Renathal would have stormed up to the castle then and there and demanded answers of Denathrius, refused to leave until he had them, were it not for the… extenuating circumstances… Read on Ao3 here.
The Prince of Revendreth stalked up the walk to Darkwall Tower in a thunderous mood. Every minute of the last slow and unsatisfactory day had been spent extinguishing the metaphorical fires set by his disastrous court.
The first half had been occupied by a steady stream of meetings with his well-placed sources throughout the realm, all confirming his reputation had taken quite the blow. The nobility considered him to have gone soft in recent years, while the rest complained he catered too much to the nobility - something about the low number of invitations extended to the Venthyr working class. After which, he was forced to make the long trek to the Halls of Atonement and endure a tirade about his court’s anima waste from the irate Accuser, who had not even bothered to attend.
“Courts and flowing fonts and frivolities while the realm bleeds anima!”
Renathal had done his utmost to keep a diplomatic demeanour -
“The Sire is now overseeing the anima conservation programme himself. I am sure a change in fortune is on the way.”
“And what is he doing with all this conserved anima? Our tithes and tributes have tripled and yet we see no aid!”
- but his nerves were highly strung.
“Ask him,” Renathal had snapped.
“You think I have not tried?” The Accuser’s laugh was a high, bitter scoff. “I apply to Nathria for an audience daily and am refused. The Master is far too busy, they say. Busy with what, exactly? What is he doing holed up in the castle?”
That was the question. And one the Dark Prince could not answer. Little though he liked to admit it, he did not know his Master’s mind. Renathal had not seen Denathrius since first receiving his mortal assignment, and, for one of few times in his whole existence, he was not eager for an audience, though his fear of a summons grew with every passing hour and accounted for most of why he was so tightly wound.
“It is none of our concern,” he declared. “He is the Sire. All of Revendreth is his purview. Ours is simply to trust him.”
“Perhaps you trust too blindly, Renathal,” was the Accuser’s dour reply, and Renathal’s patience had buckled.
“Perhaps you are too familiar, Harriett.”
Unpleasant surprise momentarily stymied the Accuser, but she recovered herself quickly.
“Very well then. Your Highness. If you will not help us, we will take matters into our own hands.”
“We?”
“Yes. We. There are plenty of others who see what is happening even if you refuse.”
At which Renathal, his patience for thinly veiled threats already exhausted, had taken his leave.
It was, strictly speaking, treason. By right, he ought to have summoned Stone Legion representatives to clap the Accuser in chains and escort her to the nearest convenient crypt. But the re-education of a Harvester would necessarily draw the Master’s eye, something Renathal was actively avoiding as his dredger driver raced his carriage at unprecedented speeds through back ways and side roads in an attempt to avoid the castle grounds. Revendreth, however, seemed to have set itself against him. A sharp turn around a sharper bend saw the carriage’s disastrous cliff side crash, obliging the Dark Prince - the Accuser’s warnings of anima lack still echoing guiltily through his head - to walk the last miles back to Darkwall Tower.
With each uncomfortable step - he was wearing the wrong boots for a hike - Renathal cursed every aspect of this tedious, nerve-wracking, and distinctly inauspicious day. There was only one thing that would salvage it, and he sought it on instinct the very second he reached home. Slamming the front doors behind him, taking the stairs to the first floor two at a time, he stalked for the open entrance to the informal parlour where Elisewin and two dredgers were arranging a modest tea.
At the violent stomp of his boots, all three looked up in varying shades of alarm.
“Out,” he snarled at the undeserving dredgers. “And shut the door behind you.”
They hastened to obey, muttering mutinously at his outburst, but Renathal spared them neither apologies nor a backward glance. His eyes were on Elisewin, setting down her tray of tea cakes and regarding him curiously, as he waited with palpable impatience for the snap of the closing door.
“What-” she began, but Renathal’s mouth had already found hers, dragging her to him and drowning his temper in a deep, desperate kiss she reciprocated without thought, and which, for one full, delicious minute, neither of them was willing to break.
“Come,” ordered Renathal hoarsely, winding his arms around his new lover, ready to whisk her upstairs to his bedroom, anima be damned.
But the miseries of the day had not, apparently, had their fill of him. His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as Elisewin shook her head.
“Renathal,” she said, half-laughing, avoiding his chasing hands, “you have guests.”
“Who?”
“Tenaval and Dehavia. They’re stabling their sinrunners now.”
“Send them away.”
Elisewin’s laugh blossomed into something full and delighted. It echoed through the high-ceilinged room and unknotted the tension in Renathal’s shoulders and neck. This time when he reached for her, she did not shy away. She let herself be caught, let Renathal kiss her again, laughter and all, and her mirth had not quite faded when he next allowed her air.
“Very well,” she said breathlessly. “And what should I say is the reason you are refusing to see your allies - your friends - after demanding they report to you on such short notice?”
Renathal groaned. A petulant, put-upon sound. Elisewin was right, but he did not have to like it. He did not want to think about intrigue and espionage and anima allotments and rumours of rebellion any longer. The day had been excessively taxing, all the more so for how much of it had been spent away from her. All he wanted now was to wrap Elisewin around himself like a blanket and relax - truly relax; that total abandonment of stress and expectation he so rarely enjoyed - safe under her warmth and gentle weight, for however long they might have left.
He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at his temple. And, to his surprise, heard Elisewin’s quiet laugh bubble up once more.
