Fallen Tree 

Still, Now

“You… don’t…”

A terminal breath escapes his lips.

The hero of our story dies.

I watch his chest still, his eyes growing dull. I feel his body go limp in my arms.

Silence.

The space around us, a dreadful obsidian catacomb, is so far removed from the sun that neither light nor warmth could pierce its hard embrace. Shimmering walls stare down at us: me, left behind. Him, abandoning me.

I don’t know what to do. My arms ache from holding him up like this and my leg has gone asleep from the weight of his body. Some horrible, animalistic urge is building, silent and ineffable. There’s a violent tremor building in my chest, seizing my heart and thundering it all at once.

He was supposed to be the one to save us. The precepts made it clear, the Speakers said it was so, and we all saw the signs. It was obvious. He would send the Bright away. He would be a hero.

I open my mouth to speak, but the violent shaking in my body seems to rob me of my voice. I clutch at his still body ever harder. I can feel the sure muscle in his arm as I press myself into him. His blood coats me, still wet against my hands and face.

I stare into his slackened face. He always looked so determined, somehow purposeful and vibrant all at once. The Speakers said he had the face of a Wild God. A good omen. Up close, I can see little scars on his cheekbone, a pockmark near the cleft of his jaw. A dusting of freckles, barely visible in the gloom. There’s even a pimple growing near his lips.

I run my hand down his face, feeling the still warm skin. He doesn’t respond like he might before. There’s no boisterous laugh, no softening of that heavy gaze. The world saw a hero, an answer to the horrible question of the Bright.

But for me, he was my friend. My confidant. My lover.

Silence.

“You,” my voice sounds strange in this quiet place. “You left me…”

An accusation, a question. I don’t know which.

I slowly stare up at the ceiling overhead. The glimmering black walls are veined with azure that seems to dance across its surface, never letting me see its inner vibrancy for long. This place is alive, and yet he is not.

“How could you…?”

My eyes are hot, wet. I can feel the inevitable coming as the reality begins to set in. No more shared jokes, no more kind words as our journey weighed on us, no more gentle touches when night gave us privacy the world would not allow.

Tears stream down my cheeks. My face screws itself up into something miserable, wretched, and ugly.

I open my lips to speak. I could beg the power of this wretched place or even beseech all the gods for their mercy.

None of it would change this.

I shut my eyes and darkness takes me. All I can hear is my own shuddering breath, the wretched hiccups and sobs that tear out of me. Between it all, two words slip out.

“Come back…”

The hero of our story is dead.

~

I hear it before I see it.

Smooth stone slides almost soundlessly at first and all I feel is a gust of stale air from somewhere below. The air carries notes of dust, of something metallic and unknowable. It seems to hum around me with anticipation, a low note reverberating around.

I don’t move.

He’s still lying here, still dead. I’ve cleaned him up as best as I can. I retied the braid in his brown hair, wiped the blood from his lips, fixed the buckles on his armour. The bronze plate on his chest is undamaged, save for where the Bright had hit him. It bore a hole clean through, though I don’t dare to investigate any further. There’s a cruel irony in that the circular, spiralling designs on the breastplate seem to circle the rectangular gap the Bright wrought. I wasn’t sure whether to cover it, but as I look at him arranged neatly on the ground, I know he wouldn’t want to hide it.

Closer. Another door slides closed. Smooth stone pushes past some rubble, scraping small stones against the ground as it moves. The sound pulls my nerves taut. We’ve heard it before, the deathknell of hope down here.

The passageways are closing up again. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be trapped here too.

I slowly lower myself to a squat, ghosting my fingers over his hand. He feels wrong now. Too still, too cool, too unmoving.

Memories of a grinning teenager pulling me into the woods with promises of adventures wrench at my chest. My heart is seized in a vice grip as I remember his hand in mine, so sure and certain.

We would always get lost. He never seemed to notice, but I did. Too many turns, too many excitable stories he would babble off. Finally free of the weight of destiny, he would come alive with me. It was a strange dichotomy: equal parts more uncertain and unsure of himself, but happier too. In private, there was an ease to him.

The way his dark eyes danced as he told me of our futures: he said we would be heroes. There was no Bright then, but already his story was being written.

Another door closes. Air gusts against me in earnest, blowing my robes to one side. I glance down at my staff: a few whorling markings at one end, but otherwise bare. All the training I had received, the Old words I had learned. None of it could stop the Bright.

I stare down at him again.

I can die with you.

I don’t want to say the words – I know he would be mad. He wouldn’t understand why I would want that. Maybe that would be one of our little differences that just always left things… unfinished.

We were unfinished.

We can try again in the spirit world.

We’ll be two young saplings in an old forest, rising toward the sun. We could be two wild flowers growing fiercely and madly as we fight for our place in the fields. We could be two deer, all limbs and nerves as we discover the world.

I press the heels of my palms against my eyes and let out a mournful moan. “We could be anything,” I promise his body, “anything but this.”

We could do it better next time. Speak our truths bravely and for all the world to hear. Maybe then I would truly know what was in his still heart.

