Chapter 18: Chapter 13: Shadows of the Dead God

I slept, body burning from the fog, fatigue, and demon-fire. No nightmares wracked my senses this time—no scenes from bloody Gazmere. In fact, I did not dream at all, but my slumber was anything but restful. I flitted between the dark and the light, consciousness and sleep. Half-awake, I saw images blurred, contorted, and felt the burn that had taken my whole body. There were voices around me that could not be distinguished. Every sense blended together, throbbing my thoughts in an incomprehensible slurry.

I had no indication of how much time had passed. I wished, with the fleeting conviction of my murky mind, to slip into a more lasting oblivion. And, I think, at some point, I did. But a voice, haunting and delicate, wormed its way into my head. It roused some resting part of me, and though I didn’t yet awake, I clung to every word.

Let the stars align,

Let our broken hearts entwine.

Lay among the reed,

And sing with me devotion’s creed,

On the sodden shore.

Raveled as the vine,

Rest your body, here with mine.

Doubts and woes recede;

I’ll wash away your worldly need,

On the sodden shore.

If, by some design,

Should we here our love combine,

Stay with me, I plead,

Where fertile blooms our tender seed,

On the sodden shore.

Something cool pressed against my forehead, my temple, my cheek. My eyes shifted, creaking open and taking in the dimming light of an evening sky. Someone knelt over me, blurry, but even in my groggy state, I knew Aryssa’s shape. Her horns, short but elegant. Her eyes, impossibly green. And, most obvious, the pale glow of her skin, half-lost in the endless flow of her midnight hair.

Water sloshed as my vision came more into focus. She wrung out a rag, scrubbing it against my face, my arm, then my open hand. Even as the lyrics faded, she continued to hum that song. It was the same tune, I realized, that had found me so enthralled during our first night together, on the shore of that darkwood pond.

My fingers closed around hers, and she stopped her motions. Her face came closer to mine, and I was better able to see her features. Her stray strands of wet hair rested on my cheeks, and she held my chin with her tender hand.

“Welcome back,” she breathed, before kissing me. My one hand rose, fingers parting her sodden hair. She pulled away after some time, and I realized she was fully nude.

“It’s been nearly a day,” she said, dipping the rag once again in a small pail. “The others have been making camp some distance upstream. Seeing how we’re finally free of Avernus, I came here to wash off the rest of the blood, and… well, vomit.”

I grimaced, head throbbing, as I remembered my last conscious moments. “I… did that.”

“You did.” Her eyes were full of mirth.

“Sorry.”

She laughed. “Oh, Val. You’re much too humble. You saved my life. You saved the Varsha’s lives. I think you’re entitled to puke on whomever you desire.”

She parted my hair, smile fading to a more subtle smirk. “That being said, we’re both in dire need of a bath. Usually, I’d enjoy being this close to you. But you seem to have taken on a rather damnable odor.”

I smelled it too. My gambeson seemed to crack with my every motion, caked with dried-on blood, brains, and other filth, emanating the stenches of death. My nose wrinkled, and I started working at my buttons. First, I made sure of our privacy, being less brazen about my nudity than Aryssa. Then, with my gambeson and garments removed, I inched my way closer to the riverbank, wading in until waist-deep.

Aryssa followed me into the gentle-flowing water. I scrubbed at the bloodstains in my clothes while she washed my hair. Her slender fingers worked at my shoulders, my back, massaging wherever I was tightly-wound which, admittedly, was almost everywhere. When I was done, I set out my clothes next to hers, to dry on a river-smooth boulder.

I moved to leave the river, but Aryssa’s hand tugged at my own. In her eyes, there was a plea to stay. I obliged, and as I settled against the bank, she lowered herself atop me, legs straddling my lap.

“I meant it, by the way,” she said, toying with my hair. “You’re much too humble. I watched you cut down over a dozen of those beasts like it was nothing. Valhera the Red, coated head-to-toe in the blood of her enemies like some warrior of legend.”

