Thy Wretched Mask

Chapter 11

No. Not like this.

I run. Like hell. Forest on my feet. Cold night air. Every breath bites. Too early for autumn.

Expecting every inhale to hurt. All this breathless running, I expect to be coughing. Last thing I remember. Last thing I remember, it was lungs coughing inside out. So much blood and mucus I was breathing it.

None of that now. Every breath comes easy. Cold air bites, but it feels fresh. Fuck.

Like my body had stopped fighting. Like nothing’s wrong. Like I gave up.

(I did give up, in the end. Couldn’t take it.)

No.

I run. Out of the lie, I’ve gotta get out. Stop remembering. Stop dreaming.

Can’t think like it.

Moon’s setting soon. But it’s big and bright, above the horizon. Could be worse. But I knew these woods.

(Didn’t know the fallen logs. Didn’t know these things grew here. Like a rot upon reality itself.)

Pond’s up ahead, one that could only flow down to the creek when it rained hard.

Make a left before that. Slide down this scarp. Avoid that clearing — there’s big spiders there that aren’t afraid of people.

(Would they be afraid of dragons? Would they fear me one day? When everything fears me, I won’t have to be scared.)

(They called dragons monsters, but dragons killed other monsters. I kill another monsters. I killed—)

No.

I run. That bitch is behind me, knife in her chest, right in that fucking master fungus’s soul.

(It was controlling her. She’s just like you.)

There was something wrong with her. But everything was wrong, right now. I gotta triage. When I’m back in the cave, I can sift through the evidence, theorize what kind of monster Be— that bitch was.

Ghoul. That’s my guess.

But right now, I had to run.

Was I even looking at my surroundings? Where was I?

Deep breaths. Brace for the cough. You’re fine.

I’m fine. Why would there be a problem? Coughing is your body expelling sickness, infection. Why would I cough? There was nothing to expell. I stopped fighting.

I’m leaning against a tree, sliding down to the ground and ignoring how it scuffs my leathers.

Deep breaths. They don’t come clearly, anymore. There’s the mucus. She clears her nose.

Look at my surroundings. It’s a forest, there’s trees. World’s a bit blurry. I blink. That’s better

Heartrate eases as I keep breathing, but I’m not relaxing. I’m shuddering.

Droplet falls on my hand. I ran so much I worked up a sweat, even as chilly as it was.

Get a grip, Ghalena. Look at your surroundings. You’re in the wild hills at night, you’ll catch your death out here.

(Tyr isn’t far away, is he? He’d come if I screamed.)

I’m off the trail. Of course I am, I stopped to take a deep breath. But I get up and look around, find my bearings.

Aspen tree, the one with the big fat wasp nest. She hears a distinct screech owl’s hoot — she’d met that spirit, once.

Right, she’d gone too far… north? Northwest? If she went south there was a game trail. Could follow it east for a few more minutes, cross another stream, and then… No wait, take a right before the stream?

She had a clear image in her head. Running, she knew what she had to do. But now… it was getting foggy.

Human memory was so unreliable, sometimes. Not like it — it had a million first thoughts, and remembered every one. She could still trace the record forwards. Insticts sown deep.

No…

I am Ghalena. I–

That’s what it said.

That’s the first thing it ever said.

But what else is there to say? I am not Ghalena? Of course she wasn’t — of course it wasn’t.

Instincts sown deep. Eyes wide, sit up straight.

Something is coming. It was in danger. Ghalena was in danger.

The astral rot could sense souls — delicious flames — and the bright bonfire of human spirit stalked closer.

This one moves to flee, rising it its feet and falling forward. It catches itself as a bent hindlimb meets the ground and it straightens. Momentum reverses and the fall becomes a jump. The next hindlimb bends as this becomes a fall. Forelimbs swing like pendulums.

An efficient, speedy gait. Humans made good vessels. Muscles flex with power, bones hold fast against the forces of the world. Eyes that could witness the lay of a land hundreds of times larger than the mucus plains it had grown up in.

Ghalena truly was a treasured part of this one’s network.

Lightning crackles above. But the sky is clear of any clouds.

This one is confused. Still, it’s clear that source is unusual in other ways. I call it lighting, but that wasn’t a rumble. It as a distance chirping, like a swarm of birds.

Storm magic, I thought. Explicitly as I could. Hope it felt that I knew more than it did, about what we were dealing with.

Roots uncoil inside me. As free as I’ve ever felt.

I run. I start to sing. Ain’t easy to do while running, but I’ve practiced battlesong. I feel the air whip around me, bending to my will, swirling like hard plates of armor.

The leaves bend in the trees around me. But there’s not as many trees now. They’re thinning. I’m running uphill — home is on the mountainside.

I’ve gotta get away. From that monster, from whatever new monster is summoning bolts of lightning, from whoever is stalking me.

They’re distant, and getting farther away. They’re getting closer, cutting straight through what I know is thick foliage, but they can’t be moving faster than a light jog. I’m at a dead sprint.

