“Are you happy?” Ailaurus asked.

She and Ganthy walked through the forests. Ailaurus had a new whip, knife and brass knuckles. Ganthy had new clothes.

It looked at her, smiled and whispered, “Yes.”

It must have been the first time she’d seen it smile. The Asylum was working. Though, it wouldn’t undo the relationship it formed with her. Aneyus asked her to take Ganthy in. Even once it had healed, even once it started interacting with the children and settling down, it always asked for her.

She wasn’t ready for that. She cared for Ganthy, more than any of the others she saved admittedly. If something were ever to threaten the community, Ailaurus knew she would bare here weapons and her spirits and find Ganthy first. But protecting it was the extent of what she was willing to do.

Ganthy needed a family. She wasn’t family. Not a good one, at least.

They had both worn extra layers of clothing to prepare for their destination. They were headed to the nearby Banak tribe, where Treyus lived. From what she’d seen, the Banak were closely knit people. Community was important when living in a cruel land.

Community was what Ganthy needed. The Godless Community was a community in the simplest sense of the word. There were people living together and interacting. Besides, Treyus was there. If she’d become Ganthy’s mother figure, Treyus had become its father, and he loved connection more than she did. This visit was more than a visit. She wanted to see how Ganthy would fit in there.

They arrived at the edge of the isle. Small, shattered islands built the path over the space towards the Snuelands.

“Are you ready?” she asked Ganthy.

Ganthy looked at her and nodded. She picked it up and backed away from the edge, loaded her sprint.

Here mind was quiet; more quiet than usual.

The voices were there, but they were far away; too far to understand. They were screaming, as if trying to warn her.

Ailaurus turned around. Something was very wrong. She put Ganthy down, unclipped her whip and took out her knife. The spirits kept screaming, but they slowly faded.

This was another Bridge City. This was Zathiri’s doing.

People stepped out from behind the trees. They wore cheap leather pieces for protection. Some of them had knives, axes, hammers. She counted quickly. Ten. She looked over her shoulder. Nothing. She quickly picked Ganthy up and ran for the edge.

Something hit her in the thigh. In a moment of numbness in her leg, she fell and turned to land on her back and keep Ganthy safe. She looked up. Far off to the side, an eleventh cultist with a bow. The other ten were running for her.

She pushed Ganthy off and scrambled up. She flurried her whip. It snapped constantly around her and she forced them away. She tried to put a tree between herself and the archer, but the archer kept moving so she had to keep moving.

None of the cultists could attack her through her whip, but one of them did the smartest thing somebody had ever done against it. They just threw their damn axe at her. She was so caught off-guard that she stopped the flurry, stepped aside and was so confused that she gave them the time to rush her.

She did her best to not get hit and get through them, using her knife to stab here and there but nothing lethal. She ran for the archer, weaving between the trees to not get hit. She realised she was limping and remembered the arrow in her thigh. She used her knife to snap off the length of it and leave the head in. She tried to pull a spirit, but as suspected, they were cut off.

The archer kept moving away. The ten cultists behind her knew what their mission was. They’d taken Ganthy and run off.

One good rush, she thought. She sprinted as best as she could with a limp, around the archer, trying to circle in. She stopped behind a tree. She jumped out and slowed down to bait the archer. He shot and she dodged. In the time it took him to pull an arrow from his quiver and nock it, she was in front of him with her knife in his throat.

She turned and limp-sprinted back to the other cultists. She couldn’t keep up, but she would follow them as long as she could and if she found where they were staying, she would put them all down.

They knew that. Nine of them stopped and came back for her. The one holding Ganthy kept running. She saw its face. For the first time, it didn’t look like it was ready for what was coming.

She felt for the spirits again. Nothing. They’d said that if they were prepared, they could hold on. They were prepared. The knew what was happening before they were cut off. So where were they?

She met the nine cultists with the arch of her whip. One of them tried to throw an axe at her again. She stepped aside and rushed forward with her knife. They grappled for a bit and she used the claws to rake across his face and whatever skin was exposed to make him flinch and then stab him. The other eight came for her. She threw down her whip and held up her fists, both armed with brass claws, one wielding a knife. The stupid one who tried to throw her knife was the first to go down, with claws across her neck. Ailaurus counted them down. Seven.

He swung an axe across. She jammed his arm with her elbow and stabbed him in the diaphragm, then kicked him down.

Six.