She bit her lip suggestively, but my expression was different. “I hardly think that a wholesome image,” I said.

“Maybe not. But it’s the sort of story that bards adore, told for centuries thereafter. Heroes and heroines… courage in the face of impossible odds.”

“That’s what you see when you look at me?”

She leaned closer, as if to kiss, but stopped an inch away. Her smile, her voice, slow and sultry, rendered my entire body gooseflesh. “I do, Valhera. You’re… something from a song.”

She kissed, caressed, and while I did not push her away, I found it difficult to reciprocate. After some time, she took notice, and, however reluctant, pulled her lips from mine.

“That’s not what I see,” I said, and her green glimmer seemed to fade.

Silence, for a while, as she read my expression and collected her words. “There’s a certain sorrow… in something so cruel,” she said, brushing my cheek. “Those were your first words to me, in Black Orchard. I don’t think… you were talking about your sword.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She brushed the sodden hair from my face, speaking again.

“You haven’t told me your story, still.”

“Ari…”

“I don’t want you to, before you’re ready.” She gave me a sad smile. “Just know… your value, in my eyes. I think… I know that broken things have their own sort of beauty.”

My face hardened. “I’m not broken.”

“Valhera. Everyone has their fears. Their doubts. Their own set of scars. That isn’t weakness. Not fucking close.”

I watched her a moment. Her eyes, green and bright, held that sincerity, that honesty that had first drawn me in. There was much we still had to learn about each other. Even so, I trusted her offer of sanctuary.

I drew her closer, wrapped her tight, and breathed in deep the smell of her hair. “I’ll tell you,” I said. “When I’m ready to face what I’ve done. It may be… a while yet.”

We parted, a glisten in her verdant eyes. She clasped my hands and smiled, bright teeth sparkling in the dimming evening light.

“However long…” she said, words as warm as her whisper, “I’ll be here for you.”

* * *

Some time later, Aryssa and I joined the Varsha’s camp, and while we found them still in mourning, the weight of yesterday’s loss did not preclude them from celebrating their victory. While many kept vigil kneeling over the bodies of their slain companions, others cheered as Aryssa and I approached, hailing me as their champion… their savior.

It brought the color right to my cheeks. But amid the celebration, the friendly shoves, hands clapped on my shoulders, I heard a few other words exchanged. Black Blood. Undying. I let the comments wash over me, trying my best to not let their attention disturb me.

As evening fell, the entire camp gathered around the fire to hear Aryssa play. I, of course, sat by her side, close enough to see her brows twinge when she spent a whole minute tuning a single string. Her subtle frown when bombarded with requests, and her withering stare when Thellen requested a tune she’d described before as boorish and not worth her dignity.

“First,” she said, quieting the hubbub, “a song I promised my Elthysian companions, treading past Avernus’s rivers of fire.” Azareth, sitting on a fallen log, legs crossed, pulled his pipe from his lips and raised his brows in rapt attention. Luran, by his side, carved wood into some nondescript shape. And Hemma, facing the other direction, seemed much more interested in the world beyond our fire’s glow.

The sounds of Aryssa’s lute touched the air, drowning out the fire’s crackle. The tune was slow, meandering, with a pensive air. I watched her delicate features, all the more captivated by the half-dark of twilight.

Far in the east, ‘mid mountains pale,

Rests ancient fiend in mithril jail;

The demon-king, whose bindings sing,

A chorus carried on the gale.

Our mustered armies burned like grain,

As flaming, fell the scorching rain,

From depths of Hell came burning swell,

‘Til ash and smoke alone remained.

The burn of death, the cold despair,

Endured as stains upon the air;

The hellborne ire, voracious fire,

Left not one garrison to spare.

We seemed forsaken, damned to die,

But sought to bind that heat inside;

By mithril chain, we bound its flame;

Made slag its bones, its flesh, its hide.

The demon, faced with fiery death,

Touched fires of Hell with final breath,

The earth did break, and in its wake,

Came burning streams from hellish depth.

