Chapter 47 - Timeless

PB&B

Danae

I will be the one to kill death.

An unlikely goal for the weak, timid, shy, demure Danae.

But appearances can be deceiving.

I should know. I’ve lived a long time. Longer than most. Long enough to know that the quest for transcendence is really a quest for survival. Each race has adapted differently, of course. Fangs and claws. Impenetrable fur. Homing, poison-tipped razorblades the length of my arm. Formidable intelligence and deep-seated trust issues. But the outcome is always the same – their vessels forged in the fires of fate.

And the vulpin evolved as well. We became adept at running away. At hiding. At licking our wounds and biding our time. Underground in burrowed halls or in the treetops, claws digging into thick bark. Any hidey-hole a hearth that could be called home.

Unfortunately, if you flee long enough…

Sometimes you forget what’s chasing you.

And while we were running, our people forgot much more. How to use our sharp teeth and sharper claws. How we had been forced from our true homes. How we had been pushed into the Outer Reaches, where the nimbus was poor and our hearths cold and wet.

We forgot how our race had been driven to near extinction. And all for what?

For a story. A prophecy, they called it.

The Oracles foretold that the vulpin – the timid, weak, shy, enslaved vulpin – would someday give birth to the destruction of the Five Rivers and the Flow itself. One might even think that a joke, especially if they saw us now.

Or they might have questions…

Like what did “give birth” even mean?

Was it literal? Or more figurative? Would one of our daughters or sons become a dark god hellbent on consuming the universe? Or would it just be an accident?

Although, the Orders decided it didn’t matter. There was an obvious solution to both problems. Time and experience demonstrated that the best defense isn’t a hearth spirit. It’s an overwhelming and systematic genocide so devastating that it’s capable of erasing its own cultural legacy. Because dead vulpin tell no tales.

Which is why our people had forgotten it all.

Until the day I was born.

A moment of profound joy and grief.

At my first breath, my vessel immediately attracted a hearth spirit. One so strong that its light shone across the entirety of the grove. This marked me as a “saint.” As a “prodigy.” “Chosen of the gods.” A healer that might mend the whole of the Five Rivers.

And yet that power didn’t stop my mother from dying minutes later.

Or my father from following a few days after. Grief, they said.

Maybe those scales balanced. Prodigy and orphan?

Yet it’s always possible to dig a deeper hole, one big enough for all of the bodies…

Because, as the cycles turned, many others joined them. My siblings. My aunts and uncles. Not casualties of war, but of happenstance. Accidents. Nothing that could be tied to me – not directly. An awakened dragon. A death cult hunting the wrong target. A few dozen monster attacks.

And each time, I was left unharmed. My spirit shielding me from those dangers behind glowing, golden walls. Of course, I tried to use my gifts; my spirit’s impressive power. I tried to heal them – to protect them.

Yet it was futile. Healing one injury doesn’t prevent the next. Shielding one person means you miss another. No matter how powerful you are, keeping others alive is like trying to hold back a bloody tide with your bare paws.

Maybe Horus is right. Maybe everything is a battle.

If so, then I learned long ago that living is a losing one…

So, I left dozens of homes in ash and blood and destruction. My poor vessel passed from one set of blood-stained paws to another, until there were no more hearths to call home. No way for my people to continue running away from the truth.

That I was no “prodigy” – no “saint.”

That I was cursed by the Flow.

And, as I said, they had all been running for so long, they had forgotten who they were really running from. The danger wasn’t the Orders. Or the Mantras. Or the Oracles. Those people that had destroyed our race and damned generations to servitude. That had made us too weak to defend ourselves – dependent on their strength. That had filled our minds with myth and superstition that made us easy to control.

No, obviously the problem was me.

That’s when things changed. When I became the enemy.

At first, they tried to keep their efforts secret. At first they pretended. That the many, many attempts on my life were an accident. A coincidence. That I was “lucky” to be alive, shielded behind those glowing, golden walls. But as the cycles passed and they filled the hole with many, many more bodies, all pretense faded, giving way to frustration, anger, and then… acceptance. Funny how much that always looks like despair.

