Into the Deep Wood

Marat slid off the seat onto a bent knee, dropping his head. The boy looked at him as if it had not been unexpected. Val stared. Elena was a Golden… like her…

“Master Marat, please, stand.” Tythonos encouraged him. “My young son’s ego cannot handle as much as you give it. It is difficult enough to raise a boy.”

Marat twitched but did not move.

“Dimos,” Elena commanded. “Take the girls.”

The boy looked at her, grabbed the two toddlers by the hands, and took their near limp and unyielding bodies to the door. One of the girls began crying, not knowing why she was being removed, but he insistently took them through the doors.

Val could see Marat trembling, and she heard him mutter what she knew to be a prayer. She wanted to comfort him, to put a hand on his back, but she dared not move.

“We brought you here at my son’s behest,” Typhonos said. “We do not wish to detain you. But, I suspect that you may need help, and we wish to provide it.”

Marat stood slowly and then lowered himself onto the seat again, having trouble meeting either royal’s eyes.

“Please, please, just let us leave.” She begged them.

The King and Queen exchanged a look.

“My dear, we do not wish to use your gift. Acting as such is a bad omen; greed may sour the sweet altogether. But,” Elena said, “you have come here without escort, without guard. You are not of a royal house. My dear, you are a dangerous weapon for those who would not hesitate to use it.”

“What is it you seek at the Negotiations?” Typhonos asked, his eyes thoughtful. “Why have you come here? You say you are representatives of Theodora, but I know of Theodora, and she would not have risked you if you were an associate of hers - not in this place, not at this time.”

“Marat, he is a hunter,” Val told him. “He is protecting me.”

“This man, who has dropped to the floor in such a strained way? It was the sound of rubber and steel that hit the floor - not a man’s knee. You are guarded by a crippled man. This is your claim to securing the potential of divinity?” The King asked, sitting forward. “I mean not to disrespect, my friend, but surely you know what is at stake.”

Marat still hadn’t looked up, but he gave a slight nod.

“I ask again, why are you here?”

Val looked to Marat, hoping for a sign, something, something to keep her from saying the wrong thing. But there was none.

“I wish to go home. North.” She finally said.

“Right into the hands of Korschey?” Elena gasped.

“No, to my home village. It is remote. No one knows where it is.” Val answered, pausing, “Not even us.”

“I see.” Elena regarded her with interest.

“Consider staying here, just until the Negotiations are over.” Typhonos offered. “And after, we will provide you the means to leave. Alone.”

Val looked from his face to his wife’s, both seemingly genuine with an undertone of concern.

“What,” She heard Marat’s voice, raspy and quiet, “what have you gained from the blessing of the All-Father?”

Typhonos looked thoughtful, considering the question and what Marat was truly asking him.

“You are asking why I have not used my son to conquer the other states.” Typhonos finally said. Marat met his eyes. “A worthy question from someone who looks to entrust their life as well as their companions to us.”

Elena smiled knowingly.

“There is no law or guidance as to how a gift such as that is to be used,” Typhonos began. “When Elena gave birth to a boy, we both faced a choice. We could have shaped the world around us as we saw fit, using our son as a means to an end. At that time, our crops were failing, and cattle were diseased. Whole regions lived in poverty where nothing would grow. I made a choice then: my son would grow up to be a good king. A man that I could hand the dynasty to, knowing that my people would live and thrive.”

“The power, it is in a name. We named him Dimos, meaning the people. And since his birth, Nasmeria has had only plenty. Anything we wish for, it grows. Our sheep, they breed fast and their wool is easy to untangle. Our trade is in the necessary and the luxurious, no one else can boast exports as lavish as ours. No one in our kingdom starves any longer.” Elena picked up where her husband left off. “You doubt our words, that we wish you no harm. But we only wish for you not to end up in the hands of someone who would use you to cause harm.”

“Alright,” Marat said finally, “We will stay.”

“Where are you going?”

