Pain. Seering, all-consuming pain. Spreading through his body, tracing every single blood vessel in acid and fire, destroying him from the inside, making his body turn against itself. He tries to detach his mind from it, to find a better place for his thoughts so that he can survive it. But it is stronger than his will. He cannot remember anything good to hold on to. Not even anything bad. His past, his name, gone. All gone.
Fates, the agony!
He can’t even remember his shape. Scales…were there scales? Talons? The long, spiked tail thrashing in the ether, is that his? The roar in his chest.
Let me out…
No…No! He cannot. Never! It must never come out. It is foul, tainted. It is violent and untamed. He cannot let it out or it will consume him. He has never seen it but he knows, he knows… He knows its heart. His own heart. The blackness slumbering in his core, spiteful and ill-tempered, flailing in fitful sleep whenever something dares hurt him. He has kept it asleep for so long. Imprisoned for a lifetime. He must…he must… Gods, please! Please! No more pain! Death! Please, death instead!…Death instead… The Void…
Let Me Out!
No!
LET ME OUT!
OR WE WILL DIE…
He is ready to give in. Anything, anything that will drown the pain, the ever-rising heat that might send him into combustion at any moment. Anything that will stop this rotting of his body, of his soul into a shapeless mass of unhallowed pus. He feels it already, life escaping from him like a great torrent gushing downhill after the rain. No use…no use in fighting. The sickness is already eating through the last of his walls. Soon, the monster inside him will be free, whether he wants it or not. It roars for freedom already. It roars for survival. He cannot fight it any longer. Let the gates crumble. Let the chains break.
Go…
He feels it spreading its wings, powerful neck bending backwards, stretched to its full length for the first time in over a century. Claws gripping at his heart, claiming hold of what is left of him, siphoning his lifeforce, his power as if drinking from a wild spring. Anger at how little is left to drink.
Live!
I am dying.
Weakling! We are not weak! Fight for our life!
He is so tired… So tired.
I can’t–
LIVE!
I would rather die…
And then it comes. Slow at first, just a tingle against his senses. And then stronger, furious, rushing in the wake of the poison, crashing in a howling wave. Unstoppable. Endless. It washes over him, a blanket of cleansing, liquid will. Desperate. Powerful. Breathtaking. He gasps as its touch flares the pain again, as it wars with the poison, now winning, now losing, unrelenting. Unrelenting.
Mine, it seems to say.
Mine…
Mine…
Mine…
The thing inside him slithers away from its nest of ages, out of his sight. He lets it. Whether it will kill him or fight for him, he cannot control it any longer. All he can do is fight for breath as the battle raging inside him escalates at the arrival of the newly released force. To watch as it traps the foul poison between two clashing powers. As the tide turns. As the pain subsides.
A feeling of freshness and quiet spreads through his conscience. A memory of lilac, of willow branches bathing their leaves in old, winding rivers. A cool touch, soft and loving. A whispered lullaby brushing against his senses. Lulling the beast inside him, calling it back to its nest. To sleep for now. To rest. Free. Finally free.
He tries to remember whose will this is that fought for him, that watches over him now. Whose touch. Whose gentle, welcome, so welcome presence. The name evades him. The name means nothing. He knows and lies open to her. Unguarded. Unresisting. Unafraid.
This is her home. All of it is hers to know. He missed her so much. In its nest of centuries, the beast dozes, bathed in her scent, her shimmering shadows. Safe.
Free…
And then she is gone. No, not gone. Not completely. A part of her has stayed behind, somehow. But her presence is fainter now and he misses her already. He would go after her if he did not feel so tired. So drained. Maybe if he rests just for a moment, she will be back by the time he wakes. The sense of coolness that remains, the peace of this place makes it easy to sleep. He breathes in the liquid, blue-ish twilight in which he floats, weightless, undisturbed for the gods know how long. Resting.
