Into the Deep Wood

He’d ridden the horse to the brink of death, and he had known it.

Once it had refused to go on, sweat-drenched and stiff, he dismounted and led at a slower pace.

It was cold, but only mildly so. The harshest winters began just beyond the Deep Wood to the north.

They walked the main road. He’d been intentional in this. His hood off and the sword at his back sheathed, he watched for the signs of lookouts in the hills. Better one man die than thirty, especially because he had been no man at all.

In front of him, a subtle line of stones too straight to be natural lay on the ground just off the road. The Ember Sword stopped short of them, letting go of the reins and holding up both empty hands.

This had been a marker for the archers to judge distance when they aimed.

He stood still until five men appeared in the white of the winter road. They walked unhurriedly, not worried about exerting themselves in the snow. As they got near, their pikes were raised.

“By gods!” One of the men pointed to him when they had gotten close enough that he could see the frost in their beards. “Is he one of ours?”

Another man squinted, slowing his pace.

“What happened to you, brother? Where are your colors?”

But the Ember Sword only shook his head.

“I come from the South.” He said plainly.

They raised their pikes.

“Then you wish to die for your honesty.”

“I am an emissary.” He called out. “And ask only that I be put to death after I speak to the commanders in the city.”

The men hesitated visibly, and four of them stopped. Only one moved ahead. He approached the Ember Sword and struck him across the face with such force that the man bent and recoiled.

“Your sword, your horse, and your coat.” The soldier demanded.

He complied. He dropped his cloak and coat to the ground as chill penetrated the sweat-dampened underlayers. His sheathed sword hit the ground next, still on the leather strap that held it against his back.

The other soldiers hurried to pick up the items, and one led the horse out of reach.

“Should you turn out to be a liar, they’ll hang you in the square.” One of them told him. “You’re not the first, but it is not up to us to make that call.”

They led him down the road for hours. The road had been stomped with many boots not far ahead of where they began. It was fortunate that he had stopped where he had.

A rope was placed loosely around his neck, with just enough slack to let him walk at a good pace - and just enough tension that it would close around it if he tried to run.

They came up to the Midtrade City toward evening time. It stood so silent that it seemed a different place than he had known. The gates were shut, the earth around them torn and cleared away - at one time, they had remained open for so many years that nature claimed the wood and metal hinges, rusting them ajar.

Men on the walls shouted something and a door to the side of the gates creaked open. They took him inside, his horse quickly disappearing from view.

The Ember Sword was walked through the streets. No stalls stood alongside them, and no one shouted or laughed. People hurried about, carrying things with their steps fast and determined, as if trying to get out of sight as soon as possible. But, all had looked at him as they passed, their faces holding disapproving frowns.

The Cathedral stood gloomily against the background of deep gray skies. Its spires looked more like the tips of spears than the once majestic rising giants.

His eyes lingered momentarily on the walls where the Eastern King had met his end. That had been the fastest spreading news across the land, not rivaled even by the war itself.

He was led inside to the great room. There, men in much finer armor examined him and put tighter restraints around his wrists and ankles. He was made to wait on his knees.

It was not until the following morning, after two switches of shifts, that the heavy creak of the doors sounded, and men came in - looking over the slumped shape on the ground.

One of them had seemed of higher rank. He was decorated with shined golden pins on the chest of his surcoat. He did not stand as tall as the other men, but they had given him space in respect or fear - one could only guess.

He stepped forward, his harsh face tired and uninterested, but when the man on the ground raised his face - something had sparked in the commander’s eyes, and his eyebrows raised slightly.

“How interesting.” He said. “You are not from the South. You are from behind the Iron Wall. Had I known, I would have had you wait an extra day on your knees.”

He stepped closer, examining him.

“In fact, I think you are the Ember Sword. If you were any other man, I would feel awfully sorry for you.”

“I represent the South.” The Ember Sword said simply. “Where I come from has no bearing on what I bring.”

“Then speak.”

“Batyr wants a treaty. He is willing to give a lot to spare both of our peoples.”

The decorated man considered this.

“You are not a moron.” He said finally. “If the things I hear are true, at least. Surely, you must know that there is no room for negotiations. No diplomats have made it past.”

“This is hardly a negotiation –more of a surrender with dignity.” The Ember Sword said, shifting on his pained knees.

“Even more interesting.” The commander looked the man over again. “And should I find this to be a lie?”