Another door ghosts shut nearby. I look up and find only the exit remaining. The shining obsidian walls reflect back my nightmare: me, alive. Him, dead. The azure veins in the walls ripple alive again, as if the Old Gods’ domain itself knows I’m still here.

“You wouldn’t want this.”

I say it to the him I see in our reflection. I know it’s true, but the aching throb in my chest, the rawness of my throat, and the horribly endless sensation that seems to hollow me out won’t leave.

The tense, awful feeling brings back a memory. Sword drawn, his brows knit in fury. Graínne had decided to join us, but her chieftain forbade it. The old woman denied Graínne’s decision, saying that it was selfish.

“Sometimes we know a thing to be right because it is so! No further explanation could be needed when your heart is true.”

I could see how scared you were, but you had such a way with words.

Slowly, I rise to my feet, staring at my reflection. Sandy hair loosely tied back, unassuming brown robes. I can still see the youth in both of our faces: scarcely into manhood and you’re gone.

How can I grow old without you?

I don’t know.

But you deserve better than this place.

I turn toward the exit and call for our friends to help.

You deserve to see the sun one last time.

Look Away

An overcast sky threatens rain as I hurry across the main square of the village. The heavy air is made worse by the anxious looks and worried whispers of the townsfolk. While I pretend not to listen, it’s hard not to see as gossip spreads around me.

Mawrdun is one of the largest towns in the south. Situated atop several raised circular mounds and connected by sturdy bridges, each is bound by pointed wooden fences. Domed huts with thatched roofs reach for the ominous sky, while a handful of pens break the uneasy quiet when pigs and goats call out.

I miss the forest, I miss –

Words like ‘hero,’ ‘dead,’ and ‘destiny’ echo off the lips of farmers, hunters, and everyone in between. Even a few of my fellow druids watch on. A woman with her hood pulled down and a staff half-covered in whorls makes a gesture with her hand.

My stomach sinks when I recognize it as one to send off the dead.

He really is dead.

My staff feels heavy and wrong in my grip. I keep my hood up and play the part of the devoted apprentice and focus my attention solely on the tall structure before me. I try not to think how his blood has painted me.

Each step feels like someone else is taking it, but I have to go.

I can’t let them do this.

Ahead, the chieftain’s hut rises high. Its exterior is decorated with banners, while a pair of sentries block an entrance covered by rich ochre-coloured fabric. They hold pikes with bronze tips and wear tough leather armour. Both turn toward the entrance when the dark fabric rustles and reveals a stout figure.

Fair hair verging on red, they’re a foot shorter than me but my elder by about five years. Maire, child to Mawrdun, would lead this place when their mother steps aside or dies were it not for their duty as a Speaker. Yet, even without her inheritance, the power of the Wild Gods is at their fingertips and they carry themselves with purpose.

“Avon,” they take me by the forearms and grip tightly. The way they say my name is like a dagger in my heart, and when I force a smile on my face, they seem all the more torn for it. “Elder Taliesin would have it done now,” their expression darkens, “I am sorry.”

I knew they would rush it, I could feel it. But like this?

“He hasn’t been…” The word ‘dead’ is too horrible to utter, “It’s only been a few hours!” My raised voice draws the attention of a farmer walking by. He mutters something, a prayer I think.

“I promise you on the Wild Gods: no one blames you. Graínne and I saw, the Bright, it –” They cut themselves off, expression faltering. “You are not at fault, Avon. You did your best. We saw it.”

There are no words to say. They don’t understand.

“Shall we go in?” Maire takes me by the arm and guides me forward. I can feel the other druids’ eyes on me as I allow the chieftain’s Speaker progeny to lead me. Still, there is hesitance in their steps: they know what waits inside better than I do.

The stink of the town gives way to the smell of incense as we pass through the ochre entry. Inside, the world is lit by a round skylight. The space is sectioned off by hanging textiles, each of them ornamented in some way to show the chieftain’s wealth.

In the centre of it all is a crescent-shaped low table facing the entrance, behind which one chair stands higher than a few others.

Sat here is the Chieftain of Mawrdun: Eira, Maire’s mother. Middle-aged, strongly built, and with long dark hair decorated with beads and silver finery, she cuts an impressive figure. Her expression is set into something close to a frown, but her eyes are on the centre of the room.

Lying on the ground is a figure covered in a linen sheet.

I falter, stop a few feet away.

“Avon, come! We will have such fun!”

“They say I’m destined, but I-I… could it really be?”

“You’ll come, won’t you?”

Gods. Give him back to me…

An older man appears from behind one of the curtained off sections. Tall, thin, balding, he wears the same robe as me, but his staff is replete in complex designs and sigils. The entire length of wood is a display of his experience, a testimony to his authority.

Maire dips their head first to her mother, then to the Elder Druid. I do the reverse, but only when Maire subtly pokes me in the side with their elbow.

I can’t hear anyone speak. My ears ring as I stare down at his body.

“... And of course, the hero’s ashes will be honoured. The Wild Gods will favour us for such a grand sacrifice.” The old druid intones with a seriousness and piety that feels so hollow and wrong inside me.