A tickling sensation to his nose rouses him back from slumber. Something brushing against his skin, light and silky. He opens his eyes into darkness. Nighttime already? How long has he been asleep? Again, brushing against his cheek. He turns, wide-eyed. His mouth opens. Wow… So pretty… Long blue feathers floating in the breeze. He reaches to catch one but it flies away from his short arms, his tiny hands. It is so beautiful… Like a piece of the sky, teasing him to follow. He runs after it, tries to catch it again but it is flying faster now and his legs are too short. Flying faster, attached to a bird at least as tall as he is. Blue. All of it blue. Different shades, metallic glimmers. Gliding in the darkness, bright against the stark-black shadows. Slowly. As if it wants him to follow.
He stumbles, not used to these short legs. Weren’t his legs much longer? But still, he runs after the beautiful bird. It looks…so familiar, somehow. Like he should know it but he doesn’t remember ever seeing it in the garden. Mommy would have told him its the name. She would have called it over so he could pet it. He follows it into the grassy confines of the garden, tripping in the green blades of the rich lawn but just managing to stay upright, watching with awe as the waters of the many basins and little ponds filled with small fish and aquatic plants reflect the deep, vibrant blues of the bird’s belly as it flies over them.
It turns in flight and lands on the back of a cast-iron chair, facing him, one ambarine eye, bright as if lit by an internal fire, focused on him. He walks slowly toward it, fearing it might fly away.
“Hi,” he says in soft tones.
“Dion?” a woman’s voice calls. His mommy’s voice. “What are you doing?”
He looks back at the the beautiful lady sitting on the grass, just a few steps away from him. Her coppery-red hair shines in morning light, the watery reflections from a pond nearly making her freckles look as if they are dancing over her pale skin. She is smiling, enjoying his antics.
“Look, Mommy!” Dion replies, pointing a slightly chubby childish finger at the perched, watchful bird. “Ish a buddy.”
“Yes, it is,” Mommy replies, her hazel eyes never straying from his. “Her name is Starfax, remember? Can you remember, Dion?”
Dion shakes his head. “No, Mommy. Ish Stahfac my fwiend? Can I pet he’?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” Mommy says, gesturing at the bird. “But after that, you have to remember, all right? Can you do that for me?”
“Yesh, Mommy,” Dion tells her, confused. He does not know what she wants him to remember but he will try to anyway. He would do anything for Mommy. He turns to the bird. “Hi, Stahfac. Ah you my fwiend?”
The bird looks at him from up on her perch and lowers her head before daintily jumping down to perch on the chair arm, within reach of Dion’s short frame. He walks closer to her, one arm stretched, hand open toward the Starfax.
“Can I pet you, Stahfac?” Dion asks, taking another slow step.
His fingers are very close to her now. He wonders if she will take flight and leave before he can touch her. But she lowers her head and brushes the side of her face against his fingertips, standing still as he strokes her long neck in an open-handed, slightly clumsy stroke.
“Pwetty…” he breathes, fascinated with her colors, her softness. She is so friendly…
And suddenly, she disintegrates. Breaks into hundreds of tiny pieces. Long shapes, with thin bodies. With delicate wings. Flying! Flying in a frenzy, in all directions. He counts them with his fingers but there are so many! Must be…lots of them! Lots more than ten! So many colors…
He snaps his hands forward, thrilling at the soft, tickling brushing of insect wings beating frantically against his palms. Careful now. Very careful. He does not want to squish it but he wants to see if he caught one. He peeks through his fingers. Relaxes his hands just a little… He got one! He did! It’s there! Finally, finally he caught one! So pretty too! Blue, with big, yellowish eyes.
“Mommy! Mommy, look!” he calls out in glee. “I got a dagonfly!”
A shriek. “DION!”
He turns to where his mommy was sitting just a moment ago to see her standing, her face covered in blood, her body drenched in a black oil of some sort. She is hurt and something is dragging her. Something like a big dark cloud with tentacles that wrap around her legs and pull at her. Daddy is being dragged too. His head is looking very red and slimy. His body is already half in the cloud. Arms, many and clawed are coming out of the cloud to grab his motionless body.
