Into the Deep Wood

The ash rained down as the woods all around burned.

His shape appeared down the valley of parted, smoking trees aglow with death. He was running. How long had he been running?

“Val!” His voice came swallowed by the crackling and the breaking of the wood. As he approached, she stood, and he wrapped his arms around her. She let hers find rest within his chest, the beat of his heart louder than the forest fire.

“You stupid, stupid girl…” He whispered to her, “We have to leave.”

“I cannot, Marat.” She said. “A Wound cannot heal while it still bleeds, and I am its blood.”

He let go, instead taking her bare, scarred hand in his.

“The world is better with you in it, Val. Leave with me now. If it is the prophecy of a living god, then I can make my own. Leave with me.”

"I have to, Marat. I hear them, and they will drive me mad. Just like her. Just like they did the Hag.” She said. “Even now, I can hear almost nothing else. My thoughts, they get lost among them.”

“Stay a little longer. Do this for me; I will not let you fall into madness.”

“How can you promise me that?”

“Because,” He pulled her face to his, his eyes shut with willful force, the hollows beneath them wet with tears. “I will go with you when you say it’s time to go. When they are too much, I will guide you back here. Val, please.”

She shook her head, and somewhere near, one of the great trees came crashing down, the ash spreading in the air.

“I entered this world last in the embers of a fire that took me from you. Allow me to leave with them giving you back to me.” Marat said.

She put her hand on the back of his neck as if they could still be closer if they truly tried.

She kissed his forehead, his scars.

“You are the blessing to my curse, Marat.” She whispered. “Without you, there is no I. But my body breaks even now. I was not born to suffer like they do, and the corruption eats through me. I’ve felt it since the Legho came. It showed me what it would feel like should I remain. I knew that there would be relief from that when I came here. I wish to go, like them. I wish to be unbound.”

“Then allow me to go where you go. But when it’s time. Not now. Give me a hundred years, Val. Give me a thousand. Return with me. Return and help heal the earth that the Nothing has left scorched behind it."

He felt her cry, her body shaking, pressed into him.

“Return with me.” He whispered.

The horse came through the gates, past the staring people who hid in their homes, seeing the colors of the West.

He was the invader; he was their enemy. They had no knowledge of what happened in the South. They did not see the carnage of Korschey's reign outside the city, outside the gates of the High District.

And, in him, they saw the devils. The man who had delivered the final blow. The nightmare that came in the night and left only death behind.

They were afraid for their way of life.

And they should be.

Typhonos would never allow the North to fall to shambles. He would not allow the people in the lower city to continue to starve. It would not be like this, not anymore.

The mare was still dragging her feet, the journey long and without rest. She snorted with great relief when he lightly tugged on the reins for her to stop.

Yaro appeared at the top of the stairs. His face fell.

"In-side." He said softly. "Leave the hor-se."

Marat walked beside him, grateful that the man was there.

The doors were opened for them, the low murmur of people sounding inside.

No voice was raised above the rest. The air was that of mourning rather than celebration. A victory all dearly paid for.

She was so pale when he left her. So weak.

“The King want-s to s-ee you.” Yaro said, stopping.

Marat did not reply, only looked on as the red-bearded man was left standing in the hall.

The long-term residents ducked out of view before he approached. Soldiers nodded and did a half bow as he walked by.

Stopping at the ornate doors of the great room, his hand remained on the pull. Inside was where he’d slain the Northern King, the Nothing-touched god. Inside was where Val had made the choice that decided the rest of their lives.

She’d made a lot of choices for the both of them, it seemed. A catalyst for the greater good, his Val.

“How could you leave her?” He said quietly. The hall was empty except for one man standing a few feet away.

“She told me to. And I trusted her. We both owe her that much.” Ivan’s words seemed certain, but Marat heard the underlying fear and regret. He recognized it. It was within himself as well.

“Where is Typhonos?” He asked, not raising his eyes to the pathfinder.

“Inside,” Ivan answered. “We’ve been ordered to stay out until your return. No one has seen him since.”

Ivan hesitated.

“She wanted you there. She wanted you to come to her. I knew it, and that is why I left. It was not my place to be by her side then. It never was.”

“I am grateful for what you have done for her, Ivan. For me, too.” Marat said quietly.

Ivan reached out his arm, and the man shook it, their eyes meeting for the first time that day.