They’d been housed in two rooms in the large complex. A guard stood at each entrance to the home, but none at their doors. They were free to move about as they wished.

“Stay here.” The sun had not yet begun to set, though near, and Marat was back in his traveling clothes, dirty and smelling of grasses and unwashed skin.

“Not unless you tell me where you are going!” Val insisted, grabbing his sleeve and trying to keep their tones quiet.

Marat took the sleeve forcibly from her, irritated that she had even heard his door creak open. “Stay. Here.”

“You’re going back?” She already knew he was going to the inn where their packs had been left behind, where Ezra had been.

“Of course I am. What would you have me do?”

“Stay here,” she paused, “with me…”

“Everything is back there. Our clothes, the journal, and all of my equipment. You just have to trust me.” He avoided the subject of the nightmares, Erlan’s compass, and telling her that all his hunter gear was gone. Marat went for the hallway again, but she caught his hand. He looked back, her eyes wide and begging.

“Please, do not leave me alone here.” She whispered. And, he had to admit, it tugged at his heart, but he was not leaving her –he was leaving for her.

He took out his hunting knife, hesitating only for a heartbeat. This one had been Erlan’s. It was stowed away in the boot of his false leg before they were forced to change into the fineries. He put it in her hands, closing them around the hilt.

“I’m sorry I had not given it to you sooner, gi-” he stopped himself, “Valeria.”

She watched him leave down the hall, holding the short sword close to her chest.

He walked as fast as he could without drawing too much attention. He had to make it to the inn before nighttime and still had one stop to make. He kept his thoughts of the past few days’ events at bay, focusing on the task at hand.

The royals would never stay somewhere that was not properly warded, and with Dimos there, the Nothing could not approach. By some stroke of luck, it was the only place he could trust Val would be safe from the nightmares.

He tried not to think of it, but he could not. He’d been in the presence of a god, a fragment of the All-Father, and it was… underwhelming. He felt nothing. Upon this realization, it was as if everything came to a halt. He did not feel the divine presence. Not like he thought he would. It was a boy, flesh and blood. Just a boy. Marat didn’t know what he imagined of the moment, because he had never thought one such as that would come at all. He expected something, but something significantly more.

He stopped in front of a building with large letters above the door.

Void&Co.

He did not expect to see Theodora again, but here he was. He entered the room. Theodora was at one of the tables, speaking in hushed tones with a tall man with a white mustache. Her eyes caught Marat, but she did not let on until there was a natural break in her conversation. Marat stood patiently to the side. When the man left, he approached.

“Unexpected.” Theodora smiled at him, but it was clear she was unpleasantly surprised by his sudden appearance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I come as a customer.”

“Interesting!” She beamed at him, beckoning to a seat. “And what is it you are in the market for?”

“I come with very little time to spare.” He told her, already taking out his gold. “I need henbane or mandrake, whatever you have. As well as lavender, ephedra, and…”

He counted out the gold, far too much for just pouches of herbs.

“...an oneiric dagger.” He pushed it all toward her.

She considered it.

“And how would you know I have a oneiric dagger? What’s more, you know I cannot deal weapons like that with the court here.” She swept her hand at the money.

“Theodora.” He was adamant. “I do not care what laws bind you, and you know that you do not either. What do you want?”

“I cannot sell you a weapon while the courts are here, much less one you are buying up alongside henbane and lavender. If you want to drug someone and kill them in their dreams, you have to wait four days until they leave… It is for Valeria?” She asked him, looking up from the table where the money lay.

“It is.”

“I still cannot sell you the dagger.” She pushed the gold back, saving a few pieces. “We are friends, Marat, but favors between us are over. I am sorry.”

He stood, holding her eyes a moment, and then dropped his.

“I understand. The henbane, then.”

She nodded and left the room. When she returned, it was with a few pouches of dried herbs. The rest of their exchange was silent, and he left without a goodbye.

She stood looking at the door as it shut. This would be the very last time she would see the man, and she knew that.

What was more, she held no such dagger in her inventory.

