches. A trick of the light as the sun passed through the leaves.

Then I saw the figure.

Someone was emerging from the path to the right.

A path I had never seen anyone walk.

The figure moved slowly, almost as if they were not leaving the forest but reluctantly stepping away from it. I watched from the window, trying to understand what I was seeing.

The distance was too great for me to see their face clearly. The trees hid much of them, and the shadows followed wherever they went.

I could not tell if it was a man or a woman.

But for a brief moment, I felt as though they knew I was there.

They stopped.

Slowly, they turned.

And looked directly toward me.

I had not thought of that moment for many years. It had become one of those memories that rested quietly in the corners of my mind, almost forgotten beneath the passing of ordinary days.

But now, as I walked beside my father toward the forest, the memory returned.

The hairs along my arms rose, and I suddenly felt that this walk would not be the same as all the others.

For the first time, I wondered if my father and I had ever truly been alone in these woods.

We reached the end of the familiar path, where the light that had followed us through the trees began to fade. I pulled my shawl closer around my shoulders as the coolness of the forest settled around us.

The warmth of the morning disappeared little by little, even though the sun still hung high above the trees.

The deeper we walked, the quieter it became.

And as the shadows gathered around us, I felt as though we were no longer simply walking into the forest.

We were walking toward something that had been waiting.

PART IV 

The Daughter Between Worlds

 

My father suddenly halted in his steps.

His head bowed, and his unruly hair fell forward, slightly obscuring his face from mine. For a moment, he remained completely still.

The pause seemed to stretch for a lifetime.

There had never been a need for many words between my father and me. We had always understood each other in the silence between them. But this time felt different.

This silence was not familiar.

It was the silence of someone searching for the courage to speak.

I watched as his shoulders rose and fell, as though he carried a weight he had carried for far too long. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I wondered if he would turn away and continue walking as he always had.

But he did not.

Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at me.

"Maeve."

I had heard my name spoken many times before, but never like this.

"Do you know how long we have walked this path together?"

I shook my head.

"Years," he said quietly. "Years, and yet you have never once asked me the question I know has burned within you."

My heart tightened.

The question.

The one that had lived in the corners of my mind for as long as I could remember.

The one I had learned never to speak aloud.

"I have dreaded this day," he continued. "But you are no longer a child. It is time that you know from whence you came."

I stared at him, unsure if I had heard correctly.

"What do you mean, Father?"

His expression changed.

For a brief moment, the man who had always stood so firmly before the world seemed uncertain.

"Ask the question of me."

His voice carried through the forest, louder than he intended. The trees seemed to hold onto the sound, and the birds above fell silent.

He looked away, almost startled by his own command.

Then, softer, he said again:

"Ask me."

For a moment, I could not speak.

The question I had carried within me for so many years suddenly felt too large to give a voice to. I had imagined this moment countless times, in the quiet of my room, beneath the endless sky, and within the walls of the fortress that had raised me.

But I had never imagined what it would feel like to finally have the door opened.

My father had always been a man of certainty. His words were few, but when they came, they carried the weight of decisions already made.

Yet now, standing before me beneath the ancient trees, he seemed almost like a stranger.

Not because I did not know him.

But because, for the first time, I saw the burden he had carried.

I lowered my gaze to the earth beneath my feet.

"Father..."

The word barely escaped my lips.

He waited.

And in that silence, I realized that perhaps he had been waiting for this moment longer than I had.

I looked back at him.

"What am I?"

The forest seemed to fall into a deeper stillness.

The question sounded different once spoken aloud. Smaller. More fragile. Not the question of someone seeking power or answers, but the question of someone who had spent a lifetime wondering why she felt as though she belonged nowhere.

My father's expression changed.

Not with anger.

Not with surprise.

With sorrow.

He looked beyond me, toward the trees, toward something only he could see.

Then, after a long silence, he whispered:

"You are the daughter of two worlds."

The words hung between us.

I waited for him to continue.

But he did not.

And somehow, I knew that whatever he was about to tell me would change everything I had ever believed.