“Daddy?” Dion asks, frozen in place, tears of terror streaming down his cheeks. “Mommy, whash wong with Daddy?”
“Dion, run!” Mommy screams. “Run, baby! Hide! No – mmmh!”
A thing like a blob of slime slaps over her mouth and pulls her further into the dark. He kicks, her body shining with a strong light for a moment before it goes off.
“MOMMY, NO!!” Dion shrieks, running toward where his mommy is just disappearing from sight, his hands letting go of the dragonfly.
He is so scared. So scared. What is happening? Why did Daddy look so hurt? Where are they taking his parents? Who is taking his parents away from him? He wants to go too! He wants to go! No one takes his family away! No one! He jumps into the cloud, into the clawed arms and squishy tentacles that shoot out of it to grab him.
LET GO OF MY MOMMY!!
He is in the dark. It’s darker than dark. And they are many, so many. Coming from all directions. Flailing at him, slapping him, grabbing him. But he is not small anymore. No, no. He is big now. Really big. As strong as they are. Stronger than they are. And the dark isn’t dark anymore because he is shining with a golden light. Bright like Mommy’s. Golden like Daddy’s. Glorious. Holy. He can see the shadows now. The things in them. They have too many arms, too many legs. Too many mouths. Some don’t have mouths. Some are like huge worms with shells like crabs. Some are just bendy, shapeless lines like leafless trees. All of them are shadows against his light. They try to hide from him but he can see them all. He roars, bellows, calling his parents.
He runs at the monsters. He is big. He can fight them now. A strike of his hand rips an arm from its socket. A lash from his knee fractures a skull. He bites a tentacle off its owner, scorches the inside of a mouth to a crisp when it dares close around his wrist. His touch is poison, fire to them. His strike is light, blinding them, making them shriek. He is the beast of their nightmares, the monster whose name they dare not speak. He will destroy them all.
But there are too many of them. Too many. Even if he is big, if the thing inside him runs loose and basks in the killing of their kind, their numbers make them bold. They attack when the should run in fear. They seek to overpower him. Still he fights.
He fights.
A shadow at the corner of his vision. Not a shadow. A fault in the light. Like someone took a pair of scissors and cut a shape into the light he casts around himself. A shape of nothingness. Of Void. Four legs, a powerful neck, a great, muscular body. Billowing manes and tail, white and black. Dion watches as the demons that were attacking him switch targets and attack the newcomer, roaring and shrieking their challenge at the apparently easier target.
But they are wrong. As soon as they touch the massive stallion, they disintegrate, seemingly vanishing into the nothingness that is its body. It makes no notice of them, walking calmly, silently in Dion’s direction. And as they realize the power of the new arrival, the lowering of their odds of victory, the demons start to cringe away, hiding at the edges of Dion’s vision.
What are you doing, Gwydion? the stallion asks.
And who are you, that you know my name?
It looks straight at him but how can that be? Dion is so much larger than it in this form? As big as the light he spreads around him.
I am Arion, Void Rider, the horse says, unimpressed with his power. And I am here for you. Why haven’t you banished these pitiful creatures yet?
Arion…
He remembers now. Who he is. His size. His shape. He feels himself shrink–no, pull back. Back into his skin. The light follows him to lie in a wide circle around his feet. Around his knees. Around his hands. He kneels, panting, exhausted, covered in blood and demon flesh, a summoning circle of cleansing glyphs surrounded in shadows by a halo of ghastly sigils, like a living key to the gateways of purification and damnation. A holder of the keys to Hell.
No… It can’t be.
He looks up at Arion with mild affront and breathes in deeply before finding his own voice. “Pitiful creatures? I was fighting with all my strength.”
It sounds rougher than usual to his ears, as if he has been shouting at the top of his lungs for hours, but Arion seems unconcerned. The great horse steps closer to him, his long, massive head lowering to touch its muzzle to Dion’s shoulder and nudge the god’s face with a very soft, very whiskery lip.
