Seventeen:
Judgment
Theresa was far less surprised about them returning to camp with a stranger than she should have been. She'd welcomed them all back in a calm, level tone and had seemed reservedly pleased that the Devourer was destroyed and the Willstone had been retrieved. Even now, sitting beside Victoria on the cart as they followed the man down the barely-visible road, she seemed completely at ease. Victoria wasn't quite so confident.
"Who are you?" she demanded once she'd ascertained Reaver was okay—he'd been mostly healed by the time she'd reached him and was claiming he was perfectly fine, though he was holding his right arm oddly enough to make her worried. Unfortunately, until she could be certain the interloper wasn't a threat, there wasn't time to fuss over him.
The stranger shifted, greaves scraping against the ancient stones as he straightened up. Victoria didn't want to admit it, but he frightened her. Perhaps it was just that he was one of the strangest people she'd ever seen, or perhaps it was just the oddness of his arrival, but something just...seemed wrong about him. Beneath his tattered blue robes, his body was thin and lanky—muscles starved down until he seemed to be made of naught but flesh barely stretched over bones. Bandages obscured most of his face, offering glimpses of faded blue tattoos and his beady red eyes. His hands hadn't relaxed his grip on his weapon.
"My name is Scythe," he replied, his voice deep and gravelly with an edge that made him sound unwelcoming of conversation. "I felt the disturbance and so it was here that I came. Does that answer your enquiries, Hero?"
"How do you know I'm a Hero?"
He didn't move, standing as still and unconcerned as an ancient statue. "It is not safe to speak here. Return with me; all will be made clear."
That was hours ago by now. Dawn had broken, staining the sky in reds and oranges before fading into the dull grey of cloud cover and hazy morning mist, and now they had returned to the murky half-light of the forest. The muggy air felt strangely nice after the dryness and heat at the Forge, but the dim light and the fact that there were too many plants around to provide enemies cover made Victoria nervous. Her palms itched for one of her blades. How could they trust this man? Even if he'd come to help them, that didn't mean he was on their side.
"Does anyone know anything about this...Scythe?" Victoria finally inquired in a low murmur, trying to keep the man himself from hearing. "His name sounds familiar."
"It should," Reaver replied dryly. Something in his voice sounded immensely disappointed as he added, "He's a Hero, after all."
Something clicked and memories of old stories came flooding back. Scythe the Necromancer; ancient, immortal Hero who had wandered the world before vanishing entirely. Fables to help young ones sleep at night, re-enacted in the daylight hours when children played. "I—that can't possibly be the same Scythe. He'd have to be ancient."
"He is," Theresa replied. "For once, Reaver is correct. The Scythe of legend and the man before us are one and the same. Though I do not yet understand why he is here," she concluded. For the first time since Scythe's arrival, she sounded troubled and uncertain. That did nothing to soothe Victoria's worries. If something was troubling to Theresa, it would probably be troubling to them all soon enough.
The road had widened; hardened soil replacing the uneven stone of the mountain road. Vine-tangled trees crowded the sides of the road in a near impassable wall. Moss draped down in damp ropes. She could hear water running, though she couldn't see its source. Every once in a while, they would stop to tend to Satyr and Scythe would stop and wait for them before resuming his slow, even pace. He didn't seem to be in any great hurry and it made Victoria wonder. If there was a threat still looming, why take so long? Was it because he believed nothing would attack him? Had all the years he'd remained untouched by time affected him to the point of arrogantly believing he could be touched by nothing? Or was he just that powerful? Or, perhaps, had he been alive for so long that a few hours of slow travel was nothing to him any longer? The passing of seconds in already long life?
Buildings slowly began to break through the foliage—wooden and weathered, but sturdy. A gate more than twice Victoria's height spread across the road, a rough sign proudly bearing the words "Stonerest" hanging from above it. As they approached, shouts rang out and the gate slowly creaked open. Though it wasn't quite large enough to really earn the title of town, Scythe hadn't been lying about a community being well established here. There were quite a few houses grouped around the central "square". Everyone had stopped what they were doing as they entered, milling about and whispering as they watched the cart roll in. Once the gate was able to close behind them, Victoria called Satyr to a halt.
"Once you are done here," Scythe intoned slowly, quietly, "my residence lies there—" he gestured to a small cabin at the very back of the village— "come find me. I feel we must speak."
