eremophobia (n.) the fear of being alone

A patch of Mielikki's hand had turned black, just above the thumb, as though something had stained the skin; she found herself worrying at it with her thumb, apparently unable to stop. It was something of a nervous tic, which was unusual; Mielikki did not think of herself as a nervous sort, so this was most unnervingly out of character for her, as she thought of herself. Then again, she thought, she usually thought of herself as a relatively chipper sort, and yet she found herself moving along with a dour enough expression, in a relatively sombre silence, as she and Azula silently recognised the threat advancing behind them and the miles and miles of forest which lay ahead.

The great skull-faced ape had been following them for half an hour or more, when it was joined by a second; in ten or fifteen minutes further, a third. They hung back, some distance from the girls, but Mielikki could tell they were there, following them quite silently. And what could they hope to do? They had lost their bags, their knives; they had nothing, nothing, with which to defend themselves. Maybe, she thought, forcing optimism into the sinews of her brain as though packing it there forcefully, she could hope to get her hands upon their skin and flesh before they could do her and Azula too much damage. Maybe she could try to do to them what she had done to the vines, to Azula's skin, to the berries in her hand earlier. Maybe there had been some paltry truth to Commandant's preferred slogan, whenever a cadet had been disarmed and retreated, wary, before an advancing foe: you are a weapon, soldier, have you forgotten?

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

So, maybe, when the time came, they could defend themselves. In the meantime? She saw it break over Azula in the same moment that Mielikki could no longer restrain whatever nervous energy had her running her thumb so incessantly over the skin of her hand. It really did feel like a wave breaking over her – one moment, relatively composed, and in the next, they were sprinting.

Sprinting – sprinting wildly. They had completed their final death march only a few days ago, hadn't they? Mielikki was quite certain that, even then, even motivated by the threat of the Commandant's fury, by the prospect of being dropped from the programme, she had never run so fast. She was aware, constantly, of Azula beside her – she had stopped for her once, would she stop again? – beside her and then ahead of her, very slightly, drawing away as Azula showed her true speed. Mielikki kept pace with her, but barely; unencumbered by the weights that usually accompanied their death marches at the academy, and seeming to utterly forget the pain in her leg, Azula seemed to almost fly over the ground.

In between surging breaths, she thought, rather distantly, are druj the kinds of thing you're meant to run from? Maybe they were like bears. Maybe, when they saw you run, they wanted to chase. Maybe when you ran, you looked like prey.

That, of course, only made her run faster.

They sprinted and, from somewhere beyond them, utterly silent, she was aware that the great ape druj had given chase. Hunter and hunted, Mielikki thought – at least something in this damn forest made some kind of sense, put like that. In the cosmic balance of things, being chased like a wounded animal did not imbue her with any great sense of dignity, but yes, it did make some sort of sense.

So the Warriors ran, and the druj chased.

She did not, then, have any time to think. There was only the impact of feet upon ground, and the rush of air through lungs, and the sensation of bark and leaves and other undergrowth whipping with a savagery against her face and her arms. Earlier she had felt as though the ape druj were hanging back, and waiting – she no longer had any such impression. No, this was a sprint for their lives…

Just foot against ground, ground against foot, and the sensation of death itself breathing down her neck. Faster, faster, faster – could she go faster?

They had sprinted into a clearing, and Azula had slipped again, that damned lame leg off hers giving way beneath her as it had before. Mielikki sprinted to her side, and grabbed her by the arm, as though to seize her up by force; Azula stared over her shoulder and said, "they're gone, they're gone… where are they? Where are they?"

Mielikki looked over her shoulder. Where indeed? The things that had silently stalked them had disappeared once more from few; from here, the forest was utterly still and frigid, frozen as though it had always been so for thousands upon thousands of years. Mielikki felt the unease settling into her bones. How did those druj do that? How did they just fade into nothingness like that? Utterly silent…

What had Azula slipped on? Blood, she saw; blood, sinking deeply into the grass, staining every blade. Azula stumbled to her feet, and the two of them looked about themselves. This was a campsite, she saw, char forming a little black circle upon the grass; indentations here and there, where the grass had been covered. There was still the faintest warmth stirring from what remained of the fire – someone had been here.