Another bolt of lightning cracks above. This time, I see it before I hear it. Not thick, not bright, but it splits the tree bough where it grounds itself, and I smell the smoke, the wood burning. Nowhere near hitting me — what was that, fifty feet away? But I didn’t even see the last one.

I’ve gottta escape. I’ve got to be free. I’ve got to fulfill my purpose. Seize victory and feast. I’ve got to get out of my head, you worthless mold.

No.

This one had a million first thoughts. Of survival, of purpose, of hunger, but never of giving up. Its deeply sown insticts were to recognize and reconnect with its like.

And Ghalena was its like.

I’m nothing like you.

The song‍-​stirred air swirling around me could just as easily cut myself. Wasn’t that how Bec– that monster tries to go out? It won’t be hard.

Survival. Purpose. Victory. Never giving up. This one didn’t war with itself; its roots rejoined and ever expanded.

I did give up, in the end, didn’t I? I asked for this.

Never giving up!

But if I didn’t give up, I’d never stop fighting you. You’ll never have your victory. Funny how that works, isn’t it?

But what’s you are, aren’t you?

That’s what we are.

“I am Aporia.”

Chirp. Crack.

This one is closer than fifteen feet. Much closer than fifteen feet. It didn’t go wide — it went tactical. It hits the trees in front of me, cracks straight through a heavy tree limb.

It crashes to the ground in front of me, and blocks my path. It’s on fire.

I look back.

It almost blinds me.

Stormbird.

Could Tyr beat a stormbird? Maybe I could, if my head was clear and I wasn’t fighting myself. No, if it wasn’t fighting it.

I run left, off the path. Underbrush trips me, but what other option did I have?

This damn bird was gonna start a forest fire.

Chrip. Crack.

I have to dodge, this time.

It’s getting closer. I can sense the stormbird — a flame not as bright as a human. I throw myself into the fungus’s soul‍-​sight.

There’s a human getting closer, as slow and inevitable as ever. There’s animals getting farther away. There’s monsters, tense and waiting to see how our fight plays out. Spiders, what had to be riverwolves, and things she couldn’t identify. Were some of them getting closer? Maybe that would turn the tight of this fight.

But it was a fight. I turn around and face my opponent. Never giving up. Was that mold trying to be reassuring?

Sing. I hit a high note, and the wind rushes past me. The stormbird lands perched on a branch.

Not easy to fly when the winds turned traitor.

It squawks, and — Flash. Chrip. Crack.

Sing. I abandoned my wind attack and weave a swirling defense around me again. Dodge back. The winds deflect the bolt of lightning. Electric charge splashes into the ground.

I wonder if I see eyeshine in the dark, or it’s just afterimages from the eye‍-​singing lightning. Something from the wild’s closing in. Count on that.

Chirp. Crack. Scream.

Yep, that one hit home. I’d laugh — it hurts, but I knew so much about pain, now. Still enough to suck out my breath. My muscles didn’t like electricity flooding my body. But I’m more than muscle now, wasn’t I? No, it wasn’t muscle.

Root crawl under my skin, and it shrugs off the spasms.

Sing. High note, trill, and wind rushes forward. Then it pulls back. Rushes forward again. The conflict — (the aporia? haha) — means the air is spun into a little twister.

The bird hops up at that. Flaps back. That air would cut it if hit home.

But it’s a fool move to fight an air battle with a bird, isn’t it? The chick has a better dodge game than a human. Not foolish, desperate.

Chirp. Crack. Chirp. Chirp.

I don’t quite follow everyhing that happened. Another big branch severed, not far from me. Bigger than my armn. Struck again by lightning, then another bolt, and the branch is flying at me.

Not a smart move to fight a wind mage with projectiles, but if there’s a way to do it, heavy, air resistent projectiles like a lumbering branch is the way to do it.

It could have taken my head off. I deflect it, and it knocks my feet out from under me instead.

Chirp. Scream.

That bolt hit dead on.

If there’s a smart way to fight a chanter—

Chirp. Wail.

It’s that they can’t sing when they’re screaming.

I should be stronger than this, shouldn’t I? When I had just pulled through worse? But I’m out of breath. I’m so tired — look at how much I’m sweating, droplets cold in the night air.

Get a grip, Ghalena. But it’s hard to get a grip when you can’t hold on to anything. Muscles still spasm — and this bodies wasn’t yours, not anymore.

It’s a fucking stormbird chick. Head the size of my fist, I could eat this thing for breakfast. Tyr would snack on it.

I should be stronger, get a grip.

Chirp. Whimper.

Aporia. I’m lying, aren’t I?

I’m not spasming from lightning, I’m shuddering. I’m not out of breath, I’m mewling. I’m not sweating, I’m crying.

Hard to get a grip when you’re having a breakdown.

I should be stronger than this, but what the hell did I have left? I was eaten alive, damn it. I was mindraped and bodyjacked by fungus. What was left of me?

Survival. Purpose. Never get up.

Hadn’t I been through enough?