That’s why I was given this name. A warning.

“She who walks a trail of bloody tears.”

That is what my name means in our language.

Danae a shorthand for death.

Although, in the end there was no one left to warn. Because… well, I started to believe the story too. Began to take the hint after a few hundred attempts on my life. So, I did what our kind do best. I ran. And ran. And fucking ran.

Until it was just me. Until I was all alone. Until I couldn’t hurt anyone else.

It was in that solitude that I finally discovered my purpose. My goal. My mission. To find a way to succeed where the others had failed – to find some way to free this world of my curse. But, as everyone knows, you can’t kill death…

Falling, drowning, stabbing, choking, acid, fire, poison, plague, and parasite. I tried everything. Yet each time, my hearth spirit saved me. Enveloped my poor fragile vessel in a golden globe of light. Purged the poisons. Healed my wounds.

I almost gave up hope… until I had an epiphany.

Perhaps death couldn’t be killed.

But maybe she could still give up.

After all, my hearth spirit couldn’t force me to eat or drink, could it?

That’s how the Order of Apollo found me. Lying in a glade. Surrounded by the long-faded evidence of my many attempts to kill death. The toppled and broken trees had been replaced by new saplings that had grown tall enough to blot out the sun. Old blood had faded long ago, absorbed by the forest. The remains of dozens of monsters were still strewn around me, their flesh withered and faded until only fragments of yellowed bone remained, hidden beneath thick bushes and shrubs and grasses.

They said they found me floating, suspended in a golden aura. That when my vessel began to fail, my hearth spirit must have put it into a healing coma, slowly draining my vessel’s nimbus over countless cycles. An incredible feat. Something only a few of our species could manage, even during the height of our power.

And when faced with this fresh mystery, did they ask questions?

Like how long had I been there? Centuries, surely?

Or why was I alone? Starving when food was plentiful?

Or what might my name mean?

The one etched into the metal pendant I wore.

The answer was no. They never thought to ask.

And there was no one left to warn them.

They only saw an “asset.” A “healer.” A “saint.”

History repeating itself in an endless, pain-filled loop.

When they forced me awake, I was weak, confused, uncertain, and uncaring. Even my final, desperate plan hadn’t been enough to kill death. Only to delay the inevitable.

They told me I had been conscripted. That I would journey to Tartarus to receive “training.” I tried to explain why they should let me go. Although, admittedly, I often struggle with social interactions. Working up the energy to try is hard enough. But I also have little practice. I’ve lost count of how many people have died mid-sentence.

So, it’s no surprise that they didn’t listen.

But they should have. My first unit died. All of them. Fifty-three vessels perished to the goblins on the first floor of Tartarus after our teacher disappeared. I was the only one that survived. I remained inside my golden shields for three days until they found me. Forced to watch the goblins eat the others.

Still, they did not believe me.

An “automatic graduation,” they called it.

Which is what landed me in Eris’ unit – as a “fresh recruit.”

This is all just to say that I have lived a long, long, long, long time. Too long. Longer, surely, than any other vessel. That my name is synonymous with death. That I have witnessed every horror and hardship known to the Five Rivers.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

Or… so I thought.

But I was wrong. So very wrong.

Because this Hollow – this Nyx – he was an artist. He had created a relentless murder dungeon that made my previous traumas pale in comparison. My already endless nightmares now filled with the fresh images of bloated faces choking on shit. Others, their skin flaying from their bodies as they were cooked in flaming shit. Lightless tunnels filled with traps and death. And the screams… don’t even get me started on the screams.

I had always assumed there could only be one death.

No one ever speaks of her in the plural sense.

But… could there be two?

Maybe that’s why I… well, why I sympathized with him.

The Order was hardly an altruistic organization. I’d seen that firsthand. How they shrugged off the loss of their fresh “conscripts.” How Eris and Horus had barely registered the deaths of their subordinates. And I saw how they kidnapped Nyx’s sister. How they had tied him up outside, sick and injured, like an animal.

Even I? What had I done? Nothing. I’d been too numb to care. I’d just let them take his sister to Asphodel – had known what that meant.

