Chapter 177

It’s Only Forever, Not Long at All

Rachel

Rachel spent the night next to the dusty remains of Roland’s body, too afraid to move, her head filled with nightmares and visions of violence. Memories of the undead plague ran across her brain, over and over, of the people who had died, of her own near-death experiences. She had thought that time was over. She had thought she was done losing people.

When the first wintery rays of morning floated through the windows, she welcomed them, blew her nose noisily on her handkerchief and pulled herself together. She stood, a little weakly, not sure what to do. What should she do?

“Breakfast?” said Dunwiddy, from the doorway, making her jump.

Greeter, Hrulga and Salazar pushed in behind him. Salazar handed her a large mug of tea. She could smell the honey coming off the top and wondered how much he had dumped in there.

“Thanks,” she said. They all looked tired.

“Come on,” said Hrulga, flapping her pale, elegant hands. “We are the council. The Queen left us instructions.”

“The city needs us in one piece,” said Greeter. “Einheath needs you in one piece. I can’t believe I just said that, you humans are all the same to me.”

“We are?”

“No, now come on.”

Greeter disappeared into the council chamber, and the others trailed after her. Rachel made to follow, taking one last glance at Roland’s desk. There amongst the various ledgers and correspondence she caught sight of the Queen’s distinctive curling handwriting. The letter looked to have been scrawled in haste—there was also a small velvet wrapped package next to it. The package was so clearly magical, just looking at it made her want to sneeze.

Rachel picked up the scrap, unwrapped it, and flinched. The seed within radiated energy like nothing she had ever witnessed. It was difficult to hold. It felt like it would fall through the flesh of her hand, both immeasurably heavy and yet weightless at the same time. Quickly she wrapped it back up, and scanned the note:

Dear Roland,

If I don’t come back, please plant this in my cottage garden. Near the ghost oak and the draugr beehives would be fine. Love you, Maud.

Rachel set off the next morning.

The trip took longer than usual because she had to travel by horseback instead of flying by skeletal winged monster lizard. Her heart ached a little as she thought of Lizzie. The weird creature had left another big hole in Rachel’s life. While her bones had not crumbled into dust like the rest of the undead, they were simply in a pile, unresponsive. The spark of whatever made her live again, gone.

Rachel blinked away her tears. Better to think of the future. Things were still good. So much better than when she was a refugee eking out an existence in a wintery wood, fighting off zombies. She had a warm and comfortable home. She had influence. She would fight to protect what they had built. Once word got out that the undead were gone… predators would swoop in, thinking them weak, and try to take advantage.

Her resolve hardened. Einheath was not without resources, not to mention they still had the backing of the goblins, the elves and the fae. There was so much to be done. But first, the seed. Her mind raced as her horse’s hooves ate up the miles, making plans, thinking out scenarios, prepping lists.

She stopped at an inn for a meal, and switched her mare out for a fresh one. By the time she reached Greater Downing, she was so tired she was forced to sleep. Over breakfast, she was told of the fate of Downing, of the mist-soaked pit that was all that remained. For a moment she considered turning back, but the weight of that magical seed spurred her on. This was a small setback.

Undeterred, she set off again, the ache in her chest intensifying with every mile. Plant it next to the draugr hives… she was quite certain the draugr hives no longer existed.

Arriving at the cliff’s edge, Rachel stood, staring out into the swirling mists, her hand clenched around the velvet scrap. What to do? Lying on her stomach, she crawled to the edge and looked down. The bottom… if it existed at all, was a long, long way down. Certainly too far to climb.

Something soft grazed her arm, and she jumped. A large hare stood next to her, its dark eyes trained on the mist.

“Throw it,” the hare said.

So she did.

It was a good throw. The seed sailed up in a high arc, crackling with soft green light, before disappearing into the mist.

“Ow.”

The hare snickered and ran away. Carefully, Rachel sat up.

The voice beyond the mist was very familiar, if a little… more than she was used to. While not unpleasant, it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It had… presence. Rachel leaned forward, trying to separate the strange sounds that were now issuing forth. Faint grumblings and murmurs echoed out of the pit. Then a merry laugh rang out, followed by a weird sound that could have been a cat yowling.

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The mist shimmered. And then—then it was gone. The pit was gone. In its place—

Rachel blinked as trees shot up out of the gloom, vines and flowers and ferns and mushrooms and buds and bugs and insects and soft, loamy earth. Downing Forest. A yellow breasted wood-warbler flew down onto a branch beside her and began to sing. The same hemlocks, birches, oaks and pines that existed behind her and yet… these trees glimmered slightly. She touched the earth before her wonderingly. It was as hard as earth might expect to be.

Grinning, Rachel hurried back to her horse, then set off down the winding road at a gallop, searching for a rough stone cottage in the middle of the woods.

***

Maud

Being a goddess has its perks. I am still figuring it out, but it seems I can change my attire from a shimmering ballgown of pale dewy white, so delicate it appears to be woven by tiny, divine spiders, to black tulle and embroidered petticoats with a snap of my fingers. Interestingly enough, the items have to actually exist somewhere, but that just makes it more fun. But before I can get really stuck into playing with my wardrobe, I have quite a few things to take care of.

