See additional Author's Notes at the end.

xXx

"H'CHAK-DI!" Escthta screamed as she fell, though he hardly heard himself over the roar that shook his bones. A whimper escaped him as breath from a great mouth rushed over him, hot and nauseating. He fell in the snow, crawling toward H'chak-di, and he was almost there before another deafening roar flattened him to the ground. He rolled over on his back, looking at his attacker.

The beast was twice his height at the shoulder, some five meters tall, covered in longish white fur that was natty and yellowed under its short neck. The fur stopped short of its face and feet, which were covered in thin, pale scales. Large bony ridges jutted out over its eyes, protecting the deep sockets on either side of its long head. The snout was tipped with two slit-like nostrils side-by-side that worked continuously, taking in scent and processing it. Its mouth gaped open and a set of mandibles spread wide, each one edged with sharp fangs.

Escthta backpedaled from it, scooting away on his hands and feet like a crab. The snow formed a barrier behind him and he scrambled over it, getting to his feet and running to the treeline. The beast looked after him, squawking a warning at him before turning back to the fallen human. It leaned down, and Escthta heard it sniff her, huffling her scent in through that elongated snout. He saw its mouth open and an anguished shout tore from him as it leaned down to partake. "NO!"

The beast turned, dropping H'chak-di's leg back into place. Escthta breathed a sigh of relief; she wasn't eaten at all, maybe she was just stunned. If he could find a way to distract it for long enough, maybe he could grab her and get her moving, as long as the fear didn't take him over again. He watched the predator come close, hot breath fogging the winter air, and it bayed at him as he moved through the trees, moving around the edge of the clearing.

Its footfalls shook the earth underneath him, and more than once Escthta lost his footing, stumbling as the beast swung its large head at him. It used its skull like a bone club, knocking its prey off their feet so that it could deliver the killing blow. Escthta ran it into the trees, where its size was a disadvantage. It snarled in frustration as it realized its predicament, but Escthta did not stay to hear the rest; he doubled back faster than it could turn around between the trunks. He dashed across the clearing to H'chak-di's crumpled body and he rolled her over. Her eyes were closed, but to him, she still felt warm. He looked over his shoulder, and the beast was still trapped in the trees.

Escthta patted her cheek roughly, "H'chak-di, wake up, wake up!" Over his shoulder, the great animal was coming out of the trees and turning toward him, sibilant with rage.

"Wake up, dammit!" Not daring to waste another moment, he gathered her up as carefully as he could and began carrying her to the edge of the clearing. The beast began to charge him; the skull was thick and large, like a battering ram, and the mandibles…the realization hit him like a stone. He darted to the side and slid to a halt, H'chak-di's body curled into a sitting position in his arms. Unable to turn quickly, the colossus had to finish its charge and come around for another pass, but this time, Escthta knew it for what it was: a weyk, the top predator of his homeworld, roused early from hibernation by the days of thaw.

The weyk charged at them, its mandibles wide and a horrific screech bursting out of its lungs. The fear, the smell of that terrible beast crept into his mind, and he was frozen again, unable to overcome the chemical response that paralyzed him. Escthta felt the vibrations of his hunter's approach, stronger and stronger still, and he looked up at the gaping maw and black mouth as it opened to scoop him inside. There was a flash of blackness in front of his eyes, as if the entire world went dark for the barest of instants. Sound faded into silence, though he could see the weyk charging, still bearing down on them, a behemoth of death. The mouth passed through him, over him, inside him, and Escthta closed his eyes, waiting for the teeth to close down on him. But he realized even as he did so, that something was wrong, something was happening that was not of this world, and he opened his eyes, finding the weyk nowhere to be seen. But the tracks, the disturbance the weyk's charge left in the snow, lead right up and over him. The silence changed from a cottony feeling in his ears to the real silence of the forest, and he became distinctly aware of a wheezing behind him. He turned in the snow, clutching H'chak-di protectively.

The weyk was collapsed in a heap, breathing hard. As it lay there, Escthta realized with a start that its neck was broken, snapped by the force of the impact at full speed. He gathered H'chak-di up against him and carried her off the bare ground, looking back only once at the heaped weyk and the small clouds of fog its breath made.