“Wait here,” she said and craned her neck to plant a quick kiss on his furrowed brow, then returned to the table and hastily crowded teapot, cups, and accoutrement back on their silver tray. Hoisting it into her arms, she headed for the door, nudged the knob with her elbow, and transferred the rattling porcelain to the dredgers lurking outside. “Change of venue. Set up tea in the formal parlour downstairs instead. Escort the Prince's guests there and let them know he will join them shortly.”
“You are becoming rather free with orders,” remarked Renathal wryly as she shut the door again, then slid the lock into place.
He raised an eyebrow at that. Elisewin’s smile was wide and wicked.
“Your influence. Come.”
His eyebrows slid higher up his forehead, but Renathal made no argument as Elisewin took his hand and led him to a seat on one of the parlour’s low, comfortable chairs. And they almost lost themselves in his hairline when she sank to the floor between his legs and reached for his belt, her unrepentant smile wet and glistening as she unfastened the heavy gold clasp.
Half an hour later, Renathal was no more interested in his duties than he had been all day, but he was a great deal more relaxed as he sat in the formal parlor, sipping tea and absorbing the unsettling news brought by his informants in the Tithelord’s estate.
Dehavia drank in customary laconic silence, her occasional nods or shakes of the head a solemn counterpoint to Tenaval’s eloquent if long-winded report. The gist of which was that, though the Harvester of Envy had indeed increased the realm’s required tithes, anima was as thin on the ground at his Manor as everywhere else in Revendreth. The Tithelord’s own vassals were becoming concerned at their dwindling supply. But the Harvester himself was inexplicably indifferent to their plight. He was as sequestered as Denathrius, going nowhere and seeing no one, with the notable exception of the Harvester of Dread who remained a regular guest.
It was worrisome. Quite apart from the undeniable dearth of anima, if there was corruption among the Harvesters, the Accuser would never let Renathal live it down. He thanked his agents for their information, assured them the matter would be dealt with swiftly, then let Breakfist show them out and sat back against the velvet of his stately parlor chair to brood over what he had learned.
A confrontation with the Master was coming. It was as inevitable as death itself. Renathal would have stormed up to the castle then and there and demanded answers of Denathrius, refused to leave until he had them, were it not for the… extenuating circumstances…
“You look concerned,” Elisewin noted as she piled the used tea things onto their silver tray.
Renathal watched her hands as she worked. Half his mind was lost in worries, the other in delightful memories of the other activities in which those same warm, lavender fingers had recently been engaged.
“It is a concerning issue,” he replied.
“Has this never happened before?” she asked. “Corruption amongst Harvesters? Keeping anima to themselves?”
The question roused Renathal a little from his discordant reverie.
“Well… those are really two separate questions,” he said, sitting straighter in his chair. “Corruption, certainly. But rarely in the form of hoarding anima. Before the drought, such a thing hardly mattered. There was always anima and to spare for even the lowliest of Venthyr. Such a lack is… unprecedented.” He drummed his fingernails against the lacquered armrest. “It is disappointing and disconcerting, but… I suppose it makes sense for corruption to take on a form more applicable to the current climate.
“The question…” He sighed heavily as he admitted the truth out loud, “is not whether there is corruption, but which Harvester is at its heart.”
“And how far it reaches…”
Renathal looked up sharply at Elisewin’s thoughtful murmur.
“After all… you said yourself… there are no secrets from the Sire.”
Her blue-white eyes were fixed unseeingly on the empty fireplace before her, fingers worrying the hem of her tunic in what Renathal had come to interpret as nerves. And something about her own concern for his realm flooded his chest with visceral affection.
“Come here,” he called softly.
Elisewin blinked. She shot a glance at the closed parlor door before accepting Renathal’s outstretched hand and letting him gather her onto his lap. His fingers stroked almost reverently through her dark, silky waterfall of hair, basking in the colligation of comfort and arousal her warm mortal flesh inspired. Renathal closed his eyes, and imagined eternity like this: his lover a permanent fixture instead of running on stolen time. But he knew better. She had spoken the inexorable, infuriating truth. Nothing stayed secret from the Sire.
Which meant…
“Either Denathrius has somehow been deceived,” he mused aloud, “or he himself has fallen to corruption. Both possibilities are terrible to contemplate.”
“And I suppose there’s only one way to find out for certain.”
Renathal hmmed noncommittally into Elisewin’s hair. She lifted her head to look up at him.
“You will have to see him, eventually.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why put it off?”
Renathal grimaced.
"Our... situation... complicates matters," he admitted. “The Sire can smell deception. And he knows me far too well. I cannot hope to approach him, let alone accuse him of something, without giving us away.”
The arm around Elisewin tightened reflexively, as if anticipating the moment when Denathrius would pry her from him. She shifted under his grip.
“Would it really be so bad?” she asked, absently petting the bit of Renathal’s throat peeking from his high collar. “For the Sire to find out, I mean? I understand, there will be consequences, but-”
“Yes.”
Elisewin blinked and dropped her hand. Renathal squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the sudden upswell of vomitous panic.
"Yes," he repeated with marginally more calm. "It would be... bad."
There was a pregnant pause. Renathal could feel Elisewin's breath flutter his goatee as she stared up at him, expecting explanations. But the memories of that most hated of lessons, and the sure knowledge of another looming on the horizon, were unbearable in his present anxious state.
"You cannot understand," was all he could say.
