Chapter 18 Evil is Moving
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Eric stirs me from a dreamless sleep. I groan in protest—we both stop, our eyes widening. Are my ears deceiving me? Did sound just leave me!? Though, Eric's wide eyes and cautiously growing smile give me hope.
"Yer voice! Is it back!?" he asks, as hopeful as me.
I suck in a breath, gathering all the strength I need to speak. "I—" the word croaks and dies in my throat. My breath leaves me with crushing disappointment while Eric's hopeful smile leaves him. I open my mouth and try to speak again, but no sound leaves me this time.
He sighs. "Yer healin'. Jus' rest yer voice. Have some breakfast. Use that balm. Then we move."
He lets go of my arm and rises to his feet. Day thirteen. I force myself to eat and drink while I watch him pack up our steadily dwindling supplies. My throat does not hurt as much as yesterday. Worry stirs in me. I'm not sure how much goat meat we have left, but it cannot be much. What Eliza, Annabelle, and I had set apart was not much to begin with. Certainly not enough to last Eric and I four months.
Eric picks up his rucksack and lifts it high—my eyes widen. We are at the bottom of a deep hole nearly as tall as him! He slides his rucksack onto the layer of snow above us. I look all about us to see the entirety of this hole! The hole is a little deeper behind me than it is in front. It must be about six feet in diameter. I look down at the fire. It has long since crumbled to bits of charred wood and glistening ash. The fire must have melted us into this hole throughout the night!
Eric laughs. I tilt my chin back to see him. He looks down at me, shaking his head at me and laughing. "I wish ye could see yerself! Ye look like a wee one seein' the world for the first time!"
I huff at him and pout.
He laughs more. "What!?" he asks playfully, raising his brows at me. His laughter ebbs, but his smile remains. "I huvenae seen someone look at the world like that in a long time. It's...refreshin'."
Silence comes between us, but it's comfortable. I...appreciate it...and him. I did not know that I see the world so differently from those Eric knows. It makes sense, though, considering I have been locked up in a dank cell for the last fourteen years and I never saw much outside the castle walls in my free years. God, I never saw anything beyond Kalobarrow! Indeed, this is all new to me, and for him to recognize that...I appreciate him for it. I smile at him. He said that I rarely smile, so why not give him this?
His grin softens. "Are ye smilin' for me?"
My cheeks warm. Instead of nodding, I shrug, my smile turning sweeter.
He chuckles. "Well, whatever or whoever yer smilin' for, I like seein' it." He picks up another pack off the ground and turns his back to me, tossing the pack out of this hole. "Eat and drink, then use some of yer lamia balm. After that, we move."
I eat some more goat meat and drink the last of my water from my skin. I scoop the cleanest snow I can find into my skin, push the cork in, and stow the skin between my clothes to allow my body heat to melt the snow throughout the day. Though this is not the most efficient way to gather water, it is better than nothing seeing as I failed to melt some water by the fire last night.
I grab the lamia balm out of my satchel, scoop some onto my fingertip, and slip my hand under my coat and cut dresses, being careful to not smear any of the balm where it does not need to go. I do not want to waste it! I find the lumpy stitches and smear the cool balm on my wound. I wince from the brief stinging, but I continue spreading it until my finger is clean of the balm. I pull my hand out from under my dresses and coat and scoop another tiny amount onto my fingertip. I lick the balm off my finger with the most discreet dart of my tongue and swallow. I grimace. Ugh, it's bitter! I close the lid of the wood box and stow it safely in my satchel. There is the question of removing the sutures from my wound once it is healed enough. I'm not sure how I'll be able to do that. I look up at Eric, watching him pack up the last of our supplies. What I foresee, he'll be my only company to Hammond's, so he will be the only one who can remove my sutures. My stomach stirs. To have to show him my naked back—but he has already seen my back. So why is my stomach stirring?
I shake my head of the thought and help him pack the last of our dwindling supplies. Worry fills me as I look up at the top of the hole. I tap his shoulder, drawing his attention to me.
"What?"
I gesture to our dwindling supplies and look at him. I pray he understands.
He frowns down at me. "I know. We've food for two more days. I'll have to find more."
My stomach churns with increasing worry. He told me last night that we'll have to hunt and forage for more supplies. Despite his reassurance last night, I cannot help my worry. Eric gathers our skis, slides them onto the snow shelf beside his rucksack, and turns to me. I pass him our remaining packs and he tosses them onto the snow outside of our hole.
He looks back at me, his face falling at the sight of mine. "Dinnae worry." He holds both his hands out to me. My brows furrow briefly—he wants to lift me out of this hole! My heart races. My stomach knots. My loins stir with that sinful heat. Despite all this, I step into his reach. I need to get out of this hole one way or another, and he's offering me a quick way to do it. He grabs my waist and lifts me high above him as if I weigh nothing, my stomach dropping. I gasp. My hands grab his arms out of instinct.
He grins amusedly as he seats me on the edge of the snow. "Dinnae be scared! I've got a good hold of ye." He squeezes my waist, sending a shock throughout my body. He chuckles and shakes his head at me, something softening his face. He opens his mouth and draws in a breath, ready to say more. I hold my breath, waiting for him...his smile leaves him as he breathes out white smoke. The buzzing air between us deflates, any high emotion, excitement, anticipation—all gone. All it leaves in its wake is disappointment. How I wanted to hear what he planned to say.
He takes his hands from me. "Com'on, we gotta keep movin'." He climbs out of the hole beside me and slings all our packs onto his back. I frown at his loaded, overburdened back and scramble to my feet. He tosses my skis down in front of me and hands me my long pole. We strap our skis to our boots, my stiff, sore muscles already crying out in protest against the journey ahead.