A lip that does not move when Arion gently scolds him, They are things of dreams, Gwydion. Their strength is what you give them. He backs away, leaving Dion’s cheek feeling cold at the absence of Arion’s warm breath against his skin. Breathe deeply and focus. You have the means to banish them all at your will. You have always known how to do it.
Things of dreams. So this is…a dream? A dream. His dream. Made from memory. From knowledge he keeps deep within him. Like the thing hiding at his core. A part of him. Of his essence. Locked in shackles through all these years. Sitting there his whole life.
Where would I go? We are one.
Does he truly have the knowledge, the power to banish demons beyond textbook spells? More than just memory? More than just talent with magic? A…sphere?
Call on me. Your power, give it to me. I will show you.
He nods, focusing his senses. His whole life, he has used his mana by channeling it through the complex, filtered pathways written by mortals, whose weaker bodies cannot store mana nor bear the passage of too much of it in one sitting. Mortals channel mana, using their own lifeforce to open the pathways through which the magic of the world flows through them, acquiring the shape they mean it to have. But a god…A god is a being of magic. Mana is part of a god’s lifeforce, one of many parts. A god’s body produces mana, absorbs it, releases it without harm to himself in its purest form, unbidden, barely changed. Raw mana that would kill a mortal if it ever entered mortal flesh in this state. Dion had dreamed many times of using it but somehow had always failed to do so, to bend his power to his wishes like all gods seem to do. Without his spells, Dion’s mana lay dormant at his core, beyond his reach.
And it seems to him now that the reason for that is the same wall which kept his fears at bay, this great and powerful beast within that he cannot control, that he has sought to keep confined in the cage of his will. But it is free now. They are both free.
An aura of gold appears around him as the summoning circle at his feet shrinks, tightens around him in motes of light. In motes of darkness. A scent of salt sizzling against hot iron fills his senses, the smell of white cedar rises to his nostrils. And now he can see it more clearly, what made him feel so big before. His aura, an aura of light stretches around him, covering his skin with scaly designs surrounding him with a beastly profile, massive jaws gaping atop a powerful neck, skull-smashing tail curled around his legs. Like the dragons of his youth. Clearer, more detailed than ever before.
From their hiding place, the demons bellow in pain and fear. They flail in agony as Dion’s magic focuses on them and sears through them, cutting and burning, blasting them into blackened, infernal sludge. Banished. No, not banished. Destroyed. Gone, forever. And then it is done and his aura blinks out. He feels tired. So tired now. But he is still sleeping, still dreaming. And now his violent core lies sated, its job done for now.
“What is happening?” Dion asks, once again struggling for breath.
You will soon find out, Arion replies as the god of magic rises to his feet. For now, all you need to know is that this is your nature and that you must not fear it any longer. It is what you were born to be.
And then, the horse-god throws his head back with a trilled neigh and his form wavers, distorts into blackness – no, emptiness – and reforms again, into a more human-like shape, kind features and plaited hair clashing with those empty, slanted, light-consuming eyes. Though he stands relaxed and smiling beatifically, everything about Arion speaks of many years lived. Many, many more than Dion. Power, raw and virile, emanates from every line, every curve of his profile. An image that could lead the legions of the world marching straight into Hell and out the other side. Or steal a young goddess’ heart and leave her with seven children to care for that the world has done everything to destroy…
Dion cannot help but feel small again, inferior to the former Archon in every way even standing before this apparently innocuous form of Arion, Void Rider. Still, he does his best to suppress the thought before his mind starts wondering how he could ever compete with this god for his beloved’s affection. “Have you come here just to show me my true ability?”
Arion’s smile is slightly unnerving. Mostly because his lips do not move when he speaks. No. I was looking for you and merely happened to stumble on your curious dream. May we speak?
Telepathy. Probably a must-have feature when one is a horse most of the time.
“Of course,” Dion replies with a nod.