Elisewin seemed to find this unsatisfactory. She wriggled from his grasp, manoeuvring herself until she sat astride him.
“Renathal,” she said, his name all matter-of-fact consonants, leaning in to tidy his mussed goatee. “I told you already. I'm yours, whatever the consequences. But… I do think I deserve to know what those are, if only to give myself time to prepare.
"It won't change my mind," she assured him with a little shake of her head, hands leaving their work on his chin to comb back loose strands of his hair. "I'm not as delicate as you think. I can take a bit of torture and imprisonment. It's the not knowing I can't stand. And there is so much I don't know already… so much I cannot remember. And that has been worse than anything else I have faced in Revendreth by far. Please, Renathal," and, in an unusual display of open frustration, she raked a hand through her own hair. "Please, don't leave me in the dark about this, too."
Renathal’s capitulatory sigh was dredged from his weary bones. For the second time that day, he knew Elisewin was right, and he was even more miserable about it than before. He dragged air back into his lungs with a rattle and wrapped his fingers around her thighs, fortifying himself for the unhappy task.
“Intimacy... exclusive intimacy,” he explained with reluctance, “is... discouraged among Venthyr. It is not a sin, per se, but it is a gateway for sin. A vice. So much envy, covetous desire, greed, and wrath are born from it. Harvesters in particular are expected to be above such weakness. And… if we are not...” he wet his lips with his tongue, “the Sire intervenes.”
“What does that mean?” asked Elisewin, bland and business-like. “How can the Sire intervene between us?”
Renathal forced the words out from behind gritted fangs.
"He will... take you."
"Take me away?"
"Take you for himself." He laid a stress on the word, and watched understanding dawn in Elisewin's pale eyes. "And by the time he has finished with you, any other... attachment you might have had will be little more than a fading dream. He will ensure your loyalty belongs first and foremost to himself. That both our loyalties do."
Elisewin mulled this information over for a few seconds behind her blank expression before announcing, "I see," then asking with equal impassivity, "Has he done this to you before? Taken someone from you?"
“Many times." Renathal nodded, attempting to mirror her pragmatic tone. "Every time, in fact. I cannot be trusted to keep anything, or anyone, to myself. I am... too possessive. Too prone to jealousy. That is the dark side of dominion, I'm afraid." His lips summoned the bitter corpse of a sardonic smile. "Denathrius sent you here as much to educate me as you. It was a test. One I have failed, obviously, though I cannot pretend to regret it. I knew what the consequences would inevitably be, but.." He slumped back against the chair and closed his eyes as he confessed, "I do not know how I will bear to lose you.”
Again, Renathal’s hands flexed compulsively, this time around the flesh of Elisewin’s thighs. He forced his fingers to unclench, stroking them over the material of her trousers in apology, blindly tracing the tattoos he knew waited for him underneath. He had spent the time before sleep claimed him the previous night memorising their pattern: lines and curves within concentric circles; uncommonly beautiful, comforting, and inexplicably familiar.
Just like every other part of the mortal now leaning in to press her forehead to his.
"You will not lose me, Renathal. I promise," she breathed in earnest, slipping off her sangfroid like an unlaced dress. "Denathrius can drag me from Darkwall and take me by force if he wants to. But he cannot make me love you any less."
“Make you - what?”
Renathal's eyes snapped open. Her face so close to his, he could just make out the violet blooming on her cheekbones and the curves of a small, self-assured smile.
"I love you, Renathal," she repeated."I knew it the first time I saw you. I could feel it. It was already here." She groped for his hand, prised it from her leg and pressed it to her hammering heartbeat. "I just... didn't know why then."
“Do you know now?” asked Renathal, breathless with curiosity and awe and a whole swelling host of emotions he could scarcely name.
“I have some ideas.”
“Share them.”
Elisewin bit her lip, her expression suddenly wicked as she asked, “Is that a command, Your Highness?” and Renathal knew his own was a perfect match as he replied, "Oh, yes."
Her low giggle sent anima swimming down his spine. Renathal slid his hands to her hips, urging Elisewin more precisely against him, and revelling in her little gasp as she felt the full effect of her words. She tilted her head to catch his lips in a kiss already wet and clumsy with her own day-long suppressed need.
“Let me show you,” she whispered, grinding shamelessly against him, and the Dark Prince, wending shadows around them, was happy to oblige.
It was only later, as they lay nestled together in his well-used bed, Elisewin still catching her breath and Renathal reluctant to remove himself from her, that he had time to reflect on her remarkable confession and realise, with no little wonder, it was true for him, too.
He loved her. If he was honest with himself, he knew he had loved her all along. Since he first watched her fumble the tea tray in Denathrius' private chamber what felt like a lifetime ago. He understood their instant connection no better than she, but he could not deny it to himself any longer. Nor did he wish to. There was an exquisite thrill in rearranging their tangle of limbs and pressing his lips to her ear to whisper, "I love you," the shape of the words as familiar and natural on his tongue as her name.
“I love you, Elisewin,” he repeated, savouring the taste of the precious sentiment, and the way it made Elisewin arch against him and murmur hoarsely, “Say that again.”
And the smile that sprung up unbidden as he teased her: “Ordering your Prince around, now, are you?”
And the wanton way she begged him, “Renathal, say it again, please!” as he skated his long fingernails down the delectable curve of her spine.