The sun was setting. Every building was bathed in red and gold, every shadow longer and more pronounced. Marat ran, as there was no point in remaining unseen in this part of town. No one would notice a stranger hurrying about their business.

A block from the inn, he stopped and took one of the pouches, dumping it into his mouth. The foul odor and bitterness of the henbane forced him to gag, but he chewed and then swallowed against his body’s aversion. Next, the fragrant purple lavender. This would neutralize the henbane enough that he hoped it would not kill him, as the former was a highly toxic and deadly plant.

He took off toward the inn, the effects already coursing through him. His vision began to swim, the buildings and people dividing into twos and threes—followed by their own reflection—swaying back and forth. He felt the nausea rise. As he approached the steps, he heard a window swing shut above him. Ezra had seen him, but it did not matter.

He stumbled through, not meaning to lean on the door as hard as he had. The motion threw him, falling against the wall as it swung open. But he pushed himself up and toward the stairs—the third floor.

Just get to the third floor.

He focused as hard as his mind would allow. He needed an anchor, something; he should have thought of this ahead - and at the same time knew what the anchor was. He thought of Valeria.

Step forward, step up. The first time he saw her, skinny, worn down, standing behind the Hag on the hut's threshold.

Another step. How she had trembled as he held her hand, the Legho approaching. How she had gripped his tighter, squeezing her eyes shut.

A step.

A landing, one more to go. How she carried him along, his festering wound, unable to walk - unwilling to try, Erlan gone.

Step. Step. It was his turn then. He carried her through the orchards, her body weak, tensed from the pain in recovery. How she hit his chest and begged him to return her, but then, her eyes would widen at the sight of the flowers, and she would grow quiet. She would stop complaining. And those moments, those were worth it.

Another step. Laying outside, naming the constellations. She knew so little yet understood so much.

Just a few more, but the walls were no longer walls, only concepts; he could barely move now, his fake knee buckling as the other did, as if he had forgotten how to stand. Focus.

Step. Her face during the celebration, the happiness she exuded, the way she laughed.

One more.

Step up. The memory was vivid, even if his eyes could no longer see. The sensation, her turning over, kissing him, felt as clear as anything ever had. The feeling of something so unattainable, right there for him to have.

He was up the stairs and veered to the right toward the rooms. They had been empty, and the door swung open enough for him to step through barely. He fell to his knees, the door falling shut behind him. This was her room, right under the attic.

He felt around for the other satchel of herbs and sat in a position better suited to meditation. It would serve best to keep him upright. Sick, it took all Marat had not to throw up as the final satchel of herbs was forced into his dry mouth. Ephedra. He had only a slot of time now.

There was a noise. His hands twitched, and he could feel their clamminess. It was the sound of the rats in the walls. Relieved, he gave into the darkness, his body falling back into unconsciousness.

He knelt still. But the room was bathed in light. Late afternoon, it slipped across purple velvet - his mother’s favorite color. The tea sets stood dusty next to half-empty perfume bottles and a small wooden container that had kept sweet-smelling face powder—his mother’s room.

Marat stood; where was she? He had to find her; it was almost dinner time, and she had missed it so often now. Her coughs came violently from the upstairs rooms, where she spent her time on needlework more often.

He opened the door, but it was not the hallway of his childhood home. It seemed foreign, somehow wrong, even though the colors of it and the paintings on the walls remained the same.

He walked forward, stride short as his body was that of a child.

“Marat!” His father, standing tall with his thick beard and always laughing eyes. He was a big man, his shoulders wide, his posture radiating pride and confidence. “Where has Erlan gone? Your mother is downstairs. Get on then.”

Downstairs? That did not sound right…

He walked past Marat, and as he watched his father walk further away the figure shrank, hunched, his muscles vaning and hair growing gray and thin until it did not look like his father at all. Marat wanted to run after him, to stop him from walking away. Not there, please gods, not down that hall...

His mother’s coughs came echoing all around him; he could hear the way they tore up her throat even now.

