Author's Notes: Hello, my dear friends! I would have had this chapter up much sooner if I had not been plagued by migraines courtesy of a new medication, but hopefully I've seen the last of them. My goal is to update this story much more frequently! I thank you again for perservering with it, and I hope that I can reward you with good storytelling. We'll shift perspectives soon, but for now, I hope you enjoy.
Tearing through the frozen forest, Barry thinks, I am no nearer to resolving my problems than I am to reaching the moon.
His breath comes in short, sharp pants, but he feels little fatigue, pressing onward relentlessly, putting as much distance as he can between himself and Zolomon. The obscuring snows reduce visibility, but he doesn't stop until his lungs feel ready to burst, a prolonged coughing fit finally forcing him to halt. Leaning against a tree, he becomes aware of his own shaking legs, eyes shut as he listens intently for any sign of his pursuer.
The only sound for a thousand miles is the howling wind, underscoring the immense silence beneath it. As the coughing subsides, he strips off his remaining upper furskin, exposing his torso to the searing wind, allowing its breathtaking cold to refocus him.
Exiled, he looks around at his surroundings, white nothingness as far as his eyes can see, and wonders if this is not what Eternity will look like: empty beyond imagining.
But there are trees and grasses hidden beneath the snows, and he can almost see the living forest hiding within the white walls. This place is alive, he thinks, replacing the frozen furskin slowly. I am alive. I can still change this.
Only if he finds shelter from the brutish cold, he thinks, teeth chattering. Longing for his own Siren song to keep him warm, he walks stiff-legged back the way he came, arcing in a somewhat circuitous route to avoid detection. He knows that Hunter is still in the woods, somewhere, but with the line of sight removed and all sound obscured, their chase cannot continue.
It is an interminable distance to the edge of civilization, but Barry halts when it is within his sightline, aware that he will be easy prey emerging from the woods unarmed. Even with the blizzard to disguise his movements, he cannot hope to evade detection for long – not if Hunter is watching, or any of his companions besides.
Another way, he thinks, and begins trudging uphill to get around the houses, a slow incline that steepens dramatically in places, forcing him to work around it. Time passes slowly, and quickly: within hours, darkness mantles his shoulders, providing no warmth as he circumvents the lit homes. To be human, he muses longingly, imagining curling up in front of a steamy fireplace and resting for a time.
Instead, he ascends, finding ubiquitous cold until it is no longer cold. His limbs are heavier, and he knows that he must descend or die. He presses on.
He climbs, hand-over-foot, and almost loses his footing altogether when he hears a smooth, resonant voice command, "You should turn back."
Looking up, lashes heavy with snow and vision minimal in the dark, Barry squints at his companion, nothing but piercing blue eyes in the shadows.
"Turn back, human," advises the creature. It saunters forward, and Barry has the sense that it is far taller than it seems, walking at a pronounced hunch. Its feet crunch through the snow, and Barry doesn't mistake the crackle of claws snipping through ice.
"Who are you?" he asks quietly, almost reverently.
In reply, the creature advances, and Barry can see that it is bearlike yet grander in its proportions, enormous. "I am the one they tell stories about," the creature says, easing nearer. Barry can almost feel its hot breath, but he can still barely make out its features. Its claws gleam faintly in the darkness, obsidian-black against the snow. "I am the one who takes care of those who trespass."
At last, it halts, and plucks a branch from a tree, igniting it instantly.
Grasping the makeshift torch in a clawed hand, the blue bear rears up slowly, towering over him, its coat a mixture of grey and black, its great breaths misting in the air. "Satisfied?" it asks, its jaw moving strangely to accommodate the speech. Barry has the distinct impression that it could speak any language with ease. There is something otherworldly about the creature, accentuated by its sloping walk, its intent blue eyes, its paw curved delicately around the burning branch.
What is a god?
A god is more than human. Someone we aspire to be, or simply aspire to please.
Mesmerized, Barry cannot speak, advancing slowly across the space. The bear-god does not stop him. Instead, it sits on its haunches, still commanding more height than even the tallest man Barry has ever encountered, and watches him, unblinking.
"I have been called Dom gyamuk," the bear-god introduces, its voice almost hypnotic in its clarity. "Michê. Mirka. Bun Machi. Yeti."
Laugh all you please, but I swear upon my life, I saw a Yeti.
Barry can hear Ronnie say the words, but his eyes refuse to connect the creature before him with the idea of the thing. The gods do not walk the earth anymore, Iris informed him, almost sadly. If they exist, they're more reclusive now.
"This is my mountain," the bear-god adds, living proof of the impossible. "And it is I alone who permit those who climb it to reach its summit. I deny you that passage. Return to your hut, human, or perish up here."