And the uncommon strength he seemed to derive from repeating the words again and again and again, and hearing them echoed back every time in Elisewin's broken voice. A strength that did not fade as the resting hours waned and the next day dawned. Figuratively speaking. Revendreth’s twilight, like every other aspect of the realm, remained unchanged. Only its Dark Prince felt like a different creature as he rose with his lover, let her dress him, kiss him, and leave him to carry out their requisite tasks.
For Renathal, this meant another day of continuous meetings, more unhappy news of anima lack and appeals for intercession with the Master - these, predominately from the Accuser. But it also meant another day of tense apprehension, as he waited for the Sire to pronounce his judgment over their unsanctioned affair.
It did not come. Not that day or the next, or the next. And with each illicit, “I love you,” he whispered in Elisewin’s ear whenever their duties brought them into proximity, and each thrilling repetition of the words she offered in return, Renathal’s confidence grew. The soul he loved was singular; her presence in his realm, a singular occurrence. Why should their love not be as singular as she? Epochs of experience urged him to expect the worst, but, for the first time in as many long years, Renathal dared to feel... hope.
So much so that the summons, when it finally came, induced only a moderate amount of panic.
“Your Highness,” intoned the Stoneborn Enforcer darkening the doorstep of Darkwall Tower one week after the Harvester's Court. “I have orders to escort you to the Master. Without delay.”
The threat was respectful, but unmistakable. Their reprieve was rescinded at last. Renathal’s eyes flicked from the hulking figure blocking the terrace twilight, to Breakfist, holding the door open and twitching as if he longed to shut it in the messenger’s impudent face; then, with a half-turn, to Elisewin, loitering silently on the first landing of the staircase. Her face was as carefully blank as any stretch of dark stone wall, but her fingers twisted unconsciously round and round the hem of her tunic. And something in her own display of nerves set the spark of treasonous hope within Renathal blazing into sudden and purposeful rebellion.
It was futile, of course. He knew it even as he nodded imperiously at the Stoneborn, bid him wait as Breakfist fetched his second-best coat, and beckoned Elisewin down the stairs to drape it across his shoulders. But the familiar warmth of her breath as she made minute adjustments to his collar, her valiant attempt at encouraging smile as she announced, “I will be here on your return, your Highness,” forged an armor against the worst ravages of worry and fear and despair. And, for once, it was Renathal who was the more supremely self-assured as he held her gaze - the only thing he could hold in the presence of witnesses - and promised, “Then I will return as swiftly as I may.”
Outside on the terrace, an unusual hush had enveloped the twilit air. Revendreth itself seemed to hold its breath as it waited for the Dark Prince's next move. But there was no time to plan, even if there had been plans to lay; nor to run and hide, were there any place safe from the Master's eye. Renathal merely wrapped his coat around himself in defiance of the realm's still chill and followed the Stoneborn across the Bridge of Paramountcy, towards Nathria and its waiting Sire.
They were doomed, himself and his singular mortal, but not without a fight.
Read Chapter 10: Into the Light | Visit the Masterpost
If you enjoyed this story, I would love to hear it 💜
The Maw Walker saves the Prince in this one. Rated G for nothing juicy. Read here on Ao3 for triggers and tags
The Maw was so dark it hardly mattered if Renathal's eyes were open or not, but he kept them shut anyway. Never would he have imagined a darkness that could bother him; Revendreth was a realm shrouded in perpetual twilight, after all. But he understood now. He had never encountered true dark before, never known what it meant to be consumed by darkness. The thought was horrifying, and humbling. Which Renathal supposed had been Denathrius' intention in condemning him here for the foreseeable eternity.
His allies - his friends - had been taken into Torghast, and Renathal wondered if it was hubris to wish he had as well. He had thrown all his remaining magic at the Mawsworn guards who dragged them away, fully expecting to be destroyed and more than willing to meet his end. Throughout his short-lived rebellion, Renathal had known this was the most likely outcome. But after eons of the same endlessly spinning wheel of existence, he found destruction less of a deterrent and more of a new and potentially exciting opportunity, like he used to feel when meeting the souls of some unknown species. But it was millennia since Renathal had encountered anything new and he had craved the experience.
Well, now he had it, and in plenty.
Helplessness, powerlessness, the utter despair threatening to suffocate him: these were all brand new things to the Dark Prince. The firstborn of Denathrius had never endured such torments, only inflicted them on others. And as the hours passed into days, and days passed into time uncountable, Renathal realised how very fitting his punishment was. He had damned his friends out a selfish desire for change and in recompense he was sentenced to an eternity of staring at the same dark patch of hellscape.
The irony elicited a mad grimace of a smile. Then the very last breath of Renathal's dark humour was extinguished, and he surrendered to despair.
He could not fight - he had already exhausted his last vestiges of power by the time the Incarcerator had thrown him into this cage; and he could not plan - the Maw leeched all coherent thought, along with the anima that was his essence. He tried to contort himself to pick the lock of the cage, but either his skill had faded with disuse or the Maw had sapped him of that ability, too.
In desperation, Renathal had even begged the Purpose for rescue. It was not so impossible, was it? After all, there was a Maw Walker now, wasn't there? But perhaps not... perhaps those stories had simply been more lies by Denathrius. Perhaps the Purpose was as well. Every solid thing Renathal had ever known was suspect. He had nothing left to trust but his own mind, and even that the Maw would take soon.