Eric pushes off with his pole to continue our journey. More disappointment fills me, but I push off with my pole after him. My muscles ache intensely. It's almost impossible to bend my knees enough to keep my balance in my shins, but God above, it's either give into my pain or keep moving for all those who have died so far. For Sara. For Greta.
Against my better judgement, my mind goes back to Eric. He was about to say something, to keep the ribbing going, but something stopped him...just like last night before he said he rarely sees me smile. What was it? Why?
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We keep going until night threatens to fall. Eric finds a thick cluster of trees with a small clearing in the midst of them. I ski after him into the clearing and slow to a stop beside him. I look about. The trees surrounding this small clearing grow so closely together that their branches weave about each other to form a loose canopy over our heads. While it's no solid roof nor fortified walls, it's shelter.
"Help me gather wood," Eric says. We free our feet from our skis and he sets our packs down on the snow. I follow him about the small clearing while he hacks thick branches from the trees and places the cut branches in my arms. Each chop and crack of the poor branches raises the hair on the back of my neck. I scan the trees in the dim light of dusk. Nothing. Just the pitch black encroaching on us the lower the sun sets behind the eternal clouds. Yet I cannot shake the feeling that we are being watched. I'm not sure by what, whether it be creature or man, but I doubt that whoever is watching us will leave us alone.
I look at Eric and watch him sift through all the thin branches until he finds the one he deems sufficient to cut. He chops it from its tree, places it in my arms, and searches for another thick branch. He does not seem on edge nor more alert than usual. Rather, he is...unusually absorbed in something. His eyes are focused, yet they are also not. He finds another thick branch and swings his hatchet at it, chopping the wood twice. He sets the branch atop the growing bundle in my arms, not sparing me a glance. Now that I think back on it, he has barely looked at me since this morning. Even while we were skiing, he glanced over his shoulder just enough to see a hint of my form following him. Every day before, he would look back at me fully. Something is different this night than every other night I've spent with him. What is bothering him, though, I cannot tell.
The collection of branches grows too heavy in my arms, so I trudge through the snow to the center of this clearing and set the tinder down on the ground. Approaching footsteps crunch in the snow. Eric stoops down beside me and we both quickly assemble the proper branches while setting the excess aside as spare tinder. As every night before, he starts the fire with his knife and flint. It does not take long before the small sparks mount into the popping, crackling flames that I love so much.
We both settle down around the fire—wait! Last night, Eric warned me that sleeping on the bare snow steals warmth from the body! Like he did last night, I grab some branches from the spare tinder and lay them out where I will sit. Wait, what about Eric? He sat on the bare snow last night! Damn me for not noticing until now! I reach out to him and tap his arm.
"What?" He looks at me, though he looks as though he just came out of a stupor. I point down at my pile of sticks. He glances down at them. "Ah, ye remembered! Good." He offers me a small smile of praise. I frown at him and grab two handfuls of tinder, offering them to him.
He chuckles and shakes his head, looking between my handfuls of tinder and my face. "Nae, lass, I'm fine. My coat's good enough for me. Keeps me dry and warm. Put those back." He returns his gaze to the fire, his eyes returning to whatever he is mulling over.
I sigh, but I return the sticks to the pile and sit down on my patch of sticks. A few of them poke into my bottom. I wince and squirm on them, shifting them until they are tolerable to sit on. Somehow, Eric had arranged them perfectly. He praised me for remembering this. Why did he not remember? I'm...surprised. I watch Eric out of the corners of my eyes. He plucks a relatively untouched stick out of the fire and pokes the flames with it. The writhing flames burn in his downcast eyes. There is no smile this night. He just stares into the flames and pokes at them.
The last of dusk disappears, leaving us surrounded by the pitch black and the bitter cold. All that stands between us and whatever could be watching us is our fire.
The more I watch Eric from the corners of my eyes, the more my heart hurts for him. Something is weighing on him, slowly crushing his strong shoulders. But what? Dare I disturb him? I still have no voice. I feel it in my swollen, aching throat. The only way I could get his attention is to tap his arm again. But dare I disturb him again? He is not one who readily shares his burdens and sorrows. Even concerning Sara, he has not said much beyond what I would expect him to say.
I sigh. Looking back on our short time together, I really don't know him. Things have improved drastically between us since we emerged from that dark forest. I know he's from the northern mountains. He's a skilled hunter and tracker, which makes sense considering where he's from. I can imagine farming was not the means of obtaining food for him and his family. He's a widower and a drunkard. He shares a special bond with a horse who was only with us for one day. He begged Ravenna to kill him when he was brought before her. He's stubborn, a rowdy drunk, a heathen for believing in many gods, a defender of the weak, incredibly strong and skilled in combat, and a good man. Perhaps that is the most important—he is a good man.
I shake my head. I cannot say more about him. Despite our increasing familiarity with each other, it is more of being around each other than it is being with each other. God, in all fairness, there is much I have not, cannot, share with him. Still, he reached out to me last night. I wonder if I look just as he did when he reached out to me, somber and dejected. But that was him reaching out to me, not me reaching out to him! I've reached out to him before, but it has been my response to him comforting me. He rejected my apology in that dark forest when I accused him of taking the coward's path and drowning his sorrows in ale. He refused my offer of the sticks to sit on, even if he did refuse me in a gentler way. If I reached out to him now, would he refuse my futile attempt to comfort him?
I could just eat, drink, melt some water in the skins for tomorrow, and go to sleep—guilt stirs in my heart. When I most needed it, he embraced me and soothed my fears and pain. He let me soak his shirt with my tears. How can I sit here now and leave him alone to whatever is burdening him? If he pushes my hand away, then he pushes my hand away. At least if and when I am judged after my death, I can say that I did not take the coward's path in this moment.
I suck in a deep, frigid breath and turn my face to him. He continues poking at the flames, the flames writhing in his downcast eyes. With a trembling hand I reach out to him and barely press my fingers to his knee. He looks at me instantly, the flames in his eyes. I flinch and almost snatch my hand back, but I fight the instinct to retreat and keep my fingertips on his knee.