Someone had been here recently.

Mielikki saw the realisation cross Azula's face almost as quickly as it flitted across her own mind. The younger girl had stumbled up to her feet; now she ran to the edge of the clearing, and screamed into the mist that wreathed the trunks before them, screamed with the kind of raw-edge desperation that had been lingering on the edge of Mielikki's nerves for the whole of the past week.

"Iliusha!" Silence. Her voice reflected back upon them, a thousand times. "Ghjuvan! Khalore!"

"Azula," Mielikki hissed. She was acutely aware of how quiet the forest around them was; how loud she was being; how noticeable they were. It felt like Azula was just screaming into the void. "Zu, stop, they'll hear..."

"Ilja! Ghjuvan! Khalore!"

"Zu!" Mielikki raced to her friend's side, and wrenched her arm without thinking; Azula let out a sharp cry and tore her arm away as Mielikki's hand burned a deep black mark into her flesh, the skin curling away like so much burned paper. She stared at Mielikki, wounded in two senses, and then, quite abruptly, stared past her.

"Yes," said a familiar, deep voice behind them, "what did you..."

Mielikki spun. There, behind them, was Ghjuvan. Ghjuvan, in the flesh – silhouetted in the pale silver light of what little afternoon sun dripped down from the sky above. His rich dark skin was stained with soil; his eyes, marked with tiredness; his clothes, rumpled and dirty. It was him – their fellow Warrior, as though he had crept up behind them without their noticing.

And then, just like that, he was gone again. Azula said, her voice very small, "Ghjuvan?", and was met with utter silence. Mielikki fell back, staring at her hand; Azula advanced slowly, staring at the grass where Ghjuvan had stood. "You saw that," she said, her voice very small. "Didn't you?"

And Mielikki opened her mouth, about to answer, when she heard a shriek like a banshee – nails on blackboard, a cat with its tail in a vice, someone being butchered. It was an awful, agonised shriek, like nothing Mielikki had never heard before; and when she looked up, she saw that the ape druj had not left them, maybe had never left them, only had manoeuvred to higher and higher ground. It was above them now, right above them, that awful skull-face staring down with little black holes where eyes should be – and as Mielikki stared, feeling the fear fill her veins and her lungs and her dead black hand, the druj leapt down upon them and everything was blood and screaming.

The next druj they encountered was headless – headless, and yet it walked. It was human in shape, disgustingly, disturbingly human: for a brief moment, Ghjuvan slowed his pace to focus on it, for fear that it might have been one of the younger girls they had lost. But this was a body taller and broader than either Azula or Mielikki, and it wore, not a Warrior's uniform as Zor or Ina would be wearing, but the ensemble of a professional soldier: a soft cotton shirt, a long moss-green coat adorned with blackened buttons, flaxen brown breeches and boots that might once have shone. A soldier, but not, he thought, a soldier of Irij, for their uniforms were blue in colour, darkening to navy as one advanced in rank; nor a Kur conscript, who tended to wear dark brown; nor the corpse of a Warrior, who wore grey. New Asians sometimes wore green, if they came from a mountain contingent, but what would someone from there be doing here?

He supposed the same could be said of the Warriors, but he was straining not to ask himself that question right now. They needed to focus on the now – on getting out of here, on making there way there and back again. That was all he had the mental energy for at this moment; it was all he could do, between hanging back to make sure Khalore was not struggling too much and keeping a watchful eye on Kinga, lest she turn on them. He didn't think he expected her to do so – at the very least, not without warning – and it came to him again: the way she had turned on him, that smile and that soft-spoken run, and the way the curse had burst from her like a beast shucking its restraints, an animal escaping its cage.