Already, he could feel madness lurking on the outskirts of his thoughts, like a beast stalking its prey. Voices whispered outside his cage, but every time Renathal turned his head, convinced someone was calling his name, there was nothing to be seen but the same dreaded, unending expanse of black. So he had learned to keep his eyes shut tight no matter what he heard, focusing instead on memories, preserving his sanity for his long as he could. But each attempt to hide his mind in a far-away pleasant moment was interrupted by -
Help us, Renathal!
That was the Curator calling him, so real he almost opened his eyes to look for her, but he caught himself in time.
How could you let this happen to us?
Tenaval's deep voice, hurt and betrayed. Renathal squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to block out the phantom sound, but -
You've condemned us!
- Dehavia's pained cry gutted him. Whether the voice was real or in his head, the words were still true. She had trusted him; they had all trusted him. But-
You have failed us all.
That was the Accuser's voice, and Renathal knew his mind was slipping. She was the only one who had not been cast into the Maw or sentenced to the Ember Ward. The only one of them left to stand against Denathrius. But what could she do - one harvester against the creator of the Realm? No, the Halls of Atonement would fall, and the Accuser would join them here. And it was all his, the Dark Prince's, fault.
"My Prince!"
Vorpalia's voice, closer and more vibrant than the others. Renathal shook his head fiercely, trying to forestall imminent insanity. She was not really here, he reminded himself. She could not be.
"Prince Renathal?"
And that was not a voice he recognized at all. It was soft and urgent, with a strange accent. Far too full of concern to be any Mawsworn. Renathal contemplated opening his eyes, just for something else to do. But to see only that bleak, unforgiving horizon again... to be disappointed once more when he did not know he had a hope left to disappoint...
"My Prince, did they hurt you?"
Vorpalia's voice sounded as though it were right outside his prison. He could even hear the sharp swish of metal through air that accompanied the sword's movement.
Then the dark itself shifted; almost... lessened. The oppressive weight of it was lifted off Renathal's eyes just a fraction. Enough to rouse what had once been his insatiable curiosity and was now just a dull, throbbing desperation for change.
Renathal opened his eyes. And had the strangest vision.
Something was outside his cage, peering at him through the bars. The figure was shrouded by a dark hood and cloak, but the air around it... shimmered somehow. A strange purple light surrounded the figure, pulsing quietly against the darkness of the Maw.
"Prince Renathal?"
That same unfamiliar voice again. Shadows shifted within the purple light, and he could see the glow of white-blue eyes peering up at him from under the hood.
"Of course it is! I’ve just said it is! Now quickly - free him!"
A dim red shape hovered beside the figure, twisting animatedly from side to side.
“Vorpalia?” Renathal whispered aloud, his fractured mind struggling to provide an explanation. "Were you... thrown into the Maw as well?"
A brief flash of blue light collided with the cage, sending up sparks and momentarily obscuring Renathal's already blurry vision. The other voice - which must belong to the hooded figure, his sluggish brain decided - muttered something in a language he did not understand. Then the side of the cage rattled. Painful vibrations shot through Renathal's limbs, making him wince.
"Stop! Can't you see you're hurting him?!" Vorpalia shrieked.
The other voice made an exaggerated hushing sound, but the cage went still.
Out of sheer whimsy, Renathal spoke, his voice cracked from disuse. "The key is on that rather large brute over there." Unable to lift his arms any significant degree, he gestured with his chin across the valley, toward the imposing walls of the nearby fortress: the Tremaculum.
"Where?"
The hooded figure twisted to follow his gaze. Renathal did not bother to answer. There was no mistaking the hulking outline of the Incarcerator. It lumbered its regular beat around the Tremaculum, on the other side of the valley separating the fortress from Renathal's prison. The beast dwarfed even the Tremaculum's guards, all of whom scuttled well out of its way as it passed. He watched it and could not repress a shudder, remembering only too well how the wretched thing had thrown him in here when it had finished with him, tucking the key somewhere within its armor. He supposed the only reason it had not thrown the key off the edge of the realm was to allow him to anticipate further torture.
"Very well. We’ll be right back then."
Renathal snapped out of his haze of memory at the hooded figure's words.
"No!" protested Vorpalia. " I must stay behind to guard my Prince!"
"From what, he’s already in a cage?"
Exasperation was evident in the other voice. Somehow, the tense emotion made it seem more real. The figure muttered something else Renathal could not understand, turned with a swish of its cloak, and the purple light began to bob away down the hill. Toward the Tremaculum and the distant Mawbeast.
Renathal blinked. That was unexpected.
"That is true, you know," he said mildly to the image of his loyal sword.
Vorpalia swayed indecisively, as if casting her eyeless gaze between himself and the swiftly moving figure, before - “I shall return, my Prince,” she said, and darted off in pursuit.
Renathal followed their progress as best he could through bleary eyes. The soft purple light and its swishing red shadow had descended the hill and now approached the walls of the Tremaculum. Every few minutes they stopped, bright purple or blue lights flashed, and a barely visible black shadow crumpled to the ground. They were picking off the guards, realised Renathal. And a bubble of wild, manic laughter swelled and then stuck in his chest like some painful tumour. The whole thing was absurd. It could not possibly be real. Had madness finally taken him, his mind inventing this hallucination as some perverse entertainment? Or were they a torment of the Jailer's?
Or... hope attempted to lift its weary, beaten head inside him... could the Purpose possibly have allowed him to be found?
Then the purple light winked out of existence.
