never silent. Death is neither gentle nor kind.
I must act quickly, before the ghost destroys me. I don't know why it's waited, since it must have come for a reason. There's no dawn in this land - a ghost can wait forever, and I can no longer endure its presence. I haven't slept in … well. I don't remember that, either.
The bandits who stole my name left me savaged but alive, my memory no better than moth-chewed rags, loose threads, the narrative of who I was scattered between holes. I remember cold plains that aren't home, a familiar-soft touch on my neck, planting grape vines in summer, pain (maybe mine, maybe not), and great pools of emptiness between.
The raven cocks its head.
I will find the men who wronged me and I will unmake them. But I can find no solace if the ghost interferes.
I pull the map from my satchel and spread it before me. The map is old: vellum lined with a substance neither blood nor ink, but darker, older; the viscera from the other side of heaven.
Shall I show you what happened to your name?
the map whispers. Its voice bends thoughts sideways, echoes of madness etched behind each word. It only shows you what you pay it to find.
I kneel on the edges of the map and lay a knife blade against my palm. Steel grounds me, the one thing I always remember. "Leave me, ghost, or I will let this map destroy you."
The map purrs in anticipation and hunger.
"You would be unwise to do that, Man," says a voice from the darkness.
A wolf prowls into my camp, the firelight pooling its eye sockets. A faint line of red circles its neck, but its silver-black pelt is thick, glossy as the raven's feathers.
I stiffen, sharp fear salted in my belly. I've never killed a wolf (cruel or not). I haven't earned a second ghost.
The wolf must have once hailed from the southern mountains: it's bigger than a pony, jagged white stripes splashed across its back, clay beads sewn into its ears and braided into the long fur along its chest and shoulders.
The wolf dips its chin to the raven, who nods its head in return.
At the corners of my eyes, the wolf's shape warps and stretches into the darkness. Its scent is heavy with old memory.
The mountain wolves served only their land and their people, refusing to pay homage to Sun or Moon. Instead, they sought the dark between the stars (they said First Wolf was born in those empty spaces, when heaven was not looking) - they were building great ships in the mountains' bellies, built of bone and shed fur, sealed with pitch. They would sail into the dark in search of First Wolf and leave the world for the Sun and the Moon to squabble over.
The Sun tolerated no other predators in heaven, and neither did the Moon.
That memory doesn't belong to me. I shake my head, startled and unsettled.
"Good evening, Man," the wolf says at last.
"Evening," I reply, humoring the ghost. "You have no purpose here, lord wolf."
"We may disagree on that point." The ghost's voice is charred where the wound across its throat digs deeper. "You hold one who is mine."
I glance toward the raven's ghost. "I never claimed it."
"You lie beautifully," the wolf says with an appreciative nod. "Did you have much practice?"
That, at least, I can answer fairly. "Yes."
I don't remember what rituals shaped me. There were more important pieces stolen: my past, my purpose, my name.
I sink the tip of the blade into the ground, away from flesh. The map will eagerly lap up even a drop of blood. To destroy one ghost, perhaps I might endure the price - but not two. The map drives a hard bargain.
It is nothing you cannot bear,
the map says.
You may not even remember what it is you will lose. Forgetting costs you nothing more.
I shift my weight on my heels. If it stays, I fear what else the wolf's scent will bring.
Ghosts are wrought from sorrow and carnage; they carry each as a weapon. The wolf can tear apart my flesh with fangs or crush my heart with grief not my own. So could the raven, but it hasn't bothered
I must act quickly, before the ghost destroys me. I don't know why it's waited, since it must have come for a reason. There's no dawn in this land - a ghost can wait forever, and I can no longer endure its presence. I haven't slept in … well. I don't remember that, either.
The bandits who stole my name left me savaged but alive, my memory no better than moth-chewed rags, loose threads, the narrative of who I was scattered between holes. I remember cold plains that aren't home, a familiar-soft touch on my neck, planting grape vines in summer, pain (maybe mine, maybe not), and great pools of emptiness between.
The raven cocks its head.
I will find the men who wronged me and I will unmake them. But I can find no solace if the ghost interferes.
I pull the map from my satchel and spread it before me. The map is old: vellum lined with a substance neither blood nor ink, but darker, older; the viscera from the other side of heaven.
Shall I show you what happened to your name?
the map whispers. Its voice bends thoughts sideways, echoes of madness etched behind each word. It only shows you what you pay it to find.
I kneel on the edges of the map and lay a knife blade against my palm. Steel grounds me, the one thing I always remember. "Leave me, ghost, or I will let this map destroy you."
The map purrs in anticipation and hunger.
"You would be unwise to do that, Man," says a voice from the darkness.
A wolf prowls into my camp, the firelight pooling its eye sockets. A faint line of red circles its neck, but its silver-black pelt is thick, glossy as the raven's feathers.
I stiffen, sharp fear salted in my belly. I've never killed a wolf (cruel or not). I haven't earned a second ghost.
The wolf must have once hailed from the southern mountains: it's bigger than a pony, jagged white stripes splashed across its back, clay beads sewn into its ears and braided into the long fur along its chest and shoulders.
The wolf dips its chin to the raven, who nods its head in return.
At the corners of my eyes, the wolf's shape warps and stretches into the darkness. Its scent is heavy with old memory.
The mountain wolves served only their land and their people, refusing to pay homage to Sun or Moon. Instead, they sought the dark between the stars (they said First Wolf was born in those empty spaces, when heaven was not looking) - they were building great ships in the mountains' bellies, built of bone and shed fur, sealed with pitch. They would sail into the dark in search of First Wolf and leave the world for the Sun and the Moon to squabble over.
The Sun tolerated no other predators in heaven, and neither did the Moon.
That memory doesn't belong to me. I shake my head, startled and unsettled.
"Good evening, Man," the wolf says at last.
"Evening," I reply, humoring the ghost. "You have no purpose here, lord wolf."
"We may disagree on that point." The ghost's voice is charred where the wound across its throat digs deeper. "You hold one who is mine."
I glance toward the raven's ghost. "I never claimed it."
"You lie beautifully," the wolf says with an appreciative nod. "Did you have much practice?"
That, at least, I can answer fairly. "Yes."
I don't remember what rituals shaped me. There were more important pieces stolen: my past, my purpose, my name.
I sink the tip of the blade into the ground, away from flesh. The map will eagerly lap up even a drop of blood. To destroy one ghost, perhaps I might endure the price - but not two. The map drives a hard bargain.
It is nothing you cannot bear,
the map says.
You may not even remember what it is you will lose. Forgetting costs you nothing more.
I shift my weight on my heels. If it stays, I fear what else the wolf's scent will bring.
Ghosts are wrought from sorrow and carnage; they carry each as a weapon. The wolf can tear apart my flesh with fangs or crush my heart with grief not my own. So could the raven, but it hasn't bothered
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