Kicking aside the screen, he carried her into their small den and laid her out on the furs, gently setting her head down on the pillow she had made. It wobbled to the side, and Escthta blinked back panic. He reached out and set her head back on the pillow, arranging it so it would stay there, and he felt the side of her neck for a pulse. It was there, but ever so faint! Her skin looked pale, even for her, and he rested his hand against her forehead, trying to feel for a temperature. Was she hot or cold? His hands were still frozen from the outdoors; he couldn't tell. He tugged the furs over her with shaking hands and went to stoke the fire.

Escthta sat, rubbing his hands over his face and temples, trying to push away the strain. Everything was going to be okay, it was going to be fine. He just needed to get her warmed up and taken care of. Something caught the corner of his eyes through his fingers, a shadow, and he turned his head to look at it. There was nothing there but a stack of firewood and kenneling, kept in the corner away from the fire. He blinked hard, but the dim light didn't help him resolve anything, and in exasperation, he went to the corner, snatching bits of wood and kenneling and stomping back to their fire, shoving them angrily in amongst the coals. The kenneling caught first and burned out uselessly without lighting the larger sticks, and Escthta was grudgingly forced to do it over again, this time carefully arranging the fuel so that all of it would catch.

I must be warm enough now, he thought. He stood, walking the small space between the fire and where she lay. He laid his hand on her forehead, and frowned. She was chilled. A small noise of fear escaped him and he went to feel for her pulse.

"You can't save her, Escthta." The voice was deep, with an endless quality that made his insides do somersaults. He turned to find the speaker.

A yautja, hunkered down by the fire, poking at the coals with a stick. But this was no ordinary yautja, no wanderer who had happened upon their hovel. There was the aura of fate in this encounter, and Escthta looked at H'chak-di, feeling bile rise up in his throat.

"She must be saved," he stammered out, ashamed to hear his own voice drowned in weakness. "I need her."

"That is irrelevant," the other yautja said shortly, and he stabbed the fire with his stick.

"Who are you?" Escthta whispered, unable to even voice his worst fears.

"That is also irrelevant." The yautja looked up at him for the first time, meeting his eyes directly with solid black orbs. "One who Speaks, you know who I am, and why I am here." And the other yautja stood upright.

He was as tall as Escthta, if not taller. His skin was so dark as to be almost black, save for his chest and belly; these were only a deep shade of brown. He was almost fully armored, but the armor was unlike any that Escthta had ever seen on any yautja, living or dead. Graceful curves of black metal dominated the plates on the sides of his chest, as well as his pauldrons and braces. His skirt was black as well, though shorter and edged with blacksilver thread. The tassets on his hips were made of skulls, and as Escthta looked closer, there were similarly grim tokens scattered all over his person. A necklace of fingerbones, a pouch at his waist made of the hide of yautja, sclerotic rings fitted over some of his dreadlocks, fangs and claws woven into his tress; the stranger was handsomely outfitted in the finery of death. He could be no other.

"Cetanu," Escthta stated plainly.

"Indeed," the god answered with a small grunt of satisfaction.

"You must help me," Escthta pleaded, looking over at the human that lay in the furs.

"I already have," Cetanu replied. Escthta saw the weyk flash in front of his mind's eye and knew in an instant that it was no accident he had survived the beast's charge. Cetanu had… saved him?

"Could I not give my life for hers?" Escthta blurted out, and Cetanu was visibly surprised.

"You would give your life for a human," Cetanu murmured quietly. He turned to the human and walked up to her, ignoring the defensive posture Escthta sank into. "She must be a rare creature." He looked upon H'chak-di's blanched face for a few moments more, seemingly lost in thought, and then turned back to Escthta, as if suddenly remembering he was there. "Can't be done," he said brusquely.

Despair caught at Escthta's mind, tugging at him incessantly. "Is there nothing I can do?"