"What?" he asks, sounding like he just woke from a troubling sleep. A frown tugs at my mouth while the ache in my heart grows. My stomach knots more, but I reach a bit further, my hand resting fully on his knee.
He looks down at my hand, looking so...forlorn. "Ye've a good heart," he says. He moves his stick from his right hand to his left and takes my hand in his. He holds my hand firmly yet gently, sweeping his thumb across my knuckles. My heart flutters, uncertain whether it should beat now or a little later. Eric summons some feeling back into my chilled hand.
He lifts his heavy eyes to me, still full of melancholy. What caused such sadness? "Evil is on the move now more than ever, no' needin' to eat and sleep like ye," he says. My brows furrow. What does that mean? He usually speaks so plainly. This...I've never heard more cryptic words spill from anyone's mouth.
His eyes open up, his hold of my hand tightening. Very softly and gently, he says, "I…" He sighs, his eyes shifting in mine. His hesitancy strikes fear in my heart. He couldn't possibly have a hint of Maacthis' power. No, there was nothing I ever said or did to give any indication of that dark truth!
"I've been tryin' to decide if I should tell ye or no'." His eyes continue shifting back and forth in mine, searching me. The fear builds in my chest. Tell me what? I did not think he was keeping secrets from me. Then again, I don't really know him. I know of him and somewhat about him, but I do not know him.
"Dinnae be afraid of me and what I'm about to say. Please." His words only sow more fear in my heart. My stomach knots to the point of near nauseam. Wait—his hold of my hand is just tight enough that I cannot pull my hand from his should I need to. He is asking me to not be afraid of him, but already there seems to be enough cause for me to be afraid! Along with the nauseating fear comes the swelling frustration and the annoyance pricking me.
He draws in a deep breath, lifting his shoulders with it, the hesitancy still in his eyes. "I sense evil all around ye, lass, followin' ye like yer shadow under the sun. It's waitin' for the right moment to strike ye down and consume ye."
"WHAT!?" I gasp, breathy and voiceless. Does he know!? How could he!? I never divulged any of that to him! I was so careful with weaving my lies to ensure there were no holes...yet I have become defensive when I thought Eric was accusing me of being some criminal. I stumbled over my lies then. But how could those small missteps allow him to guess everything correctly!?
He frowns. "I know it sounds strange and frightenin', but I can sense evil movin', breathin' like…" he sighs "...like a mob of devils pushin' past me in a crowded street! The more evil there is, the more who push! I could always sense the comin's and goin's of it."
I...What? He senses evil moving and breathing, its comings and goings? Like it's...living? All my fear leaves me. No wonder he was hesitant to tell me this. Not just that, but he senses evil!? I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all! Silent, breathy laughter, but it's still scornful. Sure, you see a man murder another in the street. You don't have to sense the evil of the act. You see it clearer than day!
His brows knit with anger and he lets go of my hand. "Ye laugh at me, but I'm tellin' ye the truth!" That wipes my wicked smile from my face. I should not have laughed at him. He was deciding for some time if he should tell me this or not. Still, it all sounds so absurd! Then again, maybe the absurdity comes from the fact that I don't understand what he is saying. If only there was a way—an idea springs to mind.
Slowly, cautiously, I reach for his stick, but I do not take it from him. Instead, I hold my hand out and look up at him. His scowl relaxes some and he hands me his stick.
"Thank you," I mouth. His eyes drop down to my lips to read the words spoken. Instead of repeating them, I use the stick's point and write in the snow 'I am sorry'. I look up at him, watching his eyes read over my words.
"Hmph," he hums and lifts his hard, determined gaze to me. "I know it sounds insane. I was hopin' ye would understand considerin' what ye've told me about the evil Ravenna wields." The determination leaves him as his eyes drift down to the words I had written in the snow. My heart falters and sinks. He took a gamble. He hoped in me, trusted me that I would understand this—unique ability of his. Not just understand him, but accept it. He does not mince words. He is an honest man. Far more honest than me. Did he ever tell Sara about this? If he did, I know she responded far more kindly than me.
"Maybe ye'll understand if I start from the beginnin'." He looks up at me, his determination returning. "I need to know what ye believe about the start of this world. Most Taborans I know believe there is only one god, the maker, creator, god above." He shrugs. "Ye believe in that god?"
I sigh. He's right about all those names, but I've been taught that our maker is god. There is no one besides him, but after fourteen years of imprisonment, all my prayers going unanswered...I can't say that I believe in him. I'm fairly certain he exists. For Maacthis to exist, it means the one who created him exists, or that he existed once.
A simple nodding or shaking of my head won't answer Eric's question. Instead, I brush away the words I had written in the snow and write with the point of Eric's stick 'He is real, but sil'—I stop, a blasphemous idea coming to mind. One that may lighten this terrible mood. I brush away the words and write, 'He is an ass'. I look up at Eric, his eyes dancing over my words. Husky laughter breaks his face, puffs of white smoke coming out of his mouth.
He looks at me from under his dark lashes, a gleam in his eyes. "Aye! Most of them are." He grabs his rucksack and drags it to his side. "Then ye know how the story goes. Yer maker made the world, made life, and gave every livin' thin' free will." He digs through his rucksack and pulls out a portion of chilled goat meat. He draws his knife from his belt and slices the meat in two unequal pieces. "Aye, free will makes goodness real, but it also makes evil real." He offers me the larger piece of meat. I frown at him, but I accept the meat and hold it near the flames, letting the chill slowly melt from it. Eric chuckles at me and bravely tears a bite out of his frozen meat. He chews and swallows it, not wincing from pain. His teeth must be used to the frost's sting, either used to it or dead.
"Continue," I mouth, drawing his eyes down to my lips. His gaze lingers there. The corners of his mouth twitch in the bottom of my sight.
