hell?”
“Because I’ve seen what comes out of it.”
“Demons aren’t made in hell. They’re made
by
hell.” She leveled a finger at him. “The kind of hell that you’re going through.”
“I don’t—”
“
You do
.” She spoke cold, sharp, with enough force to send the fish swirling into hiding. Color died, leaving grim, gray corals and endless blue. “You hear it every time you think you’re alone, you see it every time you close your eyes. You feel it in your blood, you feel it sharing your body. It never talks loud enough for others to hear, but it deafens you, and if they could hear what it says, you know they’d cry out like you do.
“Kill. Kill,” she hissed. “You obey. Just to make it stop. But no matter how much your sword drinks, it will never be enough.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “If you kill them, Lenk, if you kill
her
, it still won’t be enough.”
Her voice echoed through water, through his blood. She wasn’t just talking to him. Something else had heard her.
And it tried to numb him, reaching out to cool his blood and turn his bones to ice. It only made the chill of her voice all the more keen, made the warmth of the ocean grow ever more intolerable. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to collapse, he wanted to let go and see if the current could carry him far enough that he might drift forever.
Those were not things he could do. Not anymore. So he inclined his head, just enough to avoid her gaze, and whispered.
“Yeah. That makes sense.”
“Then you know?” she asked. “Do you know how to fight it? That you
have
to fight it?”
Her voice was hard, but falsely so, something that had been brittle to begin with and hammered with a mallet in an awkward grip. Not hard enough to squelch the hope in her voice. She asked not for his sake alone.
He hated to answer.
“I’m not afraid of it, anymore.”
He tilted his head back up, turning his gaze skyward. The sun was distant, a shimmering blur on a surface so far away as to be mythical.
“I used to be,” he said. “But it says so many things. I tried ignoring itand I felt fear. I tried arguing and I felt pain. But now, I’m not afraid. I don’t hurt. I’m numb.”
“If you can safely ignore it, then is there a problem? If you don’t feel the need to kill—”
“I do.” He spoke with a casualness that unnerved himself. “The voice, when it speaks, tells me about how they abandoned me, how they betrayed me. It tells me they have to die for us to be safe. I try to ignore it … but it’s hard.”
“You said you were numb, that you weren’t afraid.”
“It’s not the voice that scares me.” He met her gaze now. He smiled faintly. “It’s that I’m beginning to agree with it.”
Denaos looked at himself in the blade. No scars, still. More wrinkles than there used to be. A pair of ugly bags under eyes that he chose not to look at, but no scars.
He had that, at least.
Appearance was one point of pride amongst many for him. There were other things he had hoped he would be remembered for: his taste in wine, an ear for song, and a way with women that sat firmly between the realms of poetry and witchcraft.
And killing
, his conscience piped up
.
Don’t forget killing
.
And killing. He was not bad at it.
Still, he thought as he surveyed himself, if none of those could be his legacy, looks would have to suffice.
And yet, as he saw the man in the blade, he wondered if perhaps he might have to discount that, too. His was a face used to masks: sharp, perceptive eyes over a malleable mouth ready to smile, frown, or spit curses as needed, all set within firm, square features.
Those eyes were sunken now, dark seeds buried in dark soil, hidden under long hair poorly kempt. His features were caked with stubble, grime, a dried glistening of liquid he hadn’t bothered to clean away. And his mouth twitched, not quite sure what it was supposed to do.
Fitting. He didn’t know who this mask was supposed to
“Because I’ve seen what comes out of it.”
“Demons aren’t made in hell. They’re made
by
hell.” She leveled a finger at him. “The kind of hell that you’re going through.”
“I don’t—”
“
You do
.” She spoke cold, sharp, with enough force to send the fish swirling into hiding. Color died, leaving grim, gray corals and endless blue. “You hear it every time you think you’re alone, you see it every time you close your eyes. You feel it in your blood, you feel it sharing your body. It never talks loud enough for others to hear, but it deafens you, and if they could hear what it says, you know they’d cry out like you do.
“Kill. Kill,” she hissed. “You obey. Just to make it stop. But no matter how much your sword drinks, it will never be enough.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “If you kill them, Lenk, if you kill
her
, it still won’t be enough.”
Her voice echoed through water, through his blood. She wasn’t just talking to him. Something else had heard her.
And it tried to numb him, reaching out to cool his blood and turn his bones to ice. It only made the chill of her voice all the more keen, made the warmth of the ocean grow ever more intolerable. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to collapse, he wanted to let go and see if the current could carry him far enough that he might drift forever.
Those were not things he could do. Not anymore. So he inclined his head, just enough to avoid her gaze, and whispered.
“Yeah. That makes sense.”
“Then you know?” she asked. “Do you know how to fight it? That you
have
to fight it?”
Her voice was hard, but falsely so, something that had been brittle to begin with and hammered with a mallet in an awkward grip. Not hard enough to squelch the hope in her voice. She asked not for his sake alone.
He hated to answer.
“I’m not afraid of it, anymore.”
He tilted his head back up, turning his gaze skyward. The sun was distant, a shimmering blur on a surface so far away as to be mythical.
“I used to be,” he said. “But it says so many things. I tried ignoring itand I felt fear. I tried arguing and I felt pain. But now, I’m not afraid. I don’t hurt. I’m numb.”
“If you can safely ignore it, then is there a problem? If you don’t feel the need to kill—”
“I do.” He spoke with a casualness that unnerved himself. “The voice, when it speaks, tells me about how they abandoned me, how they betrayed me. It tells me they have to die for us to be safe. I try to ignore it … but it’s hard.”
“You said you were numb, that you weren’t afraid.”
“It’s not the voice that scares me.” He met her gaze now. He smiled faintly. “It’s that I’m beginning to agree with it.”
Denaos looked at himself in the blade. No scars, still. More wrinkles than there used to be. A pair of ugly bags under eyes that he chose not to look at, but no scars.
He had that, at least.
Appearance was one point of pride amongst many for him. There were other things he had hoped he would be remembered for: his taste in wine, an ear for song, and a way with women that sat firmly between the realms of poetry and witchcraft.
And killing
, his conscience piped up
.
Don’t forget killing
.
And killing. He was not bad at it.
Still, he thought as he surveyed himself, if none of those could be his legacy, looks would have to suffice.
And yet, as he saw the man in the blade, he wondered if perhaps he might have to discount that, too. His was a face used to masks: sharp, perceptive eyes over a malleable mouth ready to smile, frown, or spit curses as needed, all set within firm, square features.
Those eyes were sunken now, dark seeds buried in dark soil, hidden under long hair poorly kempt. His features were caked with stubble, grime, a dried glistening of liquid he hadn’t bothered to clean away. And his mouth twitched, not quite sure what it was supposed to do.
Fitting. He didn’t know who this mask was supposed to
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