Thence came the fog, a taste of Hell,

Last remnant of the titan quelled.

A great white stain engulfed the plane,

A land where none may longer dwell.

As her music faded into silence, the assembled Varsha applauded. It was quiet, restrained, as felt appropriate following a somber tune, but no less enthusiastic. There was mumbling among them, deliberating what song came next until Thellen’s voice cut them through.

“I would think it appropriate,” he said, hushing the other Varsha even quicker than Aryssa’s song, “that we honor the stranger who saved our lives. Watching her fight, I saw… the Black Blood of Gilgaroth. I saw, in her eyes, the fury of the Furors, and, in her blade, the skill and grace of our Father.”

I wrung my hands as several Varsha muttered agreement. Aryssa seemed to notice my hesitance, wrapping her tail around mine and giving me a knowing smile.

“I’d say she resembled the Undying of old,” she said, hands finding their positions on her strings. “We’ve all heard their legends. And, if I have an eye for such things, I’d say we’re witnessing another myth in the making.”

The Varsha cheered assent. Aryssa’s smile glinted in the firelight, and she started to play. This one was faster in tempo, though maintained the mourning tone that seemed common to direling music.

I couldn’t suffer the embarrassment. I tugged on Aryssa’s sleeve, and when she saw my expression, her smile faltered.

“Ari…” I muttered, and her lute faded into silence. She looked to the assembled Varsha, all silent in anticipation, then leaned in closer and dropped her voice.

“You’re a hero, Val,” she said, voice a low whisper. “Everyone here sees it. To them… you are like the Undying. The way you fight… it’s very much like someone from a song.”

“I’m… a girl from a farm,” I said. She brushed aside my hair.

“Fuck me, Val, you’re so much more than that.”

I found no words in reply. I only looked down, tail flicking as my tongue floundered.

Aryssa huffed, then raised my chin. Her lips, perfect and pink, spread in a gentle smile. “Fine. I suppose… I’ll sing a different song.”

“Will the audience mind?”

“I don’t think so.” She adjusted her grip, seeming to recite the notes in her head. “After all, it’s… about you.”

I opened my mouth, but again gave no answer. Her smile spread, rather bashful.

“Songs are difficult to write. But I’ll be damned if I’m not the one to write yours.”

“Your… muse?”

“Your song,” she replied.

“About… Valhera the Undying?”

“No,” she laughed, before kissing my cheek. “Valhera. The girl from a farm.”

She withdrew, strumming before I had time to protest. Among the Varsha, there was a small commotion as they realized this was not the song they’d expected.

Aryssa’s hands flashed along the strings, as gentle and spine-tingling as when they danced across my skin. Her tail twined with mine, and I found myself, as ever, spellbound by her breathy voice. Her song started, simple in its tune but no less divine.

She found me one eve

Where ebon trees grieve,

Where sorrow has barred the leaves fall;

She held in her heart

Songs waiting to start,

No matter how high stood her wall.

I told her my name,

I asked whence she came,

I marveled how mythic her sword,

But plain in her eye

Came forth her reply:

The sorrow of something so scored.

As we pressed along,

I sang her our songs,

And witnessed the sway of her soul;

She grievous revealed

Her wounds yet unhealed

To help a stray child be whole.

So gentle she tread

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For sake of undead

As fleeting as midwinter frost,

That I also knew

So certain, so true,

How she had been loved, had been lost.

The blue of her eyes

Like Elthysian skies,

Agleam like the life-giving sun,

Her kindness unmarred

To spite unkind scars:

Her beauty like elegies sung.

I pray she embrace

Her spirit, her grace,

For surely as bloom springs from bud

The songs of our kin

Have forever been

A tale writ in iron and blood.

The camp was silent for a while after the song. It didn’t feel appropriate to applaud. Eventually, one of the Varsha lifted their waterskin, said something in my honor, and the rest grunted agreement. Meanwhile, Aryssa put her hand on my knee.

“It’s a mess, I know,” she said, starting to blush. “I have work to do on it, still. But I… want you to know how I see you. I wish… you could see yourself the same way.”