She swung her hammer in a figure-eight. Ailaurus timed a tossed of her knife that landed right between her collar bones. Ailaurus kicked her in the stomach and pulled the knife as she went down.

Five.

One with a hammer and one with a knife tried to get her from both sides. She punched the one with the knife in the wrist, then the nose, then the throat, then the stomach.

Four.

Ailaurus rushed the one with the hammer, wrapped her arm and headbutted her until she went limp.

Three.

Ailaurus faced the remaining three, side by side, watching her. She took a few steps back, got low as if she was about to do something agile, but she picked her whip up from the ground and snapped it forward, hitting the right one in the eye. The one in the middle backed up in shock. The one on the left came forward and she did the same to him.

Knife in the throat.

Two.

Knife in the throat.

One.

Then, from the mouth of the last one, she heard something that she’d never heard a worshipper say before.

“Zathiri!’ she yelled, “Use me as your vessel!”

The woman’s body dropped and as it fell, a shadow formed.

Everything went quiet, as if all the sounds of this world were being sucked in by this void of a presence. That was what it looked like, too. A human shaped hole stood there, eating all of the sounds. She felt a feeling that wasn’t her own. She felt a feeling that was put there by something. It was a feeling of submission spawned from admiration spawned from fear.

The last time she’d felt this was when she was a little girl. She remembered it. She felt it in church. She felt it when she watched others sacrificed. She felt it when her brother was sacrificed. She felt it when she was going to be sacrificed.

This was Zathiri.

This was her former god, and his presence brought out the traumatized little girl that she used to be.

The human shaped hole walked towards her. She wanted to do something, but she didn’t think she could do anything. She’d seen what her spirits could do to people, now she was face-to-face with a god. A god had finally shown its face. She was about to learn if its claims of power were true.

The whispers came back, rushing towards her. They coalesced into a clear voice and when she heard it, a shadow pulled itself from her chest to meet Zathiri. The spirit’s long arms drove Zathiri to the ground and on impact, both lost any form. They became black masses that thrashed around the forest, back and forth like the waves of two oceans crashing into each other. At moments, Ailaurus could see them regain their forms. She would see that hole that was Zathiri or the star-faced shadows of her spirit then they would both disappear.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

G̵̎͜a̷̲͝ǹ̴͓ť̷̥h̷̟͛y̸͕͋.̷͖͌

She realised she was of no use here. She couldn’t be in this fight. She ran around the clashing shadows and then in the direction she last saw that cultist go. Something grabbed her ankle and she fell. All she saw was something black on her foot before she was flying through the air and something hit her in the back of the head.

Lots of thoughts were happening; a lot of clashing ones. The thoughts had by the person it was were conflicting with the thoughts had by the person it was now. It made it feel numb. It didn’t know what to think. Just this morning, it didn’t have to think. It had forgotten about all of this. Zathiri had been gone for so long. Now he was back.

The man put Ganthy down. They were at a camp. A snuffed fire place had bags and pouches around it. The man started quickly throwing off the pieces of leather armour and kneeled down at one of the bags. Ganthy looked back the way they came, expecting Ailaurus to come rescue it again.

Ganthy looked back at the man. He was wearing black robes know, fumbling with a rope, a ritual knife beside him. He was tying a noose.

This was the third time this was happening. Ganthy was… fine… sort of… Being here reminded it of its place in the world. It reminded it of Zathiri and all the things it was taught. It reminded it of who it used to be and brought that self forward.

But this new self…

Ganthy looked back again, still expecting Ailaurus.

This new self had seen things. This new self had forgotten about Zathiri. Without a demanding god giving it a purpose, this new self wasn’t sure what to do with its life, but it was figuring things out… It quite liked playing with other children and picking flowers.

“Lamb,” the man said.

Ganthy looked at him.

“Recite your pledge. Recite your purpose.” He finished the noose and stood up. He looked up at a branch above them, tried to throw the rope over it, failing.

Ganthy closed its eyes and tried to remember the words.

My death will be for something greater than me. Before the beginning, there was Zathiri. After the end, there is… There is… Lamb?

For most of its life, “Lamb,” was just a word. All this time, “Ganthy,” was the same. They were just sounds that people made to get its attention. But, “Ganthy,” meant something. “Ganthy,” was its title. “Ganthy,” was its name. “Ganthy,” marked it as a person and not a thing.

Ganthy looked at the man. “… Ganthy,” it said quietly.

The man looked at him. “What?”

Ganthy stared, fear in its eyes.

“Your pledge! Recite it!”

