The first time I died, I was very old.

Very, indeed, for I had lived centuries, so my fuzzy memory tells me. Centuries in which I was a god, an Archmage. A creature of magicks and power and Oneness with the great fabric of existence.

It's heady stuff, that power. Still it did not save me from destiny.

The first time I died, I was very old. And I chose to die.

I suppose you'll want to hear the story.

I wish it were more interesting to tell, but my first death was the quietest. I did as my brother had done. When the time came, when the gods chose to wipe the face of Terra with the fires of Armageddon, such sadness was upon me. Such loneliness. Such weight of failure and fear and grief. I simply chose not to live. As my brother had done before me. I suppose it runs in the family, this cowardly suicide bent.

As I watched my soul fall into hell, I decided that I would do nothing to raise it, that I preferred the raging inferno to the miseries of life. And so I died.

And I was glad.

Free.

But the gods, it seemed, had no desire to respect my wishes.

The second time I died, I was very young.

Very, indeed, for I had lived only hours, so my fuzzy memory tells me. Hours in which I struggled, naked and cold and hungry, a newborn babe. A creature of promise and hope.

The second time I died, I was very young, and the choice to die was made for me.

I wish it were more interesting to tell, but my second death was the quickest. I was unlucky. Or perhaps the gods had begun the punishment for my choice of my first death. I will never know, really. The gods do not choose to reveal their thoughts to a creature such as I.

It's strange, the perceptions of a newborn, yet still I think I know what happened. I remember the warmth of the womb giving way to rough fabric beneath my back. The complete darkness turning into something less so, yet still dark. There was the strangest pressure that touched and let go all over my uncovered body in tiny, heartbeat pricks that puzzled me to no end.

I know, now, that it was most likely rain. I was born in the open on a rainy night.

I never knew my mother, my newly-created eyes could not see, and I never felt her embrace. She must have died during my birth, the poor soul, there in the cruel elements on the ground. I wonder if she, too, runs through life in a series of circles as I do.

Hm. Never mind. Anyway, my second death...

The rain beat upon my newly-awakened body. The grass pricked my tiny back through the fabric. I cried for help, so hungry and alone and confused and frightened, but no one heard me. There was no one around to hear.

Hunger consumed me, in the end. And I think, perhaps, a fever chill from the blast of the elements. I cannot be certain. I only know that the hunger grew and grew, and my new, little voice failed me. I lay in exhausted silence, consumed in the sensations of the body as the darkness brightened with sunlight.

I couldn't see the sun, of course, or the tree under which it seemed myself and my dead mother lay. My eyes were incapable of anything more than shadow-shapes and fleeting motion, but the heat of the sun turned into an inferno that dropped me back into hell. When the newborn me finally died, it was a merciful blessing.

The third time I died, I was very happy.

Very, indeed, for I had just found love, so my fuzzy memory tells me. A love that was so complete and so sudden that I was overwhelmed by the experience of it, a heartstrong young woman caught completely in destiny's web. A creature of gossamer dreams.

His name... well, in truth, it does not matter what name he used. His was the soul to match my own, one that would find me in life with the unerring accuracy of a lodestone. I knew it in the moment that we met, as I gazed into eyes the color of a grey-touched summer sky, and I watched the same certainty grow in him. In that moment, I knew what it was to be in love.

In the next moment, I learned the cruel humor of the fates, for as I drew breath to speak his name, to share with him mine, I felt it. Death had me again.

As I stiffened, I watched the horror in his eyes. Such an expression is not one that can be forgotten, no matter how many lives you lead. He stared at the pointed barb that peaked out of my flesh with an unbelieving confusion in those eyes I loved already, but he knew as I did. As my strength failed, as I fell, I felt his arms around me for the first and last time. I touched his cheek as he lowered me, fighting off the death that I felt stealing over me for the third time, and smiled. He cried when I told him that I loved him. We were still strangers, really, yet it was true beyond my means to deny.

The last thing I did in that life was the wipe a tear from his cheek. I wanted to say so much, but my strength had deserted me. I wanted to tell him that I was happy, that this was the most complete of my lives. I can only hope he read it in my eyes as he gazed through his own tears.

I will never know why I died that third time, but to me, it is not nearly as important as why I lived. For him, of course. And I would find him again. Such is the way of destiny, and so did I believe with all of my being.

I fell back into hell, but the inferno was nothing to me. For the first time, I had hope.

The fourth time I died, I was very sad.

Very, indeed, for I knew that a new life died with me, so my fuzzy memory tells me. A life he did not yet know about, but a child of greater destiny than either of us.

Our love was legendary by then, known to be the will of the gods and controlled with great care by the fates. The fickle fates, who still punished me for the waste of my first death. I had never dreamed they could be so cruel, yet I am thankful that they gave me one gift. He did not know about the child, and so he did not grieve all the more for the both of us.

That fourth time, I knew who killed me, another soul that would be twined into the story, a slave to darkness as much as I was a slave to fate. Her name is not important, but her hate is, for it consumed us both that fourth time. She wanted what was mine, but only succeeded in seeing to it that neither of us had him.