He didn't give her a chance to speak before walking off in the direction of it; the villagers parting for him without a word. Deeply on edge, Victoria hopped down from the cart and helped Theresa step down. The villagers didn't seem interested in hurting them, but they did seem very curious about them in general. Whispering, pointing, gesturing. A few merely shrugged and left, presumably returning to whatever work they'd been doing before. A couple others scooped up their children and wandered off, frowns only just beginning to crease their brows.
"Who are you?" someone called out in a sharp, oddly lilting tone.
Victoria whirled around. A tall, muscular woman had made her way through the crowd, stopping at the front of the group with her massive arms crossed over her chest. Her dark skin was weatherworn and scarred; expression etched sharply into an almost maternal sternness.
"We could ask the same of you," Reaver remarked, stepping down from the cart.
She clicked her tongue, clearly annoyed, and replied sharply, "Móirín, and these are my people. Now: who are you?"
Victoria hastily stepped forward, not wanting Reaver to make a mess of this before they'd even had a chance. "My name is Victoria Rochester; I'm...the Queen of Albion. And these are my companions: Theresa and—"
"We're aware of who he is."
The whispers had grown louder and Móirín flashed the crowd a disapproving frown. In response, they slowly dispersed; many of them glancing back as they wandered off. Móirín hadn't lost her frown when she turned back to Victoria, though it seemed far more troubled than annoyed.
"You were the princess, last I recall. What happened to King Logan?" the older woman enquired.
Victoria found herself taken aback. "You—you didn't know? About Logan's tyranny? About the revolution and the attack and his—"
She suddenly couldn't find words, each syllable dying in her throat, curling up like rotting leaves and fading away long before she could consider to say them. Logan's death. She hadn't really considered that anyone wouldn't know about it, nor had she considered anyone would actually be upset to hear about it. Outside of herself, Walter, and Jasper, the news had been something people had celebrated.
"We know nothing of what's happened in the south," Móirín replied. She reached up as though to smooth her braided bun and dropped her hand. "King Logan sent us here...it must be about thirteen years ago, now. He had asked for craftsmen. It sounded better than staying in Bowerstone, and so myself and a few others volunteered. We gathered our teams and we were sent out."
"You've been here ever since?"
"Yes. It wasn't as bad as it probably sounds. In the beginning, we could rely on Bastion—mining town at the coast, on the edge of Shalefields. They collected ore; we harvested lumber. Every few months, an envoy would come to collect what we'd found. Two years in, they stopped coming. We waited..." Móirín shook her head. "Eventually, we realised they weren't coming and we stopped waiting."
Victoria paused, trying to match up dates in her head. She'd never seen any documents of Logan's that had stated he'd sent people north and not retrieved them. She vaguely remembered him consigning them, and she recalled hearing about them being sent out, but no one had ever brought up that they'd never returned. Perhaps everyone had assumed they'd been lost. Or...maybe not. "That definitely fits along with when Logan's reign first started getting worse. I don't understand why he would have wanted to hide news of your existence...then again, I'm not entirely sure I want to consider what he had to gain by doing so, either."
"On that we can agree. Not to be rude, Your Majesty, but why are you here? It wasn't to aid us."
Victoria paused once more, feeling the weight of Reaver's stare on her back, though she was unsure if it was disapproving or just curious. How was she supposed to explain this when almost no one in Albion knew? And, with painful clarity, she realised how Logan must have felt upon learning of the Crawler: a terrible thing approaching, with minimal chance of destroying it, and no way to tell everyone without instigating a panic. She wasn't about to let herself fall into the same trap. "May we walk as we speak?"
Móirín gestured for them to follow her, though only Theresa and Victoria did. As they meandered through the village, they carefully explained what they could about the Devourer and how they had destroyed it. Theresa had offered no further information, however, and Victoria didn't know if there was a specific reason why Theresa didn't want to share more. If Theresa was worried about a backlash or about Móirín reacting poorly, or perhaps even about them being removed from the village, wasn't it a far better idea to bring it up now, manage what damage might come of it, than to keep everyone in the dark? Victoria wasn't certain; it just seemed fairer to her to at least tell Móirín. But that wasn't how Theresa worked. She was forced to let the conversation stutter to an awkward halt. For a long time, Móirín said nothing.