It stared. “… My name is Ganthy…”

The man looked at Ganthy morbidly. He threw the rope down. He marched to Ganthy and raised his hand. What was going to be a smack turned into a punch as the man curled his fingers just before it hit. Ganthy fell down and covered its cheek, looking at the man.

“Who told you that? You have no name! You are a sacrifice to Zathiri!”

Tears ran down its cheeks.

“What are you?”

“A sacrifice to Zathiri,” it sobbed.

“Do not cry! You should be grateful!”

The sacrifice reminded itself that its death would be more valuable than its life. It reminded itself that Zathiri was all-powerful and entitled to what he wanted. It wiped its tears quickly and felt nothing.

“Recite your pledge!”

“My death will be for something greater than me. Before the beginning, there was Zathiri. After the end, there is Zathiri. From Zathiri I have come and to Zathiri I will return.”

“Again,” the man said and went back to work on the rope.

“My death will be…”

It said the pledge but… it didn’t know if it believed it anymore. Did it ever believe it? It did ever believe anything?

It quickly looked behind it. Where was Ailaurus? Why wasn’t she coming to save it?

It thought about the Stormeater. It was ready to die for that beast. It was ready to give its life but despite its entitlement to what it could claim, the Stormeater let it live. Why couldn’t Zathiri have been like that?

For the first time in its life, Ganthy really didn’t want to die, but it couldn’t justify its own survival.

Then it thought about the little bird who fought the big black bird.

It didn’t have to struggle. Its fighting was for nothing.

But so was its death.

No more food. No more flowers. No more Ailaurus. No more Treyus.

It fought because this was all it had. There was no god. There was nothing to die for.

“From Zathiri I have come and to Zathiri I will return…”

“Again,” the man said, still struggling to get the rope over the branch.

“…” Ganthy looked at the man… This is all I have…

It didn’t think it had the strength. It didn’t think that little bird had the strength either. It just knew that it didn’t want to let go of chances to see and smell flowers and explore forests. So, it ran at the man as fast as it could. The man turned to Ganthy and it swung one of its stumps right between the man’s legs.

The man staggered back with a yelp and his hands on his groin. He looked at Ganthy with a disgusted frown. Ganthy turned and ran as fast as its small legs would let it. The man stomped after it furiously. Ganthy didn’t stop until the man pull it by the hair and threw it down. It pushed itself up and when he tried to grab its face it tried to bite his thumb off. The man punched Ganthy again. Ganthy felt it, but somehow it just didn’t matter. It got up and pushed itself to run. It refused to stop. They failed to kill it twice already. They wouldn’t succeed now.

The man picked Ganthy up and threw it back to the camp. It hit the ground hard, tripped over bags and tumbled through the fireplace. It was able to stand, but when it tried to run, its ankle felt weird and it dropped. The man picked his axe from the ground.

He picked Ganthy up by the neck and forced it to its knees. Ganthy refused and kept trying to run away. The man punched him on the side of his face. It was hard. There was sharp pain.

Ganthy fell over.

It couldn’t see out of its right eye.

Out of its left eye, it saw its right eye.

Ganthy rolled onto its back, shuffling away from the man and backing itself against a tree.

“Zathiri,” the man said, “This sacrifice is in your name.”

Everything went quiet. Over the man’s shoulder, a shape formed. It was the black silhouette of a human.

Ganthy already knew that was Zathiri. That was its god. Was.

The man walked towards it, readying his axe.

All Ganthy could think about in that moment was how much it didn’t fear Zathiri… It took up so much of its life, but this was all he was. A shape with a name. He was a ghost. He wasn’t a god. God was in the storm. God was in the stars. God was in the vampires. Ganthy had found god three times since Ailaurus saved it. None of them were named Zathiri. None of them cared for power.

Ganthy had been at the mercy of a spirit whose throat reached across space to sing the song of a star that was dying. It had been at the mercy of a man with essence of a dead god in him. It had been at the mercy of a creature that ate the sky. In the face of the world, Zathiri was just a thought that wanted to be bigger than it was in a desperate attempt for relevance. The light that Ganthy had, that it had been harnessing all of its life, didn’t belong to Zathiri.

As the cultists raised the axe, Ganthy raised his stumps. He bore that light, his light, in his chest. He felt its warmth grow from his chest, to his shoulders, to his elbows, to his wrists and it bled out into the world.

Everything turned white.

Ganthy closed his eyes and he still saw white.