The garden reappears around them, green and unsoiled, bereft of any other presence, real or imagined. The cast-iron table and chairs sit just to their right. Arion motions toward them.
I have a message, the former Archon says, taking a seat. From your friend, Tuma-Sukai. He is not well.
“He has been taken from us.” Dion sits, his heart racing at the possibility of news from Sky. “We have been looking for him but with no luck so far. How did you find him?”
Arion tilts his head, seemingly amused at Dion’s question. In a dream. I would not have invaded your mind but I am having difficulty in finding Alma’s. Her thoughts are no longer with me. His eyes lock their gaze on Dion, a strange smirk pulling at the corner of Arion’s lip like a schoolmaster looking at an until now honest student he knows has cheated on a test. They have not been with me for some time now.
A flutter against Dion’s cheek, sudden weight against his right shoulder. He does not flinch, instead turning his head slightly, half-expecting to see the goddess materialized behind him at the mere mention of her name. But it is Starfax’s shape, Alma’s pet phoenix, that he finds perching on his shoulder, preening her feathers in relaxed decorum. The beautiful bird from before…How did he not recognize her? He raises his hand to touch her neck and she tilts her head, welcoming the caress, this time thankfully remaining in one piece. He had never been this close to her before, especially not without Alma nearby. Even now, he feels the goddess’ presence in the phoenix, as if the two shared a single soul.
And it is on his shoulder that Starfax perches. His, not Arion’s. He takes petty pleasure in that dawning realization. But more important issues are on the table. Sky’s message, what will it be? That is urgent. It starts to dawn on him that Arion, like many of the older gods, has a rather faint, distorted notion of urgency. And of priority, for that matter.
“I doubt Alma will willingly sleep before we find Tuma-Sukai,” Dion states as Starfax idly cleans her diamond beak against his thumbnail. “And if I hadn’t been poisoned… Do you know where he is?”
He is not on the Insula but somewhere connected to it, Arion says. An independent reality or pocket universe, as people are wont to call such places. Unfortunately, I cannot place him precisely. And if you are looking for him, know that he is being tortured but holds still some sense of sanity.
Amazing…Arion does not look bothered in the least by the notion of a god being tortured in captivity. Like it is all just an unfortunate by-product of Fate. Dion’s gut, however, twists at this. Torture… Gods, what are they doing to his friend?
“If you cannot determine where, do you know anything about those who are holding him?” he asks.
Arion nods. Your friend tells me that his captors names are Nua and Margrave. And to look for Nua in the records of the Necromancer’s war, two hundred years ago.
“Alma has those records,” Dion says, half to himself. “Do you know why they are doing this?”
Arion shakes his head. It will be Tuma-Sukai’s story to tell, I am afraid. I cannot enter the minds of the vigilant to know such things. His brow furrows slightly, his first sign of concern. However… he seems to believe this to be a trap of some sort. To capture any possible rescuers.
Most likely worried about Alma, Dion thinks. He sighs. “That confirms our assumption, I’m afraid.”
Still, you plan on intervening, Arion notes, studying his face.
Dion nods, watching a small, somewhat saddened smile flower on Arion’s lips. “It will not stop us. But the more we know going in, the better. Is there anything else he told you, even inadvertently, unconsciously?”
Wings flap, weight lifts from his shoulder. Dion turns his head to find Starfax gone, flown away.
Our time is at its end, Arion announces.
Dion’s eyes widen. “But–”
Be good to her, Gwydion, Arion says, the garden-dream already collapsing around the two of them. I hope for your happiness together.
Our…happiness?
“Arion, wait!” Dion calls.
But it is too late. He is bathed in blueish twilight again. Alone.
A feeling of coolness and wetness spreads over his face and he closes his eyes as the fresh sensation travels over his skin, across his lips, his cheeks, until it rests on his face. It is soothing, reviving. Awakening.
He opens his eyes to full consciousness and to the heartwarming image of Alma sitting by his side. Her hand on his bare chest, the swirling light of her pearlescent eyes resting on him with softness and concern, her pupils now a little wider at the sight of him awake.