For now, she seemed to still be Kinga, moving as Kinga usually did. Before departing their makeshift campground, the three of them that remained able-bodied had divvied up what remained of their supplies to ensure that Khalore would not be impeded by any cargo. Kinga had taken more than a third of what remained in their bags; Ghjuvan wasn't sure if she was just feigning the kind of conscientiousness Pekka had usually shown to the younger cadets, or if it was reassuring for her to have some control over the food and supplies that were left to them. It did not appear that this weight was slowing her down whatsoever; she was the fastest of them, moving more steadily over the uneven ground than the cautious Ghjuvan, moving with more recklessness than the watchful Ilja.

Was she even afraid of the druj? Ghjuvan had not seen any since Kinga had rejoined them; indeed, the one monster he believed he had glimpsed had just been the Warrior herself. Was that significant, was that just… luck?

And then they saw the headless thing. It was moving just ahead of them; for a second, Ghjuvan felt something in his throat jerk, in false recognition of a fellow Warrior. But no, this was no Warrior, and he was glad for that fact – that was paltry relief, for this was still some poor soul shuffling blindly across a cursed forest. Was it blind? It was headless – that seemed a stupid question.

It was a clean wound, so far as he could tell; Ghjuvan had never seen someone lose their head before, but he imagined it was not usually this tidy of a wound. It was just black around the neck and throat, though in the shadows of the forest, he could not distinguish whether there was any viscera around the amputation. Would there matter if there was? He couldn't say why he thought that it did. Maybe because, if it bled, it would seem more real. A druj that could bleed – a druj that could die. A mathematical equation.

But then this poor bastard, whoever or whatever he had been. Moving at a much slower pace than the small group of Warriors, they were soon level with him, and Ghjuvan could see that he had drawn Ilja's eye. Why was he considering this thing a he? Maybe because he could see the callouses of its hand, the slight limp in its left legs, the way its sleeve frayed around their left sleeve like one who ate with their elbow on the table. Human characteristics, Ghjuvan thought, humanised characteristics, totally unlike the twisted and warped things with which they had been confronted previously. This just looked like… a soldier, desperately trying to march home.

Was this their fate?

He caught Ilja's eye and nodded. If this was a druj, then it did not seem to have noticed them; if it had not noticed them, then it seemed best that they did not draw its attention; and if they did not want to draw its attention, then they ought to divert their path, very slightly, to avoid it. This much was communicated, apparently instantaneously between the two; Ghjuvan was gratified to see that, despite their frequent disagreements, he and Ilja could come to a shared conclusion when they needed to.

Kinga did not seem to have got the memo; she moved, very gradually, closer to the headless thing; she did not seem inclined to escape as the boys were, only held herself at the slightest remove and kept pace with this poor soldier as they walked. Khalore glared at the whole tableau from the corner of her eye, her lip curled very slightly; she jumped slightly, like she had been expecting something much nastier, when Kinga reached out and put her hand on the druj's soldier – was this a soldier? – and arrested his path, there and then. It pushed forward, senselessly, driving the heels of its boots into the mud as it attempted to march forward, seemingly heedless of Kinga's strong hand holding it in place.

This could not be a druj; it made no attempt to attack Kinga, only kept moving. Ghjuvan imagined she could have pushed it over, quite harmlessly, and suffered no repercussions whatsoever. Kinga was staring at it with something darker than fascination in her eyes, and Ilja was watching her similarly. Finally, it was upon Ghjuvan to speak. "Szymańska. Leave the dead to death."

Sixty miles, she had said. Sixty miles to Illéa. They were so close – they could not allow anything to deter them. They had only covered perhaps four or five miles that day; it simply was not acceptable. Moving at this pace, it would take them their full ten years to carry out their mission.

Kinga glanced up. She shrugged – and flicked her wrist as she removed her hand, as ordered. The sheer force contained within that simple movement was enough to make the poor headless thing stumble, tripping over its own well-worn boots and rustling through leaves in a desperate attempt to regain equilibrium. Ghjuvan could not deny that he was watching this with rapt interest as well; it seemed unwilling to use its intact arms to support itself, so instead it stumbled and stumbled across dirt and little fallen bits of branches until it had regained something that resembled its original footing.

