Ander - Part 3: Subchapter 39
39
It felt like Ander had been walking for hours. He didn't know this path, but he could see the tip of the Cora through the gaps in the canopy, a hazy grey tooth pointed at the sun, shining down through the mist like a white hole in the sky. There was a pale rainbow all around it. Beautiful...
He pushed his way through a clump of ferns, their leaves like giant green feathers, shiny with dew. He paused to lick some of the drops from the underside, but it didn't do much to quench his thirst or to clear his head. The mist was still casting strange shadows across the ground, like thousands of black snakes writhing all over and even through each other. Were they real? Ander didn't know. They were just there.
I have to keep going... Ander thought to himself, letting go of the fern. It bounced up and down, flicking a mixture of water droplets and blood onto his face. Keep going...
The sun stayed right where it was, as if that rainbow wasn't really a rainbow, but a cage, keeping it in place, a terrible cage, made even more evil by its beauty.
The snakes were starting to crawl all over his feet now, climbing up his legs, trying to trip him up...
No, those aren't real. They're just shadows.
But shadows don't have eyes.
Ander looked down and, sure enough, each wispy tendril had a pair of glowing, orange eyes, like coals. They were swarming all over the ground like a black lake, making the dead leaves crackle and shiver and undulate. They were slithering their way through the bushes and up the trees, falling from the branches like rain. Ander could feel their coils tightening around his legs, could hear them hissing. He could see the pits of hell inside their fiery eyes, could smell the poison dripping from their fangs.
Ander closed his eyes. They're not real. He could feel them slither over his arms, his back, his neck. They're not real. He could feel their long, thin tongues flicker over his wounds. They're not real. He could feel the flames from their eyes char his fur. He could smell the smoke rise up. They're not real. He could feel them plunge their fangs into -
"They're not real!"
Pain shot through Ander's chest like an arrow and his eyes flew open. Before he could stop himself, he doubled over and coughed a bright red gout of blood onto the forest floor, completely devoid of snakes of any kind.
"I knew it..." he said, watching the leaves swirl and sway before his eyes, red and brown... spinning... spinning...
He tried to stay upright. He couldn't. His body sunk down to its knees of its own accord, slamming into the dry leaf bed with a muffled flump.
He looked down at his hands, hard and callused. There were so many scars, far too many for someone so young. The eight triangular divots made by his own claws to hide his feelings, the starburst in the palm of his right hand to save Kiana from Mateo's crossbow bolt.
The long, thin slit in his left hand made by Nilia's dagger would also become a scar before too long, but -
He felt it rush up again, a fountain of blood in his throat. He lowered his head and vomited a solid stream of gore into his lap, covered with a thick film of pinkish foam. There was so much he could actually hear the bubbles popping, like the fermenting juice of a fruit left to rot in the sun. It sounded almost like... hissing.
He would only get new scars if he lived long enough to for them to heal.
Ander sucked the blood on his tongue and spat it out. He tried to get back up again, but then... he didn't.
It's not that he tried and failed, it's that he didn't try. He tried to try, but he failed. He didn't move at all, even though he knew he should be able to. It just... It hurt too much to try. His whole life he's done nothing but try, and all it ever brought him was pain. Maybe just this once, he didn't have to try so hard. Maybe he could just sit here for a little while. Maybe he could even lie down. Didn't he deserve a rest? Was that really so much to ask for?
Yes. It was.
He thought about getting back up. He thought about taking one step... then two... then three... then four, then five, then six, then seven then eight then nine then ten. On and on and on... never getting any closer to that hateful mountain.
Ander didn't move.
He took a shallow breath, and then he blew it out slowly, very slowly, blood dripping from his lips. There were so many things he would rather do right now then go through the arduous task of getting back up. He watched a centipede run up a tree trunk, then disappear between the cracks in the bark. He listened to the wind blow through the branches. He felt the rays of the sun dapple across his face, softened by the mist.
But he did not look up. To look up would be to see the Cora. It would remind of him of why he was doing this, and if he remembered why he was doing this, he wouldn't be able to rest anymore. He'd have to get up. He'd have to face the pain again. But it wasn't the pain of his wounds he feared, nor the pain of his body. The aches in his muscles and the tears in his skin were nothing compared to what he really feared. He knew he was dying, there was no way he could trick himself into believing otherwise, but even that was not what he feared the most.
He feared he would die before he got a chance to see Kiana smile again.