Before I know it, I see his lips fully, chapped and tinged blue, surrounded by his thick beard, ready to accept any warmth. My heart flutters for the thousandth time. That sinful heat emerges and tingles in my loins. Something stirs in my heart, warning me to not entertain such thoughts...but the thought of him seeking warmth for his mouth from my neck, from my chest, my bare stomach, the inner part of my naked thigh—"After yer maker was done, he'd commune with all men everyday. All men worshipped him, communed with him, everythin' yer maker wanted. For decades, everythin' was good. There was nae pain, nae sin, nae evil...nae death." That snaps my eyes back to his. Any hint of amusement is gone from him, his face stern. "Sound familiar to ye so far?"
I remember Mama reading stories to me about God. He was lonely, so he made us. He created all the stars, all the land animals, all the sea-dwelling and flying creatures, and he made the earth. He made it all for us as a gift and as an abode to us. No wolf nor nightcat slew the lamb and deer for food. The lamb and deer, wolf and nightcat all ate what grew from the earth. There was no need for farms. There was no need for armies and walls. There was no need for clothes and shoes for there were no thorns nor stones to cut our feet on. There was goodness. Goodness begot peace. There was no sin and no hate, so there was no death. It sounds like the perfect world—if such a world once existed some thousands of years ago. Regardless, I nod to answer his question.
He nods in acknowledgement. "What happens next, ye and I know thin's differently. Taboran doctrine holds the belief that half of their ancestors became envious of yer maker's power. They wanted to make other earths and stars and heavens like yer god had. They wanted to change themselves and distort the image of yer maker. They wanted to grow the wings of dragons from their backs and grow in size like the behemoths and be able to swim and breathe fire like the leviathans!" Eric chuckles and shakes his head. "In all my years, I've ne'er heard anythin' so stupid!" A sting lashes my heart. Anger wells in my chest to abate the sting of his mockery. Though it is true that most of my people believe in this ludicrosity, they are still my people! Eric is not Taboran, so what gives him any right to judge my people!? My face tenses as I brush my words out of the snow and write with the tip of his stick 'do not judge'. I look up at Eric, watching his eyes roam over my words. His mocking grin leaves him.
He looks up at me and sighs, his eyes softening. "I meant nae disrespect. I assumed ye thought it was s—" he catches himself "—what I thought."
I almost nod, but I stop myself. To do so would only bring further scorn on my people. My people...Eliza, Geoffrey, Guinevere, sweet Benjamin and Mary, Annabelle, Jerome, Stephan. God, even Louis! The old man who pointed out the sewer to me—my means of escape. Sara...they're all Taboran. They're all my people. I look down at my words and brush them away. Pressing the point of Eric's stick into the snow, I etch into the glistening white 'I love my people'. The world grows still. Seeing the barely legible, nearly invisible letters in the snow, only the subtle indents of each letter giving their meaning away…I love my people.
Eliza's words pour into my head. You don't see it now, but there is a reason you survived fourteen years of imprisonment. There is a reason you escaped! Please, do not forget what happened in Hymark...all the lives lost. If this continues, soon there will be no one left.
All the lives lost—my people—all their lives lost. Innocent men, women, and children. If this bloodshed continues—something strikes me cold in the center of my heavy, aching heart—soon there will be none of my people left.
What is it like to be the only one left? Even though I have no place to call home and barely own anything beyond the clothes on my back and all in my satchel—even those are not truly mine. These dresses I am wearing are Annabelle's. These trousers are Eric's. I stole these boots from a corpse! Despite all this, I can still say that I have a people. A people that place false hope in me, but still, a people that care for me as their own—"Again, there's yer good heart," Eric says.
My eyes lift to him, more so of their own accord than mine.
He frowns and looks down at the fire. That same melancholy that had plagued him earlier returns to him now like a dark cloud. "Yer a battleground for evil, yet yer good heart shines through like a break of light in this damn, unendin' darkness…" words leave him. He plucks another stick from the fire, this one far more charred than the one in my hand, but he does not poke the flames with it. "As daft as this will sound, when I first saw ye in the fire's light, I could sense the evil pressin' all around ye tryin' to consume ye. I wasnae sure why then, but after ye asked me about that horse ye rode to escape Ravenna and how ye wept o'er that animal...I saw yer heart, scarred and mangled almost beyond recognition, beatin' with fear…" he lifts his eyes to mine, something more than the fire burning in them. Something that both soothes my heart and ignites desire. "It also beats with goodness. Whenever evil surrounds someone and makes the poor wretch his battleground as it does ye, it means that person can bring about a great deal of good. Maybe enough to push back the evil that seeks to reclaim this world."
Something moves in the bottom of my sight. I look down at his hands. He almost reaches for me, but he stops himself and clenches his stick in both hands. My stomach stirs. I lift my eyes to him, meeting his burning gaze. Though I should be frightened that he may very well be aware of Maacthis' evil, I have no fear of the hunter.
"The day after Hymark, when ye looked back at me and smiled, I used everythin' I had to push the evil from ye. After I pushed it away, I tried to banish it…" He shakes his head, his eyes growing heavy. My eyes widen. It...that was him! He pushed Maacthis' evil away! How!? "...but I failed," he says. "I keep failin'! I'm fightin' it every moment to keep it from ye, but it pushes me back!" He breathes out harshly, white smoke rising from his mouth. That invisible weight comes over his shoulders again—the same invisible weight that made me reach out to him. That must be Maacthis pushing against him—in his effort to reach me!
Eric looks at me woefully, "Ye must think I'm off my head—" I shake my head, drop my chunk of meat and grab one of Eric's strong fists still clenched about his stick. His hand trembles beneath mine, his fist taut. These are the fists of someone locked in battle—He is fighting Maacthis right now! My heart falters, unsure of when to beat. Why is he fighting my battle!? I would never want nor allow Maacthis' evil to draw near anyone. Especially Eric! I cannot allow him to keep fighting Maacthis, lest Maacthis eventually overpower him and consume him!