Renathal blinked away the spots of afterglow and squinted into the dark. The Maw was somehow even more oppressive than before, and the glowing figure and Vorpalia were nowhere to be seen. He cast his gaze around as far as his narrow cage would allow, but there was nothing. Nothing except that same infernal black. The ghost of hope that had risen in Renathal evaporated. His world was again darker than he had known it could be, and he closed his eyes once more.
A titanic roar drifted across the valley from the Tremaculum. It shook the very ground under Renathal's feet, rattling the bars of his cage and sending bolts of painful fire through him again, forcing his eyes open. It looked as through every guard within a mile was running toward the fortress, converging on its entrance. Precisely where Renathal had sent his apparitions.
Could it be a coincidence, or... had the vision been real? Had he truly been on the cusp of rescue just to send his would-be saviours to their deaths? Renathal had not believed there was a deeper level of despair to sink to, but now...
Vorpalia was dauntless, he consoled himself. And loud. If she were fighting the guards, her voice would surely carry. And whoever she was with must be powerful as well to make it this far into the Maw. But no two could survive such an onslaught, and all Renathal could hear were the pounding feet and furious yells of the uncountable guards. He strained his eyes, trying to see through the rush of black on black as Mawsworn swarmed the hill.
"My Prince!"
The sudden re-appearance of purple light made Renathal blink rapidly. There they were - Vorpalia and the hooded figure, crouched low and breathing hard - back in front of his cage with no warning, as though they had never left. The figure staggered to its feet, lifting something - a key. Nearly the size of the being's forearm, it took both of its hands to fit it into the lock. Renathal held his breath.
A grunt from the figure, a clang as the door swung against the side of the cage. Then his prison was open.
"Come."
The glowing figure offered Renathal a hand to help him down. Hesitantly, he took it, afraid his fingers might pass right through, revealing it to be a trick of his mind after all. Instead, he felt the soft silk of a glove, and a warmth seeping through it. The being was real. Which meant - he was really free.
Renathal took a step and swayed. Outside his cage, the Maw felt different; the air less thick, the sky less black. Or maybe it was the light the unknown being was emitting as it reached for his arm to steady him. He leaned against it a little too heavily, and as it struggled to keep its feet under it, the dark hood fell back revealing a creature he was sure he had never seen. A female, perhaps? It was hard to tell. Long, dark hair, its face all smooth planes, and everything about it tinted in shades of purple; it had all the makings of an illusion, despite its solid weight propping him up.
"Do something for him!" Vorpalia demanded.
"What do you want me to do? I'm not a healer!" hissed the purple being.
"You bandaged your wounds from those hounds before!"
"I don't think bandages are going to be much use on -"
"Is this real?" Renathal asked conversationally, watching their argument with distant interest. His head was still swimming, struggling to accept their existence.
The creature blinked those glowing white-blue eyes once, then -
“Here,” it said, and pressed two fingers to his forehead.
It was like a light had been turned on inside Renathal's brain. Instantly, the world around him took on sharper focus. There were more varied shades to the greys and blacks of the Maw, and the being, too, looked more distinct, less a hazy purple glow and more a person. Renathal stood up straighter, inspecting it - her, he confirmed - more closely. Her skin was a light lavender, hair dark blue, almost black. But she had no wings, so she was not Kyrian. She was not any denizen of the Shadowlands he knew. Which could only mean -
"You must be the Maw Walker," he said slowly.
She gave him a small smile.
"That’s what they're calling me."
A thousand thoughts ran through Renathal's head simultaneously, each fighting to be acknowledged first after his long period of mental collapse.
He had heard of the Maw Walker; all of Revendreth had. The Harvesters had listened to the stories coming from Oribos with interest, though Denathrius had been quick to assure his court they were highly exaggerated. But Renathal had known by then his Master was lying about many things and had decided to take a chance. His entire rebellion had been predicated on the idea that help was finally coming to the Shadowlands, and he might be able to recruit it for his side. And now the Maw Walker was here, and clearly as resourceful as the stories had claimed. But was she powerful enough to take Denathrius alone? Were there more of her kind?
"We can do proper introductions later," said the Maw Walker before Renathal could translate his thoughts into words. "When we're out of the Maw. There's a Waystone -"
"No.” Renathal shook his head, clearing the dregs of near-madness from it. "I cannot leave yet. My friends are still trapped. I must free them."
"Near here?"
The Maw Walker glanced around as if looking for more cages.
"In... Torghast," he admitted.
Those bright eyes widened very slightly.
"My Prince, we need to get you out of here. The Maw Walker can come back for the others after -"
But Vorpalia's many arguments fell on deaf ears. The Maw Walker was inspecting Renathal closely, and he was watching her in turn. He saw her eyes take in his naked torso, the way his trousers hung off his anima-starved frame. She glanced at his face, and Renathal knew it must show a similar amount of wear. He tried to hold himself in a shadow of his regal stance, but his shaking limbs and weakened muscles betrayed him. The Maw Walker shook her head slowly.
"I don't think you're in any condition to be storming the Jailer's tower." She glanced at Vorpalia. "The sword is right, I'll take you to the Waystone and get you back to Revendreth. Then I can -"
"No." Renathal's power of dominion, an afterthought for most of his existence, was now barely a discernable echo. But there was just enough left to silence the Maw Walker and cut through Vorpalia's continued litany of concerns. "No, I cannot leave my allies behind. I am the reason they are here. We must.... sneak into Torghast."