“Then there is but one man you’d have to kill to ratify it.”

“Fair enough.” The commander raised his hand, signaling the soldiers forward. They pulled the Ember Sword to his feet, undoing the ties. He nearly fell again, his body stiffened by the hours on the floor. “I will send a runner North. The word that returns will decide your fate. I am not a barbarian, in the meantime, you will be treated as a guest. Even if a lowly one.”

“I have to ask another thing of you. Forgive my boldness.” The man said. “There is a detachment of men coming behind me. They are my escort, and I ask that they be spared and sent on their way back.”

The commander seemed to think this over.

“You are not in a position to ask anything of me.”

“Your benevolence would not be unknown.”

Another pause.

“I will grant you this only because my curiosity grows about the man at Typhonos’ right hand.” He said. “How far are they?”

“Half a day.”

“I will send word.”

The remainder of the restraints were removed.

“I am Commander Rurik.” He said. “And I will give you fifteen days. Enough for the boy to go and return. Should he perish on the road, you, too, will face his fate.”

“Agreeable terms.”

“As if you have a choice.”

“Gods! Is he dead?” Val ran over, stumbling in the snow.

Ivan sat over the large man, carefully holding his head. With great effort, he slowly turned Yaro’s heavy body onto its back.

“He’s breathing,” Ivan said.

He held his arm close to his body, his coat ripped and soaked in blood. His face was scratched up. “It is faint, and he won’t last long.”

Blood flowed, and the chipped remains of his teeth sat grotesquely in his open mouth. His eyes were closed, but his eyelids fluttered slightly.

“I couldn’t do it…” Val whispered, squeezing the big man’s limp hand.

She did not walk away free of injuries, although she fared better than the men. Half of her face, where it had been dragged across the ice, was red and littered with small cuts. The top layer of skin on one of her palms was completely gone - now glistening and raw. The scabs on her hands and arms had been ripped off, fresh blood seeping through her sleeve.

The storm had completely gone.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Ivan shook his head. “We have to stop the bleeding. I do not know enough - but you have your things. Can you help him?”

As if remembering suddenly, Val rushed to her bag discarded in the snowdrift. She pulled its contents out onto the snow, filling her hands with little packages of dried herbs, powders, small vials, and bandages. She hurried back, dropping them next to Yaro, each scattering around where she dropped to her knees.

Ivan moved aside, watching her every move with a hint of hope.

The Witch worked fast, flinching but not pulling away when her own wounds would catch on bits of his clothing or when a drop of a viscous substance would get on her skin.

Ivan pulled further away, out of her view. His arm ached and burned, although the extent of the damage was hidden under his clothes. He carefully slipped his coat off one arm - and then the other. It peeled off with a moist, squelching sound.

Beneath it was only a mess of red, bits of skin, and lint. He could feel that the sharp bone had gone all the way through - and the tissue had already begun to swell. He felt the faintness as the adrenaline wore thin.

His face twisted in pain as he felt for a broken bone with his fingers. It had been missed; for that, he could be thankful to the All-Father.

“I’ve done all I can!” She called, but her voice halted as her eyes met his. She jumped up, hurrying over.

“Ivan!” Her eyes were on his arm, “Oh gods!”

“No worse off than he.” He managed to smile at her.

So carefully that her fingertips had only grazed it, she touched the wound. He flinched.

“Sit.” She commanded him, walking over to where Yaro lay among her things. Ivan followed, lowering himself with great effort beside where she squatted over the medical supplies. “Here.”

The witch opened the water skin, splashing just a bit of icy water on his arm. He tightened his jaw, determined not to cry out as she rubbed a powder deep into the penetration.

“I’m sorry…” She whispered through her steadfast concentration. “But, this will hurt.”

“Would you say as much as it did on the way in?” He laughed but had to clench his teeth immediately as a burning sensation spread down his veins. He saw her smile.

“It will grow numb; you’ll hardly feel it for a few hours.” She told him, her fingers rubbing in an oily substance with bits of green suspended in its drops. “But it will return; it has to in order to heal.”

He looked at her, bent over him, her face so close as her eyes followed every stroke of her fingertips.

“I have to hurry before it makes the pain go away; otherwise, I will not know if I hit a vein. You have to tell me if it hurts.” The Witch brought forth a needle and thread. “I have to suture it.”