I look down at his covered body.

The gods’ favour?

“Hold on,” all eyes shift to me. I swallow dryly, tearing my eyes off the linen-covered body and turning my attention to the town’s leaders: “He just died. We h-have to mourn. You can’t just burn him already!”

Impatience colours Taliesin’s craggy features, displeased at being interrupted and annoyed at my candour.

The room’s attention turns to Chieftain Eira, who considers me carefully: “Apprentice Avon, I do not know how things are done in Abervin, but here in Mawdrun, we honour the laws of the Wild Gods. The hero’s body must be returned to them now.”

His still body pulls my eyes down again. “He wasn’t just a hero, damn it!” Shocked silence greets my pain. I don’t dignify their reproachful stares with more words.

The Elder Druid Taliesin shakes his head, immediately dismissing me: “Your camaraderie is admirable, Avon, but as an apprentice, you know that the body holds no matter of spirit, yet it carries enormous power nonetheless.”

No mention of who he was. Of his hopes and dreams, his likes and dislikes, his nervous ticks. Just a hero.

He was more than that.

“His name was –!”

A grunt. Taliesin looks angrier than before. “Your connection to the hero is of value,” he concedes impatiently, “But we have no time for grief. How many villages must be lost? We do not know if they live or die beyond the Bright.” He looks to the chieftain: “We must act, Eira. Now.”

The Chieftain looks from me, to Taliesin, to her daughter: “It was you two and Graínne who travelled with him, yes? How much longer until the Bright is upon my land?”

I can’t even speak. He’s being forgotten already.

“A few weeks,” Maire offers quietly. “But, mother. Could we not wait a little longer? The public could pay their respects to–”

A shake of the head. “I agree with Elder Taliesin. We act now.” She turns her attention to me: “I am sorry, young druid. Rest assured the hero’s sacrifice will not be in vain,” her expression hardens, “I will ensure it.”

Eira stands and when she speaks, her voice carries across the building: “Guards! Inform the townsfolk: we shall cremate the hero at sundown.”

She turns to leave, but I step forward – my hand going out to him. As guards enter the space, a murmur of surprise goes up when I reach for his cold body.

Then I see it: a misshapen lump over his hand.

“His ring,” my words are a rasp. “I gave it to him for his birthday. It would ease my pain if I could –”

Chieftain Eira looks from me to the Elder.

Elder Taliesin shakes his head: “Such a relic would prove invaluable in fighting the Bright. You know this, Apprentice.”

I could take it. I could take it and run.

But when the guards collect his body, all I do is watch as a sacrifice is collected. Anger bolts me to the ground, impotent, furious, and miserable.

Chieftain Eira and Elder Taliesin follow his body out. Maire and I move afterward.

It’s a practiced, familiar affair. Anyone who has attended a funeral here knows that there will be a procession, a ceremony by the most senior druid available, and a scattering of the ashes.

Yet, as we exit the chieftain’s hut, the world has come to us.

Outside the walls of Mawrdun, farms give way to rolling green hills. Forests big and small permeate the landscape, ever watchful. In the distance, however, I can just see it: a hazy wall of white. One might mistake it for snowfall on the horizon, but the blank nothingness of it speaks to a greater truth. Even this far to the south, you can see the Bright.

For those gathered in Mawrdun, their attention is on the guards now carrying his body. The linen sheet is secured to the board supporting his corpse. Even as the wind picks up, there’s no chance anyone will see him.

All they see is a hero.

Maire and I are soon joined by Graínne. She’s older than me by a decade, and more capable than both of us too. While Maire speaks for the Wild Gods, it’s been Graínne that’s kept us alive. She’s always been the best hunter of us four and the one who seems to always know where to set up our tents.

Of us three, now.

Wordless nods are exchanged. I think they can see it on my face. They must have known after so many nights of him and I sharing a tent, the furtive touches by the fire.

Maybe it’s the fact that they know that makes it hurt all the more when the townsfolk begin to call out for the hero, how he was chosen, how the path isn’t broken. Someone reaches for the sleeve of my robe. I don’t let them.

My jaw tightens as I walk rigidly behind the town’s leaders. Neither even pretend to care for him. They invoke ritual like a weapon. Each step feels less and less real than the latter. I stop hearing their shouts, stop noticing the desperate way they’re looking at us – at me.

Eventually, we reach the unlit pyre.

His body is placed on it.

Elder Taliesin speaks of a greater purpose, of the need for sacrifice in the dark days. He calls on the Wild Gods to protect us and on the Old Gods to preserve us. The crowd listens eagerly, hungrily. I barely pay attention, my eyes focused on his body. Yet, when Chieftain Eira approaches with a lit torch, reality comes crashing down on me.

My breath comes out in a tight wheeze and I hear Maire say something, but their words are lost to me. The roar of blood in my ears drowns out the world around me, isolating me with my own agonized fury.

No one speaks his name.

Next Time

You were marked for destiny from day one. A baby born under a burning red star, they said you would save us all from a terrible fate.