“I’m going to swear the Oath,” Ivan said. “The King has asked me to remain here, and he will name me High Templar. To honor… so that I may honor Iros. So that I can help rebuild the North.”

“Your faith guides you still.”

“Faith is hope. Whether there is an All-Father or a Shattered God, the people need hope.”

Marat nodded and pulled the door open, the scoutmaster watching him go inside.

The echoes of his every step reverberated between the stone columns. Ahead stood the wooden throne. Behind it, the web of chains glistened in the broken, colorful light from the stained glass window.

He stopped, raising his head to study it. This was the place, the very place that Val had come… this was the place that evil had outdone evil, once. Now, it was empty except for frail, thin bones.

Stepping first on the seat of the throne and then bracing his other leg against its back, he reached for the middle - where the chains met one another. This had been her very heart.

He took the hunter’s knife and slid it through the links and tangles. He made sure that it was stuck and pulled with everything he had. The chains creaked and came crashing down, throwing him stumbling backward.

“You’ve returned.”

Typhonos was behind him, standing in the middle of the aisle. The old man’s face was hard, and Marat saw he had been weeping.

“I am sorry for the son that you have lost.” He said, bowing his head.

“He knew that this was where he would go. Although, it does not make it any easier to part.” Typhonos answered, stepping up to Marat, facing where the broken chains hung, still swinging.

They stood in silence for some time before Typhonos spoke again. His voice cracked as if he was pulling himself out of a memory he held dear.

“I’m sorry for your loss as well.” He said. “My son and she… they spoke of much. She’d known what waited for her there. But I am sorry, nevertheless.”

Marat’s jaw clenched.

“He was named for my people, you know. He saw the things that influenced their present and their future. He could not control that; he could not have changed it alone. But he set forth events and people he could trust to make the right choices. His life’s purpose was his name. As your name’s purpose is life itself.”

“I am not born a god. I stole someone else’s name.” Marat sighed.

“It came freely. And so freely should you use whatever remnants of it were given to you.” Typhonos looked at him. “And so, you have.”

“I cannot save them all. One of the ten arrows will still hit. I could not even save her.”

“Yet, you get the chance to save nine.” He said. “Had my wife not been Golden, my son would have had the freedom just to be. Instead, he had to be.”

Typhonos’ eyes again went forward as if looking at nothing at all.

“Tomorrow,” he began, “I am going to crown you King. And then, you can truly have a chance to save them all. Every wretch you’ve come across, every hungry grandmother. Every man conscripted into service, leaving his wife and kids behind. You will undo everything that Korschey has done. And you will do so for the duration of a life of one who will not die.”

Marat froze, his eyes on the Western King.

“I am no king.” He muttered.

“And you were no man, looking to sell a woman into slavery to save yourself, once. You were no god while you still held a mortal soul. You were no general until you went to war. You were not even Marat, until you’d earned your name again. My son is dead, and your name-debt is repaid.” Typhonos said. “And so, you have it back again. And until tomorrow, you are no king.”

“I cannot…”

“She knew. She sent the boy away because she had not meant to return. But she knew you would come for her after you had done what you had to. She wanted it to be goodbye. Before you ascended the throne, she wanted you just to be hers a moment longer.”

Tears sprang to Marat's eyes. Those last images of her…

“She wanted you here, Marat,” Typhonos said. “She’d told my son that. Before his death, she made him promise that her wishes were passed on. He never had a chance, so I do so now.”

Marat was silent.

“I do not know what to do.” He said finally.

“You take the goodness that she has taught you, and you save them,” Typhonos answered, turning to leave. “I am going to mourn and honor my son. Tomorrow, at noontime, they will all gather here.”

And so, as the sun rose in the sky the next day, people gathered in the great room. They lined the halls and the tall steps of the great stairs. They stood in the courtyard and filled the streets. The gates of High District were opened wide, and all came forward, their curious eyes searching for the men who’d brought their families food, the men who’d cut down their fathers from the walls and allowed their families to bury them.

Inside the room, familiar faces with familiar expressions awaited the moment.

A red-bearded man followed a large blond man to the front.

They stood when decorated soldiers formed a line, marching inside. Behind them walked a man. His face was scarred, his skin was darkened by the sun, and his expression was fit for one receiving rations in the mess hall rather than the crown.