But what did it matter? What did any of it matter?

Everyone dies.

Everyone except me.

And… except for Nyx. And it had mattered to him. I could almost remember what that felt like. To feel angry. Outraged. To have enough hope left to try. To believe you had a chance. That you weren’t fighting yet another relentless, unwinnable battle.

Yet it was still futile. He knew that. He’d seen the truth.

I’d seen it in his eyes – that acceptance. That familiar despair.

So, why did he keep fighting?

That’s how it started for me. Just a single question. One that led to many others.

Like how was it possible that someone capable of such cruelty could also be so kind? Could build beds and stitch pillows and embroider personal notes to each of his “guests?” Why had he stitched my name on a ratskin pillow? With a little fox skull and crossed bones. Had he remembered me from our short interaction – his vessel still filled with poison? How was that possible?

Perhaps if I could answer those questions, if I got closer to him – caught up with him – I might discover a way to kill death. So, I endured the tortured, romantic tug of war between my two “companions.” Their insufferable mind games and denial and paranoia even as I began to wish for them to hurry up and die like all the others. From experience it shouldn’t take long. Certainly not this long.

Yet, they also had their uses. They got me closer to Nyx…

Albeit, slowly. Very, very slowly.

Then I tasted his cooking and everything changed.

By the time we reached his first camp, I hadn’t eaten in cycles. At least a few hundred according to the Order’s researchers. They’d infused my vessel with nimbus to wake me and ever since, my stomach barely reacted to food. Everything tasted like ash. I required regular infusions to stay conscious – “nimbus injections,” Eris called them.

Yet the first time I smelled Nyx’s cooking, I felt something strange. Sensations that were at once both familiar and foreign. A rumbling in my stomach. My mouth wet.

Before I could contain myself, I’d already taken a bite.

Suddenly, those many, many lifetimes of horror and death and trauma and pain and tragedy, even my sacred mission – they were just… gone. There was only the crunchy, delicate delight of sea serpent tempura. The savory and slightly sweet flavor slowly giving way to a tantalizing burn as Nyx’s proprietary blend of herbs and spices tickled my palate.

And after I’d gorged myself… I—I fell asleep.

A beautiful, blissful, dreamless sleep.

There were no nightmares. No blood. No shit. No screaming.

Only a contented warmth that wrapped me up tight.

I woke a changed woman. That single meal was the answer to my prayers. Perhaps not a way to kill death – not exactly. Not directly. But just like Horus and his [Bullshit], perhaps I was simply looking at it wrong.

With my mouth full of joy, there had been no room for anything else. There had only been that delicate crunch. That exquisite medley of flavors…

Perhaps death couldn’t be killed.

But, for just a moment, it had ceased to exist.

And that was like death, wasn’t it? Dead things are always forgotten.

And thus, a new goal was born. My guiding light. My siren’s song.

To eat. Specifically, to eat Nyx’s inconceivably delicious recipes.

Of course, it was likely just the herbs and spices. My hearth spirit confirmed as much. However, I didn’t care. The poison wouldn’t kill me – my spirit wouldn’t let it. And each ravenous, frenzied bite was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy. Each crunch, like snapping bones, announcing my victory over death.

Which is why the days and weeks that we spent in that ugly, horrible, blood-stained butcher shed tucked away in a wailing death forest were the best of my long, long life. Days filled with all kinds of new delicacies. Foods that had never existed during my time.

Blood fruit pastries.

BBQ demon monkey sliders.

Fluffy white bamboo bread drizzled with a blood fruit reduction.

Spicy monkey kabobs.

All prepared by Horus’ large hands, his fur making him immune to the considerable heat that poured off of Nyx’s many ovens and grills. Those same hands that neatly cleaned, tucked, and folded the sheets on my luxurious bamboo-stuffed bed where I spent night after night in blissful, drug-induced oblivion.

With frequent naps and studious attention to my meal plan, I was now capable of killing death for upwards of 20 hours per day. With more training, I hoped to improve that.

Although, that created a new problem – new questions.