There was no Bright, then. No slow march of white nothingness that would silently disappear forests, farms, and entire villages.

You kept up a brave act. All grins and smiles. The son of the chieftain, you made the perfect hero in training. Even as a teenager, people liked you.

You told people you liked to hunt. You’d strap on your boots, grab your bow, and loudly announce that you were off. Then you’d sneak by the Elder’s hut.

Abervin’s Elder was old, tired. She thought more time spent in the old growth would deepen my connection to the Wild Gods, so she let me go with you.

I don’t remember when it changed.

“Avon, you know you’re rather bad at this, right?”

He’s all grins as I pull back the string of his bow. I’m taller than he is, but his stupid training means that he’s stronger. Still, I’m a better shot.

“If you keep talking, I may decide that you’re the best catch out here,” I grouse. All around us, old forest rises thick and untamed. We stalk over fallen logs, tiptoe over tiny creeks, and move around the trundling ground.

“Disappointing! I would expect more from Abervin’s future Elder.” He’s by my side, shoulder brushing against mine. His hands ghost over mine: “Your grip is all wrong. Hold it like so, and aim for that tree stump.”

“My grip is fine, thank you.” His touch is familiar, comforting: we’ve always been close since we were kids, but the forest excursions bring something else out for us. When I release the arrow, it finds its mark. “Brilliant!” He declares.

I hear a crack of something nearby, then rustling. When I turn the bow toward it, I find nothing. Evidently, he finds this funny, as he puts himself in the line of sight, hands up in mock surrender: “Aha! He is a mighty archer, now. Spare me, mighty Avon! I will do anything!” Whatever face I make, he starts to laugh.

This is stupid. It’s a total waste of time.

Still, the warmth in my stomach tells me that I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else, so I keep looking for prey, fully well aware we’ve scared off anything worth hunting.

Eventually, I lower the bow and sling it on my shoulder, moving toward him and wrapping my arm around his shoulders. “Thank you for the tips,” I concede pettily, “But this is your hunting time. Not mine.”

“And yet your company improves it immeasurably,” he flashes me a winning smile. Hunting is a normal thing for young men like us to do. Still, he smells of forest and sweat, and when he leans his head against mine, my stomach does a little flip.

“How’s training?” I ask him when the quiet of the forest returns.

He’s turned toward me, dark eyes half-lidded. He raises his hand to the back of my head, threading it through my hair and slowly scratching his fingernails along my scalp. He’s always been touchy, but it feels amazing and I have to stifle the embarrassing noise growing in the back of my throat. He purses his lips and at my question just shrugs: “Everyone says I am excelling.”

I escape his grasp, even if it feels heavenly. “That is hardly an answer, you know.”

He turns toward the forest, rolling his shoulder. He’s wearing a loose grey tunic, dark trousers, and a pair of boots. It’s a hot day, but under the forest canopy, we’re comfortable. Still, he absently loosens the drawstring of his shirt, fanning himself.

“I…” He doesn’t turn to face me. “They all talk of destiny, heroes, and a journey,” he sounds different than he does in the village. More real. When he turns to me, his expression reads of uncertainty, even fear. “Some days, I dream that they call for me to do… something. Be their hero. But I am unready, and I fail them all…”

I sigh, empathy paining my heart. I step toward him this time, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. The firm muscle under my grip is a reminder that, while being predestined for something great may seem nice, the price you pay is control over your own life.

“Thank you for coming out here,” he’s strangely sincere as he considers me anew. “You… cannot know how much it means.”

I feel my face heat. Whenever he says things like this, hope builds in me. Hope that what we do out here isn’t just some secretive passion, that there’s more to it than a physical need.

“I would want for nothing else. You know that.”

When his hands find my sides, he’s gentle. His expression is open, vulnerable. I see in him my own feelings. He leans in, breath hot against my face. He’s seeking permission, like he always does. I give in first, pressing my lips against his.

“Avon…”

I don’t know what he feels. I never fully do. But whatever this is, I hold to it dearly. A little piece of truth in a world defined by powers we can’t see, forces we can’t change. The Wild Gods around us, the Old Gods below us. I know in my heart that this is right.

When I pull away, I find a lopsided grin on his face. “Your eyes are very pretty, you know,” his face is dusted pink.

“What flattery,” I snicker. “You could be a poet.”

He grins: “Will you be my muse?”

A bird calls overhead, trilling excitedly.

The two of us pull apart, exchanging heated looks.

“We should go back,” I sling his bow off my shoulder and offer it to him. “Thank you again for the unrequested archery lesson.”

He shrugs it onto his shoulder and slings his arm around my shoulder, ruffling my hair. “I believe my payment was most worthwhile.”

My face turns beet red and I feel myself hope anew. “Perhaps the mighty hero could use some help with his studies?”

Time spent alone in his room. I try not to imagine what that could bring.

He chortles: “I would never demand such boredom from you, my friend. That old druid has you reading too much. I fear for your eyes.”