My heart nearly bursts out of my chest. Tears spring to my eyes. I scramble over to Eric and kneel before him, clenching his fist in one hand and cradling his cheek in my other hand.
"STOP! STOP!" I plead with him, my voice still gone. Tears trickle down my chilled cheeks. "DON'T FIGHT HI—" Eric made no mention of all that evil being one entity. He does not know this evil is Maacthis.
His gaze darts back and forth between my mouth and my eyes, growing wide with horror. "WHAT!?"
I shake my head, my body feeling so weak, so tired, yet pulled into this battle regardless. I collapse into him and cling to him, digging my dirty fingernails into his icy coat sleeves. My head falls into his chest, silent, gasping sobs escaping me. Why is he fighting my battle!? Why did he put himself between Maacthis and me!? His hands still clutch the stick, trembling against my belly. Will Maacthis not relent!? Will he not give Eric the slightest reprieve!?
"I'm no' gonna stop!" Eric says, nearly breathless, his words barely rumbling against my head. "I'M NOT!"
I weep bitterly. I'm…not sure how we got here. It started with him seeming saddened by something. Then it abated for a bit. Then the mere mention of evil seemed to make Maacthis launch a massive assault on Eric, trying to break past him to get to me!
Eric starts speaking, uttering words. I strain my ears, trying to understand them, but they sound jumbled—no, foreign. Another language. His foreign words are harsh and biting to my ears, strained and spoken from a tight throat. His mouth suddenly drops on my head, his lips moving against my scarf, whispering...pleading.
He lets out a sudden breath. His body starts to loosen and unravel beneath me. His hands stop trembling against my stomach. He sucks in air and lets it go, breathing fast and heavy against my head.
Slowly, his breath returns to him and his body relaxes against mine. He drops his stick and wraps his arms about me in a loose embrace.
"I'm always fightin', but sometimes it's much worse," he says. "It's like the ebb and flow of an endless battle. The battleground is always awake, but sometimes there are more men fightin' and sometimes there are less."
My gasping, silent sobs lessen, but my tears still fall. I sniffle back the cold water draining from my nose and scrub my face as clean as I can before I turn my face into his chest and tuck myself in his safety and warmth. The space I now savor between Maacthis' evil and my heart—Eric put that there. He put himself between me and Maacthis. Between me and evil.
He rubs my back and hugs me tighter. "I will die before I let evil touch yer heart again, be it that hag and her brother or this evil that's tryin' to destroy ye."
That wracks me to my core. My wretched heart is not worth Eric's life! I shake my head against him, but I cannot shake the resoluteness from his strong arms.
"Shake yer head all ye want. Ye cannae tell me what to do."
I grit my teeth. Stubborn bastard! He would have me feel guilt for his—no. It is wrong to spit on the sacrifice he is making for you. Rather, you should be brimming over with gratitude to him! You silly, selfish woman! It is because of him that I enjoy this space between Maacthis and me.
I sigh. It's pointless resisting him. He deserves my gratitude. This man, the one sent to hunt me down in that dark forest, has fed me, clothed me, gave me water and ale in my thirst, and carried me all the way to Hymark. He came back for me in Hymark. He saved Eliza and Guinevere. He brought both mother and unborn babe to the safety of Jerome and Annabelle's farm. He saved that family in Hymark and ushered them to safety. All this he did without expecting anything in return. All this he chose to do. That's free will begetting true goodness.
I lift my head from his chest and tilt my chin back to look at him. He looks down at me, his gaze heavy and weary. That fight with Maacthis took a lot out of him. Is there a point where Eric will grow too weak and fall? Can a demon kill the living? That thought strikes fear into my carved heart, but it also causes gratitude to brim over its healing wounds and admiration for this man to swell every corner of it. He truly is a good man.
"Thank you," I say, still mute, drawing his gaze down to my mouth. The fire still burns in his eyes, but an invisible fire burns in them too. Whatever those invisible flames are, they heat my blood, making this cold night more tolerable. The fire's heat becomes intense on my skin, almost burning me. My eyes widen. He had clenched that charred stick fresh out of the flames! I drag my hand down his icy coat sleeve to his bracer. He does not stop me from bringing his hand between us. It's a difficult task, but I force my head down to look at his fist. He allows me to open up his bear-sized hand. The sight puts a sting in my already aching heart. His palm and fingers have a stark pink impression of the charred stick, black specks buried in the lines of his hands.
Burns hurt dearly. I've no doubt that his hands are stinging. I let go of his hand, reach into my satchel and pull out the box of lamia balm. The lamia balm has a cooling effect when applied, and this will also help his burns to heal faster. I take off the lid and scoop out a generous amount of the balm—"Nae, I'm fine!" He tries to steal his hand from me, but I drop the box of balm and catch his wrist.
"Lass!—" I give him a sharp look. He could easily tear his wrist from my hold, yet he does not break free of me. His face softens as he allows me to pull his hand back. Quickly and gently, I spread the balm across the hot, pinkened skin. He sighs above me, but he takes his other arm from my back and rubs his hands together, spreading the balm over the rest of his burns.
"Ye shoudnae have wasted it on me," he says, but his words lack anger. I look up at him and shake my head. He told me I can shake my head all I like, so I will do so.
He sighs in exasperation. "Yer too stubborn for yer own good." He looks down at the ground, picks up the box of lamia balm that I had dropped, and hands it back to me. "I'm pretty sure yer meat has warmed up by now. Eat, drink, use that balm for yerself, then get some sleep."