He only nodded.

She moved closer to him to gain balance and steadiness of hand, his leg between hers.

“Don’t move.”

He would not dream of it.

The Witch leaned in so close, her fingers working fast. He felt her hand tremble when the needle pressed against her own wounds. He drew in air fast when she would strike a part she was not meant to. And bit by bit, she stitched it shut around the medicines she had pushed deep inside. She held the very last of the thread, eyes scanning anything she may have missed.

Her eyes were downcast, but his were on her face.

Mere inches separated it from him, and he could see every detail of her skin: every cut, pore, bead of sweat, and slight wrinkle at the corner of her eyes. The creases ran from her nose and down her face as she scowled. The eyelashes matched the color of her brows, and her lips were slightly fuller at the lower curve.

Perhaps it was the faintness of his mind, the weaning pain as the medicines kicked in.

Perhaps she was so near he could feel the heat coming off her skin. His intact hand came up, brushing her shoulder, his fingers tracing the curve of her jawline and gently lifting her chin.

Her surprised eyes shot up.

He only had to lean in slightly. The warmth of her lips almost pushed away the biting, cold air against his. Both of them lingered there, and then he felt her lean in. This silent invitation was all he needed, the kiss turning uninhibited and irrevocably real. He felt her body shift forward, her thigh brushing against his leg. Her mouth grew passionate, demanding. He broke all the restraint he had felt for longer than he cared to admit. In the background, the frost, blood, and unmistakable, looming death faded away for a brief, honest moment.

One that, he knew, they could never come back from.

The Witch pulled away first; otherwise, they might have been there for hours. Her eyes lingered on his as if seeing him for the first time.

“If we don’t get Yaro out of the cold, he will die.” She said it so quietly, as if to herself.

Ivan’s expression changed, the urgency of their circumstances returning with a force. They both stood, and Ivan pulled on his coat - more grateful now than ever that it had gone all the way down to his knees.

"We cannot stay here." He said, gathering a blanket from his pack and pushing it underneath the large man. "That thing can come back anytime. We have to get out of the pass."

The Witch only nodded, scooping up her supplies.

"I'll have to carry him," Ivan said, trying to size up how much Yaro weighed. For all the farm-raised Ivan's size, Yaro had still been a time and a half his weight.

With his hurt arm, getting the body up had been near impossible. Even when he was able to, the massive weight had strained his muscles to the point where he was not sure that either of them would remain upright for long.

The Witch had the packs, and they started off.

With every movement, pain shot through his broken arm, radiating outwards –even the Witch's sorcery could not mask it. Every patch of icy ground, a hidden stone, and adjustment of his shoulders threatened the end of their journey. But still, they went on.

The procession had gone on, and what should have taken an hour in the snow had taken them two. The end of the pass came suddenly around the corner of a winding turn with only gently sloping hills ahead.

They headed for the trees. There, under the cover of the pines and spruces were beds of dry needles unaffected by the blizzard. The way Ivan lowered Yaro had not been gentle on the red-bearded man, further assuring them that he was not about to wake - otherwise, he would have certainly expressed his lack of appreciation for this handling crudely.

The two collapsed, too exhausted to bring anything out of the bags or make a fire.

They lay on the ground for some time before either spoke.

“What did you mean by ‘unbind’?” Ivan asked without raising his head.

“It doesn’t matter…” Her voice was solemn. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Is that what you did to the devils in the woods?”

“...yes.” Val looked up at the sky. It had been darkening rapidly.

“It’s not your fault.” He said. “What happened to Yaro. It’s not your fault.”

She was not sure that had been the truth. She had it, but she was not strong enough. It had been too complicated of a weave, too painful to the touch. She knew that she had angered it when she first reached out. It did not want her there; it did not want to be unbound. Maybe if she hadn’t…

Ivan struggled up, pained, his face dull and tired. He cleared a circle of evergreen foliage up to the dirt and started a fire. It changed the atmosphere immediately, the flames igniting along with their hopes.

Again, Val checked Yaro’s wounds and placed pale green powder under his tongue. Ivan had brought his blanket and wrapped it around the man atop the other.

“How far is it to the capital?” Val asked as he sat back down next to her.

“A few days for anyone in good health.” He said grimly. “For us? A lifetime. I don’t know what we will do if he does not wake.”

“If he does not wake...” She said, repeating his words with a coolness to her own.