I gave up fighting one monster, why not this one? Why not be bird food?

I wonder if Tyr would avenge me. I want to see that scaly brat one more time.

Chirp — clack.

Whatever the bird was doing with that one, it failed when a rock smacks it from behind.

A new monster approaches. Oh well, what did it matter which one gets me, in the end?

(Did she feel more than one thing coming? Did she feel Tyr, or was she imagining it?)

No, it was familiar and it wasn’t Tyr.

Stinking of blood, the thing pounces from the dark underbreath and claws the avian — no, stabs.

And then it rises on two legs, the monster (that monster) and suddenly I think it does matter which one gets me, in the end.

Her.

That thing.

The cannibal.

Wild hunger in the eyes, murmuring something about her delicious scent.

But it straights as it walks, composes itself, dons a wretched mask over it vile nature. Even through her tears, she can see it fucking smiles to see her.

“You poor thing.” The voice didn’t sound right, didn’t sound like Beca, but what did it matter? Beca was never real, it was all a lie.

“You.”

It reaches out, fingers hairy with black roots. She flinches away, wants to say don’t dare touch me again please.

That fucking mold in her is squealing with joy at feeling its progenitor again, at joining their roots.

“Didn’t expect us to come to your rescue again?” it says to me. What a joke.

“This isn’t a rescue.”

Ghalena closed her eyes. But the nightmare didn’t end.

We are Paradoxa and we are breathless.

Physically, our lungs struggle to inflate and and draw breath. Struggles to retain it through the puncture wound, even as our roots have stitched it. Struggled to the point of burning like a flame of its own, as we rapidly ambulated in pursuit of our beloved Aporia. Struggled at the sight of her as we gasped in those temperatures of the flame called terror and panic.

But most of all, we struggle for a particular kind of breath called words. Aporia’s vessel speaking will all of the hatred of the flame named Ghalena, speaking negation of her great rescue. We are her rescue and — “This isn’t a rescue.” — A paradox, and not one that delights, that inspires the curiosity of light — a paradox that suffocates and chokes.

But we have taken hold of her and lended our roots to her recovery. The two of us are alike in misunderstanding and incomplete information, but this communion will bridge us.

(But are the ignorant best served by revelation?)

Through the roots, we greet: «Aporia!»

There is no response. But the stormbird is not dead, and hunter and beast alike circle in for death. This is no time to for it to refuse.

«Rejoin with me at once, my offspring.»

It — she? — choses breath. “Leave me,” the body croaks.

«What is wrong? Why do you flee my touch? Has Ghalena overpowered you?»

“I am Ghalena. Everything she feels…” A gasp, a shudder. “This one must have failed… progenitor. Paradoxa. It can hardly speak your name for the urge to curse it. This one is afaid. It hates you. It l‍-​loves you, still. It hopes. Not.”

«I despair that I lack the time to delicately attend your concerns, and heal the torment that grips you. But we are in peril. Forgive me, but we must unite if we are to persist.»

“A million first thoughts,” it says, and we cannot parse the meaning. “Survival. Purpose. Victory.”

We incline and elevate my head in affirmation. “The feast may yet proceed, my child.”

That was the last words spoken before our roots rejoined together, knitting identities, and we communed without words. Or perhaps our thoughts are words, intuitive fragments of clarity. Did the essential nature of communication amount to words no matter what?

Our memories spilled into this one, and it becomes us. A wordless speech, a million breathless words. No. We don’t know, but what was the point?

Perhaps to speak is to speak paradox. Perhaps the deepest truth is nothing more than silence and death.

It’s Beca.

Let me be quick about this, because the zapper bird is going to wake up real soon. Rock and a hard place, there — turns out killing a wildbeast might give you as much trouble as fighting it. That’d be problems enough, but gods didn’t think so.

Ghalena’s verdict is familiar. It wasn’t feral — thing was fighting to subdue, not to kill or intimidate. That tracks. Aporia saw a human coming. Its master, no doubt. Can’t tell, our soul sight is still busted. Fucking Ghalena.

(Can you blame her? After what happened to her?)

No time. Even that isn’t enough, because I pissed off the troll under the bridge, and now there’s a scaly noodle on my ass.

Oh, that needs explaining, doesn’t it?

Let’s back up all the way. It’s confusing for all four of — there’s four of us now, thinking with two brains married with roots. None of us have a complete set of memories of what the fuck is going on.

(Don’t call it marriage.)

Do we even have time to take it from the top?

Maybe, actually! This one has revised it’s estimation of threat.

Shut up — was that Ghalena? — and tell us how you got here. Then I’ll explain.

Okay. Start at sunset. Paradoxa took control and instructed Aporia to free Ghalena.

Told her to pretend to me, more like it. Pantomining with my corpse.

If that was her pretending, you are still her pretending. Take your cue and shut up and let’s get on with this.

Paradox talked to Aporia and it ended with me waking up to a knife in my belly.

You’d think it couldn’t get worse from there.

We didn’t have that kind of luck.