A frown weighs on my mouth. There he is, back to his usual do this, do that, then sleep. I scoop a small drop of balm onto my fingertip and discreetly lick it off. Strange. I barely taste its bitterness this time. I must be getting used to the taste. I grab the lid from my lap, put it on the box, and stow the balm safely in my satchel. I sit back down on my patch of sticks and pick up my goat meat. It has warmed enough to eat just as Eric said it did. I tear a bite out of my meat and chew. I'm not looking forward to swallowing.
"Before we were…," Eric says, drawing my attention to him. He keeps his eyes on the flames, shaking his head. "Before we were interrupted, what I wanted to tell ye is that Taboran doctrine says our ancestors, the first men, were buildin' this big tower that could reach yer maker's throne. They planned on buildin' this tower so that they could attack yer maker and steal his power. To stop them, yer maker confused their language. Doin' this stopped them buildin' the blasted thin' and sent them to all corners of the earth." He lifts his gaze to me, his eyes brighter, his shoulders lighter and higher. Indeed, Maacthis must have relented, granting Eric some reprieve. How long will that last?
"That's what yer doctrines say. Where I'm from…," he pauses for a breath, "we believe somethin' different."
I swallow the bite I have been chewing for far longer than is necessary, the bite passing down my throat—with surprisingly little pain! Perhaps my throat is healing!? Regardless, what Eric is telling me is far more intriguing. I nod eagerly, silently begging him to continue.
A faint smile shapes his stiff mouth. "It's a long and overblown story. I dinnae care to retell it for the thousandth time. What I will tell ye is that some of the first men remained true to yer maker, while others welcomed hate into their hearts. The ones who welcomed hate into their hearts…," he trails off, his smile gone. Welcome hate into their hearts? More like evil, just like I welcomed Maacthis' evil into my heart. What if...what if Eric is not battling Maacthis? What if he is actually fighting the evil in my heart? Could that be why he cannot banish the evil? The evil? Maacthis' evil? Whatever it is! My evil...if it is my evil, then it would make sense why—"Where I'm from, we call these first men delvirs," he says, uttering that foreign name in that same harsh, biting way that he uttered all those little pleas while he was fending off Maacthis. Perhaps not pleas, but prayers.
My brows furrow. "Del–virs?" I try shaping the word with my voiceless lips, but even with no voice, I still struggle to shape it with my lips and tongue.
Eric looks up and down between my mouth and my eyes, smirking. "Even with nae voice, I can tell yer sayin' it wrong." My cheeks heat up. He chuckles. "It's alright. Urskirot is a difficult language to speak even if ye learn it from yer infancy!" He laughs louder until it ebbs. "Anyways, what we call delvirs, ye call demons, or devils."
A harsh sting lashes across my heart. Is he...how dare he say that some of my ancestors are demons!? I shake my head fervently. He is wrong about this! Men are not, cannot be demons! Demons are the angels who have turned away from God! Demons have no flesh, no bone, no birth, no death like men!
Eric frowns. "I know it's hard to hear this. I'm no' tryin' to judge yer ancestors or yer people. They're my ancestors too. We all came from the first men. I'm no' tellin' ye what to believe either. Believe whate'er ye like." He sighs. "All I'm sayin' is that some people in the north believe that the delvirs ruled this world at one point. Fire ravaged the lands, the waters were chaotic. There was death, destruction. This world was theirs.
"Then the good ones, the awn'gils, what ye call angels, convinced yer maker to reclaim this world and put it back to the way he had intended it to be. Leadin' this plea was Casieal and Gyal'ack, and their son who was slain on the earth…" sadness darkens his eyes "...jus' for bein' the first life made in their maker's way." I can't help my brows furrowing more. The first life made in their maker's way?
Eric raises his brows at me. "Gyal'ack bedded Casieal, lass."
Those four words burn my ears more than any fire has ever burnt me. I avert my eyes, trying to hide my blazing cheeks from him. His amused chuckling tickles my scorching ears. I tense, waiting for his teasing words...his chuckling dies. The air grows stiff and stern between us again.
"Yer maker gifted Casieal, Gyal'ack, and the other awn'gils with some of his power, making them...almost like gods, but only so they could reclaim this world and restore it to yer maker's way." God, I wish I had my voice so I could ask him how this Casieal, Gyal'ack, and these other—gods restored order to a world gone mad. "All the awn'gils put thin's back to the way yer maker intended, but evil advanced again. Some of the awn'gils welcomed evil into their hearts."
My jaw drops. "WHY!?" I ask, still voiceless. Did they not see what the delvirs did to this world before!? Why would they do the same exact thing that the delvirs were wiped out for!?
Eric shrugs. "Because the delvirs convinced some awn'gils from their graves to give them their power. The delvirs promised these foolish awn'gils even greater power if they did so." He picks up his stick and looks down at the fire. Without much conscious thought, he starts poking the fire with his stick. He certainly likes to do that. "I believe that six thousand years ago after the awn'gils had reclaimed this world and restored it to yer maker's image, Casieal bore Gyal'ack a son and a daughter. They already had their firstborn son and the firstborn man, Ursus, who I said before was murdered only for bein' made in their maker's way. Then Casieal bore the secondborn man, Skoll. Then she bore the thirdborn man and firstborn woman, Cetacea.
"While these three were still children, they were playin' in the dirt one day, as children do. " His eyes stay with the dancing flames. "Skoll had accidentally dug up one of the delvir's graves, exposin' his bones to the wind. This delvir spoke from his grave and begged Skoll to give him some of his power. Skoll ignored the whispers at first, but then a wolf and a lamb came before him and laid beside each other to rest. The delvir started whisperin' to Skoll again, askin' him what does the lamb's flesh taste like? Is it better than all the fruits of the earth? Ye see that wolf's sharp teeth? Ye see his claws? Why does that wolf only dig up the grass and fruits when he could rip open that lamb? Why limit himself? Why limit yerself? Have ye ever wondered what it would be like to have the wolf's strength, his speed, his cunnin'?"