Somewhere, the sound of drums came, but the scarred man did not hear them. His mind was where his heart had been.

He stepped forward, his hands trembling.

One step, and then another, all uniform, until he found himself before the King.

Words were spoken, but the scarred man’s eyes were absent and hollow. And, when the Western King lowered the pale gold crown upon his head, he shed a tear.

A gaudy golden scepter was placed in his hand, and in the other, a sword only fit to be a decoration –gold and precious stones adorning the hilt.

Cheers rose, both genuine and forced –the northern nobility not so eager but knowing what was good for them. And when he faced them, all the familiar faces with the familiar expressions held hope—held hope in him.

Held hope in the Deathless King upon the throne.

Epilogue

He walked where the forest had once been; three hundred years had passed since then. Three hundred years in which the new trees had grown tall, their roots buried deep into the earth.

His name would not be forgotten, etched in history, the stones, and the people’s hearts—Marat, a name given and earned back.

A name he’d given freely to the very last of the Nothing-touched.

He stopped at the still-charred, dark skeleton of a giant oak. The roots were still so tangled here; the earth still scorched where nothing grew. This was where they stood once, long ago.

Return with me.

But she shook her head again.

“I can’t. There isn’t enough left of me.” Val said. “It was always going to be you and I. In the very end. Untouched by time.”

She reached over and brushed her fingers on his face, tracing the scars, following the patterns that the flames had made once, such a long, long time ago.

“And once your time has come, you will return here, and we will be together again. But not until then, Marat. You have to save them. You have to save them for the both of us.”

She reached into her pocket. Somewhere from its depths, she produced the broken needle.

“This had given life to him not long ago. Now, I ask you to take it - and it will guide you home. When the time comes, and not a moment before. The last of the weave threaded through it, a map for you to find me in the dark. She made it for me, the last she will ever weave.”

She took his hand and closed it around the needle.

“It’s broken…” Marat said, the lump in his throat distorting his words.

“One day, it won’t be. When you are done, it won’t be.” She assured him.

Val stepped to the oak, gently brushing the bark.

The voices that had plagued her mind for so long stirred, their maddening cries growing louder all at once, and the tree began crumbling where it met the palm of her hand. The ash swirled around them like snow, getting caught in the currents of the breeze.

“I am the last.” She said, no small amount of relief in her words.

“Was this what you had wanted it to be?” He asked sadly.

“The last of the Wounds?”

“No,” He shook his head, “Our life.”

“I dreamed of a fairytale as a young girl. This didn’t feel like a fairytale at all.” She said, but her words were filled with warmth.

“A small village girl goes on to save the world? It certainly sounds like a fairytale to me.” He tried to give her a smile, but one would not come. It seemed that she still understood.

“You’ve grown quite romantic in your old age,” She laughed.

“Pigshit if I did.”

“Our lives were not what we wanted, but I would not take a single second back.”

Their eyes remained on one another for a few more heartbeats. Val held out her hand. Her other one in his. She found the thread.

“I will find you. Where you go, I go.” He whispered to her. “And I will never, ever stop loving you.”

“My love will guide you home someday.” She whispered back to him. “Take care of them. Find my mother and make sure she is well. Take down the Obsidian Tower and build a monument to those who have fallen. To Iros.”

His lips found hers, and they both felt it when the weave –the very last–unbound.

The clearing had gone completely still, only the gentle sounds of the forest and faraway birds disturbing the silence. Marat stood there, alone.

Just like he did now.

So long ago. Three hundred years, he waited. The needle on a bed of velvet was always at his side.

The kingdom came to life. And much was done with Ivan as the new High Templar.

Marat watched the needle every day as people around him aged and died. He’d done his duty as their king, and his unaging face was in their eyes –a god.

And then, one morning, just like he always had, he looked –and the needle was no longer broken in two.

No horse had ever been driven harder so that he may stand there in the ashes of memories of the past. He held the needle, and his fingers brushed across a silk thread. And there she was. His Val. Just on the other side.

The King, once a man and then a god, took the thread and followed it into the dark.

Never to return.

And so were gone, the last remaining spark of the Shattered God's light

and the last remaining shadow of the Nothing.

The candle that burned against the dark, its flames in a dance with one another.

Gone was the last thread of pain left by an Idea that wanted to exist, and the Nothing it had devoured to do so.