Hope cools in my chest, but I don’t pull away. I never do. He didn’t seem to understand, but that’s fine. I look over at him and force a smile on my lips: “Ah, perhaps you’re right. Another time, then?”

~

I wake to find his ring sitting across from me.

Perhaps it was Maire’s idea. A gesture of kindness after my pitiful display at the funeral. I had sobbed openly for him – something no self-respecting druid would do if they wanted to be taken seriously.

Yet, I had seen him die. Watching him burn was no easier.

I sit up in my coat, the straw mattress underneath me shifting noisily. I take the ring hesitantly, part of me expecting it to burn like the fires that removed what was left of him from this earth.

Yet it’s cool to the touch. Heavy. Silent.

I turn it over in my hands, remembering the day I gave it to him. Iron is expensive and he had been aghast at me spending so much on it. I remember how he pulled me into an embrace so tight I thought he would crack my ribs. He whispered to me that he would wear it every day.

He told me the truth.

But now he’s gone.

“You left me…”

I clutch it tight enough that it digs into my flesh. The pain is a balm. Anger brings me to my feet, frustration at a loneliness so profound it’s hollowed me out.

Eventually, I place it on the small table next to my cot and rise to my feet. I inspect my borrowed room. A single-room hut on the edge of Mawrdun, it has a handful of cots for travellers, but the others are currently empty.

An empty bed. An empty pyre.

Elder Taliesin’s words echo in my mind, then. They were the final words as the town’s leaders spread his ashes across the forest.

“For all things are in cycles. The seasons turn. The sun rises, sets, rises again. So too do all spirits go to the Old ones below and are given life anew when the Wild ones call. We shall see them again. For no goodbye is eternal.”

No goodbye is eternal.

His spirit is with the Old Gods below.

“If I…” I slowly rise to my feet, staring at my things laid out on the floor nearby. “If I go down there, he might…” I don’t dare to hope, but I hope all the same. “He could be there.”

Obsidian walls shimmering with azure light. Silent stone doors that slid out of view. A world of sharp angles, silence, and perfection. The Old Gods’ domain was terrifying, but it’s the only hope I have.

“I’ll go back down,” I tell myself as I pull a few of my travel clothes out of my bag, stripping myself of my robe as I go. I toss the shapeless brown fabric into the corner, the cool wet air giving rise to goosebumps on my exposed skin. I pull out a tunic and slide it on.

“I’ll perform the rites. I’ll do a sending, ask for him back. The Gods will know, they’ll understand: I n-need him back… to stop the Bright.” My justification is hollow and I don’t care. The Gods can have their destiny, but I will have him back. They’ll see sense, they’re gods.

Excitement and hope push me to go faster and I hurry through the entrance of the hut. Outside, another grey day has dawned, but patches of blue show through.

“Just let me have this,” I whisper to the blue sky above. “Give him back and we’ll get rid of the Bright together.” I raise two fingers upward, drawing a prayer sigil for the gods below.

A few farmers move past with their sheep in tow. Several bleat at me as I skirt to a stop, annoyed at them halting me. Nearby, a pen of small pigs squeak angrily at the sudden influx of new animals.

Then, footsteps to my side: “Ah, druid. You’re up.”

I turn and find Graínne staring down at me. Her arms are bare, showcasing the intricate cobalt tattoos that crisscross her flesh – the sign of her clan to the east. A sheen of sweat sticks to her and her breath comes out in little clouds: doubtlessly she’s been training with her axe this morning.

“Good morning, Graínne,” I say with enough pleasantness that she physically takes a step back. Raiders don’t scare her, but apparently me in a good mood does. “Have you seen Maire? I would like to resume our examination of the catacombs.” When she doesn’t immediately reply, I offer my justification: “The Bright advances. Surely we cannot delay further.”

Something in her grey eyes tells me she isn’t buying my explanation. “She is with her mother, but I suspect she would approve of your plan.” A careful pause, “I am surprised to hear you so eager after your… performance last night.”

“He would want us to finish this.” It’s the truth, at least.

She nods slowly. “I see. Perhaps you can speak with the Elder and apprise him of our plans while I fetch our Speaker,” her attention shifts to the hut: “Ah – and Maire left something for you. Did you find it?” Strange apprehension in her voice cools my enthusiasm.

I look down at my hand. I didn’t even realize it, but I picked it up when I left the hut. When I uncurl my fist, I find a few specks of ash in my palm around the iron ring.

“You… cannot know how much it means.”

His words from all those years ago echo in my mind. My chest tightens and I offer Graínne a forced nod, smiling through the pain. “I did. I thank her for her thoughtfulness,” I turn toward the druidic longhouse in the distance: “I shall see you at the catacombs entry?”

I hear her move to leave: “Be well, druid.”

Silence is all I can offer her as I depart. I can feel the ash seeping into my skin, marking me. I want to hurry, but my feet move slower than I expect them to.

Show Me

The air is close, stale. But it’s not like last time.

There’s a faint metallic scent, something new added to an ancient space.

Blood.

His blood.