“Then we will go on. I will not leave my brother here if he still lives.”

“That is not what I meant.” She shook her head. “If he does not wake, he will be with her.”

“Who?” He looked at the red-bearded man.

“Anushka.”

Understanding. He turned back to meet her eyes.

“Is that…” He wanted to ask but was afraid of what she would answer.

She seemed to understand the words he had not been brave enough to speak.

“What I want?” She finished for him.

Val leaned the unscathed part of her face on her arm, her eyes turning away from him.

“At first, I wanted to go with him.” She said, her voice growing quieter. “Then, I only wanted to find him.”

“And now?”

She shifted, turning back to face him.

“Now, I think I want to be around a little bit longer.”

He couldn't help but smile. It was barely perceptible, compassionate, and such a genuine smile that Val felt her heart skip a single beat.

“How are your hands?” He asked, an excuse to touch her bandaged hand.

“Cold, as if I’ve dipped them in a frozen lake.” She looked down at them.

“Why does that happen?” He asked, “Why do these cuts appear?”

“Because the threads slip from my grasp.” She knew that this would not have been a good enough explanation, but how was she to explain to him what she had felt and done? “They’re sharp and hard to reach, and some burn. I do not feel the pain at first. It happens somewhere else. Then, it catches up to my flesh.”

He held up her hand, the worst of the abrasion on her palm. Bits of red seeped through the bandage, but she did not flinch at his touch. Slowly, as if handling a butterfly, he brought it up to his lips, the warmth of them a stark contrast to the cold. A moment passed when their eyes did not leave the other.

She felt pressure in her chest as if the suddenly forceful beating of her heart had made it hard to breathe. All she could think of was the moment she had felt his kiss, warm, comforting, inviting - in the face of utter devastation.

She had played it over and over in her mind during the long, strenuous walk.

It was not like she did not feel the tension when they had been alone. She found herself studying the curve of his shoulders and noticing the flowing movement of the muscles underneath his shirt. When the sleeves were slid up to his elbow or beyond - the contour of the veins in his forearms was enough to make her turn away in a fluster. The way he carried himself, and the easy smile he offered up to the world –and yet when he looked at her, smiling, it was just that - all hers.

She’d felt the pull of him just as surely as she felt the crushing guilt deep within her.

There was no compromise here, it was give in and give up - or keep on holding on.

She’d been holding on for so long, just like a thread to the darkness - she felt its slip, and she only gripped tighter, cutting up her hands and being pulled further into the dark.

She was so tired of holding on.

She thought to the plate, the green apple rolling atop it - the water swaying and swirling around. The vision of the man at the campfire. She saw exactly what she had wanted to see, what she had wanted to have, what she had wanted to get back. Still, holding on.

She saw Ivan’s body shift. He’d edged toward her - her hand still in his.

Let go.

Deep within, the person she had been.

Let go.

Before the Glade, before Sirin, before Ivan.

Let go.

Before the all-consuming flame, the Wound, the fallen city.

Let go.

Before the Nothing.

Inside her was a young girl longing for love, hanging on to every word of every fairytale. She begged.

Please, let go.

His body next to hers, she could hear the fabric of his tunic brush up against that of her clothes, and rustle against the sound of the cracking fire. He’d lowered her hand, his fingers lingering at the nape of her neck. They brushed against the fine hairs there, sending a shiver down her spine. They were so warm.

His face was half a heartbeat from hers; he’d drawn so close to her yet stopped, his breath restrained. It was a choice. He’d given her the choice.

And, she let go.

Surrender.

It was complete and utter surrender.

To her.

Fingers digging into the back of his neck hungrily. Her body pressed to his as if seeking solace in its heat—his desperate starvation born of months imagining this moment.

Charged at first, needing to take all they could from one another, they slowed only as his weight forced her back, away from the flames. She wanted more, and she was not asking him - she commanded. But, for Ivan, it was as if invisible restraints had snapped. His thoughts were only of exploration. Of her. He had finally been allowed.

His hands found the small of her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. His breath left trails of heat in its wake, a stark contrast to the biting cold. He took in her scent, the way she arched into his touch, and the way her body seemed to melt beneath him. He worshiped her.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. She pulled him impossibly closer, both on the brink of something profound.

Had she wanted, she could have asked anything of him. He would have done anything.

For her.

For the Witch.