The village was peaceful and surprisingly homey. They'd built up farms and workshops and most-else they could possibly need to keep their town going for the near future. The walls looked sturdy and well-fortified, though the trees draping lethargically over the top of the fence made Victoria a bit nervous of something climbing them. In all, she'd seen maybe four dozen residents, including a small gaggle of children who waved cheerfully when they passed. The roads had been set with stones, leaving it fairly even, and they'd even started planting flowers outside the small houses. It looked like a perfectly normal village in Albion...if not for the fact that the trees ringing the village were dark and almost felt like they were watching everything.
"I'm sorry we can't help you," Móirín finally said. "If you're looking for anything like a temple, we haven't seen anything beyond the forest for a decade. Scythe might know, but you'd have to ask him."
They'd arrived back in the square by then and Reaver shot them a frown from where he was standing with Satyr, before going back to brushing her down. Victoria forcibly resisted the temptation to watch him.
"How long has Scythe been here? I'm assuming travellers are a rarity."
Móirín paused, thinking a moment, before: "Maybe a year? Two at most. He's helped us fend off attackers, but, mainly, he's kept to himself. And you would be right about how many visitors we receive. Nergüi—" she pointed at a woman near a well with a round face and long, black hair pulled into a loose braid— "arrived with Scythe. Six months or so ago, Nerys—" she gestured to a girl with curly red hair, chatting to Nergüi— "was found wandering the wood, alone. Her caravan destroyed. Other than those three, we haven't taken in anyone in a long time. Not since Bastion went under."
Victoria stared, jerking herself out of her thoughts. "What happened to Bastion?"
"We don't entirely know. Something was always wrong with Bastion. It didn't feel right. Like something was watching you, even alone in a room. Workers would vanish in the mine, never seen again. You could hear voices whispering from behind solid stone. We only bothered to visit when King Logan's envoys were still coming. Made everyone uncomfortable otherwise. And then, a year after Logan's ships stopped coming, a small group of miners found their way here—all horrifically wounded. They were babbling, mad with pain. They all died, except for a child. Boy's mute now—bit his tongue clean off in his panic. We haven't the heart to ask what happened there."
Victoria's skin crawled, like ants under her flesh. That was...eerie. Creepy beyond belief. She hoped they wouldn't have need to travel through the town, but, if it was on the road, chances were they would have no choice. Hopefully, whatever was there is gone now, she thought. The Crawler offered a humourless laugh in reply.
"I need to return to work, Your Majesty," Móirín added, holding her hand out. "You're welcome to stay the night and share in our food and facilities."
"Thank you," Victoria replied, shaking her hand. The older woman's palms were calloused and her grip was firm. "We'll try not to be any trouble."
"It's him I'm worried about," she muttered, frowning at Reaver before making her way out of the square.
Victoria decided not to ask or even think on it too hard. There were some things she just didn't want to know. At least not for the moment.
The villagers were no longer milling about, hoping to listen in on the newcomers, but they were watching them—keeping a respectful amount of space between both groups. A light breeze toyed with the chin-length locks of Victoria's hair. She tucked them fastidiously behind her ear. For the first time in a while, everything felt somewhat normal. She was just a queen on a mission. Standing comfortably in the middle of an outpost. No immediate need for panic or rushing about. She felt…safe. Oddly pleasant.
There was only one problem: Scythe. Why on earth was he even here? There hadn't been any new stories about him in centuries. If he was so determined to remain elusive, why bother to get involved at all?
"Answers will not come from staring into space, Hero," Theresa said, smiling faintly.
"It's really creepy when you do that," Victoria replied, looking down to find Theresa was still beside her. "How, by Avo, did you even learn to read minds like that?"
"It is not minds that I read, Victoria, but your expression," she clarified. "And the changes in your energy."
But how does that work? She could feel Will, yes, but the subtleties were not her forte. The minute changes and shifts other Will-users would have probably found more natural were lost on her—she knew she needed more training, but it wasn't like Will-users were common enough for her to ask one for help. Perhaps, she decided, she would chat some with Tushaar when this endeavour was over. For now, however, she was going to have to wing it.
"Are we going to stand here," Reaver began, draping an arm over her shoulder, "or are we going to go speak with the walking corpse? I know which I would rather do, but I was under the impression we needed answers from him."
"You're right," Victoria murmured, following a deep breath. She just didn't really want to go, but she led the way forward irregardless.