“Al–” he tries to speak but his tongue feels like sandpaper and his throat feels like it has harbored a sandstorm.
She strokes his cheek, leaning a little closer to his face. “Shhh, I’m here.”
She speaks in a low voice, a small, tired smile curling her lips. Her right hand reaches for a neatly-folded handkerchief resting on her bedside table and picks it up, dipping it in a glass of clear water that shines faintly with a blueish glimmer that makes the wheels of his mind turn sluggishly around their axles. A dream…there was a dream. Of liquid twilight.
Alma touches the wet handkerchief to his lips and he parts them slightly to let the refreshing liquid trickle in slow droplets into his parched mouth. Within seconds, he feels life return to it.
“Alma…” he tries again, his voice still rough but better now.
“You gave me quite a fright, you know?” she tells him, putting the handkerchief down on the rim of the glass and removing the wet cloth from his forehead to soak it in a basin.
Dion looks at her in a daze. He remembers…remembers arguing with her, being away from her, heartbroken at the distance between them. Pain in her eyes at the sight of him, grief at his presence. Her hand touching his, her face begging him to end this torment, to mend the seams of their love affair. And now here she is, a shadow of that pain still in her gaze but a gentle smile on her lips, gladness and relief that he is awake. Has he somehow forgotten that eagerly awaited reunion? Did she just somehow forgive him as he slept his fever away? But why? Why would she? Did he talk to her, tell her all the things he needed to say, needs to say? Over and over.
Did he…did he somehow find the right words but forgot he spoke them? No, no. He thought them, maybe, again and again. Promised himself he would say them. And he still needs to say, “Alma, I was so wrong.” He reaches for her hand where it rests on his chest, encircling her wrist in a weak grip. “I wish I could take back everything. Please…”
She has released the cloth at his first words, her smile faltering for a moment, but her eyes turn to his and lock there, affection in them, vivid and palpable. “Remember that I told you that sometimes you say the sweetest things when you are not paying attention to what you say?”
Dion’s eyes widen and he feels his stomach clench at the possibility of having said something he shouldn’t in his poison-induced fevered state. He nods and swallows his unease. “What did I say?”
Alma smiles at his reaction. “I will let you know, someday. When we have time. For now…” She exhales deeply and slowly shakes her head. “I am tired of this fight.”
She has forgiven him! Has she forgiven him? Oh please, please, gods of love and fate, have mercy and let it be so. “Does this mean what I hope it means?” he asks, craving and dreading the answer.
Alma brushes a lock of his hair away from his forehead in answer, leaning down until her nose nearly touches his. “That depends on what you hope for.”
And then her lips are touching his, sealing the unspoken truce and end of their fight, flooding the chasm that for too long has kept them apart with their taste, their love. He drinks from those flood waters with the thirst of barren days, returning her kiss with all the passion and longing his sickly condition allows him. Relief. Such overwhelming relief.
Ours again…
An impulse has him wrapping an arm around her torso, twisting his body until he rolls on his right side, the whole of her body pulled onto the bed with a little gasp of surprise, her legs lying over and across his. The movement makes him dizzy. He nearly collapses, half of his body lying over hers, arm still around her, pinning her in place under him. Not to leave. Never to leave. Never to let go.
It takes him a few breaths, his nose taking in the scent of her skin in blissful inhalations, to ward off the nausea of the sudden movement. He feels the healing touch of a small kiss of hers to the side of his head infuse him with lightness, sending away the vertigo.
Another deep inhalation and he masters himself enough to raise the weight of his body on an elbow and look at her, one hand cupping her cheek. To speak again, voice just above a breath. “Gods, I miss you…”
She smiles as his lips travel the distance keeping them from hers. “I miss you too.”
And though his mouth tastes like something foul to his own tongue, he kisses her again, slowly, passion dampened by the weakness of his body, delighting in the way she kisses him back without reservation, her fingers running through his sweat-drenched hair. His beautiful, caring lover returned to his arms.