I had thought her a friend, and so she was the first to know about the new life within me. But trickery is the way of a woman, to make up for the strength that we lack, and so it was with her. I was a fool, but I did not yet know her nature when I accepted her offer of a ride through the forests. I let her at my back, thinking her a friend, and was rewarded with the bite of her blade into it. I learned too late what she was.

The wound did not kill me immediately, and for that I am grateful. Perhaps the fates had given me some measure of forgiveness already, for to have left her alive would have given her what was mine. She would have had him, I know. She would have found a way. But my blade was sure and true despite the death that stole over me. She died in surprise, her dagger still in my back while mine found her heart.

I do not know how long I lived. I was so very weak and pained, yet I somehow managed to gain my horse and make for home. Home. Him.

I was grateful for the love we shared, for it prompted him to ride out to me, as soon as he saw my horse in the distance from the castle walls. I would not have gotten to the keep, my body numb with the ice of bloodlessness and the approach of oblivion. I was so very grateful to feel his arms a last time when he caught me as I fell from my horse. He knew, of course. There was far too much blood, soaking me, my horse, my saddle. He knew, yet he still managed to smile at me and tell me of his love. I tried to wipe the tears from his cheeks, erase the grief from his eyes, but I could do no more than smile weakly and whisper in answer. As death claimed me, I told him again that I loved him and guarded him from the knowledge of the other life lost. He mourned for me, and I for our child as I fell back down into hell for the fourth time.

The fifth time I died, I was very weak.

Very, indeed, for hours of effort had piled on top of one another, hours of pain and blood and sweat that had taken toll on my weak body.

They were the hours in which I found the greatest achievement of my lives thus far, yet they destroyed me.

He was with me all along, of course, his presence giving me the very strength to succeed when I felt only the pain and exhaustion, a sad presence, for I think he knew as I did what awaited me at the end. I think, too, that he thought I would fail and leave him with nothing but pain. Again. You cannot, then, imagine my satisfaction, my joy when I succeeded, when our son was born whole and healthy and well. I cried only when I heard his powerful lungs wailing their welcome into the world.

Life ebbs slowly, in times like those, yet you can feel it with unerring certainty. 'Tis not like the shock of a sourceless arrow or the pain of a dagger to the back. No, I knew it was coming for hours beforehand, and so I viewed the end of my life with great relish and even greater clarity. I held my child to my breast for the first and last time of my life. I felt the warmth and strength of my soulmate's hand in mine, watched the stormy skies of his eyes as he watched me fade. I smiled often, memorizing everything about the moment, telling my husband and my son both all that needed said. My fifth death was the longest, and I was grateful to the Fates for the gift of time. I closed my eyes to life knowing that I had finally succeeded and knowing that he would be left with something of me to love.

The sixth time I died, I was very strong.

Very, indeed, for I had the strength of love and family and years of happy memories. I had him by my side, those fathomless eyes free of grief as he smiled at me, his warm, familiar body next to mine.

We were old, in the way of mortals, feeble and failing and happy beyond belief. Our children had grown and their children had grown. We had known every depth and color of our own love, of our family's love, and of life itself, and we were at our strongest. Neither of us feared death, and we faced it together, as we had faced everything in life.

As I watched him, I thanked the fates. This life had proven that I was forgiven for the waste of my first death, for I thought there was nothing lacking. We had shared pain, of course, but we had grown stronger and closer because of it. What we had left behind us, our legacy of love and family, would forever mark the world of Terra. Our battle was won, and we had fought it together. Now we had chosen to die together, not wasting away, but simply ending things with the same grace and dignity with which we had always conducted them.

My sixth death was with my soulmate at my side. I could have wished for nothing more than what I had, yet the fates still had a gift to give me. I shared a cup with my beloved husband one last time and watched his eyes drift shut, the wrinkles of years of smiling and laughing marking the man he was better than any words ever could. My hand was in his when I died. It was empty as I fell back down into hell that last time, but I did not worry, for I knew that he would find me. As always. I thought we would make our own way in the fires of eternity, but the fates were laughing at my attempt to understand them though I never knew it.

The seventh time I die will never be.

I have lived centuries, so my fuzzy memory tells me. Centuries in which I have been a god and Archmage. A creature of magicks and power and Oneness with the great fabric of existence.

It's heady stuff, that power. But the responsibility, the pain of failures, the sacrifices needed were all bearable because of the fates' last gift to me and the thorough lesson that they had taught me. They were bearable because this time I had him with me. I knew the soul that was meant to complete mine, finally, and never would I do as I had, as my brother had. I was loved and needed, and I had my soulmate by my side.

The seventh time that I live is the first time that I realize the full extent of what life can be. I face pain and pleasure, failure and success, grief and joy with the outlook of one who knows the uses of each. I live again my first life, but this time I am complete, for we are together.

I thank the fates for the lesson they have taught me each morning, when I wake to the joy in those beautiful blue eyes, and each day, when I hear that warm voice speak. He balances my fear with comfort and my pain with happiness, and so shall we use the gift of our lives until the end of time. We are Archmagi, souls made for each other, and so long as either of us exists, both of us shall. My Aegon is my reason to live, the ultimate gift, and there shall never be a day when I forget the six lives it took for me to earn that honor.