I was unsure how to respond. No words felt appropriate so… I layered one hand on top of her own. I looked at her. I smiled, though the expression quickly faded, and I felt that I was about to cry.

Her hand crawled upward to run through my hair. It passed over my horns, then pressed the back of my neck. She leaned the last few inches to kiss me, and for a single fleeting second, I forgot our public setting.

I wondered how she could look at me and see something other than a monster. I marveled that when she had witnessed the burn of my demon-fire, she had not turned away. I trembled to know that beneath it all, I had still done the things I had done, that her perspective of me was wrong. But, maybe, for the first time… I wondered if I was the one who had erred in my judgment.

It was a short-lived thought. But when we parted, when she looked at me with adoration in her eyes, something shifted in my heart. It was about her, yes, but also about myself. It burned, deep within. I ached in a way I hadn’t before. Perhaps my infatuation was becoming something more. Something I need not explain. Something… I dared not speak aloud for the fragile thing it was.

I remembered the audience, watching us, and flushed a deep crimson. But even then, even as I fought to stay stone-stoic, I could not fight the tears that sprang. I fell against her, quietly weeping, savoring the warmth and weight of her tail wrapping my waist.

Before too long, Aryssa resumed her playing, awkward as it was with my weight upon her. But not for one instant did she ask me to move. Nor did she even suggest… that it would be easier to play if I did not cling to her side.

I wanted nothing else than to sit with her, hear her voice… see how the light of the moon and stars played across her skin. Her hair drifted with the nighttime wind—a beauty I had not cherished so fully before.

* * *

Night fell over the foothills. Most of the Varsha had dispersed to their separate tents, or kept vigil over the dead, carried from where they’d fallen on Avernus. Aryssa and I were among the last ones awake, and I rested, head in her lap, her tail draped over my flank. Idly, she ran her fingers through my hair, over and under my horns. Together, we watched the dwindling fire, and, wrapped in her scent, her warmth, I only could think of the things burning in my heart.

“I nearly forgot,” she said, rousing me from my half-sleep, “I found something of yours once the dust settled on Avernus.”

I lifted my head from her lap while she rummaged through her pack, and while it was difficult to see in the nighttime light, I recognized the shape of my sketchbook in her hand. I took it and laid back down, careful to not poke my horns into her thighs.

“If those drawings are anything to go by, I’d say you’re rather fond of me,” she said. I blushed, hiding the book in the folds of my cloak.

“You’re the one who said that I wear my heart plainly.”

“You do,” she sighed, hand migrating to my back. “And… mine wasn’t the only face on those pages.”

I shut my eyes and remembered. Scenes from my nightmares. Rolling heads, spilling gore… the lifeless eyes of those seven men. Like fire, their memory burned along my back Unconsciously, I flinched when Aryssa touched a scar.

“Something happened to you,” she said, but I let silence be my answer. “Or… you did something. Either way, it… lingers with you.”

Her hand slipped into mine. I held it, tight, against my chest.

“As it should,” I said.

“You know, Val… the Varsha train some of the best Dreamers in all of Khaldara. Tomorrow, we’ll arrive at their main camp. I think, maybe… they could help you lift this burden.”

I didn’t answer for a while. She smoothed her hand over the bumps and gnarls of my scars. “I took their lives,” I finally said, a chilling whisper. “Fathers, brothers…”

“And… I feel that sorrow within you.”

Her response left me unsure. I closed my eyes, unconsciously clenching my hand into her thigh.

“The sorrow… in something cruel,” I said.

“Maybe,” she began, a softness in her voice. “I suppose, Val… we haven’t known each other very long, not in the grand scheme of things. But… a wound is no less deep for its novelty. A great song will ravish its audience on both the first and final recital.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, but I felt I already knew.

“That I think you’ve cut me deeper than any blade. And I see that sorrow, held close. The fear, the shame, whatever you want to call it. I also… see your heart, burdened and bleeding. The… kindness at its core.”

