"Clockwork Bride" is a bit hard to categorize. It has both fantasy and science fiction elements, and I have found inspiration for characters and events in history (Zhenya's character was inspired by Albert Einstien), mythology, Russian folktales, literature, current events, and my own life. If I had to put it into a genre, I'd probably classify it as literary fiction or bildungsroman. But since they don't have either of those categories her at FictionPress, Fantasy seemed to be the closest fit. If you are interested in reading serious fiction written by an author actually aiming for publication (fates willing), then "Clockwork Bride" should appeal to you. I'm really serious about improving my craft, so any advice, criticism, or simple appreciation would mean a lot to me.

I'm going to be writing this as I go. I have the story and characters outlined, but I'm a slow writer, so expect updates once every week or two. But they will be full-sized chapters- 10-30 pages in length- so hopefully it'll be worth the wait. Actually, since the chapters are long, I was thinking about breaking them up into smaller, five-page sections, and posting them in smaller intervals as I work on the new ones. You can tell me what you prefer.

Anyway, thank you very much for looking at my work. I really hope you enjoy it!

Prologue

The woman I loved first came to me as I lay in bed, intertwined with my wife.

The night was especially warm, and the stars that hovered outside our window seemed to lean in closer than was usual, large and overbearing. Even now, I cannot fathom how I came to sleep. What I recall is being more awake than I had ever been before. When I looked at Nina, I was aware of every jewel of sweat that clung to her face, strung to those faerie hairs that translated sensation and pleasure to her brain. I could feel every molecule of her and how they all knit together to form this creature who was a chalice of blood, who breathed and made love, who could scream my name in passion and anger, who was all dark skin and dark eyes and dark lips, who was my wife. I sensed how she excited the air around her; made it buzz with warmth and sensuality. Every butterfly breath from that sweet mouth I felt as a tempest, and I could anticipate the paths of every grain of air as they rushed toward me, colliding in the predictable chaos of energy and motion.

I knew the history of every puzzle piece of her skin, so I could read her like a map. Nina was aglow with pathways and traces, and I could see how every man had ever touched her. There, on her forehead, her father had laid kisses when she was a newborn, and there, across her sumptuous lips and chin, he had wiped away baby food, vomit, and spittle. The marks that lay like a vast sea of craters across her back and shoulders were from later, where he had hit her when she had brought home some new boyfriend, when she had talked back to him, or when she had told him that she wanted to study physics at the Academy. And there, written all over her body like neon highways, were the stories of those men who caressed her and kissed her and fucked her- pathways of disappointment and tragedy. I could have traced the lines of every touch she had ever experienced, known how every muscle in her body had spasmed with unbearable pain and pleasure as her men sullied every inch of her body with the fingerprints of their lust and greed.

But the stars, blindingly bright, radiated a terrible heat, and I could not remain in bed with my little wife, but had to go to the window- why, I know not. Perhaps because I needed to confront the enemy. Perhaps because I could sense Her presence. Perhaps because I felt that observing this phenomenon would somehow help me understand it. Perhaps for the chance to catch a breath of cool night air and to confirm that the closeness of the stars was another symptom of my hyper-awareness- yes, most likely that.

I looked out and gasped.

Beyond the etched glass of my window pane, beyond the rows of neat little houses and dirt roads and churches lining the green hills that rolled gently towards the infinite horizon, beyond the dark and mysterious seas where adventurers traveled to battle the demons that slumbered in the deep, beyond the desert sands of Egypt, beyond the gentle moon and impermanent sun, I saw the stars burst into brilliant, fiery motion. They wheeled through the sky like electrons, living their brief lives in rapid, burning energy, ending in explosion; a show of fireworks and faerie magic, reduced to dust and atoms. I witnessed the glow of magical reincarnation into yet another cycle of futility; as the history of the universe passed, in seconds, before my eyes, indistinguishable from the future- an infinite loop. And then, as if this universe were drawn in tissue paper, I could look past this reality and glimpse others, full of infinite possibility, and yet so very much like my own that the banality of it all was unbearable. Entire universes existed, just outside my reach, in spirals of infinite choice. Worlds where I lived in Germany or South America, worlds where I had died, where I had never been born, where the Earth had never existed- unending in number, multiplying and multiplying! And yet, they were all the same- inconsequential.

