Not like the priests.
Some mornings, Hendrik woke convinced that it was his fault Kass was dead. Other days, he woke with the certain knowledge that Kass would do what Kass would do regardless of how he’d begged and pleaded. But he had rarely, if ever, considered the lives he’d ended in that one, grand act of vengeance that had condemned him to live alone in the dark forest. Two priests, a man and a woman, burning corpses in wooden boxes.
Fattened, content, beautiful, cared-for corpses. Like the lambs slaughtered for feast days in the High City, like the massive chickens in the Ag District squawking foolishly, pridefully, because they didn’t understand just why they were so well-fed. Hendrik had contributed to the fattening of those corpses, Kass’s in particular, but every guard was complicit in the complex machine that churned out the Blood. For what? Why? Who fucking knew except the most elite priests? Did Sister Eva even know, really? She’d pretended not to, but how could he trust a priest? If he had, he wouldn’t be here. And where was Piret now, for placing her trust in Eva? Dead, probably, or in a cell for the rest of her miserable life.
Hendrik considered the half-eaten squirrel on its sharpened skewer for long moments in the firelight. The corpses in the boxes hadn’t been torn apart, skinned, or otherwise consumed like it. But they had at least had their throats removed violently, and possibly been drained of some or all of their blood. Which, Hendrik was aware if not from personal experience, was far more than he’d drained from his squirrel while skinning it.
If Kass was the little squirrel, then what was the human skewering him?
*
Don’t you wish I was really here? asked Not-Kass one night, when the moon was thin and pale again above the clearing.
The fishermen had been down the beach again. This time, Hendrik was sure they’d seen him, but they hadn’t seemed to care. Just gone about their business as he’d scraped off some of the purple-fingered insects and gathered handfuls of water-plant.
Hen didn’t reply for a long moment, gathering his thoughts as he hung the long, slippery, salty fronds over his drying rack. His left arm hardly hurt anymore when he used it. It must’ve been a while since he’d killed the priests.
Finally, when all the sea-plants were hung up, Hen asked, “Where have you been?” His throat felt scratchy from disuse, his voice rough and sandy in his own ears.
Ask yourself, Not-Kass said, though he didn’t sound particularly upset. That wasn’t like him, to not mind being ignored.
Not that Hendrik had ever really tried it. Not until now, anyhow. “Why are you here now, then?”
Again. Ask yourself.
“Because I’m letting myself think about you, tonight. About what it would be like to sit here by this fire and hold your hand,” Hendrik replied.
See, you got there in the end. Again, no anger, no irritation, just faint amusement.
“You’re not really him. But I’m glad you’re here, anyhow.” Hen sat down by the fire, tucking his legs up beneath him and holding out his hands to warm them.
Do you miss me? Not-Kass asked after another long silence.
“I miss everything,” Hen admitted. “I miss your face. I miss your voice. I miss our cell. I miss you bossing me around and dragging me to the Tavern District and telling me fairy tales about our heavenly palace.”
It wasn’t a fairy tale.
“No. It was a lie.” Hen sighed and rubbed his hands together. Long nights at the shore always left him feeling like an ice block. Whenever summer came, he hoped it’d warm the sea, too.
Do you miss the City?
“No.” A pause, there. “Yes, but not really. I miss what I thought the City was. I don’t miss being lied to.”
At least you had a purpose. At least we had a life.
“Whose side are you on?” Hen cracked a smile, and it was so unfamiliar it almost hurt his face. He wanted to grin. To lie back in the grass and let Kass talk nonsense until their sides hurt with laughter.
Yours, Hen. Always on yours.
Hendrik knew that’s what Kass would say. He also knew it wasn’t enough. Which seemed fair, since he hadn’t been enough, either.
You should go and talk to those fisher-folk, next time you see them.
“No.”
Why not? You can’t be alone for the rest of your life, Hendrik. You weren’t made to be alone. I tried to tell you.
“I’m no one from nowhere,” Hen replied. “It’s better for everyone if it stays that way.”
This isn’t what I wanted for you. You know it’s not.
No. Kass had wanted a comfortable, prestigious, maybe even ambitious life for him. He’d wanted Hen to be fulfilled professionally and comforted personally, a job in an elite corps and Jak to come home to. Temporarily, anyhow, before he joined Kass in his heavenly palace.
Would Kass still have imagined that for him, if he’d known the truth? If he’d known it was all a big fucking lie? It was impossible to say, impossible to imagine, even now. For all Hen knew, Kass would’ve walked willingly into that back chamber of the See with the other Children of the Blood even if he’d known he’d end up a corpse. Because anything else would’ve been inconceivable.
“I’m sorry,” was all Hendrik could say. Because he didn’t want any of that, anymore. He didn’t want anything, especially, if he couldn’t have Kass. And he couldn’t. Because Kass wasn’t really here. “I love you. And I’m sorry.”
Not-Kass didn’t answer that, but he didn’t have to. Hendrik knew Kass had loved him, even if it hadn’t been enough to save either of them. And he wouldn’t want Hen to be sorry, even if sorrow was all Hen had left.
Part II: Dagan
Chapter 1: Black Walnut Grove Settlement, Heart Wood, New Buck Moon, Year of the Butterflies
Insects and birds chirping and the sweet-spicy smells of spring melting into summer welcomed Dagan home to the Black Walnut Grove. Bark and green, growing things nearing peak ripeness. He hefted his pack higher and ducked his head as he entered the settlement, hair sliding out of his braid to frame his face as it was wont to do when it needed a wash. The market square’s lanterns were flickering to life, inviting settlement-dwellers into the winery, the brewery, the shops and stalls that opened for supper. Some of the smells, especially cooking onions and herbs drifting from a central stall, were tempting. But days on the trail from the Head Scout’s home in Grassland Conservancy had him panting for a mug of elderberry wine and a night’s sleep on his own mattress.
Alas, it was not to be. Three steps into the market square, someone called, “Is that Dagan? You’re back! Look who’s home!”
Dagan took a deep breath, steeling himself to smile. By all the forest gods, he should’ve gone the long way around and straight to the grove. But he could almost taste his mother’s sweet wine, it was so near, now, and an extra fifteen minutes had seemed like a lifetime to wait for it. He’d been gone almost a moon, and he’d spend most of this moon out on his first official scouting trip. The least he could do was give the people what they wanted while he was here.