The shiny black walls stare down at us. Last time I was here, I could make out angular veins of blue in the strange, smooth surfaces. It pulsed like the chambers were alive, thrumming from one room to another. It led us further down, closer to the resting place of the Old Gods.

It’s not here anymore.

Smoother than obsidian, I ghost my fingers over the inert walls. The surface is cold, featureless, and impossibly even. The power of the Old ones – to make such a sprawling, perfect labyrinth below Mawrdun is beyond my imagination.

When we first came here, I was in awe of it. To see the tomb of the makers of our world was beyond humbling. I had made my devotions, said my prayers, even shed tears. When Graínne and Maire were in another room, he held my hand and told me that my reverence was touching.

Now, as I stare down at the bloody streak his body made as I dragged it across the room, I can’t remember what his hand felt like in mine. The memory of his lips against mine, his arms around me, the warmth of him at night. All of it is slipping away.

We move through a narrower passage. Graínne is talking, but I’m not listening. One thought lingers as I survey the long angular corridor.

I’m forgetting his face.

It’s only been a day and already he’s drifting into memory.

Maire is speaking now, gesturing to the walls and holding their torch close to inspect the lack of the gods’ power. Their torch doesn’t seem to glow as brightly as it did when we were all down here. It’s as though the light can’t reach as far without him here.

We’re diminished without him. Incomplete.

I’m diminished. I’m incomplete.

We move through another corridor. Another room. Another empty space.

On and on and on.

Our footsteps echo off the silent catacombs, too loud and too quiet all at once. Graínne has her axe out, poised and ready for violence. He had been the same, but what killed him was a blink of Bright from the darkness. It bore a hole through him, felled him so quickly he was almost dead before he hit the ground. No weapon could have stopped it.

I shudder at the thought. His face is blurring in my mind, but the essence of panic and fear on him is still clear to me. The way he tried to speak, to grab at me as he lay dying, it was like he was damning me. Accusing me.

I’m a druid. Places like these are my domain. And yet…

I failed him.

“Avon,” Graínne says my name with a tone implying this isn’t the first time.

I blink, turning my attention to the powerful woman. She jerks a thumb in the direction of the end of the current corridor. It branches off in two directions: one goes down a set of stairs, the other ends in a closed door made of the same shining stone as the wall. A seam in the centre is all that tells us it’s a door at all.

On the wall between the two paths is writing embossed into the dark wall. It glimmers with a pale blue, but it’s not lit up like the walls once were. I know it’s ancient – from the days before the Wild Gods, but it looks like it could have been carved today. The lettering is so neat, so effortless. Whatever blade or chisel the Old Gods used, it’s beyond my imagination.

Neither Graínne nor Maire can read it: the language of the Old ones is known only to my order. I peer at it, the phrase strange and obtuse thanks to my limited understanding. “From the depths,” I murmur, “comes the rebirth of man…?”

I shake my head at it. It’s esoteric and unclear, but not the first time I’ve seen a statement like this down here. Many of the signs in this place are like this: renewal, rebirth, return. The Old Gods’ return was prophesied eons ago, and yet their tombs are empty. Have they left already? Are they beyond the impenetrable haze of the Bright?

“Odd. Nary a hint as to where we ought to go?” Graínne’s question is for me.

Maire turns to me now: “We could try going down first, and if we find nothing, we come back up and try the doors?”

Graínne shakes her head. Her gaze goes over my shoulder to the room where he died. “The Gods do not take lightly to mortals treading in their tombs. We need to be smarter. We cannot afford to…” Her words trail off as shared grief falls over us all, “The Bright must be stopped. Hero or no.”

“Enough! He was more than a hero, Graínne!”

The sharpness of my voice echoes off the silence around us and earns me a narrowing gaze from Graínne. She knows I know the truth and so offers neither an apology or explanation. It is as true as it is painful to hear. He’s a hero now. Who he was matters less and less.

“Careful, Avon.”

I try to comfort myself by mentally repeating that I know she means well. He was their friend, but he was closest to me. That distinction brings me some small, petty comfort.

“The doors are an easier option,” I concede finally. When we were last here, Graínne was able to ably pry such entrances open with her axe. Past a certain point, whatever held them closed would give and they would slide open. “But the precept speaks of ‘depths.’ Perhaps we go down, then?”

Graínne seems mollified with this: “Then we heed the precept. Come.” She offers me a grateful nod.

“What would we do without you, Avon?” Maire smiles at me as they fall in step behind me.

Their praise washes over me, tides over a breakwater. I don’t question my ability; I’ve always been a capable enough student. And yet their kind words don’t move me like they once would. I simply nod and keep walking. Some part of me deep down feels inert, dulled.

Down we go, the stairs winding in a smooth, circular column. We pass into another room. Empty. At the far end is another set of stairs. We descend further.

“We could have pried open the door,” Maire contends after another painfully long silence.

Graínne, still ahead, shakes her head. “Perhaps. But it is dangerous.”

“And this isn’t?” The would-be Speaker sounds impervious to fearing this place. Yet, when I glance in their direction, I find their mouth in a thin line of worry. Something about going deeper in scares them. Perhaps their connection to the Wild Gods is weakened here.