I start by putting Downing Forest and my cottage back together. I have to rely on my own memories, and those of Jenkins, and we remember one or two things differently. Not the cottage, obviously, but some of the glades and groves might be in slightly different places. Close enough. Next, I bring back the souls of the trees, the plants, the buildings and the animals that lived within its reaches. This part is easy. For a long time we shared souls and, well, yes let us just say my knowledge is intimate.

Next, I have to consider the people, both living and dead. There are many souls clamouring for my attention. I see them like little bugs, moonlit sparks darting here and there, chittering at the edge of my hearing until I focus on them. I am tremendously relieved they are not lost.

My relaxation will have to wait a little after all, but what is time when you have eternity? The thought pleases me immensely. I sit comfy in my velvet chair (I changed the colour from burgundy to moss green, and then back again) and take a deep sigh of happiness. My chair is before my hearth, and the windows are wide open to let in the starlight, the occasional moth, and a positive river of anxious souls.

I interview them one at a time, letting the gentle chatter wash over me. Some of them are easy. They are old, they are tired, they have lived long fulfilling lives and would like to move on. Some are wicked, some are good. Some of them were mortal, some were fae, some of them were draugr. Listening to their stories is quite interesting, particularly since I can sew as I do so.

Those who died as a result of my actions, or the Whisperer’s, I give a choice: move on, or stay around for a bit, either with a mortal lifespan, or as a draugr. Those who come back as draugr I will not command, but neither will I step in to protect them. Probably. They must live their lives as they will. Most of the souls are strangers to me. Some, on the other hand, are very precious.

“Roland,” I say, and to my surprise, I find I can cry again. My cheeks are quite wet with tears. “My dear one, I’m so glad you are here. What would you like to do?” He stands before me looking a little confused, not really there, but the image of him wavering in the starlight reminds me of the first time I saw him, the uncertain little man in the shadows. We have travelled a long way since then, both of us. Souls appear as they see themselves, and I am touched to see Roland retains all of his stitching, and his unusual ears.

“I would come back and serve you,” he says, without hesitation. I smile.

“I would love that,” I say, gently. “But it appears that I no longer have need of a handyman. The council will rule Einheath in my stead. You could go back to Fairhaven and join them? I’m sure they would—”

At this point Rachel arrives, and the three of us have a tearful, but joyous, reunion. I will have to make sure my cottage is less accessible to mortals in the long run. I’m still figuring out the limitations of my powers, but that will be a necessity.

I fill the pair of them in on the events of the wastelands, and they exchange news.

“Come back to Fairhaven,” says Rachel. “We miss you. I miss you.”

Roland looks at me, a frown marring his forehead.

“It is your life,” I say. “I am content.”

The image of Roland purses his lips, considering. Then he beams. “You are a goddess, my Lady?”

“I believe so.”

“I know many temples have already dedicated themselves to you,” he says. “I would like to be your first cleric. I will dedicate my life to spreading your faith.”

“You will have to learn how to knit,” says Rachel, from her seat by the hearth.

“I already know how,” says Roland, drawing himself up.

“This is satisfactory,” I consider. The Whisperer gained his power from the consumption of souls. I will need prayers and worshippers if I am to… abstain. “I can think of no better candidate.”

I send the pair on their way, with tears and smiles, and Roland in a shiny new mortal body.

“Don’t forget to sleep!” I shout after him from the doorstep. “And eat!”

Once they are away, I return to my souls.

The Fairhaven girls both decide to return to Fairhaven, this does not surprise me. Lizzie flaps off immediately, and briefly I wonder if I have just loosed a horror on the world, but I spy on her journey, and it seems she is just looking for Rachel with friendly intentions. How touching. Old Jennet gives me some advice, insists on drinking some tea, and then says she is ready to move on. The kraken likewise. Chief Tinkerer returns to Fairhaven, happy as a clam, Doris returns to the sea, and the newly formed order of moon paladins to their holy isle.

The Grimoire refuses to go anywhere, and insists it will live with me. When I say I don’t have room, it throws a colossal tantrum that shakes the very fabric of my cottage. Interestingly enough, it sees itself as a small human girl, a toddler of about three years old, with bouncing blonde curls. And a pink dress. The monstrous limbs and plate sized eyes come out in the tantrum though, so in the end, I decide it is probably better if I keep this one where I can keep an eye on it. I remodel my cottage to have a little bedroom under the eaves, and the Grimoire decides this is acceptable.

I work through the night, and then the next day as well, sorting souls and working on a new dress. It is satisfying work.

Sometime the next day, there is a knock at my door. Apparently even a goddess is not immune to the concept of neighbours. I find I don’t mind all that much. Depending on who it is, of course.

Opening it, I see Herne the tree spirit.

He holds out an old boot from which sprouts a healthy clump of bluebells, and shoves them in my face.

“Thank you,” I say, taking them carefully. The boot is leaking rich loam from one holey toe. The little flowers are very pretty. “But you needn’t bring me flowers. I don’t corrupt the forest anymore.”

“I know,” says the tree spirit. His beard is budding, and he has a nest behind one ear. He stands there looking at me for a long moment, then abruptly walks away, down my garden path. When he gets to the gate, he pauses and looks back.

“You could come and visit my tree sometime,” he says. “We could dance a bit. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” I say, with a smile. “I’d like that.”

He smiles, and sneezes, a couple of butterflies swooping out of his nose. “Goodbye, dead woman.” He leaves, and I go back to my sewing.