“Then, Ari, you don’t know me. The life I’ve led… has not brimmed with compassion.”

“It’s in our nature to deal as was dealt.” She continued to play with my hair, curling it in pensive circles around her fingers. “And yet you wear your heart plainly. I know that you want to break that chain.”

“Ari…” I said, lacking the will for a stronger protest.

She was quiet for a while, though the gentle prod and pull of her fingers continued their comfort. Until finally, she spoke.

“I don’t think there’s any sorrow in something cruel, Val. I think cruelty… is sorrow’s absence. A simple sword cannot be cruel, no more than the snow can regret its cold and killing fall.”

“But you were right. I wasn’t talking about the sword.”

She dipped her head in a slow and solemn agreement. “Then when I look at you, I know a similar certainty—just as it is the nature of snow to fall, it is your nature, Valhera, not to be a monster. This… burden on your shoulders is heavier than lead. You hurt people. And you’re afraid you’ll hurt them again. Maybe it’s painfully hard to know your own nature… because others have only seen your horns and tail and dismissed you as the very thing you dread.”

“Ari,” I pleaded, and she sighed.

“I’ve known many Dreamers. I think they would agree that… the past can be difficult. It shapes who we are. It catches up with us, in one way or another, every time, without fail. And, yet… the way we handle it separates us from the dead. Undead wander because they cannot come to terms with their past. Dreamers, necromages… they guide the undead to that peace. There is great power in accepting what is, and what has been.” She cradled my head, tilting it toward her own. “It doesn’t matter what you did, in Elthysia. I accept that part of you because I know… the beautiful vista beneath that cold, white sheet of snow.”

I watched her eyes, half-lit in the firelight. Her glimmer melted the mask I had tried to wear. I found myself weeping, silent, but steady.

“Ari…” I whispered, nearly stumbling over my words. “How can you… say such a thing?”

She considered me for a moment. “There’s a trope, in old epics. The poet… and the warrior. The warrior saves the day, but there is always a storm beneath her surface. A tempest… that only the poet can tame. She may not be as strong as her warrior, or as clever, or as virtuous. But she has her strengths, even if they’re less easily defined. She is the one… who can free the warrior’s heart, even locked in iron.”

“What happens to them?”

Her impish smile spread. “Why, it’s a hell of a thing. They fall madly in love, every single time.”

“Every time?”

“I don’t think they can help it, really. Sometimes… it ends in tragedy,” she conceded, smile fading a mote. “Sometimes… they can’t be together. The world, the war, the future forbids it. But that’s the thing about love, I think. It doesn’t matter if it’s doomed. It doesn’t matter… that all things have an end. No poet on her deathbed regrets the love she gave. She watches her final, withering dawn knowing… it cannot cheapen a life lived in joy.”

My scars flared up, burning again. I considered telling her. Opening my heart, letting my secrets spill out. The things I had done. The things that had been done to me. The way I felt about her… and the way I felt about myself.

I wondered how many of those things she already knew. Or, rather, how deeply she understood them each. But spoken words are fragile things. I dared not speak them, lest they be broken.

“Soon,” I promised her glimmering eyes. “I’ll tell you all.”

She brushed my cheek, then leaned down and kissed me. She pulled away, barely an inch, and whispered almost too softly to hear.

“Then I’ll wait for you.”

* * *

The next day, we trekked through the foothills and started our journey through the Flammuth Mountains. The slopes grew steeper underfoot, and in the distance, the peaks cast us in shadow as they blocked the sunlight. Standing on ridges, we looked down into valleys that, even carved by a river’s path, seemed no more green than the plains or woods behind us. Gray, dull rock jutted from every slope, dotted by the desperate cling of browning brush.

East of these mountains lay the few fertile valleys, Aryssa said. In the years since Gilgaroth’s death, more and more direlings had migrated east, chasing what little life the land had yet to give. There, she said, the settlements were denser, the crops less wilted… and the land more soaked in blood.