“Irrelevant. Avon read the wall and you heard it too. Below is where we go.”

“These are group decisions, Graínne. You cannot just decide what we do.” Maire sounds annoyed. Arguments like these are common, normal for us. And yet where I might normally feel the need to intercede and find some sort of consensus – after all, he was famously bad at cooling nerves since his instinct was to make jokes to lighten the mood – I find I just don’t care.

The stairs open into a low, wide space. The walls slope upward and create a trapezoid-shaped space. Like everywhere else in the catacombs, the space is bereft of anything. No tables, cots, nothing. Just emptiness.

I peer into the gloom as far as our torches will let me see, but there’s nothing to see at all. Just a long, empty space.

“Another blasted empty chamber. The precepts speak of a cure to the Bright in the chambers of the Gods, and yet all we have found is empty rooms.” Graínne’s brows are knit and she’s moving forward, axe swinging side to side.

Maire sighs: “I’m inclined to agree… What have we found so far beyond nothing and Bright tricks? The Old ones mock us.”

“We should go back, discuss this with the Elder and the chieftain. We cannot continue to flounder in the dark,” Graínne affirms.

“No.”

I didn’t come here to stop the Bright.

I didn’t come here to turn around.

I came for him.

And I’m getting him back.

“Be reasonable, Avon. I know you want to stop the Bright, but we cannot lose another. He was the chosen one, but even he died –”

My attention snaps to Maire and they fall quiet. “You both knew him. You know that he is – that he was much more than some story!” I turn toward this wretched, silent room and shove past them both, extending my staff forward.

A druid’s power is in their words as conciliators, mediators, historians. So I speak words in the Old tongue. It sounds flowing and sonorous to my ears, and part of me scarcely recognizes where I picked up this particular line. But I know its meaning.

Show them all that he was more than a hero.

The air seems to crowd around me. My ears pop as the pressure in the air doubles.

Show us to the end of our path.

I’m not sure how, but it’s as though a great wind has picked up. My skin tingles with some unseen power and the hairs on my arm rise on end. I don’t relent.

Show me that it was not goodbye.

Darkness is torn asunder as light explodes around us. Blinding whiteness cracks through the floor and fills the space. The air is too dense to breathe and my eyes burn as something invades the space.

The far end of the room is briefly visible. For a moment I can see it: raised structures made of the same shining darkness as the rest of the space. Azure light dances across the rectangular constructs, flitting from side to side rapidly as the air begins to thicken and turn white.

Something – someone stands between the strange angular mounds. Dark hair, kind eyes. A pockmark near the cleft of his jaw. Freckles, barely visible at this distance.

He smiles.

Then the whiteness cuts in before me, like fog but soupy thick. Featureless and flat, the wall of nothing blocks my view of him –

“NO!”

I tear forward, ripping at the wall of whiteness before me. The moment my fingers touch it, my flesh burns with such ferocity that I scream in pain. My arm instinctively retracts but I push forward even as I clutch the limb to my chest. My fingers spasm, the smell of burning flesh and something heavy and acrid hitting me.

The Bright.

He’s in there.

I’ll get him out.

There are hands on my shoulders, pulling me away.

I tear free of them and reach out again. My flesh burns anew but this time I ignore it. My hand disappears into the Bright. Then my forearm. Up to my elbow.

In the agony of burning and pain, my mind riots. Instinct demands I pull away, but I refuse. I’m going to die if I keep this up and I don’t care. No one survives the Bright, no one. And yet I keep going. I know he’s in there, I saw him!

Something ghosts against my hand. I’m forgetting his face, but I know that touch. A hand interlaces with my own. Unseen, but real; cool against the burning of my flesh.

Then, something strikes me across the back of the head. My ears ring and my mind shudders to a halt.

I can still feel his hand.

I can –

Darkness.

Walk Away

It rained last night.

A normally dusty path leading toward the village is caked in mud, slowing my progress. I don’t mind. I have nowhere I need to be.

The path is a familiar one: old forest rises to my left, while on the right farmland spreads out, familial plots broken up by narrow hedges. Crops eventually give way to rolling hills which in turn spread out toward the horizon.

It’s been a while since I could see so far into the distance.

Only months ago, the Bright had abruptly closed in around Mawrdun. Chaos had reigned as half the village was instantly swallowed into white nothingness. I knew it had been my fault: the moment I spoke the words in the catacombs, I had called the Bright to me.

Maybe the Gods didn’t understand what I had been asking for.

I look down at my right arm: the skin from my forearm down to my hand is covered in scar tissue. It’s ugly and my joints ache when it rains, but it’s a small price to pay.

When I pulled my hand from the Bright, I had what we needed.

Maybe the Gods did understand.

I know he did.

I take my time as I approach the village. Overhead, a clear blue sky stretches out. The sun beats down hot against my exposed chest. My tunic is tied around my waist, letting my skin slowly pinken in the heat.

He always liked this weather. It gave him an excuse to go into the forest.

My lips pull upward, a faint smile growing on my lips.