Like how were they still alive? Horus and Eris, I mean. As I said, I assumed they would die off quickly. I’d been counting on it actually. Their relationship and blatant communication issues had created a consistent and recurring headache – one even my hearth spirit couldn’t heal. And there were still several hours of the day I couldn’t eat or sleep.

I was even starting to wonder if… if maybe they were immune to me?

Or perhaps my war against death had begun to work?

That seemed like a credible conclusion.

And as the days and weeks passed, I almost began to believe it.

At least, until I saw the meteor.

Peered up into the sky, my precious plate of food still in hand.

Staring at irrefutable, undeniable, flaming proof. That I’d been wrong. That a huge chunk of burning space rock would crush what little progress I’d managed to make. Would reduce my live-in cook and his prospective romantic partner into a soupy, bloody mess. Although, at least that solved another mystery. This must be why Horus called it a crush.

And as that realization sunk in, something inside me snapped.

I couldn’t just give up. Not now. Not like this. Not when I’d finally found a way to kill death – even temporarily. So, this time, I did something different.

This time I fought death.

And when the dust cleared and ground stopped shaking… it was still standing. That grotesque nightmare cottage that held all of my precious food. The “PB&B.” My golden shield crumbling and motes of energy floating down around me, sweat streaking my matted fur and my chest heaving. Dust billowed across the front yard of our murder shed and revealed yet another marvel—

Standing there were Horus and Eris. Still very much alive.

They stared up at the sky in wonder. The meteor had evaporated the dense, perpetual fog that washed off Cocytus’ shores and wafted across the screaming bamboo forest – those pillowy green clouds that had been filled to the brim with acid rain. Now there were only clear skies, The Five Rivers’ twin suns finally revealed and curving down toward the horizon. Smaller fragments of rock still streaked through the air, leaving long orange trails overhead.

That’s when Eris seemed to notice that her hand was still touching Horus’ – his “weapon” still enlarged, but the lens slowly wilting as he focused on the star-studded sunset. Her eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly – a telltale sign that she was about to experience another violent mood swing. I heaved out a sigh. Here we go again—

Eris took a quick step away from Horus.

“We should, um, get moving,” she said curtly, avoiding Horus’ questioning gaze. “That could have been an attack by the Hollow.”

I was doubtful. This seemed beyond even Nyx’s madness.

Horus apparently shared my skepticism. “While that is possible, are you sure—”

“I am. I will go retrieve my equipment.”

Without waiting for a response, Eris disappeared in an orange blur, flashes of flame sparking all around the cottage as her papers and equipment swiftly disappeared… only to reappear in the distance as she created a small, organized pile. Perhaps she should have been born a vulpin. Because she was quite adept at running away – at least, from her feelings.

Which left us alone – Horus and me.

The tavros glanced at me, his axe reforming and held loose in his hand.

I saw the promise of death in his eyes. A promise he still hadn’t delivered on. I was beginning to think he was completely full of this [Bullshit], as he called it.

The two of them were fucking perfect for each other.

“You betrayed my secrets,” Horus growled, menacingly. Although, I noticed how he kept a wary eye on Eris. “You told My Lady about my weapon.”

This is where he would threaten me. Browbeat me into submission. More history repeating. In the past, I would have simply submit. What was the point of fighting when the other person would die anyway? Obviously, there wasn’t one. However, that was before.

Before I’d discovered Nyx’s delightful recipes.

Before I’d found companions that appeared to be immune to my curse.

This was new, uncharted territory. How was I supposed to interact with people that… well, that didn’t die? That seemed like they would be sticking around for a while? Or, at least, until we caught up with the Hollow and he invented some new, insane way to kill them both? Maybe he would even find a way to kill me. I really hoped it involved food.

Which reminded me, I had something to live for now. And nothing left to lose. I mean, what was the worst that could happen? Horus actually tried to kill me?

That would be such a shame….

So, perhaps it was time for me to adapt.

Which is why I squared my shoulders, met Horus’s eyes and said this, “If you’re going to kill me, then do it.” I even bared my neck, pulling my head to the side.

He might even be able to manage it now. My nimbus was low.