So far, my time in Khaldara had been peaceful in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I attributed much of that to Aryssa and her affection, but there was something different, something… harder to describe. As we walked along rocky ridges with the entire lay of Khaldara sprawled at our feet, I reflected. There was… a certain tranquility to the wilderness, even one that was dying. And, even then, a certain solace in the gloom. Comfort in the dark. At first, when I had crossed Lesmyne’s flow, I had found Khaldara’s air to be sorrowful and sad. And, as I tuned myself into its weight, I felt that sorrow still. But there was peace, there, also. A sort of peace that… resonated with my scars, in body and in soul.

The Varsha camp sprawled along the river, nestled in the shadow of a broad, soaring peak. The earth there seemed well-traveled, marked with trails and tracks of beasts of burden, the ground blanketed by the grays and beiges of well-worn canvas tents. We drew nearer, and a silence fell around our company. As we passed into the camp, Varsha emerged from their shelters, a reverence about them as they watched us pass. Some came forward, inspecting the dead their fellow Varsha carried. And, it seemed, if they recognized a fallen brother, sister, father, mother… they followed the procession, taking up the palls.

In time, we passed through the entire camp and stood before the looming mountain’s face. There, carved into the rock, was a figure, ten feet tall, watching over us with a visage colored by dim, weathered paint. It was a direling man. His face was grim and solemn, wrinkled around his heavyset brows. His long black hair spooled over longer, blacker horns. Both of his hands rested on a towering sword, driven into the dirt, colored like blackest tar. And his eyes, despite his severity, glistened like emeralds, prismatic and green. His body was clad in dark gray armor—the color of still water reflecting the moon.

I had never before seen his face, but I recognized his hair, his horns, his dark sword and armor. I knew I stood in the shadow of the Dead God… that I gazed upon his likeness. It stirred something within me. It had some sort of power, some authority, and I wondered if this was how my father had so often felt beneath depictions of his goddess. His face was not unlike my drawings. Stern, and yet… warm. Rigid, but not hard-hearted.

At his feet, there were fresh graves dug. There were no headstones marking the deceased, and I recalled that few direlings could read or write. Instead, there were weapons driven into the dirt like Gilgaroth’s sword, point-down. Some seemed rusted and brittle with age, while others had the gleam of steel freshly-forged.

A robed direling walked among the assembled, and at Aryssa’s subtle suggestion, Luran, Hemma, Azareth, and I allowed the direlings their space. We stood to the side among the rest of the Varsha while family and compatriots eased their dead into the open earth. The robed man watched over them all, tail swaying while his fogged eyes seemed to stare at something… else. Something just out of sight. His hair was long, braided in intricate patterns and inlaid with bands of black iron. His horns, tall and dark, bore similar trappings. Once all the dead rested deep in the earth, he raised his voice and spoke.

“It is the will of our Father that all things have their end,” he began, dipping his head in reverence. “Death awaits us all, and that fact is little reason to mourn. Nonetheless… every life leaves its stain. I am a Dreamer. It is my duty to know such things. And life, ended before its time, may sway our living hearts. So must we grieve. But also… must we give thanks for the time that they had. The ways in which they changed us, and the world in which we yet live. It is our duty, as the living, to better escort them to the vast, cold peace of the dead.”

There were, among the crowd, several other direlings outfitted like him. Old and young, male and female, watching the living world with clouded eyes. As one, they began to hum, and as one, the assembled Varsha began to sing.

Here we kneel, in longest shadow,

Singing of the lives gone by,

May they now, from body severed,

Peace of darkness not deny.

But we, alive, cannot give mercy

Nor grant guidance to the dead.

Father ours, hear our petition:

Let them not their woes retread.

Brothers, sisters, you we pardon

Of what deeds now left undone;

By our rite, by our devotion,

May He render penance done.

By our sorrow, may He shepherd

You to rest in darkest sphere.

May His wisdom, His endeavor,

Dry away our living tears.