Cetanu walked back to the fire and hunkered down between it and Escthta. The crackle of burning wood filled the pause that yawned wide between them. "To save her? No, there is nothing. She bears the blessing of the Allmother, whom I ultimately serve, and whose will it be that I take her." Cetanu rolled a coal out of the fire and reached out, picking up the small ember in his bare hand, closing his black fingers around it. When he opened them, the brand was gone.

Escthta felt part of his mind shut down, disconnecting itself, and cold terror froze his heart with the knowledge of what just happened. "Why show yourself then, if it is not to help me!? Why torment me with the knowledge that I cannot save her from death!?" Escthta's voice cracked on the last word and he bowed his head, unwilling to let the god see his pain. Cetanu was quiet for long moments, so much that Escthta lifted his head to see if the god was still there. To his surprise, the death god was right in front of him, staring him directly in the face.

"Nothing comes without a price," Cetanu said smoothly, arching one eyebrow and seeming to smile, though in the flickering light, Escthta could not be sure. "Take care that it is one you can pay."

Escthta looked over at H'chak-di, at her now-lifeless body, and his eyes misted over. "I would pay any price," he wept.

Cetanu rose in front of the mortal, seeming to fill the entire cave, stretching into every crevice and cranny until the cavern was dark, and the fire's light was swallowed by the god's shadow. "Say it louder, so the universe can hear you," Cetanu's voice hissed from all directions.

"Yes," Escthta repeated without hesitating. "I will pay your price." A bargain was struck with the god, and the heavens rumbled their approval. Cetanu's head tilted back, listening to the thunder, and then he looked down again, an unholy cast to his features.

"Then prepare yourself, son of Thio-de," Cetanu replied gravely, "for real gods are paid in blood."

Faster than anything Escthta had ever encountered, Death moved forward; he was on top of him before Escthta even realized he had moved. His hands pinned Escthta against the cave floor, and many more hands emerged from the shadows to bind and restrain him. The grips were too tight to be believed, but Escthta realized with horror that it was the least of his troubles, screaming as he realized their aim.

The god resolutely held Escthta's head still as a shadowy hand spidered over his face, searching the hollows of his face. Escthta shrieked as the devil-hand opened his left eyelid and dug at him gingerly, pulling the eyeball free of the bony socket. Terror and pain took control of Escthta, but no amount of thrashing would free him or restore his blinded sight. Cetanu was unsympathetic, as were the hands of nether that held him fast. Murmuring softly in the language of the gods words that had not been spoken since Paya's time, Cetanu rubbed a foul-smelling balm into the open wound that had been Escthta's eye, ignoring the howls of agony that issued from his charge's throat. Death hummed softly as he worked and at last smoothed his thumb over the slack eyelid; the bleeding stopped immediately.

The god leaned away, opening the yautja-hide pouch at his waist and dropping the harvested eye inside. "Payment accepted," he said wryly, looking down at the heaving, shuddering chest of his subject. The shadows melted away, leaving Escthta free to move, though he found himself too weakened to do so.

"Can you sit up?"

Escthta whimpered, unable to move. The god knelt down next to him and grabbed his hand, jerking him up to a sitting position. There was no pain, Escthta realized, but his spirit was broken, and he gibbered quietly to himself.

"Open your eyes, son of Thio-de," Cetanu rumbled in a tone that brooked no opposition, and Escthta opened his right eye and then unclenched the left socket. The hold the fear had on him evaporated; to his shock, the left socket still saw with varying degrees of clarity, though it blurred at the edges. And not only that, but…

"H'chak-di," he said weakly, looking into the darkness, where he beheld her wraith next to the death god. She smiled at him and he felt his throat close from looking at her.

"You shouldn't worry about me, Escthta," she said softly, in a voice that drifted in and out, as if scattered by powerful wind. "There are much bigger things for you to worry about."

"But you…"

"She is right, Escthta," and Escthta looked at Cetanu, finding that he, too, had changed with the new vision, becoming a being wreathed with energy, his eyes giving off divine light. "Your people need you," he said.

"My people," Escthta repeated numbly, looking again at H'chak-di's face, the strange human face he had grown so used to, now in the care of the yautja god of Death. He shook his head in disbelief. Cetanu put his arm around the human, gathering her up in an intimate embrace, as one does a lover. She slowly faded from sight, although Escthta could see through his normal eye that Cetanu had not moved the entire time.

