King of the Woodlands

Chapter 23

He was a god of ruin, a thing born of chaos' womb, a king of shadows and dark forests. Behind him stood the silent ghosts of child-eating trees, mournfully whispering of the ruin that would seep into the earth once he was gone. Phantom winds whistled through the holes in the invisible forest, wailing a name that wasn't his.

Oh, little brother, Kolzryrth laughed. The ancient storms in you could bring Ruination to his knees.

The voice was not Kolzryrth's. Something ancient rumbled beneath it, a malevolent voice, a voice he did not know. It spoke of him as if he were a god, but in the end, all gods shed red blood, and met their demise just as mortal men did.

He took another step. The cave was a foot away now.

And then he was drowning again, drowning in that endless sea, water spilling from his mouth as he struggled and gasped for air. Although his hearing had been submerged underwater, he'd heard his mother's voice, demanding more of him, ordering him to survive. All his hope had died that day, shriveling like leaves beneath winter's kiss.

He'd been angry, not just with the humans, but himself as well—too in love with snow and trees and fire to realize that a shadow loomed above him. If he'd detected the humans coming, he could've prevented the whole thing from happening. He could live normally.

But before him lay a new, untouched land, a world so green it was like all the leaves in the world had blended together into one eternal shade. The hills were every hue, from new spring grass to dark forest pools.

"Look around," Lilibeth said as he drank it in. "The earth never hurt anyone. This is life's sweet beauty, and it heals. Sometimes I wake up early just to see the sun rise. The nice sort of mornings for me begin with grey skies and autumn leaves. They're kinder, gentler."

He'd give anything to be normal again, to take in those soft, chill mornings, to hear the fireplaces crackle and whisper, to read old books that smelled like knowledge and everything he'd ever loved and lost.

And somehow, he felt like the entire world had been made just to be seen by his eyes. It was so beautiful yet so horrifying to him, and it broke his heart.

"How?" he said, his voice raw and undefended. "How can this kind of place exist amongst all the bad things in this world?" Llewellenar was home to a forest that ate children and a tower of dragon-hating mages, but still this goodness existed.

"Hope," Lilibeth responded. She kept her eyes on the hills, freckled with flowers. He'd rather spend a day with her than face the ages of the Otherworld alone. "All it takes to preserve this beauty are a few people who trust that humankind is good."

They spent the day in tall fields of grass, Lilibeth's hair flying in soft waves as she walked around, naming each blade of grass, talking to them kindly, as if they were her children. It took him a few steps, and he'd trembled at first, but soon, he was normal again. The earth, oh, the earth, was bringing him back.

He observed the way she spoke to the grass, the birds, the flowers, talking to them with such wonder and reverence, as if they put the sun in the sky. At first, he felt like a wolf, a wraith, too big for this mellow life, but Lilibeth pulled him along.

There was a quiet sadness beneath her blazing smiles and bright eyes, a longing. He could give her—no, he couldn't. He hadn't granted that privilege to anyone before, and it was unfair of him to give it to her when others had suffered.

Lilibeth bounded up to him, extending an ivory hand. On it skittered a little bug with glossy red skin the color of candied apples, freckled with black spots. Revulsion shot through him. "What is that thing?"

She laughed. "It's a ladybird. She won't hurt you."

He recoiled. "I don't trust it."

She took a step closer. "See? She doesn't do anything."

"Don't get that thing near me!" he exclaimed.

Lilibeth laughed so hard she snorted. "If you insist." She cooed something to the terrifying insect, and it flew off, a candy-red spot flitting through the spring-dusted wind.

She then led him into a sweet-smelling clover patch, the green plants bespeckled with pink and white flowers. Fat bees merrily visited each flower, beating their wings in greeting. Chickadees called ahead, and Lilibeth chirped back.

The girl crossed her legs, sitting down and plucking some flowers from the ground. "How long has it been since you've flown?"

He considered this for a while. It had been so long, perhaps centuries ago. Now, he didn't even know how to spread his wings and fly free. All around him was a prison made of stone and ivy, binding his bones to the earth. He'd rattled the bars of his cage, but it would never let him out.

"A long time ago," he said, sniffing at the clover flowers. They smelled like sunshine. "I don't remember how long ago, truth be told."

"Can you fly now?"

The words pelted him like stones. Could he? His weary, driftwood bones trembled with longing, and his heart began to ache, a slow, steady pain. Silence once again crept into the cracks between them. Going outside and facing the light was one thing, but flying again? That was a different story.

"I don't know," he said miserably. "I don't know." And he wanted to, he really did.

Lilibeth's eyes were patient. "Whenever you're ready."

"You don't have to do this."

"I know."

"Why do you do this? I—I've only brought ruination to everything." The string of words spilled from his mouth, reeking with anger and guilt that made the air around them blaze.

"Because I think you're worth saving."

He shook his head. "I wasn't enough," he said. He might've conquered the light, his pain, his fear, but he would never get past the blackness in his heart, the guilt that still lived deep inside him. "I wasn't enough."

"No," she said. "You are enough, a hundred times enough, a thousand. You saved me from that scarecrow, and you forgave me when I was foolish. Even if no one else believes that you are enough, I'll be with you until the end of the line."

He froze, a cold gravestone trapped beneath age-hardened ice. Yes, he had saved her, but it had been out of guilt and selfish shame, not because he truly believed her life was worth sparing. But he'd still saved her, and as he'd spent more time with her, he realized that her life was indeed worth sparing.

Were the words she spoke true? Was he really enough? It was hard to believe that he'd once been a wyrmling—brilliant, blessed, chaotic, living spirited and free the way nature had intended him. He could return to that wyrmling again, the wild thing he once was. He didn't know if he could ever find happiness again, but he could find—peace. Contentment. And if he was lucky enough, the stars would give him a crown and grant him that happiness in his next life.

So he stood up and said, "I think I'm ready to fly, Lilibeth. And you're going to do it with me."