A HENRY STORY 1: Memories Of The Fallen Prince

VIII. Weak

"Come, get up. Let us do something."

Thanatos did not even stir, and Henry groaned. He crossed his arms, and his gaze found the wall of the cave next to where he slept. He knew exactly how many tally marks there were; he counted them daily. Earlier, he had used the small piece of chalk he had found during one of his expeditions to make the twenty-ninth.

Henry whipped around and away from the wall. He was restless. He seldom was not, in recent times. Usually, he did not act on the vexation; he had quickly learned to control himself, and the words "tantrums will not help you in any capacity" had become his mantra, his one source of self-restraint. But even this rule became harder to follow with each day that passed . . . monotonously.

Henry stared at Thanatos, who had still not moved from his spot in the corner of the sizable cave and rolled his eyes. Twenty-nine days he'd now spent here, pining away in this damp hole, somewhere in the Dead Land. And what had happened? Nothing.

Henry vividly remembered the day Thanatos had taken him here after leaving the rat's land behind. He had explained that he'd stayed here in the past at some point, before—for whatever reason was still a mystery to Henry—he had come to the land of the rats. He had asked, and the flier had not given him a definitive answer. Well, it wasn't like it made much of a difference.

Henry yawned and stretched theatrically; his body had still not entirely adjusted to the whole sleeping on the floor thing, and he was in constant discomfort from sore muscles or stiff joints. Was that the gain he was supposed to be reaping from being here? Or maybe this was just what it felt like to get used to it. If it was, it was certainly not as relieving as he had hoped.

He had no idea what exactly he had expected out of outcast life. Henry stared at the cave wall; it danced with ghastly patterns from the light of the nearby river. He had never realized nearly all natural water bodies seemed to harbor glowing algae, yet he found himself grateful for it now.

Had he gone in with any expectations?

To live, Henry thought and almost scoffed. No. Not live. Survive. And, well . . . he had done that. Not much else, though, and spending his time on nothing but surviving was slowly but surely driving him insane.

He didn't want to survive anymore. Henry gritted his teeth and glared around at the cave like it was solely responsible for all his troubles. Like it wasn't the place that had harbored him for the last month. There was fresh water, light, and fish in the river. And Henry thought he had never hated anything more ferociously than the sight of it.

Today was day twenty-nine. Henry stared at the wall with the tally with livid contempt. Another fantastic day to die. If he died today, at least something other than waking up and spending his time idly pining away in this miserable hole would happen.

Henry shook his head to get the pecking thoughts to quiet down. He stepped out of the cave and sat by the river. He stared at the streaming water and, as he did on most days, contemplated whether it was worth throwing himself in and finding out where it would carry him.

Henry didn't know what to do. This truth was there, constantly on his mind, and he found it suffocating. He didn't know what he had expected or what he wanted to do to alleviate his restlessness. He didn't want to go out there by himself, but he didn't want to sit idle either. He wanted something to happen, but he didn't want to put himself in unnecessary danger. He didn't want to survive anymore, but he didn't want to die either.

With as much force as he could muster, he tossed a pebble into the bubbling stream. Then another, and another. Then something hit his leg and he looked up.

"And what was it that you had in mind for us to do?" asked Thanatos, looking at him with half-closed eyes that told Henry that he was perfectly fine with going back to hang and rest for the remaining day. And who knew how many after that?