"You are taking her anyway," he stated blankly and Cetanu nodded.

"She is dead, and her soul is my property."

"What sort of help is this?" Escthta wondered aloud in a shaky voice. Grief began to take its toll as he realized fully that H'chak-di was gone. Cetanu did not answer immediately, and Escthta's confused appraisal of the death god's help quickly changed to a general questioning of his life as it had been, and now his life as it would be without H'chak-di. Escthta looked down at his hands, and his anger and sorrow coalesced; his fists clenched on the stone, powdering his claws against the basalt. "Why? Why her? Why me?"

Cetanu drew himself up and a thoughtful expression crossed his face before he responded. "You should ask my brother."

Escthta looked up. "Your brother?" But the death god had vanished, and his shadows were dissipating under the barrage of firelight. Escthta looked over at H'chak-di's body under the mountain of furs. Noiselessly, he inched to her side and threw them off of her, leaning his head down to her chest. There was no motion there, no rise-and-fall, and her skin was growing tepid. The organisms in her gut would soon begin to break her down, and he had no way to embalm her or otherwise protect her from the ravages of time. He sat back on his knees, looking at her corpse and shaking his head slowly. The longer he looked at her, the more his sadness consumed him, and he collapsed on her body in a heap, bitterly accusing himself of her death between his sobs.

A dull headache gathered behind his left eye as his body absorbed the sudden, brutal loss of vision; eyeballs ripped out were one kind of pain, but he had never been meant to see beyond this world and into the next. It seemed to Escthta a cruel trick for Cetanu to play, for not only could he see that H'chak-di was dead, but he had seen her spirit taken into Cetanu himself, and he knew without a doubt that she was gone and was never coming back.

Exhausted by the entire ordeal, Escthta sank into a fitful sleep next to her body, suffering again her loss as he awoke a few hours later and found death already at work on her, her cheeks sunken and the bottom of her body darkened as her blood settled out. Realizing at last that he had to prepare her for the afterlife, he undressed her completely and wrapped her in Hir'cyn's cloak, fastening the fabric over her with a pin from their pack. He cleared out one side of the cave and made a pallet for her out of evergreens, gently stretching her stiffening body out on it. He arranged her hands on her belly and tucked a single fan of needles under them.

Escthta worked without sleep or food. He searched out hundreds of stones outside, rubble from the avalanche, and when those were used up, he carried the stones back from several hundred yards in any direction, sealing her up in her small alcove. It was midway through the next day when he placed the last stone in the wall of her tomb and collapsed outside it into a sleep of pure fatigue, completely and utterly alone.

xXx

AUTHOR'S NOTE: For those of you that have stuck it out this far only to be disappointed, I am deeply sorry, but this was the plan from the very beginning. I will say right now that there are no resurrections, no miracles; she is gone, and that is the end of her part in this story. There are many who will be unhappy with me for this turn of events. Many may stop reading altogether. I understand if this is your choice, but first let me share with you something I read recently.

A well-known writing magazine recently shared tips on how to guarantee that the plot of whatever you are writing will not stagnate; they suggested using the three-act structure, since it worked so well for Greek drama. While writer's magazines are usually full of a bunch of feelgood hooey, the discussion of the end of the second act caught my eye:

"This darkest moment is when everything goes to ruin and we fear for the protagonist's life….the airplane is out of fuel, and the parachutes turn out to be 20 years old and made of rotting cloth, for example. But the protagonist prevails, surviving when we thought he was doomed. He puts the challenge behind him. Or so we think. This is the beauty of the end of the second act: what feels like a finale is in fact a set-up to the third and final act." – Writer's Digest, Apr 2007, 68.

If there are any of you out there keeping score on your allegory tablets, mark this one down: life is not promised. People are snatched from us every day, no matter how much or little they mean to us. These are some of the greatest challenges dealt to us by fate; the challenge to continue when we feel we have lost everything. It is how we rise to the challenges that life hands us that makes us into heroes.