After a few moments of silence, Dagan almost whispered, “Who was he?” He was almost afraid to ask, but Hendrik seemed so open and curious just then…
Hendrik replied almost immediately with: “Kass.”
“Kass,” Dagan tried out the name. For some reason it made him smile. “It’s a sweet name.”
“Kaspar,” Hendrik whispered, lips barely moving. A little louder, he said, “He was sweet. He was too sweet.”
Dagan just watched him, afraid to ask anything else. The little he’d just heard explained a great deal, anyhow: Hendrik had been this Kass’s guardian and, if not his lover, certainly his beloved.
Hendrik’s hands bunched up against his thighs, then released again. His expression was tight but less sad than confused, as if he couldn’t understand what he was saying. “But he was also what they made him. I mean, so was I, but he never got the chance to be anything else but sweet. I don’t think he would’ve been…but I’ll never know.”
Dagan waited a moment before leaning forward and touching Hendrik’s knee gently. “I’m sorry you were both denied that.”
Hendrik smiled, eyes crinkling. There was something new, something soft about the expression that had never been in it before. “Me too.”
Dagan nodded and sat back again, leaning on his hands. He could’ve left it there, but the openness in Hendrik in that moment called to him. He ventured, “Do you want to tell me? How he died?”
Though he nodded, Hendrik was quiet for a long time. Moments disappeared into silence, and Dagan waited, patient and attentive, hoping he’d finally learn what had sent this misleadingly quiet, deeply passionate, and clearly very broken man to the Heart Wood.
Finally, Hendrik said, “There’s something in the City that kills its own. Only the blooded families have to give up their children to be raised by the priests—they’re called Children of the Blood. And eventually, they’re supposed to ascend into heaven and keep watch over the city from there as gods.
“But they don’t. They end up in wooden boxes with their throats torn out by something.”
Dagan thought carefully before he suggested, “Sacrifices?”
Hendrik cocked his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“They’re sacrificed? Like people used to do to the old gods?” That was what it sounded like, anyhow. No wonder Hendrik hadn’t wanted any stories of gods, that night in the Apricot winery.
Hendrik shook his head. “I don’t know any old gods.”
Dagan said, “Mostly it was animals slaughtered for them, before our people knew any better. There are some stories of humans being offered up, though, when the gods were especially angry.”
“They sound like shit gods.” Hendrik made a face.
“They were, actually. And they weren’t real, anyhow. Just manifestations of human fear and anxiety. We talk about the forest gods, now, but they’re really just sort of…humanized versions of the forces that rule the forest.”
Hendrik shook his head. “Whatever killed Kass is real.”
“So it would seem,” Dagan allowed. It seemed more likely Kass had been murdered by a human masquerading as a god, of course, but Hendrik could come to such conclusions in his own time and space.
After another long moment, Hendrik said, “I blamed the priests, because they took him away to become a god.” He looked at his feet, dangling off the edge of the bed. “I killed two of them when I found them with his body. With my bare hands.”
Ah, yes, there it was: the rest of the damage. Of course, as a scout, it was Dagan’s duty not to bring a murderer into the midst of any of the Heart Wood settlements, let alone ensconce him there. And yet, many refugees had such stories of violence and loss, and so his training allowed for that. He was no judge, only a safety net of sorts. The Council would hear his story and decide; Dagan only had to hear it and make certain he was safe for himself. So all he said was, “The priests run the City, yes?”
Hendrik looked back up, apparently surprised by the question. Had he expected to be judged, denied, at least chastised? Someday, maybe, Dagan would ask; for now, he only knew his reaction had been the right one.
Hendrik said, “With an iron fist. They know. About the killing god. At least, some of them do. One of them showed me.”
Well, that was bloody horrifying. Dagan couldn’t even think of a cultural equivalent, really. Maybe if Jessica, Alonza’s master and the Head Verder, was secretly smashing children’s skulls to try and heal the river? He kept the thought to himself, saying only, “They still sacrifice, then.” It made the most sense, considering. The Stone City might’ve been far from Heart Wood culture now, but they shared an origin, and both knew it.
Hendrik nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”
“I’m sorry he never got to be anyone but who they wanted,” Dagan said, putting a hand over his heart reflexively. “I’m glad he had you, though.”
After another thoughtful pause, Hendrik said, “Thanks. I—it’s weird, but it almost didn’t feel real until I just said it out loud. I mean, I knew it was real, I knew he was gone. I accepted that a while back. But…”
“But your scars are real, Hendrik.”
Hendrik touched his left sleeve, glancing down at it. The burn scar was just beneath. “From when I killed the second priest. She lit the boxes and bodies on fire with some strange oil. We rolled into it.”
Oof. Also, bodies, as in plural. Kass hadn’t been their only victim? Dagan shook his head and made sure his face was as sympathetic as it could be, despite the terrifying confession. He didn’t blame Hendrik for a moment; the man had clearly been in a fugue state in the woods ever since. Such violence explained almost everything.
“There are some on my face, too, aren’t there?” Hendrik asked quietly.
“And your hands.” Dagan leaned forward once more to touch one of them, a long, pink line across his knuckles. “But they’ll fade in another moon or two.”
Hendrik, as he sometimes but not always did at a touch, froze briefly. It wasn’t a recoil, just a kind of surprise that melted away quickly. All at once, he smiled. “See?”
Dagan sat up again. “What?”
“I knew you could turn it off.”
Dagan smiled. “Well, you got all serious. I wasn’t going to flirt over that.”
Hendrik shook his head, grinning. “Right, but you flirt to lighten the mood. Would’ve been a perfect opportunity.”
“The mood didn’t want lightening! We were having a real conversation.”
