Chapter 20: Interlude V

The morning seemed especially dark, Ithana mused, as she wandered the vast woods around her home. Some time ago, she and Istis had set many snares among the darkwood roots and underbrush, and since Eslen’s birth, those traps had yielded many a satisfying meal. That morning, however, she found each to be barren… as though the creatures of the darkwood had grown wise to her hunting. Or, more likely, that as the war continued and death endured on the wind and earth, the creatures, too, were struggling to survive. Regardless, her stockpiles had dwindled, and now she stood perilously close to famine.

She breathed in deep, mentally evaluating her situation. Istis still had not returned, and she wondered if some misfortune had found him on the road. Reaching into her core, she still felt the covenant forged between them—he endured within her heart, just as she endured within his—as it would be until either of their deaths. No matter how far he tread, if she kept that vestige of him within, she knew beyond doubt that he was alive. Thus, a part of her hoped that he would return, supplies in hand, enough to sustain them for coming days and weeks. But hope, of course, was a toxin. She would not allow it to poison her into inaction, and so she decided to see what else she could gather from the darkwood’s few and fickle fruits.

As she wandered, she wondered what recourse she had were Istis not to return. The thought filled her with dread, but that cold and icy feeling only spoke to the reality of it all. She would not suffer her son to go hungry. Nor could she suffer the Undying to wither, knowing how her people struggled in the ongoing war. In time, perhaps she would need to abandon the home she and Istis had built to seek refuge in one of the warlords’ camps. In times such as these, she wagered, they would provide well for a Dreamer.

She gathered paltry berries. She plucked a few mushrooms from the dirt. She found a small cluster of bitter bile-weed and collected even that. It was edible after all, no matter how horrible the taste. Bounty in hand, she made her return, but hesitated as she drew closer to the cottage.

Something felt uneasy. Heavy. As the breeze blew through darkwood corridors, it carried a familiar feeling. She breathed in deep, smelling the distant tang of blood, then opened her Dreamer’s eyes and dreaded what may be seen.

True to her fear, she saw death. It trailed on the wind as if emanating from her home.

She dropped her gathered food, forgotten. Her mind had little space to spare in that moment, occupied as it was by a mother’s worry for her son.

She sprinted through the darkwood, feet hammering down on roots and soil. Within a few minutes, she glimpsed her driftweed garden between the trees. A few moments more, and she spied her humble home. Darting between the white-and-brown blossoms, she spared her garden no thought—though the flowers, knowing her urgency, seemed to sheathe their thorns.

The cottage door was open, thrown wide. She stormed inside, and as she breathed, she smelled the death with a more physical sense as blood’s metallic miasma. She spared her workshop a glance, seeing how crimson painted the floor and open door as morbid decoration, but steered herself to the nursery instead.

She opened the door, stepping into the dark and tiny room. There, Eslen lay awake in his crib, tiny hands grasping one of his toys. He watched her, watery eyes big and wide, seemingly oblivious to whatever disaster had come this way. She cradled his little head, stroking at his meager hair, and allowed herself a sigh of relief as she opened her Dreamer’s eyes and found nothing amiss.

She whispered consolation, perhaps more for herself than her son. Still, death lingered in the air. Its burden stemmed from her workshop, she knew, and while the darkness did not scare her, she hesitated to gaze upon the scene in its fulness.

She exited the nursery. She pulled a knife from her belt, though knew she was woefully ill-equipped to fend off an intruder. Regardless, she walked forward, intently watching the other room. There was a sound, quiet, nearly drowned by the creak of Ithana’s footsteps, but she nonetheless knew the timbre of the Undying’s voice. It tinged the sounds of frantic breathing… laden with the weight of grievous pain.

Ithana stepped through the threshold and past the open door. She, as a Dreamer, was well-accustomed to death. She had seen her share of gruesome sights, from the flayed flesh of an everbleed to the open womb of a banshee. But as she looked over her workshop, as her shoes tread in seeming tides of blood… she was harrowed.

Crimson splashed up the walls and across the floor, ripped from its host with untold violence, now starting to thicken and dry even as it dripped. Next to her, slumped against the doorframe, there was a body. It seemed to have been split open from the crest of its head to the pit of its chest—two sides leaking as they rested unaligned. Across the room was another. It lay in a gruesome pile of entrails and bone. A second glance revealed that its top quarter had been slashed away and tossed across the room alongside its severed forearms and hands. Blood streaked between the parts, violent testament to the killing blow.

Finally, she looked to the opposite corner. There, she found the Undying. The woman clutched her mithril sword with red and white fingers, breath heaving as she also held her shoulder marked in black. Black matter leaked from her wide eyes and dripped as rain from her teeth clenched too-tight.

Ithana came forward, kneeling to assist the woman. For a while, it seemed as though she was invisible to the Undying’s eyes, fixed as they were on something unseen. Still, she reached first for the woman’s sword, hoping to afford her some repose from its hard metal.