That was why he didn't want to look up. If he looked up, he would see how far the mountain really was. He would see how impossibly far he still had to go.
But there was something even worse than dying before he could see Kiana smile again. Far, far worse.
What if he did_make it back? What if he _did see Kiana's face again? She wouldn't be smiling. She would be horrified. She would cry and cry if she saw him like this. What if he died right there on her doorstep? What if he died in her arms? If he had to die, then that would be a good place to do it, but he could never be so cruel to her. Staring up into her tearful face would be the worst torture for them both, an endless hell stretched out into a single, infinite moment.
He couldn't do that to her. He loved her too much to hurt her any more. She would wait for him, maybe for weeks, maybe for months. She would be sad for a while, but that would pass. She would live, and she would be happy with her family. That was all that really mattered. That was enough for him. That was more than enough.
And yet...
He did want to see her again, even if it meant cursing the rest of her life with the image of his death. It was so selfish, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to hug her close one last time, he wanted to feel her wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head on his chest. He wanted to smell her hair and tell her how much he loved her. He wanted to freeze time with her, a single moment stretched out into an infinite heaven. He wanted...
He didn't know what he wanted anymore. He's been through so much... learned so many terrible things about himself and about those around him...
But he also learned good things, didn't he?
Sarah didn't give up. She almost died, but she kept going.
Father didn't give up. He almost killed himself, but he kept going.
That's why he had to keep going, for them, for Kiana. He had to fight, even if it killed him, he had to fight, he had to -
He couldn't breathe...
Ander desperately tried to suck in more air, but it was like trying to breathe underwater. All he could do was gurgle. He placed his good hand over the wound in his ribs and pushed as hard as he could. The pain was excruciating, but his next try yielded a thin, wheezy stream of air down his throat and into his lungs. Tiny white spots, hundreds of them, thousands of them, danced in front of his eyes, darting away from his gaze so he could never look at them directly. It was like seeing the night sky in broad daylight, but scattered, falling apart, like the world was ending.
He knew he had to fight, but he didn't know if he could. He just... he didn't know what to do.
Ander heard the leaves crackle, and the soft thuds of something heavy moving among the trees. It repeated itself in a rhythm he once knew, a rhythm known to all Wolves old enough to hunt.
It was the sound of hooves in the forest.
And suddenly he could see them, standing right in front of him, so real he could even make out the scratches on the dark grey surface.
Hooves...
Ander slowly looked up, not believing what he was seeing. It was impossible, and yet it was right there, big as life... the most beautiful stag he had ever seen.
It stood in the mist with the sun shining right between its massive antlers in glorious, smoky white shards of broken light, looking down at him with... pity? No, his mind must be playing tricks on him again. Maybe stags can feel pity, but they most certainly can't show it, and even if they could, they most certainly wouldn't show it to a Wolf.
The thought had barely left Ander's mind when the stag bowed its head, coming so close he could actually see his own face reflected in its shiny, black eyes. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but he was afraid that any kind of movement might scare it off. Something was happening here, something bigger than himself, something he could never hope to understand, but could feel nonetheless. This was a gift, something to be remembered and cherished for as long as he was able, given by someone or something far too careless in its generosity. Ander felt like he didn't deserve to be so close to such a creature, so close he could actually feel its breath on his face, see the miniature rainbows inside the dew hanging from its antlers. After all the stags he had killed in his lifetime over nothing more than the say-so of his tribe, it felt almost blasphemous. It felt...
A thin red crescent appeared beneath its eye, slowly growing thicker and thicker until it spilled down its cheek, staining its fur with a long, crimson line.
It was crying blood... The stag was crying blood...
Ander watched in horror as blood continued to flow from its eye, making the line longer and longer until it eventually pooled beneath its chin in a single drop, heavier than life itself, slowly growing larger and larger, pregnant with its own weight. It dripped down to the ground and was quickly, almost eagerly, sucked up by the
(bloodthirsty)
earth.
There were scratches along its back, and deep, bloody puncture marks in its neck, wounds that could only have been made by the teeth and claws of a Wolf.
There was an arrow, long and thin, sticking out of its hind leg. It shouldn't be able to move like that, or even stand, but it was, and Ander knew why.
He recognised the fletching on that arrow. It was the same fletching that had passed through his fingers on the morning his whole world had changed. It was the same fletching that had whispered through this same mist on its deadly flight almost a week ago. It was attached to the same arrow he himself had made in his tent. It was the same arrow he had fired into this same stag.