For the first time, I knew despair. True despair can only come with the knowledge of inevitability, otherwise we will cling to the hope that lies in chance; the hope that our fates are malleable and that we will be able to bend just our one little corner of chaos to our wills. But the knowledge that you are a puppet pulled by strings of cause and effect too complex for you to possibly imagine is a sobering one. And I, the inventor, dreamer, and scientist, did not want to believe that I was no different than any little boy and girl and farmer and priest who had ever turned their faces heavenward and wondered at the grace of the celestial tapestry. I would not believe that I was no more than a piece of clockwork, doomed to follow the path set before me by some great, impersonal will, so, finding that there were no longer any windows, hills, sea, desert, moon, or sun, set between myself and the void, I gladly stepped into it, hoping for nothing but to die and erase my conscious being

"Zhenya." It was a whisper that brought me to a new, tenuous life. "I know you."

The sweetest sound was my name from her lips, stated with neither question nor reservation. Athene- I knew her name without ever thinking that I wanted to (although, if I thought of it, I needed to know it, like I needed to know myself.) So, in the clandestine twilight of my dreams, she was. Athene. Tall and imposing, vulnerable and trembling, with her long fingers intertwined to suggest piety and softness, her eyes strong and knowing, her breath purposeful, she was. And she was completely my own: her skin, her pulsing heart, and the thoughts that spun at the speed of light itself, flickering madly in her golden eyes. For she was born not of the fumblings, pantings, and regrets of sex, but of the pure current of my thoughts. So she was more beautiful to me than any woman I had ever beheld.

"Zhenya Albertovich Zvyeda, you are not as other men are. You see not as others see. You know not as others know. So I have come to you- because you created me. So you have..."

She paused then. I wonder now why that was. A creature like Athene did not need to stop and consider; to ponder the appropriateness of this word or that. I wanted her to say, "my love," because that was what I knew I needed- to have her love. But I also knew, before she spoke, that this was not to be. A creature woven of thoughts had no love to give.

"me," she finished, keeping her gaze steadily connected to mine.

I had her.

I paused to savor the deliciousness of those words. I had her. If you could see her, you would understand. Poets and pimps, scientists and sailors, artists and actors have long meditated on the truth of womanly beauty. They have sought to understand it, explain it, catch it, pin it down like a butterfly, and sell it to the highest bidder. But Athene's beauty, like all true beauty, is like light- defiant of definition, impossible to touch, and yet so obvious in its presence and absence that the need to describe and possess it manifests in an unbearable aching in the chest and gut. To look into her eyes was to gaze at the stars. They were an infinite prism of seductive mystery. A man could spend an eternity contemplating the reflection and refraction of light in those golden eyes and never come any closer to understanding the networks and particles of light and magic that composed them. Just to understand the colour, with its splendid facets and subtle variations, would take eons. And how was such a perfect hue possible, when no other person had ever achieved it? Could any creature with such eyes even be called human?

I took her hand. The fingers were long and graceful. The smallest twitch. Suddenly, those eyes caught mine; literally caught them. Hooked them. I could not look away. The smallest sigh escaped her lips. "Do not, Zhenya. What you intend is wrong."

I knew. I did not let go, but pressed her hand to my face; brushed it against my lips. It was electric and wonderful to touch something so mysterious so intimately. Her eyes narrowed, and she pouted her lower lip; looked both petulant and stern. She did not pull away or show any sign of physical resistance. But I could feel her mind pull away from mine; could feel the anger coursing quick and hot in her veins.

"What have you seen tonight, Zhenya?" Her ire did not manifest itself in her voice, but still it was there. Crouching, waiting.

I thought hard about this. There were so many things. Unbelievable- unimaginable, even. Indescribable. But what I had Seen, in the barest truth and essence of the word, was obvious. Simple. "That I do not matter," I whispered, more to myself than to Athene.

But even as I spoke this truth, and knew it, I did not feel it. I still wanted, urgently and passionately. In the expanse of time and space, I registered not even as a speck of dust. Still, I was a universe to myself, stretching infinitely in all directions, encompassing everything. And at the center of the universe was Athene. Above all importance, the stray thought; the dream of a dream that I could taste her. Five feet was inconsequential in a world where light years' worth of empty space could separate a star from its closest neighbor. Yet, between myself and my Athene, this distance was forever- an unbreakable glass wall, a chasm, a universe, a shadowy curtain that divided dreams and reality.

"Oh, but you do." She smiled then for the first time, and it was not radiant, but sly and evasive, like a fire that is dying, or has just been born.

"If you choose to believe in a universe with no consequence, then you must also believe that everything matters. That is what I have shown you."