Horus’ eyes flashed and he pulled his axe back, swinging it down hard—

Only to hesitate a mere inch away from my skin.

My hearth spirit didn’t even bother to shield me.

Unfortunate, but unsurprising. He was all [Bullshit].

“That’s what I thought,” I said, never breaking eye contact, axe still resting near my neck and Horus’ gaze filled with confusion. “Because you need me. Without me, you wouldn’t have had an opportunity to combine your spirit with My Lady’s.”

“That is… true,” Horus acknowledged, the blade pulling away.

I was getting much better at this talking thing. Practice helped.

“She also seemed quite impressed with your weapon.”

Eris called this flattery. I didn’t understand it.

Why did the opinions of future corpses matter?

“She did, didn’t she?” he murmured, his eyes following the blaze of fire as it flitted around the camp, Eris still collecting her belongings.

“So, it sounds like you owe me… at least, if you want me to keep helping you.”

Not an empty promise. Despite my lack of social experience, I was familiar with the social customs of “dating.” Not from firsthand experience, of course. But I was quite well read. Books and scrolls made for much more resilient friends.

Horus’ eyes snapped to back to mine, filled with fiery indignation. Yet still he didn’t strike me down. “What do you want?” he demanded.

Ahh, finally, we were at the important part.

I looked at the cottage, then back to him.

“You know exactly what I want.”

We stood like that for a long time.

Me, staring up at a giant that could kill me with one punch. Presumably.

Him, a simpering warrior god being defeated by death herself.

“I will bring half of the supplies,” he announced.

My nimbus sparked and flared, gold flecks filling the air around me. This must be how Nyx felt. This fiery, angry feeling? It reminded me of his spicy herb blend…

“What? How am I supposed to carry it all?” Horus demanded. “You know that Nyx left several tons of produce and monkey meat. Even I cannot—”

I just pointed at the poo-crete wagon beside the cottage. The one Horus used to haul blood fruit from the grove back to the twisted, blood bungalow. This was much easier than forming those pesky words and sentences.

“You would have me drag a cart?” Horus demanded. “What would My Lady—”

He cut off as Eris re-appeared nearby, scowling at us both and sweat dotting her brow. “What are you two doing just standing here? We need to get ready to move.”

Ahh, I would have to talk again…

I could do this – no, I had to do this.

My precious food was at stake.

I cocked my head, meeting Horus’ glare. “We were just discussing how best to transport our supplies – and your research materials. Horus suggested he could haul it all using the fruit wagon, didn’t you… Horus?”

For his part, the tavros looked conflicted. Also, confused. His gaze darted between me, the wagon, and My Lady’s burning, judgmental gaze. Like he couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten here – trapped in this situation.

I could certainly relate.

“That would be fantastic, actually!” Eris commented finally, rushing forward in a blaze of fire and touching Horus shoulder. “I was just wondering how I was going to carry all of my notes and samples. Plus, we should bring a few of the fruits with us for further testing.” She was talking very fast, flames coating her skin.

Horus looked at me over her shoulder – his eyes wide.

“As I said, it was all Horus’ idea,” I offered.

“Ahh, thank you, Horus,” My Lady said, suddenly realizing she was touching him… yet again. This happened a lot. Too much. Yet I tried not to let it ruin my appetite.

“It is no problem, My Lady,” Horus rumbled.

With a small smile, Eris disappeared again.

“So, do we have a deal?” I demanded.

And, this time, when Horus turned, there was a different expression in his eyes. Not anger. Not uncertainty. Not confusion. That was respect shining there.

“We do,” he growled, turning to leave.

I was victorious! In fact, I was even feeling brave enough to try—

“A snack would also help tide me over while you’re packing,” I called after him.

Horus flinched but then just kept moving.

Which left me standing there, a strange feeling stirring in my chest. My lips also kept moving on their own – peeling back to reveal my teeth. That was new too. Another adaptation maybe? Hmm, I wonder what else I was capable of…

Then another thought struck me like a meteor, my wayward face freezing in place.

Wait… could—could I convince them to let me ride in the food wagon?