It took Angus weeks and weeks to get better. He wished he hadn’t needed to discomfit his aunt and uncle so much. The wear was evident, and Eistir seemed to see her son in his blonde hair and wiry frame. Like all things in life, the resemblance was for mixed good and bad.

Oakley was irritatingly chipper through the whole process. He was there when Angus took his first few steps—not holding his breath, like Eistir and Garid, nor chanting quietly like the priest, but eating an apple and giving him the ‘okay’ sign. He was also eating an apple when Angus ventured out in his mended clothes. They were baggy on him, now. He was pale, and had deep shadows under his eyes.

“That stupid old crone in my dreams last night.” Angus muttered to him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Angus grit his teeth and didn’t say anymore. To tell the truth, he hadn’t just seen the crone but images, fragments of new memories. Threshing wheat with a weathered Oisin. Throwing an apple to Bronah, forcing her to drop her knitting and really look at him. Redmond and him sitting on a red stone porch. They’d been playing poker. Nothing of Cerias or the tow-headed child. It frustrated him.

Mostly, though, it just made him tired.

“You’re always grouchy after a visit from her.”

“Yap.”

They went up to a grove, right below the summer pastures. Angus had been deemed too ill to resume his former duties.

“I hate this,” he grumped. “I feel old and useless.”

“You are useless.”

Angus laughed. “Why doesn’t anyone else say that?” he said, close to tears a sudden. “I think I could handle it, it all, if there was honesty… some kind of reassurance in a—a grounded reality.” He put his head on his knees. “With these dreams, and my strange leg—it shouldn’t be healing, you know. I shouldn’t have been able to kill that cougar…”

It was true, he shouldn’t have been able to. Oakley shouldn’t have come off as well as he did either.

“You have the protection of some god.” The priest had said.

“It’s his father’s blood,” others muttered.

Others just avoided him in the marketplace, where he now manned a stall. They’d glance at his exhausted face from the corner of their eyes. Study the way his hands subtly shook, the way he touched his leg from time to time, frowning. It was unnerving.

Oakley seemed to take this all in stride, somehow.

“It’s like this,” he explained to Angus, when asked. “Everything that can happen, will. So why worry? Just love the moment.”

It was very eloquent, in a way Angus and all his words could not reach. Once again, Oakley had topped him. Angus didn’t mind.

Nothing, he realized with a start halfway through a day at the market, could break the bond between the two of them. Oakley would forever be his brother, somehow. He was someone Angus could rely on.

He couldn’t rely on a lot of things during those days. Couldn’t rely on his legs, or the rest of his body. Couldn’t rely on his sleep, or his mind, at times. The world had set to spinning the moment the panther had leapt from the bushes, and Angus couldn’t slow it down.

“Angus?” Eistir asked, one evening by the fire. “Are you feeling better?”

“Better every day, dear Aunt.”

“Yes. Better enough to tend the flock?”

“I would love to.” And they left it at that.

The fields. The fields, the fields, the fields. Angus let Zeka do most of the herding work. He sat under trees, and on small rills. Sat at the edges of cliffs. Sat in little hollows filled with poppies and mint. The fields. He always let his mind wander, and feel real again.

Oakley joined him, keeping his silence under the pale blue sky, amidst the waving tufts of plant life. There was only the tail end of fall left, so they enjoyed the few weeks together.

When winter came, Angus was better enough to hike, but they stayed anyway. The whole village hid as white winter blew down their chimneys.

During one of the pauses in the weather, Angus and Oakley stood outside, hands outstretched in the chill air.

When Angus asked what they were doing, Oakley just shook his head. Angus didn’t ask anymore. His questions were getting fewer, anyways. The snow covered village was a crisp tribute to the nippy ferox infan, as Eistir called it. Angus was content to just watch the profound stillness, his arms outstretched to the pale, faintly glowing sky.

Angus began to do sword drills in the goat barn. He had to sleep there, some nights when the snow became too wild to brave a return. When he came back, the day after or the next after that, Eistir would always greet him teary eyed, and make him a warm cup of tea.