In a voice noticeably quieter than the bear-god's, Barry says, "I'm not human."
The bear-god cocks its head at him slowly. It reminds Barry of an owl. Disarmingly so; it does not blink. "My eyes are old," the bear-god says, white eyes flashing. "But my other senses do not fail me. You will not mislead me." Demonstratively, it inhales deeply, exhaling its breath very slowly. "Walk away or perish, human."
"I have questions," Barry says, voice scourged by the cold but strong enough. "Why are you here?"
"I do not answer to you," the bear-god replies dismissively. "I am here because I am here."
"What are you?"
"I am what I am."
Daring to step closer, Barry insists, "Are you a god?"
A flicker of amusement passes across the bear-god's eyes. "Are you a Siren?"
Reeling, Barry staggers back half a pace, reclaiming his original ground. The cold nips at his face, but he doesn't turn away from the wind, fixing his gaze on the bear-god. It doesn't move. If he looks away, even slightly, it seems to vanish in the wind, invisible in the shadows. "I ascended this mountain before," he remarks, afraid that it will vanish altogether if he is not careful. "You were not there."
"I was," the bear-god replies. "But I saw no reason to interfere. I let the untroublesome pass. It is those who would die on my mountain that I dissuade. It is sacrilege for the bodies to lie here. I remove them."
"What happens, should you fail?"
The bear-god blinks once. "I have never failed."
"A – companion of mine, he said … he saw you."
"I have been seen," the bear-god allows, "but few believe the words of cold climbers after they have descended from the mountain high. Fewer still believe them enough to come looking. Those that do, do not return."
A feeling of dread builds in Barry's stomach. "Is that to be my fate, then?"
The bear-god does not reply.
With only the howling wind for company, it seems strangely quiet in the space between them, accentuated by the bear-god's enormous form, fully twice the size of any Barry remembers encountering before. "You would be revered, if you walked among the people," he observes softly.
No mortal ears could pick up the sound over the storm, but the bear-god replies, "I do not seek reverence."
"What do you seek?"
"I seek what I seek."
Turning around is the wisest move, Barry knows. He senses no malevolence in the bear-god: it does not pin him with a hunter's eye to his place, but observes him relentlessly, ensuring that its will is obeyed and he does not seek an alternative path up the mountain. Still, he cannot bring himself to leave. He senses it may be the last opportunity he ever has to speak to the old bear, and he must make it matter.
"What do you know of Sirens?" he asks, for if any creature may prove enlightening, surely it is a god.
The bear-god settles onto all fours, extinguishing the branch in the snow. In the near perfect darkness, it seems even more menacing, a hulking shadow with barely visible features. "Follow me," it commands, and turns northward, and begins to climb.
Go another way, a cautious voice insists, but Barry follows the bear-god up the slope, hand over fist, numbed fingers struggling to find a grip where the bear-god's claws click effortlessly. It is so breathtakingly cold that each inhale seems strained, each exhale forced. He tries not to think about how much farther the bear-god will take him, but as true night descends over the world, he cannot help but think he has gone too far already.
Dusk on the third day, he thinks, a distant reminder of a broken promise.
He does not transform, and he does not die. Instead, he follows the bear-god deeper into its realm, until at last they halt at the edge of a cave carved into the mountainside. Claw marks are clearly visible along the rim, deep gouges drawn by fantastically sharp claws.
"Onward," the bear-god insists, preceding Barry into the darkness.
With strength derived from curiosity, Barry follows it, gaze drifting to the walls, a faint light becoming visible as they leave the howling wind behind.
The cave is not deep. Within a few strides, the bear-god halts and turns around so it can face Barry. It seems far more menacing in the confined space than it did in the open, seated, shoulders near the ceiling. Barry stands, and still feels small and powerless before it. Taking his cue from the bear-god, he sits neatly on the cold floor, gazing up at it, waiting. "I do not answer to you," it says, "but I have a debt to your kind."
The bear-god lifts its left paw, using a single, wickedly sharp black claw to scratch the side of the cave wall. "You asked what I am," the bear-god says, patiently scraping away ice and rock from the space. "I am what I am." Its claw deepens the gouge without apparent effort. "Why am I here?" the bear-god repeats. "I am here because I am here." Then, using thumb and forefinger, it plucks a single rock from the stone wall and holds it aloft.
The pebble glows a deep, luminescent blue. In the darkness, its light fills the cave, creating strange new shadows that play over the bear-god's blue-furred face, sharpening fearsome angles, accenting a glint of wicked teeth as it speaks. "Even I am not immortal," the bear-god says, turning the stone over in its claws slowly. "In time, I will die. I am not a true god. Any more than Sirens are gods. Merfolk. Selkies." Gaze on the stone, it muses, "Some of us last longer than others, but we are all confined to this realm, and we pass from it in due time."