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She brushed those white-knuckled hands and found them colder than steel. Colder than ice, than winter. She winced, withdrawing, then tried to pry the weapon loose again. Still, the Undying held it with desperate strength, rendering the effort completely vain.

Instead, Ithana inspected the woman’s wounds. Her clothes had been tattered, each tear baring a deep and dire wound. Even one such cut may have killed an ordinary warrior… or at least crippled them beyond repair. But even as Ithana watched, the falling blood seemed to slow of its own accord.

Regardless, she set about treating the woman in the ways that she knew. First, she set a censer of driftweed on the floor, then used her knife to cut away the remnants of Valhera’s now-useless clothes. She would have offered one of her robes, but knew the woman was currently in no state to dress. Rather, she soaked a rag and began to scrub away the blood, cleaning the sundered skin as best as she could.

Soon, that was done. Ithana then spread a blanket and set it down, covering the Undying’s nudity and attempting to return some warmth to her veins. As she did so, those dark eyes closed, one hand unfurling from her marked shoulder and clutching the fabric instead. Still Valhera gave no verbal response, but Ithana saw how the Void lingered around her as a dark cloud. She would allow the woman her time.

Despite the bloodshed, Ithana felt as though her cottage was safe… at least for the moment. So, with the Undying tended to as far as she was able, she returned her attention to her infant son. She picked him up and swaddled him, cradling him as she moved outside to rest in her driftweed garden.

With him, she watched the wilted blossoms. With him, she allowed her heart to slow… her mind to find some semblance of peace.

Seconds turned into minutes. In time, into an hour. Meanwhile, Ithana sought to purge the death from her mind… the image of blood from her home. This cottage, built by hers and Istis’ hands, had been a sanctuary. And today… it had been violated.

That unnerved far more than the sight of cloven dead.

The floorboards creaked behind her. She made no move to look, but nonetheless felt the Undying’s presence bearing down.

“Thank… you,” the woman said, voice as quiet and heavy as the wind. In response, Ithana only flicked her tail.

A moment’s hesitation, then Valhera stepped outside. She settled next to Ithana, a cautious distance between them. Even then, Ithana felt the vast and bottomless cold that radiated from the woman’s skin.

“Who were they?” Ithana asked, still watching the driftweed dance.

“Warlocks.”

“Warlocks?” Ithana’s voice bent higher in pitch. “Ancient enemy… of Gilgaroth?”

Valhera grimaced. “For now… yes, that’s who they are.”

“What do they want with you?”

“Same thing they always have.” Her cold, dark eyes met Ithana’s. “My blood. My heart. But that… comes later in the tale.”

Ithana breathed in deep, looking away. She held her son tighter, a moment, bowing her head.

“I can only imagine… there will be more,” she said, dreading the coming answer.

“There will.”

Ithana sighed. Even if she were to cast the Undying from her home, the warlocks had still found this place once. They had traced the woman to this place… and would no doubt do so again. Ithana, as most direlings, had long ago dismissed warlocks as figures of myth, perhaps invented or exaggerated by long-dead bards. But if they had come here, if they possessed even a fraction of the power spoken of in those olden songs… then Ithana and her son would never again be safe within those cottage walls.

She grieved at the knowledge. This home, modest as it was, had represented many things to her and her family. It was where she and Istis had forged their covenant. Where Eslen had been born. Where her beloved driftweed had grown… where she had intended to stay until her inevitable end.

She held the sentiment close. She allowed her grief to linger. However, she did not allow it to breed inaction. For the sake of her family, she would gladly leave behind those little walls of ashen wood.

“Can you walk?” she asked, and the Undying’s head dipped in a slow and solemn nod.

Ithana nodded in turn. Eslen still cradled in her arm, she stood and stepped back into the house. She gathered her essentials—a sling to carry her baby, and a satchel filled with what supplies she had left. She packed away a censer, a bundle of driftweed, and what other Dreamer’s tools she could afford to carry. After a few minutes, the Undying followed. As Ithana nestled Eslen’s toys into her bag, Valhera gathered all the materials that she could. She found Ithana’s closet, and at her permission donned one such outfit despite their difference in size. Soon, the two were as ready as they could be, and wordless, they walked past the bloodstained walls and into the withering white of Ithana’s garden.

She looked back once more. The cottage still stood, seemingly oblivious to the danger that had come within its walls. With her Dreamer’s eyes, Ithana felt the stains she and her family had left on these grounds. She felt how her garden begged her to stay. How her flowers, ever-silent, nonetheless sang… how their thorns, perhaps drifting in the wind, clutched the hem of her robe.

But she could not remain. No longer could she find safety in those walls, in this garden. She brushed past the flowers and toward the place where Istis had gone.

Thinking of him, she gazed once more into her core. There, she found his presence still. Their covenant, sworn, promised that they could always find each other. Even as she left the home they’d shared. Even as she ventured onto a path unknown.

Even unto the end of the world.