“Did she tell you her name?”
A long silence stretches. “Name . . . I do not understand . . .”
They have no names for one another?
“It matters not.”
Iohmar finds himself approaching the border, the chill of it upon his skin, face close to the creature separated from him by his and his parents’ magic, sealing it away. He is so near he could breach the border and place his fingers upon it, watch them shrivel as his father’s did.
“How do you need help?” he asks. His voice trembles worse than his fingers. Lor’s warmth against his back, head on his shoulder, grounds him. Subtly, he presses his cheek to the boy’s temple and takes reassurance in the small, even breaths.
“We . . . are starving . . .”
Starving. Iohmar glances about, takes in the sight of the trees nearest the border with branches shriveled and vines turned to nothing where the creatures pressed past their barrier. If Iohmar were to let them, all his mountains and forests would be as the rippling lands, empty and voided, husks of trees bereft of life.
“You consume living things to survive,” he says, then realizes he should have understood sooner, that it was not harm but thoughtless hunger, even if such a discernment would’ve made no difference. “When we fought . . . do you realize you killed . . . ?”
Killed his parents. His folk. Reduced those dwelling in Rúnda’s land to a few hundred and those in the Fair Halls to even smaller a number.
“Why did you attack us?”
“We did not . . .”
The creature shifts, and Iohmar senses its words are unfinished. He waits. Waits.
“We did not . . . realize . . . The ones before us . . . consumed so fast . . . We aren’t certain . . .”
It doesn’t finish, but Iohmar understands. These are individual creatures. The ones that first wounded his father, that pressed into Látwill and brought grief upon them, were killed by Iohmar’s own hand.
These are new. Younger creatures. Not the same.
“I know you . . .” it says. “You are the one who shattered us . . .”
“Yes.”
“Because we shattered the ones who created you . . .”
Athair. Máthair. “Yes.”
Lor’s breath hitches. He knows the story in a vague sense, knows the life of his grandparents cherished within the orchard. The horrid details have been kept to Iohmar’s heart, and he wonders what Lor could think of such things.
“We are not created by our own . . . We simply . . . happen . . .”
Iohmar nods and does not trust his voice. They have no family but understand loss enough to know Iohmar took from them as they took from him and his kin.
“Is that one . . . created by you . . . ?”
With a start, he tightens his arms around Lor, then touches a hand back to Lor’s ear. “Yes, this one is my own.”
Lor’s arms turn unbreakable around his neck. He kisses Iohmar’s cheek.
A soft noise echoes along the remaining creatures. Nonthreatening. Past them, Iohmar gazes at the shrouded emptiness of their lands, devoid of life and warmth, a chill unbearable to his own kin. They feed on life, and Iohmar pushed them back to ensure they did not consume all the lands of Látwill.
Closing his eyes, he forces himself to breathe deep, filling his lungs tight.
He can assist. He is king beneath the earth. Shadow and sunlight and all living beings answer his call.
These are not the same creatures who took his world and left him in threads.
Not the same.
“I can help,” he whispers, then says firmly, “if you can learn not to wound us. I can encourage your lands to grow. But you cannot eat away at them immediately, or nothing will last.”
A shiver of light passes along the border, moonlight breaking the trees. The creature shifts toward him, near touching the border, and Iohmar locks his muscles so he won’t flee.
“You will help . . . ?” It sounds like a question, hopeful, and the burning in Iohmar’s eyes turns to tears. He can’t bring himself to hate this thing. He isn’t sure which is a worse pain.
“Yes. It will take some time, but yes.”
His trees are close. Animals have gathered to his presence, keeping their safe distance from the ripplings. Murmuring, Iohmar calls from the nearest blossoming tree a small fruit, round and soft and sweet, near crushing it between his fingers.
The barrier is chill to the back of his hand, like pressing his fingers into the crunch of the snow capping far-off mountains. Shivers run up his arm and along his skin. With his hand through, the border grasps his wrist, his fingers so near the rippling monster that he sees the reflection of his dark talons along the mirrors of its body. He balances the fruit in his palm and does not allow himself to recoil.
Carefully, a filament of the creature’s form stretches. Should it touch his skin, Iohmar’s fate will be much the same as his father’s. He is ready to cast Lor aside from him should the creature take hold. But it does not. Gripping the fruit, it coils itself around the small offering, leaving Iohmar untouched. He withdraws his hand to the warm, storm-heavy air of the woods.
“I’ll return,” he says, then wonders if the creature understands the break in his voice. Hundreds of shimmering bodies return to the heart of their lands.
Iohmar retreats until the chill of the barrier no longer brushes his skin. His fingers tremble. Gently, he slips Lor to the mossy ground, fearful of collapsing under him. He stares at the soil, at the fallen leaves, and doesn’t remember how to move.