Flicking the stone across the space, it fixes its gaze on Barry. Leaning across the space, Barry reaches for the stone, hesitating just before contact. "A pantheon of creatures lay claim to godliness, and yet all of us are mortal in our own ways," the bear-god continues. "There are few from the old guard remaining, but we still inhabit our own spaces, fulfilling our own wishes. But there are rogues among us. Dissenters. Those who seek more than reverence."
Gaze on the stone, heart pounding, Barry closes his fingers around it. Little black claws cradle the stone; sharpened incisors press down on his lips. He opens his mouth to speak and finds no words, overcome with the familiar warmth, the familiar presence that comes with being a Siren.
The feeling is so heady that it is almost godly: the aches vanish from his limbs, the fatigue from his bones. He shivers, but it makes the warmth more pervasive, the feeling more exhilarating. A deep hum builds in his chest, and it is restraint borne from years of silence alone that keeps him from giving it voice. He leverages himself so he can relieve the pressure from his legs, and finds a heavy Siren's tail in their place.
Lounging with a hand on the cave floor and his free hand holding onto the stone tightly, he looks at the bear-god, silent in its corner. Cocking his head thoughtfully at the creature, aware that a single word could ensnare it forever, he regards it silently.
"Your song will do nothing to me, Siren," the bear-god pronounces.
Gaze returning to the stone, Barry stares at it, overwhelmed with – frustration, exultation, depression, surprise.
It's real.
It's a story that burns in his bones, a mythos that predates him and intends to exceed him. Holding onto the fragile blue stone with powerful black Siren claws, Barry experiences an overwhelming urge to destroy it, an overwhelming urge to return it to the stars. Sorrow wells up in him as he crushes it between those sharp little claws, aware that its end means –
What, exactly?
Aghast, he drops the stone. Instantly, the cold sinks into his bones. The aches are gone, and each breath comes more readily, but he still feels weaker in his humanness, small once more before the bear-god. In a clear voice, he says softly, "Why would you keep this?"
"It grants me life unending," the bear-god replies, reaching across the space and allowing a sharp black claw to pull the stone back towards itself. Barry notices for the first time that its paw never makes contact – only the edge of its claws. "Some might call it a philosopher's stone. These things have many names. But the truth is simple." Picking it up between two claws, the bear-god announces, "This is the reasons Sirens exist. Should it disappear…" Slowly, methodically, the bear-god begins to rub the stone between its claws, and Barry's heart pounds with fear, but he needn't worry: nothing changes.
"It laid on the ocean floor, many eons ago," the bear-god says, scratching at the cave wall. "Then it rose with the land and resided here for a time, unnoticed. I do not know how vast this period was. The mountains are older than me." With gentle claws, it presses the stone back into its little niche in the wall. Barry stares at the spot, entranced. "I came upon this cave one day and found it. I knew what it was, and I knew no fear of it. These things cannot harm gods," the bear-god adds, and something clicks in Barry's chest.
The Sea Witch was never afraid of me. She had no reason to be.
I never had any power over her.
Unperturbed by Barry's inner thoughts, the bear-god continues. "Only earthly beings succumb to this particular magic. We ethereal ones acknowledge a higher state of being as our only law. Thus." The bear-god pauses, regarding Barry with glowing white eyes, before resuming at the same steady cadence, "I will never understand the passing fancies of mortal gods who crave power. Everything here is impermanent. Even these mountains. They will crumble, and I will fall with them. And the stone will return to the sea, and perhaps another being will find it and enjoy its effects."
"It's a terrible thing," Barry says, voice soft, reverent, "to be a Siren, to ensnare living beings. To force them to obey you, even unto death."
"All living beings will die," the bear-god replies. "Myself included. To lead them to a peaceful death is kinder than many alternatives."
Shaking his head slowly, Barry repeats, "It's a terrible thing."
"If it is so terrible," the bear-god says simply, "then you should end it. Destroy the stone. Extinguish all traces of Sirens from the face of the Earth, and let the world know permanent peace."
It's a dizzying thought, almost overwhelming in its scope. End the Sirens.
He has always known about his lineage: the Sirens Who Came Before Him, and the Sirens Who Come After Him. He admires his place among their ranks, remarkable solely for his presence in the immediate present. Soon, he will be a forgotten shadow, invisible to his kin. They will not remember his name. He will merely be part of an unbroken chain spanning years untold, a shadow in the realm.
To be the final link in that chain, to be the very last Siren That Ever Is – it is a thought too daunting to entertain. It makes him feel sick, imagining the world he could invoke, merely by one last action.