“We’re heading south,” Angus announced at dinner, one evening in early spring. “Oakley needs to get home.”

“Must you go with him—” Eistir started, but Garid shook his head at her.

“The boy needs a task, love. And his friend needs a home.”

Eistir hung her head.

Angus reached across the table and patted her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

“But will you be the same?”

“No. But I will be here for a season.”

“That will have to be good enough,” Eistir said bitterly.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Silence reigned for a moment.

“Lochlan’s son is growing up.” Garid said, “I can have him tend both flocks—the goats are used to it by now.”

Eistir looked at the ground. Angus patted her shoulder once more. Garid raised his eyebrows at her and she cracked a half smile.

The evening passed peacefully. The next morning, Oakley and Angus packed their bags and planned a course.

“The Chazos don’t move much,” Oakley said, “Not even to and fro each other.”

“Ai.”

“That’s why it was so odd… may the things in the water shred them.”

“You do like that word.”

“Ai.”

“My people, however,” Oakley scratched his head sheepishly.

“Will they be a problem?”

“Most won’t--they know me—Oakley with the black eyes.” He made a phony fierce face, impressive because of the scar. “Raaar.”

Angus nodded, mouth twitching.

“Yap, and you fight well, too. And don’t give me that look, you can still beat at least five men in a fight.”

Angus shrugged moodily.

“Between us, we should be able to bluff our way out of bad corners.”

“Okay.” Angus drew a route that went west of most of the Chazo—Legetas, Angus reminded himself—towns. “Let’s go this way, is that a good place to ford the Ble?”

“The Ble overflows in the spring, and it’s a pretty gentle river besides. It mostly means wading in water for hours. Might have to swim a bit.”

“Where do you think we’ll find your-- wings?”

“My wing? Find Pace, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“In the spring… here.” He pointed to a seemingly random spot on the map. “Away from the Ble.”

Once they were there, Oakley would stay with his family, and Angus would restock.

“They’ll love you.” Oakley said. “You’re fierce—like them. Me and ma, we’ve always been the black sheep.”

“You seem plenty fierce.”

“It’s a… different kind of fierce.”

They turned back to the map.

“Once you get to the Deserendi, watch out for the monsters.”

“Monsters?”

“Yeah. Don’t let any big swarms come near you, okay? Do that for me.”

“Yes sir.”

Oakley rolled his eyes.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The morning they headed out was chilly. Zeka whined when they didn’t head for the goat fields. The air nipped at her, too, and she skittered over the frostbitten earth.

She followed for a while, then turned and ran back towards the cottage.

“Zeka!!!” He whistled.

She kept running.

“Zeka!” He ran after her. Running alongside her, he dived and caught hold of her. Then he sat down, still holding her.

“What are you going to do?” Oakley asked.

“I—” He thought for a long moment, staring into the dog’s liquid brown eyes. She wagged her tail hopefully. “I’m going to let her go. Sloupec is no place for a dog.”

They walked back to the cottage. Eistir was confused at first, then nodded as they explained.

“Garid’ll take care of her.” She said. “I’ll lock her in here, as you go.”

The dog settled in by the fireplace, yawning.

They left.

The air was crisp as they went south. The land off of the mountain was different than Angus had ever seen. The hills, covered in thick soft grass, seemed to go on forever. It was hard to believe that another kind of land existed, although when Angus looked behind him the mountains were still there.

They set out upon the wavy land. Soon Angus’ ankles and knees hurt. His left calf in particular ached. So did his back. It had been a while since he’d walked anywhere.

His swordsmanship was rusty, too, so he and Oakley took to sparring with cudgels in the evenings. One day, as they sparred a group of horses rode up. The two turned, drawing their blades.

The head of the group was a greying, wiry man with a scruffy beard. He rode a chestnut pony which was also scruffy.

“You fight well,” he said. “Join us, we fight the Chazos.”

“I would love to,” Oakley said. “But I’ve been away from home too long.”

“The black-eyed boy, eh? And you’ve found a brother.”

Angus shrugged as the man looked him over.