Accustomed to being obeyed without question, Renathal found it disconcerting to watch this creature silently debate his direct order. But, he realised with an unpleasant twinge, he was truly at her mercy. If she refused to help him, there was no way he could make it through Torghast alone. Even with her and her presumed abilities, the prospect seemed dubious.
Weakness, and not getting his way, mused Renathal; two more new and unpleasant experiences to add to his growing collection.
The Maw Walker sighed, seeming to come to a decision.
"Very well. Torghast it is."
Renathal's breath caught in relieved surprise. He might have smiled at the creature if his face remembered how. The only argument now came from Vorpalia.
"My Prince, it is not a rescue if we lose you to the Jailer! We must get you to safety first!"
The Maw Walker glanced coolly at the swishing sword.
"I will happily escort you to the Waystone, if you like," she said with asperity.
"Of course not! Nothing will part me from my Prince again!"
This, the Maw Walker ignored. She shook back dark hair and pulled her hood firmly forward so only her eyes were visible. They focused on Renathal.
"Which way?"
Renathal took stock of his surroundings. He had no idea how long he had been imprisoned, but it was certainly long enough to have memorised the view of the Maw outside his cage. He pointed down the valley the Maw Walker and Vorpalia had just traversed, toward a side entrance in the Tremaculum.
"Through there. There is a portal into Torghast within. However..."
He waited for the Maw Walker to notice the still-alarming number of guards congregating around the Tremaculum, searching for the Incarcerator's killer. They could not possibly fight them all. But she had already started back down the hill, purple light leading the way, leaving no choice but for Renathal and Vorpalia to follow. Renathal could only hope whatever luck ran with the Maw Walker had a plan for defeating the veritable army that awaited them.
When they reached the last rocky outcropping separating them from the guards, the Maw Walker held out an arm. She paused, hooded head cocked slightly, observing the movements of the soldiers below.
"Perhaps a distraction might-" Renathal began, but his words died as the Maw Walker grabbed his wrist and pulled him flush to her side.
"Stay close to me," was her only explanation. "And stay quiet," she ordered, catching sight of Renathal's open mouth.
The Maw Walker waved her free hand in an arc, conjuring a dazzling blue light so brilliant it left Renathal blind for several seconds. Before he could recover his vision, there was a tug on his arm: the Maw Walker leading him firmly forward. Even when his eyes refocused, the blue mist obscured nearly everything around them. He could see only a few paces in front and to either side, just enough to make out the dark silhouettes of the nearest Mawsworn. They were so close Renathal could have reached out and touched one, but the Maw Walker was hurrying him past. The guards spared not a glance in their direction; the mist must be obscuring them from sight.
The Maw Walker picked a path between the oblivious sentries, Renathal keeping so close he was almost on top of her. On his other side, Vorpalia knocked painfully against his knees. Any second now, he was sure, they would walk straight into a guard they had not noticed, but the Maw Walker's luck held until she suddenly dropped her hand and the mist dissipated. Renathal looked quickly around, but the closest guard was several yards away and facing the opposite direction. Away from the large, silver arch; the portal into Torghast.
He stared at the innocuous-looking light swirling within the portal, and recalled the screams of his friends as they were pulled through, his own pain as the Incarcerator had dragged him back across this very ground...
"Through here?" the Maw Walker asked.
Renathal nodded. He did not trust his voice just at present.
The Maw Walker's eyes narrowed very slightly. They were all he could see of her face, and the lack of distinct pupils made them difficult to read. But he had the feeling she was sizing him up again. He spoke before she could change her mind.
"Let us... find our way through one of the most dangerous towers in existence…"
He was going for dark humour, but there was a tremor in his voice Renathal could not quite mask. He set his face to the portal's hypnotic silver depths. Throughout his imprisonment, he had wished for this moment: the opportunity to help his friends, or at the very least to share in their suffering. At last, he had his wish. All he had to do was take two steps forward....
The skin on Renathal's upper arm registered warmth, a sensation so unexpected he jumped. The Maw Walker had closed the distance between them and placed a gentle hand on his arm, whether to comfort him or encourage him forward he could not tell.
"Shall we?"
Her tone was light, the smile she offered him casual. She might have been suggesting a stroll through the Chalice District, for all the concern she showed. And perhaps her touch concealed another spell, because Renathal could feel that warmth suffusing him, strengthening his resolve. He nodded, and together they stepped through the portal, Vorpalia just behind them.
Venthyr had many semblances of mortal bodies - to keep them connected to and compassionate for the mortal souls they educated, according to Denathrius - but anima was all they truly required to continue existing. Renathal had to consciously remind himself of this fact as he crept through the first wide, eerie hall of Torghast, the tightness in his chest screaming at him for air he did not really need. The deep breaths he took were pure placebo, a way of soothing his electric nerves as he followed the Maw Walker along the dim, torchlit passage with Vorpalia at his side.
No matter what Renathal wished while locked in his cage, he had never really believed rescue was possible - for himself or his fellow trapped Venthyr. Now that escape from the Maw was, theoretically, within their grasp, his mind continued to torture him with all the things that might go wrong. Assuming they could even find his friends in Torghast's endless, illogical labyrinth - managing to defeat whatever monsters lurked along the way - who knew whether the others would still be in one piece or what the state of their minds would be? Or how they would all find their way out again...