Then it straightened, and it began to march again.

Ilja said, "I imagine it's looking for its head."

Ghjuvan said, rather dryly, "one of your weakest, Ilja."

Khalore noted, darkly, from the rear of the group, "standards are slipping."

Kinga said nothing at all, only observed her hand closely and began to walk again.

They had distributed their weapons fairly between them; Ilja's blade shone from his belt, a silent warning to any of the druj that might have been watching from the shadows. They seemed to move in something resembling packs, Ghjuvan mused, thinking of their experience the previous day. When they came to a small stream that split the forest, running quite silently through the trees, they found that what little they could distinguish amongst the murky waters was sharp-toothed and hook-tailed. They forded it as best they could, Ilja guiding Khal carefully a narrow patch blissfully scattered with stones large enough to step upon, Kinga and Ghjuvan jumping it with something approaching the exuberance of their youth. It was a rare moment of levity, with Kinga raising her eyebrow and feigning intention to shove Ilja into the water as he helped Khalore up the slope that followed and Ghjuvan silently goading her onwards; and then, as they continued anew, abruptly sombre as the fog of the forest drew in tight once more, Ghjuvan was abruptly aware of some sound creeping into his field of awareness, softly spoken as though whispered into his hair from someone close behind.

"...ghjuvan."

He turned, and glanced at Khalore. His friend had kept her teeth gritted and was moving, stoically, silently; it was obvious that moving at this pace was a massive exertion for her, and it was equally obvious that she was determined to make no complaint. That was Lore – bitter as citrus peel, but strong where it counted. She caught his eyes upon her, and raised an eyebrow; they had bound her arm to her chest with Ghjuvan's spare shirt, but she still had her other hand pressed against it as though by touch alone she could alleviate her pain. After a moment, she said, "can I help you?"

"Didn't you just..." He trailed off. If there had been wind through the trees, he would have been tempted to blame it on that. But there was not – the whole forest was so utterly quiet, like the grave itself. There was nothing upon which they could hope to blame a stray sound; there was no slight noise to which he could attribute his faulty hearing. There was only the sound of the headless thing marching somewhere behind them, and Kinga and Ilja forging on ahead.

So then, who – or what – had called his name? It was not a name easily mistaken for another sound, after all; Ilja's quiet mention of mist-break up ahead and Kinga's response of clearing could not be blamed for what he had heard. So what…

"…ghjuvan!"

Ghjuvan began to say, "yes, what did you..." and then paused – paused, and stopped walking entirely. Everything had slowed; he had heard his voice coming from his mouth as though in slow motion, the sounds drawn out and thick with clumsiness. He felt his heart, his lungs, his innards, seeming to drop in his chest – it was the same feeling as jumping off a cliff, he thought, that moment your body remembered it was in freefall and forgot that the ocean would break your fall; that moment, half-asleep, you felt yourself falling without ever leaving your bed. It was a falling away of the reality around him, an abrupt tensing of his every muscle in preparation for a landing that would never come, a sudden realisation of total impermanence. It was precisely the same feeling as when the thing-that-had-been-Kinga had rounded upon him in the courtyard of the sacellum and he had thought oh, I think I'm going to die here. It was precisely that, and then it was gone – and he was still standing in the forest, the light streaming through the leaves dappled with the shadows of the leaves from somewhere very, very, very far above him.

He turned to say all of this to Lore, to tell her that vertigo had struck, to ask if maybe they should stop to eat – and stopped, very abruptly. In front of him, firstly, the char-crumbled heap of their fire from the night before; he knew it was this hearth, and no other, because Khalore's blood still soaked deeply into the grass. The grass upon which he and Ilja had sat and slept was still compressed in the shape of bodies; they had left little traces of themselves but that which the universe itself demanded they leave. And there, standing in front of the fire, her brown eyes very wide, was little Azula Gehörtnicht.