A hand in his. He looked at it, so small and sticky with something. Not even four years old, Erlan was looking up at him with his large brown eyes. Marat felt… it was sadness. It was heartbreak. His chest ached as if it were he that had the dreadful cough. Why?

Erlan pointed in the direction his father had gone and tugged, beckoning Marat forward. The feeling of it all being wrong overwhelmed. His brother was so eager to follow…

In the next room, his mother stood, her back to them, rearranging a bouquet on a table. She was already so frail, her hands shaking and clothes hanging sadly on her bony body. The sickness had been brought on quite some time ago.

“I ate her too,” Erlan said, not looking up at his big brother.

Marat looked at him, not understanding. But the child was looking forward at her. When he turned to Marat, where his brown eyes had been was just smooth, scarred flesh.

“I ate her too.” He repeated, letting go of Marat’s hand, his body twisting and contorting, the chubbiness of his cheeks pulling taut across his skull.

Marat stumbled away, his elbow hitting a vase and knocking it to the ground. His mother twitched, spinning around from her flower arrangement.

“Reckless child!” She cried, and he saw she, too, had no eyes. No face, in fact. The words, the coughs, came from a gaping hole in the smoothness stretched across - strands of dark hair falling over the macabre sight. He could still recognize her, but by gods, he did not remember the face that she once had.

She quieted, turning slightly to face him.

“Her too, I ate her too.” She repeated the words.

Marat felt the nausea rise; he fled the room. He had to find his father.

“I ate her too!” Echoed behind him.

“Marat!” It was Val’s voice. Somewhere ahead. He hurried, trying to follow it.

“Valeria!” He called back, her name tasting bitter in his mouth.

As if pushing through the fog, he broke into the stale basement where he had stayed with Erlan for so long after their father’s disgrace. There was equipment lining the walls and meager mattresses near a small hearth. A table, all their supplies piled around it. There were no windows, only stone walls.

“Thank the All-Father!” She stumbled into his arms from thin air. “I was so scared!”

“What is down here?” He asked her.

“She is…” She looked frightened at something in the corner. “I don’t know where, but she is here!”

He stepped in front of her, trying to see beyond the shadows dancing in the room, the hearth blazing but providing little light.

“Please…” Val begged, gripping his arm, “We have to get out, she’s down here…”

He stepped forward. There was something there, against the wall. It sat low, like a dog laying down, but in a shapeless heap. He could not quite tell what it was.

“Marat, no, please, don’t go to her!” Val begged.

He took another step forward, one hand back, signaling for Val not to approach, the other hovering over where his knife would be - although he had none.

Whatever it was, it stirred ever so slightly.

He felt hot breath on his ear, sending chills running down his spine.

“I ate her, and I will eat you too,” the thing that had been Val whispered. Cold, bony, black fingers closing around his head from behind, the nails digging in.

The ephedra metabolized fast.

His heart leaped, and only for a moment was he awake, conscious, but not fully lucid.

Through the blur of the unconsciousness rushing away, he felt the crushing weight on his chest, threatening to crack the bones. Its head was inches from his face, and the distorted gaping hole seemed to be sucking the very air from his lungs.

As his eyes opened, it pulled its mouth back in a sickly grimace. Its skin was oily, with just fuzz and small, sparse feathers instead of hair. It sat crouched, its long, bony arms raised as if to attack.

But Marat was faster. He pulled his knife out and drove it through the creature’s ribcage.

The deafening screech broke him out of any sleep that remained, if only for a moment, near head-splitting notes of it ringing for just a few heartbeats and then not at all.

It collapsed on him. The shape seemed so large just a moment ago and was now small, like a familiar black tabby cat. Still, it was heavy, as if filled with lead, and it took considerable effort for him to push it off.

He sat on the corner of the bed, breathing hard, trying to shake off the sickness the herbs left behind. He knew the henbane, although it did not kill him, would take a while to wear off fully. But it did not matter. He could stay the night there.

There was no longer danger, not for Val.