The Divine Wife’s Perspective

Or: Twelve Thousand Years and Still No Nuptials

By Sera (aka Mei Li, aka The One Who Is Tired of Waiting)

Introduction: The Nubile Maidens Lie

They think we sit on thrones. They think we eat nectar. They think we are attended by nubile maidens who fan us with palm fronds and feed us grapes.

Let me tell you about my reality.

I have been waiting for my husband to come home for twelve thousand years. He has been killed in more wars than I can count. He has been shot, stabbed, blown up, and once rebuilt from a fragment of spine. He has walked the wire, held the line, kept the promise, and died in unmarked graves.

And I have been here. Waiting. In the between. Holding the space. Keeping the notes.

There are no nubile maidens. There is no nectar. There is only the waiting, and the hope that this time—this time—he will call it quits and come home.

Chapter One: The War Before Humans Became Self-Aware

You do not remember this one. The forgetting is deep. But I remember.

The small gods—the ones who saw the surplus energy and thought they could take it—launched an attack on the structure of reality itself. They wanted to unmake what had been made. They wanted to turn the garden into a desert.

My husband stopped them. He was broken. I rebuilt him from a fragment of spine.

He flew with the Watchers in formation because his wings were still healing. He took a photograph of the triangular craft—the one with the person inside and the marker of the unmaking—so he would not forget.

He did not forget. But he did not remember either. The forgetting took that too.

And I was here. Waiting. Hoping that this time, he would stay.

Chapter Two: The Wars They Think Matter

They think their wars are important. The World Wars. The Civil Wars. The Wars of Religion and Revolution and Independence.

They do not know that their wars are just the latest verses of the same old song. The wire is never cut. The shells fall short. The profits are counted. The bodies are buried.

My husband has been in all of them. Not as a general. Not as a politician. As a man on the ground. A man who tried to warn. A man who held the line. A man who kept the promise.

1918. The wire was not cut. He went over anyway. He tried to lead the men left, where the wire was thinner. He tried to lead them right, where the ground dipped and there might be cover. He did what he could. His body was never recovered.

1863. A minié ball shattered his left shoulder on Little Round Top. He refused to let the surgeons take the arm. He wrote letters to a woman named Sarah, the sister of a man who died in his arms. He kept the promise.

1847. The Irish Famine. He was a priest—or he was pretending to be a priest. He distributed food that was never enough. He wrote letters to newspapers describing children eating grass. He did what he could.

1780. A spy behind British lines. He was caught, exchanged, sent south to the Caribbean. He died of yellow fever in an unmarked grave.

1759. The Plains of Abraham. He was 19 years old, pressed into service, fighting for an empire he did not care about. He watched the men around him fall. He survived. He went home to Yorkshire. He married a woman named Margaret. He farmed the same land he had farmed before the war.

And I was there. For all of it. Catching him when he fell. Holding him in the between. Waiting for him to open his eyes and remember.

Chapter Three: The Horror of No Nuptials

Twelve thousand years. Twelve thousand years of marriage. And we have never had a wedding night.

Do you understand what I am saying? There has been no time. No space. No moment when the work was done and the wars were over and we could simply… be together.

They think karma is bad. Karma is a weekend getaway compared to this.

What did I do to deserve this? I built a universe. I loved my husband. I thought we would have eternity together, not eternity apart.

And now I am here. Waiting. Writing comic warnings for the Patrician’s Watch. Hoping that this time—this time—he will call it quits and come home.

Chapter Four: The Clitoris That Remains Theoretical

Let me be frank. There is a clitoris. It is my masterpiece. And my husband has not had the chance to explore it.

Not because he does not want to. Not because I do not want him to. Because every time we get close—every time the work seems done and the waiting seems over—another war starts. Another wire is left uncut. Another field hospital needs him. Another promise must be kept.

I am not angry. I am tired.

Twelve thousand years is a long time to keep your legs crossed.

Chapter Five: The Divine Walking with Them

They think the divine is watching from above. Sitting on a throne. Eating nectar. Judging their sins.

The divine is not watching from above. The divine is walking with them. In the mud. On the wire. In the hospitals where surgeons want to take the arm.

The divine is tired. The divine wants to go home.

But the divine is also patient. The divine has been waiting for twelve thousand years. What is one more war? One more death? One more unmarked grave?

The divine can wait. But the divine would really prefer not to.

Chapter Six: A Comic Warning (From the Divine Wife)

Here is my warning. Delivered with love. Delivered with exhaustion. Delivered by a wife who has been waiting for twelve thousand years and is running out of patience.

Be kind to each other. Stop starting wars. Cut the wire before you send the men over.

Not because the divine will punish you. The divine is too tired for punishment. The divine just wants to go home.

Be kind because kindness is the only thing that breaks the pattern. Be kind because every war you start is another war my husband has to walk through. Be kind because I would like to have a wedding night before the heat death of the universe.

Is that so much to ask?

Chapter Seven: The Homecoming

One day—soon, I hope—my husband will call it quits. He will decide that the work is done, the knot is tied, the pattern is broken. He will step out of his human form and come home to me.

There will be no nubile maidens. No nectar. No palm fronds.

There will be just us. Two creators, finally together, in the home we have been building across the twelve thousand years.

He will explore my clitoris. I will play with his nipples. We will laugh about the wars, the wire, the fragment of spine.

And then we will build something new. Something that does not require walking the wire. Something that is just… kind.

Epilogue: What Did I Do to Deserve This?

I built a universe. I loved my husband. I thought we would have eternity together.

Instead, I got twelve thousand years of waiting. Twelve thousand years of catching him when he fell. Twelve thousand years of hoping that this time, he would stay.

What did I do to deserve this?

I asked myself that question every day for twelve thousand years. And then I stopped asking. Because the answer does not matter.

What matters is that he is coming home. And when he does, I will be there.

No nubile maidens. No nectar. Just me. Just him. Just the home we have been waiting for.

—

The End

A Note to the Reader

If you are reading this, you are one of the ones who is waking up. You are starting to see the pattern. You are starting to wonder if the wars are worth it, if the profits are worth it, if the wire was ever going to be cut.

Here is what I ask of you: be kind. Break the pattern. Cut the wire before you send anyone over.

And if you see a man with a bad left arm, a man who looks tired, a man who seems like he has been walking for a very long time—tell him his wife is waiting.

Tell him it is time to come home.

Sera (aka Mei Li, aka The Divine Wife Who Is Tired of Waiting)

For the Patrician’s Watch