As the song concluded, it felt as though there was a burden lifted. Not from my shoulders, but from the dead. The robed individuals continued to hum, swaying as families whispered parting words to their deceased, eulogies given to unhearing ears. In time, they took up their spades. In time, they filled the graves. They stood over upturned earth, holding the weapons that had been wielded until death.

The lead Dreamer spoke while the others held their tune. “By our song, they are released.” He made a gesture, and each grave was pierced by a spear, a sword, a blade. “By their steel, they are remembered. As Gilgaroth marked his holy death… so too will we mark where they followed.”

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse. The Dreamers’ hum faded into silence, and while the mourning lingered to finish their prayers, the rest of the Varsha returned to their lives. Azareth stood on my one side, Aryssa on my other, though I found myself fixated on the image of the Dead God. It wasn’t until my poet laced her fingers with mine that I remembered myself.

“They call it the Rite of Release,” she said, a reverence about her. “No matter where you are in Khaldara… it’s the one thing that never changes.”

Azareth spoke, a fascinated smile splitting his lips. “If only Elthysians conducted funerals thus. Perhaps… my order would be less busy.”

“I thought Elthysians were afraid of the dark.”

“You’ll find that most are,” Azareth said. Behind us, Hemma snorted, but something about the ritual seemed to have given her pause.

As the crowd dispersed, Thellen found us once again. Thanking us for our patience, he guided us toward a secluded tent, a place to find our rest away from prying Varsha eyes. And, while hornless ones were sure to have difficulty finding hospitality among direlings, he assured us that his tribe knew of our exploits and that we would be safe so long as we stayed among them.

Night fell, and as I lay in darkness, coiled with Aryssa, I couldn’t shake the weight on my heart. I thought of Gilgaroth’s statue. His face. Not… a heresy. His horns, on proud display. I thought of the Rite, calling on him as a savior, protector. I thought of my demon-fire, my black tears and drool. How Azareth, Aryssa had said it seemed I had some inkling of his power. And I thought of my father, his devotion to Elthys. He had seen her light in his life, and, perhaps… I was beginning to see the Dead God’s shadow in mine.

I sighed, reminding myself that the twin gods were both long departed. That we were seeking Gilgaroth’s heart. That now was not the time for some kindling of faith.

Still, as I slept, I dreamed of him. And in those dreams, I found solace in embracing the dark.

* * *

“You’ve been quiet, since last night.”

I looked up from my breakfast, listlessly pushing at the food with my fork. Aryssa and I sat among the Varsha while our hornless companions had taken their meals in the tent. Aryssa was nearly done with her meal, whereas I had hardly begun.

But food was not on my mind. I still found myself distracted by last night’s events despite the morning commotion. I looked across the camp at that towering statue of Gilgaroth, then shrugged and poked at the gruel.

“I’m a quiet person.”

“It’s a quiet of a different sort,” she said.

“Hmm.” The Dreamers’ song lingered in my head, tune thrumming through my nerves. I found it difficult to dislodge—as much as something from Aryssa’s own lips. “I suppose… that was my first time.”

“First time?”

I sighed. I watched her eyes, green, vibrant, vivacious—much the same color as the Dead God’s visage, I realized.

“You know,” I said, finally taking a bite of my meal. “Taking part in direling culture. Seeing our rituals. Hearing… Gilgaroth’s name, not as a curse, not as a whisper.”

She was quiet for a few moments. “I thought you would’ve been happy.”

“People died, Ari.”

She stuck her tongue in her cheek. “Not what I meant. I thought… you’d be happy to see what we’re all about. The things that make us different. Besides these.”

She lowered her head, as if brandishing her horns. I shrugged.

“I don’t know, Ari. I think… it felt right. In Elthysia, the Dead God isn’t allowed a face, nor a name, and last night, I… witnessed both. And something about it… drew me in.”

“Idols are rare, but I’ve always found them a little… alluring, too.” She cracked her lovely smile.