The sounds of the world slowly came back. The light within in slowly emptied itself out and he was cold, but his skin burnt. He opened his eyes.

The man was gone. Zathiri was gone. Most of the trees were gone. Everything far enough that he didn’t destroy was on fire.

He keeled over and hugged himself, kicked away from the world to tuck between the roots of the tree, wishing they would take him and bury him away from everything. He screamed as loudly as he could and started to cry.

He thought about Ailaurus and Treyus… He really wished to see them. He wanted to see them rushing to come save him. Even if they couldn’t save him, he just wanted to see their faces as he went. He just wanted them here.

The tattered threads of his soul, thrashed by his own strength, held on for dear life just a little longer to see if that wish would come true. Then they let go.

Ailaurus opened her eyes to Treyus slapping her on the shoulders and the spirit watching over them. She smelled smoked. As soon as she remembered what was happening she got up in a panic, but almost fell down again. Treyus held her up.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I should be asking you that,” Treyus said. “There was an explosion. I came to see if you were okay.”

She looked to the spirit. “Where’s Zathiri?”

D̴̢̛i̴͚͂s̵̞͊a̴̬̓p̶̺͒p̶͈͐e̸̩̍a̴͓͊r̶͖̄ẽ̸͎ḏ̴̌.̸̠͠

“Cultists ambushed us,” she said to Treyus. “They have Ganthy.”

She looked around her. In one direction there the bodies of the cultists. In the other, it looked like everything was burning. Ailaurus ran towards the fire, the spirit swimming through the air alongside her. Treyus was still confused, but he followed her. The spirit stood in the flames and the fire parted. Ailaurus ran through and Treyus followed. It walked behind them, keeping up the walls of flame until they were both through.

Where there wasn’t fire, the forest was levelled. Trees were gone. Bushes were gone. Even soil had been burnt away to form a dirt canyon with a stone bottom. This canyon led them towards a tree, one of many on the other side of whatever did this. They saw him lying between its roots, his face to the destruction and his back to everything else, and they knew that it was him who did it.

She dropped to her knees and spat curses when she saw the empty eye socket. She showed him to Treyus. He felt Ganthy’s chest and listened to his breaths. She looked at him.

“… We have to be really fast,” he said.

She picked him up in her arms and ran as fast as her injured thigh would let her. The spirit guided them through the fires one more time and then vanished into Ailaurus. When they reached the island, Treyus took Ganthy from her to make the jumps across them.

They ran at full effort until they reached his village of huts built into snow-covered hills.

Ailaurus and Treyus watched them put creams on his burnt skin. They cleaned dirt from the socket, put in oils, bandaged it. They did nothing else. They didn’t know what to do. He was bruised and his ankle was broke, but he wasn’t wounded. His breathing was slow. His heartbeat was slow. There was nothing they thought to do. Nothing seemed wrong.

Ailaurus and Treyus sat with him for hours, waiting for him to wake or get better. His body rested on bed of wood and animal skin. Nothing was changing. If anything, he was getting worse. He was slowly, quietly going away. Treyus felt for his heartbeat one more time. Ailaurus looked at him, waiting for him to say something.

The heartbeats were slow, still. They were barely beats. They were taps. They were just bare enough that you knew there was a heart. He didn’t say anything.

“… Well?”, she asked.

Treyus looked at her.

“Is he getting better?”

“… I don’t know.”

Ailaurus looked at Ganthy. She got up and walked out. Treyus took his hand off of Ganthy’s chest and followed her.

All that remained in the room was Ganthy… and the spirit, looking down at him.

It had been watching, trying to understand. It saw things that others could not. It started to make sense. As a spirit, it knew that there were levels to death. It knew that Ganthy was dying and it now understood that he wasn’t dying in his body.

It saw the scars of a soul torn apart. It saw its weak ties to this vessel. It saw the knots slipping and comings loose…

The spirit looked at Ganthy’s cold hand. It slipped its fingers under and curled them to hold it.

D̵o̵n̴'̸t̶ ̶w̶o̶r̷r̷y̵, it said. The stars in its face slowly started to flicker out and its body faded.

I̸'̷v̷e̴ ̸g̵o̷t̶ ̸y̵o̷u̶.̵.̸.̸

Ganthy lay there. His skin was burnt, but cold. His heart was weak, but beating.

Laa lee luuh lohh.

Ganthy sat up, gasping. He rubbed off the bandage over his missing eye. In its place, was the black, shadow eye of a devil.