“And both of you as fine a fighters as told of.”

“Ai.”

The man laughed at Oakley’s brazen admittance.

“You of all people should want the Chazos gone—they have declared war in kidnapping you.”

“I thought we were always at war.”

“Hya, we are. But this is serious business.”

“War always is,” Angus said, catching the rhythm of the conversation. “But how goes your warfare?”

The man laughed. “He does talk—well, thank you black-eyed man. It goes as war will.”

Angus puffed up. A man, he’d been called. “A good campaign and good fortune to you.” Angus continued. “But my brother needs to return home. He’s been away too long. It’s not good for a fellow.”

The greying man sighed. “Too true. Well be on your way then. But say hello to our people, eh?”

“Eh.” Oakley said.

“Another time, then.”

“Ai.” Angus said.

The group left, and they both sighed in relief.

“I’m not sure I could’ve taken on that horse,” Oakley quipped. “I’m not the panther killing type, you know. Above my pay grade.”

Angus snorted.

They went back to sparring, keeping an ear on the fading, grass-muffled hoofbeats.

Oakley won that bout, but Angus won the next. It went back and forth, really. They were now equals, Angus noted—with some pride for his young friend. Everything was going well, really. Angus’ calves and knees and joints, generally speaking, were growing used to the up and down of the landscape, and his scars ached less. The smell of the grass was actually quite nice— it was nothing like the stiff grass of Comhar flatlands.

This land was beautiful. He was glad the mountains separated it from Comhar—if his fellows in Glenn had seen it, for example, they would’ve already been sharpening their swords and declaring their right to conquest.

Not that the land wasn’t war torn. They passed a burning village on their war to the Ble. The smell was thick, clinging to the insides of their nostrils, repugnant with the ashes of bodies and wood and children’s toys, of harvests and woolen clothes.

It was a heavy scent. They passed by those places as fast as their feet would take them.

When they reached the Ble, it was a flat plain of water. Grass waved in the gentle currents. Fish swam amidst them, darting here and there. Tadpoles, too, swam in the long, low expanse of reflected sky. Angus swallowed, fascinated and afraid. Here was something he did not understand. He knew the swampy portions below the hills in Sabrea. He knew the ocean, and her rips and rills. He could not fathom this peaceful extension of the river.

“Hya,” Oakley said. “Let’s go.”

“Ai.” They began to wade.

“Hurry up.” Oakley said.

“Shred off. I’m coming.”

The river itself was nothing more than a long jump of deep water and current. But the flooded plain…

The long, cold slog through the river was replayed in his dreams that night. Walking, walking, walking. Unable to even see the horizon, legs moving sluggishly, despairing of reaching the end until he suddenly woke.

They did reach the end, thankfully, but it was dark and windy by then. Angus and Oakley slept in a huddle, piling their packs on top of them.

In the morning, Angus challenged Oakley to a practice battle and made sure to beat him soundly.

“Next time,” he told Oakley after they’d finished, “we camp the night before and start in the morning.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Oakley replied.

“Good.”

The wild hills continued after the Ble disappeared from view. It made Angus feel he was on the ocean again, amidst great green waves and rippling currents. Oakley grew more excited as the days passed.

“They’ll all love you,” Oakley explained. “Probably already heard—nomads are a small group, see. So they must have heard word of my black eyed brother.”

“What do you think they mean by that?” Angus wondered.

“Oh, who cares. Hya! Look, we stayed there last summer. They’ve got to be around here somewhere.” He bounced up and down the hills.

“I’d guess,” he told Angus confidentially. “That they’re right over that rise. The grass has been eaten down—see?”

Angus nodded. He noticed the same thing—it was similar to the way the goats had clipped the pasture up in the mountains.

“We’ve got sheep—and a couple of cows. Cows are so handy. Even an alpaca!”

“An alpaca?”

“I’ll show you when we get there. Impossible to describe.”

Oakley’s family weren’t over the next rise. Or the next.

“Don’t lose hope.” Angus told a wilting Oakley.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Angus shrugged.