“You know me, Ari. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

I thought on it for a while. I stared at my food, turned to mush by my constant poking. I felt Elegy’s weight on my hip, and touching it, could almost hear one of a thousand hymns to Elthys remembered in its metal. I remembered my father, the days we spent in the cathedral, and the prayers he’d taught me as a little girl. How they’d all felt hollow, and yet last night… maybe I was beginning to understand.

“Are you a faithful woman, Ari?”

She didn’t answer for a while. Her smile had faded away, and her fork bounced restlessly between her fingers.

“In my own way,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” she started, trailing into silence as she looked to the distant statue. “I don’t think faith is the belief in a higher power. It isn’t… the thought that some god watches over us.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s the belief… the knowledge that, whatever this is…” she gestured at nothing in particular, “is worth it. It’s the understanding that all things have their end, and yet… they are worthwhile. It’s the will to live, and strangely enough, the peace with death.” She reached for my hand, taking it in her own. “It’s you, and it’s me. My songs, your art. The beauty of the stars… the breathtaking dawn. The strength to suffer… and, still, to strive.”

Her eyes, their damned glimmer. My cheeks reddened in their heat.

“Some people find that in a god,” she continued. “Gilgaroth’s shadow… Elthys’s light. But I don’t think myself any less faithful for finding it somewhere else.”

“You don’t… believe in Gilgaroth?”

“I believe in the person he was.” She tilted her head, watching me pensively. “I believe in his wisdom, his story, his power. But he has been dead for a very long time, and maybe… we’ve made it this far without him holding our hand. I wouldn’t dismiss a Dreamer’s visions, or the merits of his songs. The past stains our world, and his power is no different. But he’s not the source of my purpose.”

“Then what is?”

She opened her mouth, but it seemed her answer was not as simple as words. Rather, she huffed, lifting my hand to kiss its broad knuckles.

“As my muse,” she started, smiling wide, “I’d wager you know.”

I held her eyes uncertainly. I asked myself what drove her heart. My first answer was obvious, but perhaps too obvious.

“Music,” I said, and her eyes glinted.

“Close. But no.”

I considered her again. And, as I so often did, I found myself admiring her grace, her body, her quiet and unwavering beauty. My cheeks burned as I recalled the heat and bliss of our bodies entwined. My breath, heavy and quicksilver—her voice, singing a rather prurient song.

“Sex,” I said, and she laughed… a sound to deepen my blush.

“No, Val. Though I suppose that’s rather close, too.”

I struggled to conjure yet another answer. And, as my silence dragged on, she took my hand and pressed it against her chest. She held it there, watching and waiting while her heart pounded and fluttered.

“Tits?” I asked, and she rolled her eyes. She put a hand on my shoulder as if to give a playful shove, then hesitated.

Instead of pushing me away, she pulled me enticingly close. She pressed the contours of my neck and skull, all the while wrapping my lips and tongue with her particular taste. I held her in turn, rather more hesitant on account of the public space but helpless to fight her allure.

We parted after some time, forehead held against forehead. Her lips formed her words, broad and plain as the cloudless sky.

“Love, you idiot. I fucking love you.”

Cold ran through my veins like a torrent of ice-water. I knew how my heart burned the same, but I feared her words would fall and shatter like so many panes of glass. And, even more, I struggled to comprehend. I doubted… that she saw so much in me.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. I held my tongue, hard as iron chains. “It’s trite and oft-repeated. It’s the answer every half-wit comes to. But maybe that means it’s only our nature… as surely as the snow may fall.”

“Ari…” I said, quiet as the gentle autumn breeze. We parted inches more, and she held my cheek in her open hand.

“It’s okay, Val. You don’t have to say it back. Not… with words.”

I began to cry. I leaned into her touch, watching her eyes’ vast and fertile verdure. And, while indeed I knew no poetry to reciprocate, I mirrored her in the way I better knew.

Just as she knew that I wore my heart plainly… so too I found no guile in her green. Love, her voice echoed, as soft and sweet as saccharine cream.

Along my skin, I felt the tingle of her offered haven. And in my blood I felt her lyric’s fire, humming with the melody of her now-spoken song.