It was strange, she decided, that after years of him haunting her dreams she didn't really want to speak with him. Part of it was bitterness, certainly—if he was so intent on speaking to her, why didn't he just say something to begin with?—but, for the most part, it was distrust. He'd been a character in a story for so long, spoken about but never interacting, so why break from that? After everything that had happened in Albion, and to Heroes, since Scythe had vanished, why even bother to come back now? Weren't they doing fine without him?
"What do you seek here?" a cool, almost monotone voice cut through Victoria's thoughts, drawing her attention upwards. Nergüi leaned against the cottage's door, monolid eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Scythe requested we speak with him once we were done talking with Móirín," Victoria replied as evenly as possible.
Nergüi kept staring, unmoving for a long moment, before pushing off the door and hurrying past them as though anxious to be out of their presence. Very sharply, she called out "Rhys!" to the red-haired girl, beckoning her to follow, and they were gone.
Victoria hesitated and pushed the door open.
They stepped into a cluttered, single room cabin and were plunged into semi-darkness as the door creaked shut behind them. The room was smoky and dim; windows shuttered against the daylight, leaving the room only illuminated by the fireplace and the occasional lamp. It was almost overzealously full of things: sacks pressed into the wall by the backs of chairs, blankets and spare clothing stuffed into whichever cabinet would hold them, and dishware stacked precariously beside alchemical supplies. Dried herbs, fangs, and bones hung in tangled bundles from the ceiling, narrowly avoiding being wrapped in spider webs. Maps and notes cluttered the far wall, overlapping extensively until only small slivers of the older documents were visible. Books and scrolls had laid claim to most of the room, overflowing from their rough cases and bins to rest amidst broken quills and empty inkpots on whatever surface they could. Peeking surreptitiously past an elaborately woven blanket hanging from the ceiling, Victoria realised this was only half of the cabin—three cramped beds had been squished in on the other side of the blanket, trunks and travelling gear dispersed between the trio. Scythe's namesake had been set down to lean against the wall next to one of the beds.
"Sit," Scythe instructed. He'd been seated at a disorganized desk, bracing himself against it, and, curious about all the strange things in the room, Victoria almost didn't notice him.
Theresa was the first to oblige, settling onto a moth-eaten ottoman near the fireplace as though she were visiting an old friend. Victoria followed with trepidation, perching awkwardly in a small armchair beside the hanging blanket. Reaver, however, did not sit. Instead, almost defiantly, he leaned against a bare patch of wall near the door and crossed his arms, staring at Scythe in a manner that was almost cat-like.
"You appear to be in a fouler mood than when we last met, William," Theresa observed conversationally.
Scythe dropped his hand from his head to the desk. He'd shed his armour before they had entered, heavy robes draped loosely over his thin form, and Victoria stared as he flexed his bony fingers.
"The world is a fouler place than it once was," he replied bluntly. "Why have you come, Theresa? And why have you brought that—" he glanced briefly in Victoria's direction— "thing with you?"
"There has been a…complication with the Spire."
"The Corruption is attempting to force its way into Albion through the Spire," Victoria cut in sharply. A wave of irritation was crashing against her sternum, tightening her shoulders and tensing her gut. Thing? "We're searching the tombs of the Enlightened for a way to fight him. Does that answer your questions?"
He turned fractionally towards Theresa as if to ask if this was true. At the seeress' answering nod, he begrudgingly turned his attention back to Victoria. "Why?"
"I—" Victoria broke off, confused— "Albion is my home, my kingdom; it's my duty to protect it from anything that may wish it harm."
"No. Why do you claim to wish to protect Albion when you are walking about with that abomination inside you?"
Her spine immediately stiffened, the urge to jump to her feet and begin shouting was growing by the second. Reaver beat her to it. He pushed off the wall, snapping something in a language Victoria didn't understand. In response, Scythe's entire demeanour seemed to shift from tired to alert.
"The Crawler is not a problem," Theresa said, cutting Scythe off before he could finish replying. "Victoria has it under her control."
Scythe tsked. "For n—"
"The present is, I'm afraid, the important thing," Theresa added, raising her voice just slightly. It was enough to lure them all into a temporary silence as she concluded, "The Corruption is what we must concern ourselves with at present. Whatever problem lies in the Crawler's continued existence, it appears content to wait. But the Corruption will not wait. As we speak, it grows stronger and more capable of crossing into this world."
"I thought the Devourer's death would slow the Corruption down," Victoria managed, struggling not to turn to Scythe and begin a row.