When they finally came over a hill, and saw a camp spread out before them, both of them were taken by surprise. It was composed of several tents, smoking fire pits, and bedrolls. Angus squinted at it all. The place smelled funny.

“Oberon!” Oakley cried. In one of the bedrolls, a boy Angus’ age was not sleeping. Or breathing. Angus looked away respectfully as Oakley bent over his friend, tears flowing. He patted his back comfortingly.

In the first tent they entered, Oakley discovered a dead Pace, and let out a strangled yelp. The man had thick brown hair and a hairy face, as well. He was cradling a baby. Angus turned away and threw up. Oakley took the infant from Pace and stared at it. Its eyes were wide open.

“Branna’s younger sibling,” he said, hoarse. He set it down, closing its brown-gold eyes.

Stepping into the other tents, they found Oili and her mother cradling each other, looking almost peaceful. Oakley bent his head towards the ground and mouthed silent words.

His mother, Branna and Oberon’s mother were in the next tent—bodies scattered across the floor. Oakley’s mom looked as if she were reaching forward, blind eyes staring at the flapping door of the tent. He closed their eyes.

“Help me build a fire.” he told Angus, who nodded.

They burned dried cow patties, wooden furniture, and grass twisted into thick logs.

Oakley cut the bodies in quarters, and Angus found an enormous pot with dancing figures carved into the rim. Oakley nodded at him when he brought it out.

They boiled each set of remains separately. When the bones were clean, Oakley removed them. He stared into each of the skulls eye sockets for a long time, hands shaking.

“It must have been the Chazos.” Oakley said.

“Are you going to…” Angus left the sentence as he stared at the pot. “Get them?” he finally said.

“Yes, later. Maybe never, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“What’s real is, they’re gone. Vengeance won’t change that.”

“But, you have a right to—they deserve to die.”

Oakley stared at him blankly—through him, really. “This is my decision.” he told Angus.

Angus nodded and sat beside his friend.

Oakley stacked the heads, then put them in a line. Arranged them in a circle. A square.

“What’s next?” Angus asked.

Oakley cleared his throat. “Burial,” he said. “Just the skulls.”

Angus nodded, then left to dig the thin, deep holes—like puncture wounds in the ground.

They buried them the next day. Angus had dug the pits in a circle, and Oakley walked around the inside of it, dropping skulls in their places. He looked like another person, an older one. Like an ancient one, untouched by time but still haunted, still grey in the eyes.

They sang songs of prayer. Oakley’s gods were the quieter kind, that accepted spirits into a strange between worlds and taught them to rest. The prayers asked the departing ones to accept these teachings with humility, and to feel they needn’t return.

Oakley choked and threw up halfway through the farewell song. Angus petered off, not knowing the words, but Oakley gestured for him to continue, so he re-sang the chorus. When Oakley joined in again, his voice was strong and husky. He didn’t stop singing again, and the strange tunes swept up against the ever-blue sky.

Neither of them slept that night. Oakley didn’t explain his need to be awake, and Angus didn’t leave his friend’s side. They counted stars with their eyes. Oakley sang another, softer song. It was in a language Angus didn’t recognize. It was repetitive and lulling.

“What are you singing?” Angus asked.

“A lullaby.” And he sang it all night.

In the morning, they scattered the other bones and meat over the hills.

“For the birds,” Oakley said. “And the other creatures.”

Angus nodded.

Oakley spared a thumb bone from each body, stringing them into a necklace.

They walked on.

They reached the edge of the black desert three weeks from then. It had been a month of silence, of an angry sun and trickling streams within large, rocky beds. It had been a month of stillness—still, dry land—still, lifeless expanses—still, cloudless skies. They endured it all in weathered anger and sorrow.

Before the black land’s edge was a tall, green hill. Climbing it, they saw the glimmer of a city on the horizon. Sitting there, Oakley spoke for the first time in days.

“This hill is chilled,” he said. “And the sky is clearer around it.”

Angus nodded. It was the kind of place that snuck into your bones.

Eventually, they climbed down the other side and entered the crackling air over the black desert.