It was his job to stop the Bright – that’s what the precepts said. The Speakers knew it, the elder druids could sense it, too. So, naturally, everyone was boggled when I did it. Some decided that the stories were about me all along.

That made no sense to me.

When I think of the feeling of his hand in mine, cooling the agony of the Bright as it burned me away, I know the truth.

When I look up, I realize I’m closer than I expected. Huts dot a flat expanse of land bracketed by a curving river. A few kids I don’t recognize are running through the main square, chasing a chicken that squawks indignantly.

Nearby, a farmer and his ox pull a tall cart of wheat through another road. The man is facing away, but chats amiably with a familiar-looking older man. The older man’s attention shifts to me and he quickly does a doubletake. He jabs the farmer, who likewise takes me in.

As I enter Abervin, voices simultaneously rise and lower.

“He’s back?”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Look at his arm!”

The kids, whose fascination in the chicken dims, are suddenly at my feet.

“It’s you!” A young girl declares with a wide grin, “Is it true? You were chosen by the Gods?!”

A little boy pushes past: “I heard you woke the Old Gods yourself!”

The farmer is approaching. His skin is tan and weathered, brown hair greying on the sides. “Now, now. Give the young druid some space!” The man offers me a rueful smirk when the children absolutely do not comply.

“Well?!”

“Tell us! Are you the hero!?”

Others are appearing now. I feel a flush of embarrassment as a few call out prayers and praise. Some thank me, others say I’m the pride of Abervin. It’s all terribly embarrassing.

He was always better at taking praise than me.

“Thank you,” I offer with a smile. I don’t know what to say to all this hero talk. After all, that title belongs to someone else. So instead, I look over the collection of huts, farms, and forest: “It’s good to be home.”

My attention shifts back to the forest. For a moment, I see two teenage boys running in. One with dark hair has a bow strapped to his back and calls out to the other. The latter has sandy hair and is laughing at something the other said.

“Would you all excuse me?” I look to those gathered, “There’s… something I’d like to do.”

Their eyes follow mine to the forest. The adults gathered nod, empathy and understanding clear on their faces. The old farmer smiles a familiar smile: “Take your time. Druids and their trees.”

I chuckle: “Something like that, yes.”

The kids are disappointed, but when I hand my staff to the little girl, a squeal of glee goes out as she inspects its surface. Covered in complex whorling designs, sigils, and icons, it makes for an impressive sight.

I turn and make for the forest, following a familiar route.

The old druid’s hut is quiet as I pass behind it. The window I used to sneak through when she fell asleep is open, and my heart aches as I look inside and see it empty. Memories of the years I spent in the small space come back like waves. Learning the Old tongue, interpreting the arguments she had arbitrated between villagers, discovering the secrets of her connection to nature. I stop and make a quiet prayer for my mentor.

I hope she’s proud of me.

The forest is cool when I enter, and when my exposed skin goosebumps from the change, I slip on my old tunic as I go.

The ground is damp and uneven. I step over logs, skirt around dangerous pits, and avoid traps laid by other hunters. The air is heavy with the scent of life, the ground soft under foot, and the world is silent, save for the infrequent birdsong.

A quiet world, removed from the expectations of those smiling faces in town.

“I see why you came here,” I say to the silence.

I stare down at a fallen tree. Time has weathered it: many of its branches are gone, the leaves have long since died, but it looks as strong as before.

We spent hours here. Trading gossip, complaining about our chores and families, sharing our secrets, and more. “I remember when we sat here and you told me about that girl you liked. You were so heartsick at her rejection, you thought you might die,” I snicker at the memory. “I held your hand, you laid your head on my shoulder.”

I stare down at the fallen tree. We shared our first kiss here. We told each other things none would ever imagine possible. My heart hurts, my eyes are hot, but I’m smiling.

My friend. My companion. My lover.

“I will never know what you felt,” I admit quietly. “And perhaps the truth of that scares me, but…” I rummage through my pocket and stare down at it. His ring. Worn and dark, it now bears new scratches and new dents. “You chose me. I know not for what, but you chose me.”

“I think I am a true druid, now. Talking to trees.” I look over the quiet forest, my humour fading. “Your face isn’t clear to me anymore, I can’t remember your voice. I’m… afraid.” I suck in a breath, “But… you coloured my life. You made it special.” I swallow, “No. You make it special.”

I lean forward and carefully place his ring on the dry old bark, “You were no hero. You were you.” I turn it so the dent faces me, “And was that not wonderful?”

I wipe at my eyes, thinking of him once more.

For a brief, beautiful moment, he’s clear to me again.

Dark hair with a single braid. A pockmark near his jaw. Faint freckles on his cheek. A smile that invited me in. Arms that were a sanctuary.

“Gods. I loved you.”

A branch snaps nearby.

I look up and find I’m no longer alone.

A deer stands in the distance. It cocks its head at me, antlers shifting leaves overhead as it observes me. Dark brown fur, spotted in places. Long, graceful legs. The deer stares.

I say his name.

The deer’s ears twitch. It walks away.