Theresa's answering smile was grim and faint. "Doubtless it has. But we do not yet know if the Temptress has also found her way into this world. If not, we may have the luxury of time on our side. If she has, and the Corruption is more powerful than we'd feared, we may be on a time frame of days. Hours." She let that statement hang in the air before between them: "That is why we cannot waste time with this fighting amongst ourselves. William, you were once a Hero. I trust you have not forgotten what that was like…even after so many years of isolation."
Scythe didn't immediately answer. The fire popped and Victoria jumped, not expecting it. She could hear birdsong and the occasional shout from outside. Everything else was silent. Shifting a touch, she turned to look at Reaver. A storm was brewing behind his features and he looked like he desperately wanted to shoot something but the severity of his expression seemed to soften as he met her eyes. I know he seems like an asshole, Victoria thought, lamenting that she couldn't send the thoughts nonverbally to him, but it'll be okay. I hope.
If she was waiting for the Crawler's commentary, she was to be disappointed. It didn't even stir in response to her thoughts.
"What do you seek from the Enlightened?" Scythe finally enquired. "Willstones?"
"Yes," Theresa replied.
"There is no guarantee they will oblige you."
"No, there is not. But Blaze has already deemed Victoria worthy. Stone will require some convincing, but I believe Sol will readily acquiesce as well."
He stared down at one of the maps littering his desk. "I will not assist you."
"What?!" Victoria yelped, on her feet before she realised she'd moved. Some distant part of her mind noted that the cabin's door had slammed and Reaver was gone. "Then what was the point of leading us—"
"Victoria, please," Theresa murmured, cutting across her words almost gently.
With a hiss of breath, she forced herself to try to calm down. It didn't really work, but she was able to still the urge to storm out and stop the sudden flare of Will in her veins.
"We did not come here expecting your assistance," Theresa replied evenly. "We will find our way on our own. Thank you for what you've done, William. We will leave in the morning."
With far more grace than Victoria felt he deserved, Theresa offered him a careful half-bow. She rose and departed without further word.
Victoria knew she should follow suit, but irritation was still flowing freely in her veins. What was his problem? First he saved them, then he insulted her, and now he had absolutely no interest in them succeeding with their quest? He was a Hero, right? So why wasn't he even trying to act like one?
"What was the point in saving us if you don't care?" Victoria enquired quietly, refusing to move from where she stood.
Scythe didn't acknowledge her for a moment. Instead, he elected to rummage through some of the books on his desk. Apparently giving up, he stopped and rose to his feet. "I could not allow the Devourer a chance to escape."
"And yet you're willing to give the Corruption that chance."
"The circumstances are different…and revolve around different complications."
Victoria gave a snort of humourless laughter. "'Different.' Right. If that makes you feel better. You know, I might be a bad person for not having discovered a means to cast the Crawler back into the Void, but at least I understand when it's time to act. And when my country needs me."
"It is not your country."
Speechless, she was able to do little more than frown at him—silently challenging him to continue speaking. He did so with little restrain.
"You may be the Queen, but you are not the Archon. Albion does not belong to you any more than it belongs to any other. You are not Archon and so you have no claim."
Victoria sucked in a deep breath through gritted teeth, nodding once almost absently. With a cold half-smile, she raised her head to look him plainly in the eye. "Last I checked, Albion had no Archon. And no one worthy of the title. I'd say claims matter little any more. After all, if they did, the only ones we'd call Heroes were the ones who actually bothered to do anything these days…and not the ones who appear to be little more than talk and old stories."
She didn't give him time to respond. Instead, she turned and stalked from the room with as much haste as she could spare. She wasn't certain she took a breath until she was once more outside and the door was closed behind her, and then her breathing was much too quick. Standing outside the cabin, she tried to calm down as the cool air swept over her. She gulped down a steadying breath.
Theresa was meandering away, back in the general direction of where they'd left Satyr. I should probably follow her. At least I'll know everything's ready for tomorrow. Before she could follow through, however, she realised there were eyes on her. Frowning, she turned towards the nearest tree. Leaning against the trunk, Reaver watched her with a bitter smirk twisting his lips.
"Well...that was disappointing, wasn't it?"
AN: There's a reason they say you should never meet your childhood heroes, Reaver...
Dev. Notes: In tarot, the Judgment card means decision making, transition, rebirth, and redemption but can also signify self-doubt, stagnation, faulty logic, and poor decisions.