PART V

The Choice of the Stars

"You are the daughter of two worlds."

The words settled between us, but they did not answer the question I had asked.

If anything, they created more.

I looked at my father, waiting.

"What does that mean?"

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he turned and continued walking.

I followed.

The forest changed around us, though not in any way I could easily explain. The trees grew farther apart, allowing more light to reach the earth beneath them. The shadows no longer gathered in dark pockets beneath tangled roots, but stretched softly across the ground like folds of silk.

The air felt different here.

Lighter.

Older.

As though the world had grown quieter and was listening.

We climbed steadily, following a path I had never seen before. Through the breaks in the trees, distant mountains emerged upon the horizon. Their peaks rose beyond the forest, pale against the sky, and for reasons I could not understand, the sight of them stirred something within me.

A memory.

Or perhaps the echo of one.

The feeling vanished before I could grasp it.

My father remained silent.

Yet I sensed that his silence no longer came from reluctance.

It came from remembrance.

At last, we emerged from the shelter of the trees.

Before us stretched a wide expanse of rolling grassland. Wildflowers moved gently beneath the wind, and beyond them the mountains stood watch beneath an endless sky.

There was nothing remarkable about the place.

No monuments.

No ancient stones.

No sacred markings.

And yet, standing there, I felt something I had never felt before.

Home.

The thought arrived unbidden.

Impossible.

I had never been here.

But the feeling remained.

My father looked out across the valley.

"When I was young," he said quietly, "the boundaries between worlds were not as they are now."

I turned toward him.

He did not look at me.

"The heavens were closer to the earth. There were places where the distance between them seemed no greater than a breath."

The wind moved through the grass.

"Those who belonged to the stars could walk among mortals if they wished. Those bound to the earth could glimpse what lay beyond it."

His voice softened.

"Most never crossed."

I listened carefully.

Something told me these were not stories.

Not really.

"Why?"

He smiled faintly.

"Because every world asks a price of those who wish to remain."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he continued.

"There were two who crossed."

The smile vanished.

"A man and a woman."

I felt my heart quicken.

"They came from different realms, yet both grew fascinated by this world. They watched the seasons change. They watched kingdoms rise and fall. They listened to the songs of mortals and marvelled at how fiercely they loved despite how little time they were given."

His gaze drifted toward the horizon.

"And somewhere along the way, they fell in love."

The wind seemed to still around us.

"They were warned."

His voice became distant.

"Told that such things were not meant to be. That immortals were not meant to bind themselves to mortal lives."

I swallowed.

"But they did not listen."

"No."

A shadow crossed his face.

"They chose each other."

His eyes lowered.

"And then they chose this world."

The words lingered between us.

I looked away, my thoughts racing.

The story felt strangely familiar.

Not because I had heard it before.

But because some part of me already knew how it ended.

"What happened to them?"

For a long moment, my father did not answer.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried a sorrow so deep that it seemed older than the mountains themselves.

"They surrendered what they were."

The wind moved gently through his silvering hair.

"They gave up eternity."

I stared at him.

"Why?"

His gaze found mine.

And for the first time since this journey had begun, I saw the truth waiting behind his eyes.

Because they wished to live.

Not forever.

But fully.

To know joy and grief.

To know love and loss.

To walk beneath the changing seasons and feel time pass through their hands like water.

To become mortal.

A chill ran through me.

The world seemed suddenly very still.

The story was no longer a story.

I knew it before he spoke.

I knew it in the silence.

I knew it in the sorrow he carried.

"The woman in that story..."

My voice trembled.

My father nodded.

"Was your mother."

The valley disappeared.

The mountains disappeared.

For a moment, there was only the sound of my own heartbeat.

I looked at him.

Unable to breathe.

Unable to look away.

"And the man?"

His expression softened.

Not with pride.

Not with regret.

But with a love that had survived far longer than any mortal lifetime.

"The man," he said quietly,

"was me."

© Lyia Meta 2026

Image by WiX