I nod, his words from before connecting to these now. He did mention before how our ancestors wanted to grow dragon's wings from their backs and grow as large as the ancient behemoths. Compared to many of the other beasts of this earth, it's baffling how man has managed to conquer every bit of it. Yes, dragons, nightcats, wolves—they all have slain man and consumed us, but we men have killed far more of them and consumed their flesh. We go further than them and make trophies of their skins and skulls.
He returns my nod with his own. "It's startin' to make sense to ye?"
I almost nod again, but I don't. It makes sense in its own strange way, but only if any of what he was saying is true. It's all so strange and fascinating—and somewhat offensive to our ancestors—and also frightening. If what he is saying is true, any of it, then I...I could become a demon! That thought alone makes my blood run cold. If any of us can become a demon, then Ravenna...what does that mean for her? She welcomed evil into her heart. She is almost entirely consumed by it! I refuse to believe that she is completely consumed by it. There must be some shred of goodness left in her. There has to be.
He frowns at me. "Skoll wanted to become a wolf, so he gave his power to the delvir even though Ursus and Cetacea begged him not to. The delvir made him into a wolf. The first thin' he did was turn on his brother. He leapt onto Ursus and was tearin' him apart. Cetacea ran to the shore to call for Casieal and Gyal'ack's aid, but Gyal'ack had already heard his son's cries and was on his way. He had given his moon to Casieal, but Casieal could no' spin the earth and hold up the moon, so the waters became chaotic again and swallowed up Cetacea. Casieal saw her daughter drownin', so to save her daughter, she went against yer maker's laws and turned her daughter into a whale. That alone angered yer maker.
"When Gyal'ack found his two sons and saw Skoll tearin' Ursus apart, Gyal'ack went against yer maker and turned Ursus into a bear. Ursus was able to win the fight against Skoll and sent him runnin' with his tail between his legs."
"Oh my," I say, though I still lack any voice.
Eric nods and grins smugly. "Quite the excitin' story, but that disnae matter." Though his tone shifts to his graver side again, his smug grin fails to leave him, creating a stark contrast, like night and day. "Because of Casieal and Gyal'ack's disobedience and because of Skoll's betrayal, yer lovin' and just maker turned his back on us and left us to destroy ourselves. He knew we eventually would. So, Casieal and Gyal'ack," he shrugs, "I guess ye could say they became the new gods. They wanted to keep man from eventually destroyin' themselves, so they created the pag'anos. The, uh…" he bobs his head "...what ye would call the heathen animal gods. They are what ye call angels, the ones who are supposed to guard us against evil.
"The first of the paganos was Ursus and Cetacea. They both went forth, found themselves mates, and had children. Cetacea married a man bound to land, but from time to time she would return from the sea in her human form to be with her husband. Their children were tasked with fightin' the delvirs along the coasts and to keep men's hearts there good. Ursus—" Eric chuckles and shakes his head, tossing his stick back into the flames "—he went into the mountains and found himself a wife, Haelga. Aye, he loved her more than his own life, but nae matter how many times they—" That same smug, knowing grin, though faint, cuts into his words "—they came together, it ne'er satisfied Ursus. Against Haelga's wishes, he went out and found a second wife, Freya. She, too, wasnae enough for him, so he went out and found a third wife, Astrid. Then he found a fourth wife, Sigrid, and finally his fifth wife, Liv."
I can't help but laugh. Loud, breathy laughter. How can one be a god and be so promiscuous? Aren't gods supposed to be righteous? Hardly seems righteous to these poor women. Eric casts me a curious look while I brush away my last words in the snow and write with my stick, 'He's an ass'. I glance at Eric out of the corners of my eyes, watching his grin grow as his eyes read my words.
"Aye, like I said," he says, lifting his gaze to me, "many of them are." His smile shrinks. "But most of their sins dinnae change their hearts. By doin' what he did, Ursus had more children than any of the other paganos. His sons' lives were a constant war against the delvirs. His daughters bore as many children as they could. Only the lads who died in battle and the lasses who died bearin' children had their names carved into their tombstones."
My heart aches. God, what a cruel life to endure. Women having to bear sons who will most likely die. Men having to fight an endless battle against these delvirs so that they never reclaim this world. Goodness, Eric said their lives were constant war and they had their names carved into tombstones. Do they now know peace? Do they no longer have their names etched into tombstones? God, if only I had my voice!
"Like I said before, evil is on the move, no' needin' to eat and sleep like ye." He gestures to my chunk of meat, only one bite taken out of it. "Eat and get some sleep."
I sigh, disappointment dropping my shoulders. As soon as I get my voice back, there's so much I want to ask him. The only way I can do that is by eating and sleeping, so I force myself to scarf down as much of the dry, tough meat as I can tolerate, my throat aching a bit more everytime I swallow. Eric picks up his forgotten hunk of meat that he must have set down when he plucked his second stick out of the fire and eats with me in silence. I manage to eat most of my meat, leaving only a handful of it. I wrap up the leftovers and store it in my satchel. I drink some water out of my skin, scoop more snow into it, and set it near the fire to let the water melt.
A sudden gust of wind blows against us. My body shivers. I look at Eric, meeting his soft gaze.
"Ye cold?" He extends his arm to me, silently inviting me to share his warmth. My heart flutters and my stomach knots. A smile tries to shape my mouth, but I do my best to suppress it. How much things have changed between us. It was only back in the dark forest where I was grateful that the chill was tolerable enough to not have to seek his warmth. Now, in a strange way, I am grateful for this bitter cold. It gives me an innocent, sensible reason to draw so close to him. I scoot—wait, I have the sticks under me! I awkwardly lift my right hip off the snow and reach under me, doing my best to gather up all the sticks beneath me.