I did not hear her words, but felt them; saw them as images and colours swirling before my eyes. Ania was standing amongst the rocks, snowflakes clinging to her hair and brows, her palms open wide. "Do you love me, Fada?" So dark, so much like Nina, it hurt. This was the first time I had seen her- my firstborn; my little girl.

Nina was lying in bed, alone, her fragile body wracked with shivers, her eyes open wide. "Zhenya," she moaned, "I still need you." The stars reflected in her eyes, but they were distant and cold. More real were her lips, dry and cracked; the gentle rise and fall of her small bosom.

A man was pacing up and down in a study, his face illuminated by the glow of a single candle, so one side of his face was bathed in its warmth and the other was hidden in the shadows. In his clenched left hand was a small silver dagger, its hilt inlaid with rubies. In his open right palm lay a heart-shaped silver locket with a forlorn, beautiful face gazing out of it. The man was looking down at her, sobbing, “Please, please! Tell me your name!”

"Zhenya, the world is slipping, and with it, a thousand universes of pain and joy, of long-suffering love, are being collapsed into dust."

Lady Tanya hid her face in her hands, as she ran through the puddled streets in bare feet and her white nightgown. Vanya expressionlessly regarded her through his spectacles, as she slipped and slid on the slick cobblestone. One, two, three. Three shots resounded and faded into the pitter patter of the rain. Three small gasps. Three neat holes punched through her chest. She died with her eyes affixed on the heavens.

"We will not let this happen. You have the knowledge and position to change this fate."

I remembered Grisha with his face grave, hands spread apart in a look of surrender. "We're dying, Zhenya."

Grisha, always noble, always with his nose poked in places where it should not be. "Science is the key to life."

But it could also be the key to death. Above all things, I did not want to die.

Golden Athene, casting her glow in the darkness, regarded me. Her beauty was unbearable to me. I knew what she wanted, and she knew what I wanted- and only one of us was going to get our way. I looked out into the spinning cosmos and felt nothing but its cold breath at my face. Was this my future?

I turned to Athene, and, oh, how she was golden- every inch of her! Her eyes, her hair, her silken skin. And, oh, she was warm. It was the kind of warmth that went straight to the soul; that made your fingertips hum with gladness. Against the backdrop of that infinite night sky, needing nothing more than to be loved, I fell into her, suddenly and passionately.

She spoke not a word of protest. Not as my lips found hers; not as my hands traveled up and down her delicate body, craving the warmth of her. I felt every perfect inch of her, first, almost apologetically, through her white dress, her shoulders- admiring their curvature and the fine structure of her bones. And her breasts- my hands traveled over them many times, disbelieving; devouring. Still she did not move. Her nipples did not harden, and she made no sign as my hands wandered lower, down the winding pathway of her spine, over the heat of her thighs, then, under her dress, tugging it off to reveal her splendid nakedness. Athene stood there in the dark, cold and unabashed; made no move to cover herself.

I laid her down and had her then and there.

It was like making love to a corpse. She did not move the whole time. I had to position her limbs so I could lay comfortably in her; had to wonder the whole time whether I was hurting her. I cried even as I did it. Not just a few tears rolling down my cheeks- a loud and wailing cry, like a baby longing for his mother. I gasped and sputtered as I fucked her, fighting to breathe; to not choke on my own disgust. Having sex with Athene was self-indulgent; masturbatory. I was enamored with my own genius; I lusted after the woman who was an embodiment of my mind; I was adoring myself; fucking myself.

When I had finally finished, I lay there, on top of her, exhausted and sweating like a pig. But I had to look into her face; into the mirror of my shame. I could hardly stand it. Her eyes were open wide, unblinking, staring into space. Her lips were slightly parted, and conveyed no emotion or hint of life. I put my hand to her mouth, so I could feel the touch of her breath- a small assurance. I had not killed her. I noticed teardrops shimmering like dying stars on her cheek. I could not tell if they were hers or my own.

"Athene. I'm so sorry." The first words I'd really spoken to her. I hadn't even tried to talk to her!

She did not want to hear my feeble excuses, and crumbled into dull, dead dust in my arms.

I awoke, sweating and crying. I felt my bed, soft and reassuring under my body; felt Nina's hands all over my face.

"Zhenya, Zhenya, darling! What's wrong?" Her eyes were dark and lovely; her mouth foreign when she pressed it to mine.

Nothing, Nina, nothing. I have merely betrayed you and myself.

My only consolation was that in some universe, somewhere, I had not.