Ours
Mine.
Bliss…
They break away after a short eternity of breathless contact. Alma’s legs have somehow moved without Dion noticing and she lies fully on the bed now, her body snuggled closely against his, one hand stroking his side. Smiling, yes, but with sadness in her lovely features. He pulls away just enough to rest his head on the pillow by her side, holding her closely.
“There is something wrong, isn’t there?” he asks, icy dread spreading down his spine at the possibility that this might not be, after all, the end to their fight.
She snuggles a little closer to him. “There’s something I have to tell you. About Sky.”
Sky… Of course! The dream! There was a dream! Quick now, before it is gone. “Yes!” he exclaims excitedly. “There’s something I need to tell you too! About Sky.”
Alma pulls away a little in surprise, looking at him, confused. “You learned something more than Pete’s location from the poisoner?”
Dion shakes his head, fighting a silly, inappropriate urge to laugh. “No, not the poisoner. I–” He catches himself sounding like a lunatic and pauses to level his tone. “This may sound strange – I had a dream just now. There was a horse. A great black stallion who strolled into it to speak to me.”
Alma’s face is a mask of astonishment and unease. “Arion? In your dream?”
He cannot help but chuckle at her expression. Doe she fear they spent a dream comparing notes about her, he wonders. Or fighting for her hand? “He had a message and since someone hasn’t been sleeping…” he explains, stroking her hair. His face darkens at the considerably more serious content of the message. “Sky is alive. In a pocket universe, somewhere. Held by someone called Nua, from the Necromancer War, two hundred years ago. She is torturing him. And there was another…Margrave. Arion is trying to help Sky, I think.”
The memory of Arion’s last words to him makes him smile again. “He asked me…to be good to you. And be happy with you.”
Alma’s expression changes, flashing through different expressions like water rippling under a stronger breeze. Horror to discomfort to happiness to sadness. She lowers her eyes for a moment. “Oh Gwydion, this is so much more complicated than we thought…”
“Well, meeting old flames can be like that…” Dion notes.
Alma looks at him, her jaw dropping slightly though no sound comes out of her throat. She closes her mouth again and sighs before speaking. “That is not what I mean… Gwydion, there…there’s something you need to know.”
Dion’s silly grin disappears from his face at the seriousness of her tone. “What is it?”
“While you were sleeping, after I healed you, we went to the prison and interrogated Pete,” she explains. “Somrak and I. I left Starfax watching over you–” she gestures to the fountain, where Starfax is perched, watching them, her feathers glowing faintly with her healing magic “–to make sure you rested and to restore you a little quicker. We may have found out where Sky is being kept.”
She swallows, her brows furrowing as if she is having to force herself to say the next words. “But… on our way back, Somrak told me a secret. About Sky. He’s…” She sighs. “He’s not a god, Gwydion. He’s…he’s a devil.”
Dion looks at her in confusion. He blinks once, twice, wondering if he is still asleep. “Come again? Who is a devil, Sky or Somrak?”
“Sky,” Alma replies, speaking quickly as if the words burn her tongue. “Sky is a devil, escaped from Hell and rebelled. Enslaved by the Commander, in a sense.”
Dion stares at her, eyes wide, his mind incapable of processing the thought. “A..a devil? How can that be?”
Devils are….are… They are worse than demons! Sworn enemies to all godkind! How could one live so easily among gods and mortals? Become their friend, their beloved leader? How could a devil mourn the loss of a subordinate, weep for a pair of dead children? Be his friend? Alma’s friend? The trusted protector of all the Bunnies?
Alma shakes her head. “I don’t know either. Everything I ever learned tells me that it is not possible, that I should have been able to detect him with my scrying. But… I didn’t. He is like us in every way. His soul is a little odd but I’ve seen worse from other gods. I just…”
She trails off, looking miserable. “Is Somrak sure of what he is saying?” Dion asks, feeling confusion veering into anger.