"Ah, dinnae move!" he says amusedly, trying to contain his laughter. "I forgot yer sittin' on those." He scoots over to my side instead, closing the little space we had between us. My heart takes off racing as he lifts his coat, opening his right side to me. He wraps me in his coat and in his strong arm, tucking me safely into his side. He squeezes my arm in his firm yet gentle grasp.
His warmth spreads to me. I pray that he, too, is warmer from this. For now, at least for once, I am safe. That I know with the utmost confidence. Whether all of Eric's strange beliefs are real, or if he can actually sense evil moving, or if god still exists, or if the demons are our wicked ancestors, I cannot say if any of that is true or not! It's hard to believe in a god who never answers a prayer. If anything, the god I was raised to believe in is dead. I'd be more inclined to believe in Casieal and Gyal'ack! At least they did not abandon us.
I sigh and drop my head on Eric's chest. Why should I even bother myself with these beings who are far beyond me? What I know to be true, what I know not to be an illusion or a figment of my imagination as I once feared—he is here. His warmth that I now enjoy, the safety he gives me, the space he has put between Maacthis' evil and my heart, the peace I now feel—it's all because of Eric. The steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath he draws in and lets go, his strength, his warmth—it's all real. He is real. He is here now.
I wrap my arms about him as tight as I can, trying to cling to this embodiment of goodness. After knowing fourteen years of hell and being promised to know hell in the most intimate way before Finn slits my throat, I have to cling to Eric. He is not a pure man. He does not have the cleanest words. He drinks to drown his sorrows instead of mourning properly. He can be quick to anger. He can kill men with no regret just as he killed that tavern keeper. That is not something that sits well with me. Despite these things, he is a good man. He has proven this time and again.
Instead of knowing hell for these past fourteen years...what would it be like to know goodness? To be protected and shielded by it? To be embraced by it? My gut stirs terribly with the coming of this thought. What would it be like...to know this goodness in the most intimate way? My life is already cut short. William...there's no way he would have remained unmarried. Sara told me that the kingdom thinks me dead, so surely that means William and Duke Hammond, too. Surely the Duke would have found a suitable wife for his son. Death breaks marriage and betrothal. So, if I am dead, then my betrothal to William is broken.
If anything, all this means is that I am a free woman. I scoff. Well, as free as one can be while she is fleeing for her life. Regardless, William must be married by now. He must have beautiful sons and daughters. If and when I reach Hammond's fortress alive and well just as Eric promised me, William, Duke Hammond, and everyone else there will see that I am alive. There's no getting around nor avoiding that. They'll have to see me if I am to have any hope of convincing them to help me free Greta. It all still remains, however, that I have no ties to anyone else. My tie to William is severed. With Ravenna's hold of my father's throne, my tie to Tabor is severed. It has to be. How could I ever defeat her!? I cannot raise up an army of black glass knights like she can! I have no men under my command! Why Eliza and Sara would place any hope in me at all is...they have willfully blinded themselves to the truth! They foolishly hope in a future that will never come.
God, I could sit here all night debating whether I have ties to anyone or not. My only unfulfilled promise, my only tie, is to Greta. I suppose I am tied to Ravenna through the power we share, but if I barely wield it myself, and with the space Eric has put between Maacthis' evil and my heart, surely that has weakened my tie to her. So, really, I am as free as I choose to be. Once Greta is freed from her imprisonment, then I can go wherever I wish to go. Really, after Greta is freed, it's probably best that I leave Hammond's fortress if only to spare those people from Ravenna.
I swallow. Will she ever stop searching for me? Would she pursue me to the ends of the earth? Hell, if she would pursue me to the ends of the earth, then what point is there to keep running after Greta is freed? To prolong my already shortened life? It's no life to constantly be on the run.
If she will never stop pursuing me, then I can only guess that I have months to live. It may not even be months should I not reach Hammond's.
My hands tremble. My loins burn and ache. My heart pounds and twists about itself with both longing and great guilt. Eric hates lies. How much worse would it be that when he learns the truth of who I am, he also learns that I, like our foolish, wicked ancestors, welcomed evil into my heart? Would he see my heart then like a light breaking through the damn, unending clouds? Or would he see it as a monstrous thing that must be destroyed so that there's less evil in this world?
At the same time, I want to know goodness instead of evil. I want to know it, feel it, moving and breathing in every part of me. Surely Eric would not deny himself a night of pleasure? He is good, but he is also a man. He spoke about Ursus with amusement...and perhaps some pride. That man needed five women to satisfy his desire! I doubt Eric is like that Ursus. He married only Sara. Still, the way he said that Gyal'ack bedded Casiel so bluntly...
Somehow, despite all this bodily torture, I drift into a light sleep. I know I'm sleeping. The flames are gone. All I see is Eric's naked body, his scars, both light and dark, marring his strong chest and taut stomach. His eyes are dark yet blazing with desire. He picks up the end of a noose off the ground and pulls it towards him, dragging me by my ankle! I shriek! How did this noose get around my ankle!? Despite the question, something tells me that I stepped into the hunter's trap willingly. He pulls the rope more and more, dragging me all the way to his feet. I look up at him, trembling with fear, but also with desperate, wanton desire. He has not touched me yet, but my body is already wound up so tight, crying out for the relief that only he can give me. He grabs at my clothes and starts stripping me. I tremble more with each piece of clothing he takes from me. How repulsed will he be by my starved and scarred flesh? He takes another scrap of cloth from me, exposing my pathetic breasts. He stops, his eyes fixed on my chest. Oh no. God no! He sees my heart! My heart pounding, racing, twisting with evil!
"Ye lied to me," he whispers. His eyes lift to mine, dark no longer with desire, but blazing with just rage...and hatred. That hatred in his eyes crushes my heart. I gasp from the pain, suddenly too weak, my life slipping from me. He rises to his full stature, turns his back on me and walks away, leaving me to die in my shame and sin.