It would be selfish not to. The world doesn't need Sirens.
And still, he does not reach for the stone.
I cannot betray them.
His kind needs him to carry on their story.
Exhaling, he averts his gaze from the bear-god's, afraid that his shame will show.
I could end it all.
But he can't.
Without urgency, the bear-god rises, and the stone clicks innocuously as it lands in front of Barry. "Goodbye, human," the bear-god bids, and Barry looks up at it uncomprehendingly. "I must make the final ascent. Do not die on the face of this mountain." It saunters towards the mouth of the cave at Barry's back, moving with deliberate steps. Barry eases to his own feet and steps back out of its way, the cold stunning against his face outside the protection of the cave.
Still, he has to ask: "What do you mean?" Over the howling wind, his voice is barely audible.
The bear-god does not reply, letting out a low garbled sound reminiscent of a true bear. It sounds pained, but its steps are strong as it begins to ascend the near vertical stretch peeling off from the cave to the invisible summit. In moments, it is lost to the storm – and lost forever to history, another myth quietly buried in snow.
Shivering, Barry ducks back inside the cave, seeking protection. The cave feels colder without the bear-god, and only the dull reflection of blue light on the floor inspires him to step farther into it. With great care, he wraps his sleeve around his fingers and picks up the stone, depositing it in a pocket and exhaling when nothing changes.
I can carry this forever, and all will be well.
It is a comforting thought, and the stone seems to provide palpable warmth as he picks his way carefully back down the mountain in near perfect darkness. He finds he doesn't need to see the path to know the way; he merely trusts the yearning in the stone for the ocean, and is not disappointed.
The roar of the shore is profound, audible from a great distance, but it is only when the sea-spray is near enough to splash over him that Barry finally halts.
Looking out at the Great Deep, he scans the ink-black horizon futilely for signs of life. The entire world seems empty, this dark, this cold, yet he feels only a sense of rightness in his presence.
Take the stone and go home.
He wades, almost unconsciously, into the waves, lapping at his ankles. The urge to dive under the water and retreat to his cave with its lovely blue stones is overpowering. He walks forward a few more paces, the acoustic whistle of the wind a distant thing. Go home, he thinks, and pauses, knee-deep in the icy waters.
Then, slowly, he retreats, returning to the shore he yearned to be upon for years, taking a heavy seat on the rocks, surrounded by innocuous gray stones that have no bearing on his kind.
How innocent are you, he muses, the stone burning companionably in his pocket, no more remarkable than the vast sums of pebbles he has found and yet incontrovertibly fantastic.
A sound in the distance makes him stiffen, alert, and he rises and stumbles slowly across the rocky shore, venturing towards the sound.
Softly, cautiously, he calls out, "Iris?"
The name is lost to the wind, but he cannot bring himself to shout louder. It seems sacrilegious to do so, interrupting the ocean's rhythm. Indeed, he half-expects the bear-god to descend upon him and wrathfully tear him apart.
"Iris?" he repeats at the same volume, nearly stumbling over an unseen stone protruding from its kin.
"Garrick?" a voice croaks, making him tense reflexively. "What are you doing here?"
Feeling his way across the stones, he replies cautiously, "What are you doing here?"
Coughing wetly, the Duke of Chomolungma replies, "Catching cold. I take it you survived the mutiny?"
At last, Barry nearly trips over the shivering body hunkered on the rocks. Leaning down, he seizes a great handful of the man's furskin, hauling him to his feet. "Not according to your wishes, perhaps," he says, blindly guiding them towards the shelf separating the mainland from the sea. "Yes. Alive and well."
"Wonderful." Shaking, Eddie continues in a ravaged voice, "Where are you taking us?"
Barry doesn't hesitate: "To a friend's." Then: "I hope."
. o .
"Where is Rob?" are the first words out of David Singh's mouth.
"On his way," Barry lies, supporting the Duke under an arm. "Might we come inside?" he asks, voice only slightly strained.
Eyeing them warily, David steps back, shutting the door smartly behind them. "What is going on?" he asks.
Depositing Eddie on a chair in front of the fire, Barry exhales. "More than can be easily explained. Can he stay here?"
"Where are you going?" David demands.
"Elsewhere," Barry evades, already nearing the door. "Can he?"
David looks at the man on his couch, then Barry, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have a strange feeling it would be terrible luck to let a Duke die on my doorstep, so – for now."
Clasping the man's hands, overcome with gratitude, Barry says fiercely, "Thank you." Then, releasing him, he adds, "I'll be back as soon as I can. The King needs me."
Arching his eyebrows, David repeats, "The King? What sort of trouble—"
But Barry has already slipped out the door, Baloo's cheerful woof overriding David's next words.