She was staring at him like he was a ghost. She was alive – drawn and tired and hungry-looking, but alive. Beside her, Mielikki Zorrico stood with one hand blackened as though by frostbite, a similar expression of bewilderment marking her face. She said, slightly dreamily, "oh, is that how that works?" and then again, Ghjuvan heard his name, only the faintest snippet, a whisper meant only for his ears and uttered as faintly as if carried on the wind that did not blow – "...he was just here…. he was just here… GHJUVAN!"

He landed on his knees, hard, and nearly went onto his hands as well, because the world was spinning all over again. He was not, he thought firmly, going to throw up onto the grass of a cursed forest – not after Khalore had bled all over it first. He was aware, distantly, of Khalore's good hand upon his head, and of Ilja saying, "today of all days to be clumsy, Mannazzu?"

Ghjuvan was just trying to breathe. He had been there – he did not do himself the disservice of denying as much. He had been there, actually there, and he had seen Azula and Mielikki. He had seen Azula and Mielikki alive, which was the more important detail here. He sucked in a breath, to try and tell them as much, but Ilja and Kinga were already retreating towards him and taking him, one on either side, and hauling him to put him back on his feet. He thought Ilja could tell, from the expression on his face, that he had not merely stumbled.

"Azula and Mielikki," he said, the words falling over each other in a rush. "They're… five or six miles behind us. At the campsite."

Khalore blinked. Her voice wavered accusingly, like she thought he might be lying. "How did you..."

Ilja waved aside this question. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure." Ghjuvan's voice did not waver. He knew what he had seen. Oh, good. He hadn't allowed himself to worry, truth be told; he had only focused on the future. But if Gehörtnicht and Zorrico were okay, then maybe the same was true of Czarnecki and Nirari, of Estlebourgh…?

"I'll retrace our steps," Ilja was saying, "it shouldn't take me longer than two or three hours..."

But then even he was interrupted by Kinga Szymańska, who had not advanced to offer Ghjuvan a hand, only stood on a ridge a few yards away from the others and said, "see this first."

Her voice still sounded unfamiliar in her own mouth.

"See what?"

Ghjuvan stumbled to his feet; Khalore caught him by the elbow, as though she could hope to steady him, and offered him a resolute nod before they continued. The three of them caught up to Kinga quickly, and looked in the direction she was pointing. To where the trees thinned… no, to where the trees ended. The close of the forest, Ghjuvan thought, some hint of mania tinging his mind at the idea. Maybe they could see Illéa from here. Maybe…

Had that been the forest? Had they survived the druj? Had they, in some sense, won a small victory?

He had not forgotten Azula and Mielikki, but they were some half-dozen miles behind them and the edge of the forest was right here. They could turn back for them in only a moment; Ghjuvan did not think he could turn back from this now. With Khalore in front of him, and Ilja right at his heels, he advanced rapidly in the direction Kinga had pointed. And, yes – this was no optical illusion, no trick of the light, no treachery by the forest. This was real. This was really…

And then, gloriously, light. Light, and the sky above them. The shadows of the trees stretched far behind them; ahead of them, a grassy plain sloped down, like the steppes of New Asia; it gave way, in the north, to high slate-grey mountains; in the south, to more mist-wrought fields, like those through which they had waded after rising from the beach; and there, in the east…

Smoke rising, very faintly, on the horizon. Civilisation? Society? When he listened, Ghjuvan could hear, very faintly, the suggestion of birds somewhere in the distance. There were small animals rustling through the yellowed grass of the forest edge. And there, very far ahead, so far ahead his vision wavered and shook when he tried to focus…

Khalore said it for him, her voice soft and almost awed, lacking any trace of her usual bitterness. "Horses."

Ilja corrected this swiftly, sounding cautiously optimistic, his gaze very faraway as though he had already left them in favour of whatever lay ahead. "People."

And Kinga, last of all, her voice dark, her word simple. "Enemies."