This was the stag he had killed with his brothers. This was the stag that had cried blood for the cruelty of this world, and who would send him on to the next.
This was the stag who would finally have its revenge.
I'm sorry... Ander wanted to say, but he didn't have any breath left to say it with. I'm sorry... Maybe this was just another hallucination brought on by his dying mind, or maybe it was a spirit like in the old tales. Ander didn't think it mattered. Either way, he wouldn't be seeing something like this unless he wasn't long for this world.I'm sorry...
The stag came closer still, bending forward, the steady drips from its face coming closer and closer until they struck the blood drying on his lap. He could actually feel the impact through his pants, like tiny taps, he could hear the bubbles bursting. Could any hallucination be this real?
The stag's head moved past his cheek and its antlers partially blotted out the sun, breaking it up into crude, triangular chunks, throwing thick shadows on Ander's face like cold veins.
Ander didn't know how spirits killed. Maybe he would just suddenly drop dead at its touch? Maybe it would tear his throat out, just like Banno once did, while he just stood there and watched? Ander didn't think a normal stag had the teeth to do something like that, but this wasn't really a stag. Maybe it would take him to heaven, maybe it would take him to hell. After all this time, he still didn't know where he would end up. He didn't feel like an evil Wolf, but he carried the blood of his own brother in his heart, and the blood of a fellow tribesman was still fresh on his hands. He had killed more Wolves than any other. He was a murderer. There was no denying that. Even the life he now lived was stolen from the little sister he never knew he had. If any single thing had happened differently on that stormy night twenty-three years ago, maybe she would have lived and he would have died instead. Maybe she would have been able to earn a good, strong name. Maybe she would have done a better job than he did looking after Hezzi. There were still so many things left in this world he wanted to make up for, still so many things that were just... wrong. He didn't think he'd ever be able to make everything right, but if only he had a little more time... then maybe... just maybe...
He'd be able to make the important things right. Or, at the very least, he'd be able to try...
Ander closed his eyes and waited for the spirit to do... whatever it was that spirits did. He could hear it breathe next to his ear: long, loud snorts. He could feel its bloody tears drip down onto his broken arm. He could even feel the warmth passing through the thin gap of air separating them. He could feel...
He could feel the stag rest its head on his shoulder, softly, delicately. He could feel it rubbing gently against his cheek, could feel its hot tears slowly seeping into his fur.
Ander opened his eyes, confused. Even though it was the stag crying on his shoulder, it felt like he was the one being comforted.
Ander didn't understand what was going on, but he carefully raised his good arm and placed his hand against the stag's neck. It was soft and smooth to the touch. All the bite marks were gone now.
They stayed that way for a little while; the most bizarre embrace Ander had ever experienced, made even stranger by the fact that he wasn't even sure if it was really happening or not.
The stag eventually lifted its head, turned around, and walked off along the path, brushing aside the ferns and low-hanging branches with its girth, snapping leaves and twigs underneath its hooves. But just before it disappeared completely into the mist, it stopped and turned its head to look back at him.
Ander expected this apparition to just disappear, or to be swallowed by the mist, but it just stared back at him with those deep, black eyes, bordered by crimson, and flicked its ears impatiently.
Did it want him to follow?
As if it could hear this thought, the stag stomped its hoof against the ground, scraping a little patch clear of leaves to reveal the dark brown earth underneath.
Ander blinked a few times to get rid of those annoying dancing spots, shook his head a little to clear the cobwebs, and took as deep a breath as his punctured lung would allow. He got up on one foot, then the other, then almost immediately stumbled into a tree, smacking his broken arm a good one against its trunk. He teetered dangerously close to the edge of unconsciousness, but by some miracle he managed to stay on his feet. He couldn't stop shaking though, and he was sure the stag must have disappeared by now. If it really was all in his head, then that bolt of pain must have driven it away.
But it was still there, waiting for him among the trees, with wispy tendrils of mist snaking around its legs.
The scratches on its back looked smaller now.
I'm coming... Just... Just wait... a little bit... longer...
It turned away, and with a flick of its tail it bounded through the forest, leaving no trace save for the prints in the earth and a swaying fern leaf.
No, wait! Wait!
Ander hobbled after it, holding his ribs, fighting against the pain with every breath and every step, his broken arm hanging by his side, until the mist swallowed him whole.
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