Hen hit his knees and plunged both hands into the small crevice, fed by a steady trickle from the outcrop. The water was cool and heavenly against his cracked, sandy, salty hands. He cupped his hands to splash some onto his face, then did it again, then started drinking. At first, the sensation was sweet and slick, parched tongue and throat slowly returning to life as he fed them. And then, when he didn’t stop, his stomach began to gurgle with something other than hunger. It cramped painfully, of a sudden, and Hen fell back, then scurried on hands and knees away from the spring. Was it poisoned, like the river? Was this how it’d end, finally? Drinking the corruption of the dark forest like a thirsty idiot?
He didn’t get far before vomiting forcefully. It was just water, almost as clear coming out as it had been going in. After a moment, his stomach calmed itself.
You just drank too much, too fast, Not-Kass said, smiling sweetly. You’re alright, Hen. You’re okay.
“No, I’m not,” Hen informed him, rolling over onto his back. The undergrowth curled around his limbs, into his hair, without even moving. As if it simply accepted him as part of the forest floor, now. Or maybe that was what it wanted: for him to die there, to become part of it forever.
Hen closed his eyes.
Without meaning to, he began to recite in his head:
We thank the gods for all we have
Stone and fire,
shelter…
No, we don’t, Not-Kass interrupted the Prayer. We don’t have any of those things. And if we did, it wouldn’t be the gods who provided it.
Kass would never say that, even in the face of his own brutal murder, his own lifeless corpse. Just more proof that Hen wasn’t disordered, because he knew Kass would never.
Kass would say that he’d led Hendrik to this spring. That it was the first communion between him in his true god-form and Hen, his lifelong support, friend, lover.
Hendrik knew better, though. Because Kass wasn’t a god. Neither were Lyla, Elvi, Agar, Ilya, Kertu, or any of the hundreds of Children of the Blood that had gone to their “inheritance” during Hen’s lifetime so far. Two a moon, 13 moons a year, almost 21 years. And how many before them? How many in the centuries of Stone City civilization had been torn apart and burned while their families gave thanks for their own personal connection to heaven? While women dying of mine-cough and men looking for a better life begged the next victims to take their names to the gods in person?
“I wish you’d wanted to stay with me,” Hen said.
I did.
“Not as much as you wanted to be a god.”
No. That’s true.
“You could’ve come with me.”
Where? You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t followed me.
“Oh, so this is how you save me? By abandoning me to the dark forest?”
If that’s what it takes.
It wasn’t as if Kass had never pissed him off before. They’d been everything to each other (almost), but they still fought sometimes. Hen was too protective. Kass was too cavalier. Hen didn’t trust anyone. Kass loved everyone he met.
But it was different, this time.
This time, there was nothing left to fight for.
Chapter 9: The Dark Forest
Time only existed inside the Stone City’s walls, Hendrik was sure. Yes, the sun moved across the sky here, coming up somewhere in the direction of those far-off walls, passing overhead, and sinking into the distant treetops. Day turned into night. His face grew rough with stubble for the first time in his life; his left arm stopped burning as the skin started to regrow around the edges of the extensive wound. But time was a lie that crumbled in solitude. It didn’t matter how many hours or days it had been since the last time he’d taken a piss or found something to eat; it only mattered that he needed to piss or eat. If the moon grew heavier and then slimmer again in the meantime, what difference did it make, except that the nights stopped being so cold and the sun on the beach actually warmed his skin through, today?
Not-Kass didn’t care about time, so why should Hen? They found a little space not far from the beach where the blue sky poked through the treetops, which felt reassuring. One of the trees on the edge of the clearing had lower-hanging branches than the others, so Hen draped one of his blankets over it and used sharpened sticks to pin it to the ground on either side. It had just enough space for him to squeeze under and sleep, though either his head or feet would be uncovered if he stretched all the way out.
You’re too tall, Not-Kass said with a laugh, the first time Hen tried it out.
“You were almost as tall as me.” Hen was proud of himself for using the past tense. Still not disordered. Just comforting himself. If it was weak, so be it.
I fit in there fine. You don’t.
“You don’t need to worry about fitting. I do.”
Ghosts didn’t take up space, after all. Hendrik would’ve given anything for Not-Kass to have a form, a figure, something to touch or hold or kiss. But even if it had been possible, Hen had nothing to give for it, anyhow.
It rained that night, and though the tree branches kept them from the worst of it, Hen shivered for hours straight under his dripping blanket. Kass would’ve hated it, would’ve complained and moaned until he finally started laughing at himself. At Hendrik’s long face and his fresh, itchy beard dripping with rain.
Hen smiled at the thought. “I’d be a lot warmer if you were here.”
I’ll never be cold again, Not-Kass reminded him.
“No. I guess not.” That was good, at least. Hen knew Kass wasn’t a god; he supposed he’d always known he couldn’t be more of a god than he had been as a mortal. Despite the horror of seeing Kass’s corpse, part of Hendrik hadn’t been surprised by it, either. Of course, no one got into the afterlife bodily—it wouldn’t be an afterlife if they were still alive. How he’d never seen that flaw in the priests’ logic before, Hen couldn’t imagine. It was so obvious now.
Maybe there was an afterlife, a heaven with its eternal comforts and all the hells with their never-ending torments. But even that, he doubted, now. If the priests had lied about heaven being ruled by the Children of the Blood who’d bodily inherited it, why wouldn’t they be lying about it existing in the first place?
It exists, Not-Kass said. I’m happy there.
“You would be,” Hen allowed. Kass didn’t need him to be happy.
I do.
“I didn’t even say that out loud. Did I?” Suddenly Hen wasn’t sure.
Does it matter?
