He was watching Lauliet again. Only this time he had a much different intention. He wasn’t here to stalk her as prey, or to indulge himself in her misery as a proxy for his own. He was here to rectify his transgressions. 

He had decided after some consideration that he needed to return her voice. His stripping her of it had a parallel with his own eye loss that made him decidedly uncomfortable. Restoring it felt a bit like a substitute for restoring himself. It felt right. Not that he was one to put too much stock in right and wrong, such reductive concepts were the realm of the non-endless, those with societies that needed such constructs to maintain their social hierarchical integrity. Such a thing was virtually meaningless for him, he reassured himself. But nonetheless. And it wasn’t that he thought hunting itself was inherently wrong, but the manner in which he had been casually and remorselessly causing suffering no longer sat well with him. And Lauliet was a flagrant example. 

He had been reflecting on hunting as a concept, and was still conflicted on his stance. He didn’t necessarily need to eat, he was a god after all. But he was still a cat, he refused to deprive himself of his identity, the last vestige of his existence before godhood. He didn’t want to forget it again, despite Noctua’s standing offer of his previous life’s dreams whenever he needed them. And cats needed to hunt, they were obligate carnivores, after all. But he was uncertain if his awareness of the pain he was causing made him immoral or hypocritical. Should he make rules around his selection of prey? Should he only hunt those that were near the grave already, or those that were too young to have a rich experience that he would be taking away? The non-endless or gods exclusively? Gods may be a more worthy prey, and it felt like they had a fighting chance to evade him, but the non-endless he would likely be able to kill quickly and therefore more painlessly. 

It was too much to resolve right now. He needed to focus on Lauliet.

He wasn’t sure how to approach her. She was humming quietly to herself in his old voice, the breeze a hot lull over the surface of her pond, causing only the faintest of ripples. He sat in a cluster of lemon balm, the minty smell comforting. It reminded him of Sikac and their tree. He breathed in deeply, trying to gain courage and resolve from the scent. 

He thought about looking into the future again, to see how he was supposed to do it. But trying to prevent an awful future hadn’t worked out well for him last time, and he wanted to focus on doing things right, here in the present, not be overwhelmed by the weight of his impending fate. And if felt a bit like cheating, like he would only be acting out a path set in front of him, like the sincerity of his actions would be compromised or lost.

And there wasn’t going to be a right way to approach her anyway. He stood up, his legs a little weak. 

‘Hello,’ he said tentatively as he approached her. Better not to accidentally sneak up and startle her. 

She went silent. Presumably alarmed at his return. That was fair. If Yanus suddenly showed up in front of him, he would probably be alarmed at the very least. 

‘I came to return your voice. And apologize.’ He cleared his throat, feeling her voice reverberate as he swallowed, stalling. He wasn’t sure what happened next, in apologies. His experience apologizing had been just Sikac, and that was not exactly a success. He wished there was a sort of protocol, or maybe some sort of checklist. Maybe he’d better do it again, just to be safe. 

‘I’m sorry I took your voice.’ He thought about how he would have liked Noctua to apologize, as considering Yanus apologizing was too outlandish. ‘I hurt you. For no reason except that I could. Taking your voice was a violation. And I regret that it took me this long to return it to you.’ 

He waited, unsure.

He wondered what it was like to hear your own voice speak without your control, to apologize to you. At the uncanniness, the eeriness of it. If it made her feel alienated from the world, like her body, her experience was out of her control. If she felt like him. His heart twinged.

‘Return it then.’ It came out a bit more timid than she likely intended. He breathed deeply, preparing, his heartbeat accelerating in his chest in anticipation, readying himself for the pain. He coughed, a hacking, grating cough, constricting his throat and dislodging her larynx with no small effort. He placed it on a patch of moss at the bank, like a tribute, stepping back to give her space to reclaim it. 

The reeds shook, and a small catfish dislodged itself from their silty base. It swam over and with a wet heave, hoisted itself just far enough onto the bank to push the organ into the water, mouth gaping, gasping for breath, all shimmery wet scales, before wriggling back into the pond to retrieve it with a quick flurry. 

He turned to leave. He didn’t have a voice anymore, but it felt fitting, a little, like penance. 

‘Wait!’ Lauliet called, in her own voice once again, lilting and beautiful. ‘I…I don’t forgive you.’ Novem nodded, accepting her decision solemnly. He felt somewhat relieved. He wanted to be punished, he realized, and her refusal felt like a much more deserved punishment than his own self-flagellation. 

‘But,’ she continued. ‘I liked it when you visited before,’ her voice gained some strength. ‘You should visit me again. And we can sing together.’ The same catfish pushed a short pretty reed onto the bank, covered in delicate spindly text, then disappeared back into the sediment of the pond. 

Novem stepped forward, nosing the reed into position, then swallowed it. ‘I’d like that.’ His new reed voice was not like his old, nor like Lauliets. It was something different entirely. He looked forward to using it.