I told him about the devil, he thinks.
Alma nods. “He has always known. They were partners for a very long time.” She looks at him, eyes filled with anguish. “But Gwydion, it’s still Sky. Our Sky.”
Anger begins to boil, filling him with a burning heat, making him clench his teeth. He does not know what angers him more, the truth about Sky or the notion that Somrak lied to him. Lied as if it meant nothing, as if it would not make any difference if Dion trusted him or not. He stood there, handed him a figurine covered in a devil’s blood, Sky’s own blood most likely and lied about who it belonged to. About what it meant.
“Somrak – That miserable rat…” he growls. “He lied to me. Lied to my face! I trusted him and – I’m going–”
He lets go of Alma and turns, struggling to sit up, intent on finding the lying bastard and pounding him to the worthless slime that he is made of.
“Gwydion, no!” Alma launches herself to grab him and keep him down. “You’re still weak. Please!”
“How can I rest?!” he cries, struggling against her hold. “He lied to me, to us both! I’ll kill him!”
Kill him!
He is too quick and she is in a bad position to pin him down, her body still mostly lying on the bed, no time to kneel and grab a better hold of him. He manages to sit and drag his legs over the edge of the bed in spite of her attempts to keep him down but a sudden lightheadedness and a new wave of vertigo make him pause. He puts his hand to his temple, groaning.
“See?” she scolds him, her hands on his shoulders. “You need to rest. The poison seems to be mostly gone but your body has just gone through a huge strain. Lie down. Please.”
He obeys, defeated by his body’s own evidence. His jaw is still clenched, his mind still spinning angry around a single thought: find Somrak and make him spit every single lying tooth in his rotten mouth. But he lies down.
“He lied,” Dion mutters.
“I know,” Alma replies, kneeling beside him and reaching across to grab the cloth from the basin, wring it and then use it to clean his face and chest. “But your health matters a lot more to me than that.”
“I am fine now,” he says dryly, a part of him hating the tone with which he is speaking to her.
A small part of him, currently being drowned in his simmering fury.
“No, you are not,” Alma insists. “You are weak and you are filthy. You’ve been sweating that poison out.”
“I feel like I’ve been dipped in something rotten,” Dion grudgingly admits. “My mouth tastes of lint and Cherry’s dish-rag.”
“Well, rest a little and then I will help you into the pool,” she offers, her tone one he has heard her use on the younger Bunnies when they are being stubborn and misbehaving. “You can have a nice long soak there while you bathe.”
“Will there be company?” he asks, grudgingly admitting that this sounds like a very pleasant alternative to beating the daylights out of Somrak.
Alma laughs. Just a short, quiet burst of laughter. But it sounds to him as if her need for it was something dire. “Only if you behave and stay put while I fetch you clean clothes and your grooming kit. Your shirt had to be cut away, I’m afraid.”
“My shirt?” he asks, wondering why she would commit such a crime against good fashion. “Why would you cut my shirt?”
“I was trying to get it off but Somrak decided ripping it to shreds was faster,” she replies, rolling to reach the edge of the bed opposite to him. She rises to her feet. “He is rather quick with that blade.”
SON OF A–
As if reading his thoughts, she gives him a warning glare. “Remember, stay put. Or I will make sure you do so the hard way.”
She turns to leave and Dion watches her go, sheepishly staying in bed even after she disappears behind the privacy screen that blocks his view of the door. A good thing too, because she suddenly pokes her head through the hanging stalks of wysteria and looks at him, ready to scold him if he were to have moved. Finally, reluctantly, she leaves, the door closing behind her with a soft click of the latch. He waits for three full breaths, sits up and pulls the covers off of him, rises – too quickly. He falls back into a sitting position, waiting for the wooziness to go away. A second try, slower this time and he manages to stand.
With well practiced movements, he casts a portal spell to the breezeway.
He lied. He will pay.
He will pay.
The portal flares and he vanishes.
Forgive me, darling, but he has to pay.
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