Tome of the Undergates

what that stare had once lacked, only a desire not to look away, a desire to meet his gaze.

And to smile.

Such a feeling lasted for but a moment before she spied the journal held high above him like a weapon of leather and paper. With a snarl, he brought it down and smashed it against the side of her face.

‘OW!’ She shoved him off and scowled as he skulked away. ‘How is that, to any race, a reasonable reaction?’

‘Based on the fact that a man’s journal is his sole refuge from the vile and uncouth elements of the world he chooses to name as his companions,’ the young man replied snootily. ‘And, as a violator of that refuge, I invoked my Gods-given right to bash your narrow head with that refuge.’

‘Disregarding the obvious fact that your logic is completely deranged,’ she pulled herself to her feet, ‘why so secretive about it, anyway? It’s not like I haven’t seen anything you put in there.’

His stride slowed at that, suddenly afflicted by some degenerative disease that forced him to walk, then trudge, then stop with a painful finality, rigid as a corpse in an upright coffin.

‘These are my thoughts.’ His whisper cut through the air like a knife.

‘Well,’ she gritted her teeth, feeling his voice rake against her flesh, ‘I mean, they’re fine and all, but-’

‘But what? You’ve seen them before, have you?’

‘No, but-’

‘Heard them, then?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Exactly.’ He whirled on her, hurling his scowl like a spear and skewering her upon the sands. ‘You don’t see my thoughts. You don’t hear my thoughts. You don’t know anything beyond what your self-important shicty self believes you do.’ His mouth went tight as he tucked the journal under his arm and stalked away. ‘Let’s not ruin that special relationship we share.’

He had barely taken two steps before he felt her reply impale him and hold him fast.

‘I know you don’t dream.’

Lenk forced himself not to turn around; he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen, would not let her hear his heart skip a beat. The sound of the waves was suddenly uncomfortably quiet, the creeping of the mist far too slow for his liking.

‘Not like other humans, at least,’ she continued softly. ‘Yours are fevered and wild. You snarl and whimper in your sleep.’

‘And what tells you this?’ he replied, just as soft. ‘Whatever mental illness passes for shictish intuition?’

‘You cry out in the night from time to time.’ Her voice was emotionless, denying him any anger and any opportunity to end this conversation. ‘Not loudly, not lately, but you do. I’ve seen it.’

His breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, her hand was on his arm, the naked flesh of her fingers pressing against this rapidly tensing bicep. Though desiring not to, though he shrieked at himself not to, he turned and stared into her twin emeralds.

In the year he had known her, he had become accustomed to so much of her: her savagery, her ears, her profoundly morbid laughter. Even her near-total disregard for human life was something he had learned to accept about her. Her stare, however, was something he knew at that moment he would never feel comfortable under.

She never condemned him, never judged him; never did an emotion flicker in the endless green. Her face was blank, mouth small as eyes were wide. He felt vulnerable under her gaze, beyond naked, as though she stared through flesh, bone, sinew, past what some people might call a soul and into something else entirely.

And for all that he strained to deny her, he could not help but stare back.

‘What do you dream about?’

‘Dawn is rising. The others will be getting up soon.’ That he seemed unable to pull himself from her was a fleeting thought. ‘Go and bother one of them.’

‘Do you dream of your family?’ Her grip tightened on his arm. ‘Do you see them when you close your eyes?’ She clenched his hand in hers. ‘Lenk. . is it them you hear?’

‘Shut UP!’

He ripped himself from her with a shocking ease, meeting her stare with a scowl. Where her eyes were a vast, passionless green, he felt his brim with a scornful blue. He suddenly felt very cold.

‘I don’t need your interrogations.’ His voice leaked between his teeth in a frigid cloud. ‘I don’t need your sympathy. I don’t need to talk about this and I’m not going to.’

At once, her gaze lost its distance and lack of expression. It flitted like that of a beast, darting between fear and resolve, squirming between trembling and firmness. In response, his grew harder, going deep and narrow like a dagger’s cut. His jaw clenched, his hands trembled at his sides.

‘I need you to stop staring at me.’

The journal fell to the sand. The sound of it crashing upon the earth echoed through the dawn.

When he turned, all of nature fell silent behind him. The morning took on a thick and oppressive sentience, the mist twisting to angry fingers that sought to impose themselves between the two companions to make room for another presence.

Someone else seemed to step between them, carving a stand with icy feet and turning a hostile, eyeless scowl upon the shict.

And she did not yield.

She had felt it before, seen it walking behind Lenk as an envious shadow, seeking to push others away as it sought to pull itself forwards. She had seen it pull itself into him, overcome him, become him.

She did not fear it, not any more, not for herself.

‘Sorry …’

His body shrank with his sigh. She grunted in reply.

‘You remember seeing me fall,’ she said. ‘Do you remember what happened next. . with the Abysmyth?’

‘I don’t.’

‘You do. I do.’ She took a tentative step forwards. ‘I was alive. . awake long enough to see it. You fought well, better than I’d ever seen you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It wasn’t you fighting, though.’ Her voice was hesitant, even as her stare was steady. ‘It wasn’t you who knelt over me. It was someone else.’ She forced herself to stare out over the sea. ‘Someone with eyes that had no pupils.’

Lenk offered no reply. The beach was reluctant to speak for him, its waves quiet and breezes humble. She rubbed her arms, feeling rather cold at that moment, caught between the silence of the sea and him.

Between them both stood someone else.

She took a step to the side, quietly, as if to get away from the presence. Immediately, she felt a bit warmer, but not because of any removal from an imaginary presence. It wasn’t until she felt much warmer that she glanced out of the corner of her eye to see Lenk standing in her footprints, staring out over the ocean, silent.

And they were content to say nothing.

‘I can barely remember it.’

He shattered the silence with a murmur.

‘I don’t remember how they died, only that they were dead.’ His eyes were blank and empty. ‘I remember shadows, fire. . swords. There was no one left afterwards.’ His eyes turned downwards. ‘I woke up in a barn, a burned-out thing. I had hidden, I don’t remember why I didn’t fight. I don’t remember whose barn it was, I don’t remember what house it was closest to. I don’t remember anything about my mother, my father, my grandfather but their faces. .’

She heard his eyes shut tight.

‘Sometimes. . not even that.’

He turned away, made a move as if to leave and let the cold presence take his place. Her hand shot out, seizing his and pulling him back.

‘I don’t want to talk about this,’ he whispered.

She squeezed his hand, turned him to face her and smiled.