A set of stairs clearly meant for a much larger creature waited for them at the end of the hall, and Renathal's legs - exhausted from his long period of cramped disuse - protested as vehemently as his lungs. He forced himself to maintain a staid pace, casting a subtle glance at the Maw Walker to see how she was faring. Whatever species of being she was - Renathal was not sure it was polite to ask, though his curiousity ached to know - she was proportioned smaller than he, but clearly had more experience with this sort of thing. She took the too-large stairs at an easy, practiced run, reaching the top first and peering around the next dark corner.
In contrast to Renathal's tightly-wound tension, the Maw Walker looked supremely relaxed, almost bored. She strolled just ahead of him down yet another empty, cavernous passage, head swiveling occasionally to examine the heavy chains adorning the walls, as though Torghast was a slightly disappointing museum. It occurred to him that the Maw Walker - a mortal, unfamiliar with the Shadowlands - might not fully understand the potential dangers. Her victories in the Tremaculum might have led her to believe Torghast was similarly guarded: predominately by Mawsworn, with the occasional Mawbeast. But Renathal knew - from stories told in Revendreth, and now first-hand - the horrors that lurked within the Jailer's Tower.
"I am afraid I cannot say what dangers may await us in Torghast," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice from echoing through the empty passage. "But I am certain they will be special torments of the Jailer."
The Maw Walker, inspecting a pair of cruelly wrought chains set into the floor, hummed distractedly. Renathal was not sure if it was arrogance or ignorance keeping her from grasping the seriousness of their situation, but it bothered him either way. He tried again.
"I must confess, our mission's likelihood of success is not high."
The Maw Walker straightened, giving Renathal her full attention for the first time since they entered the Tower.
"Are you asking me to take you back?"
"No! Of course not," he floundered. "I am ... simply sorry to be leading you towards... certain doom."
Renathal thought the small smile the Maw Walker flashed at him this time hid something darker.
"Don't worry," she said. "Certain doom is something of an old friend."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Vorpalia's voice echoed menacingly off the stone as she zoomed forward to block their path. "Are you also in league with the Jailer, Maw Walker? Are you leading us to him?"
The Maw Walker's lips tightened in obvious irritation. Renathal looked from her to Vorpalia curiously, wondering what bad blood existed between the two.
"Of course not," the Maw Walker replied in an exaggerated whisper. "I was not speaking literally."
She sidestepped Vorpalia pointedly, daring her to act. The sword quivered in indignation but allowed the mortal to pass.
"I only meant," the Maw Walker continued in a tone of forced patience, "that I encounter scenarios of certain doom often enough I've learned to have a bit of fun with them. They become dreadfully dull if you take them too seriously."
Renathal could think of no response to this. Beside him, Vorpalia emitted a snort of mocking laughter, but the Maw Walker ignored her. She continued her easy stroll toward the end of the hall, her purple glow illuminating the path much more effectively than the flickering blue torches bracketed to the walls.
Perhaps, thought Renathal as he followed, there was some strengthening magic in the trailing motes of shimmering purple light. He could feel an echo of his old humour - long suppressed by the Maw - creep back into his bones as he followed in their wake.
Ahead of him, the Maw Walker rounded the corner, then immediately backpedaled, hands stretched out in front of her.
The sounds reached Renathal first - overlapping shouts and the clank of armor - so he had several seconds to acclimate himself to the sudden thrill of fear before the two sentries appeared. These were taller, broader species of being than guarded the Tremaculum. They towered over Renathal, and hefted axes nearly as long as the Maw Walker herself.
Vorpalia let out a triumphant cry at the prospect of battle, but the Maw Walker beat her to first blood. She shot a stream of violet sparks at both creatures, slowing them and rending holes in their heavy armor, then let loose an explosion of colour and light, lifting them from their feet and flinging them back against the wall. Not to be outdone, Vorpalia swooped forward and decapitated both guards in one strike before they could stand again.
Renathal caught up with the two victorious females, panting slightly, as though he had contributed to the fight as well. Which - he berated himself - he had not. In fact, this first encounter with an enemy had brought home to Renathal just how weak he really was. He was unsure there was strength left in his arms to even wield Vorpalia, let alone enough anima to use any of his own magic. Realising he was entirely dependent on others for survival conjured up vivid remembrances of the helplessness he had learned in his cage, and despair loomed up out of the darkness, threatening to suffocate him again....
"What is that?"
The Maw Walker's question halted Renathal's downward spiral. She was gesturing toward a swirling cloud of grey and black light now rising from the empty husks of armor.
"It is ... anima," Renathal said, momentarily distracted. "Some of these sentries must not be beings at all. They are merely ... anima-empowered armor." The cloud continued to hover ominously over the empty armor shells. "Take it. It should not be wasted."
"My kind do not typically use anima," she said mildly. "Can you use it?"
Renathal eyed the anima hungrily. Before the Maw, he had never known what it meant to be starving, but he had endured the sharp ache of it long enough now to almost forget how it felt to be satisfied. He steeled himself as best he could. If he could not contribute to their mission directly, the least he could do was not take power away from his rescuer.
"This would not be enough anima to recover even a fraction of my strength. Nor will it last. It is a temporary binding, but it should empower your magic for a time. Perhaps long enough to get us through this tower in one piece."
The Maw Walker looked from Renathal to the cloud of mist, then stretched a hand towards it. It dissipated in a rush of wind, whipping her hair and robes around her. As they settled, she blinked, then lifted her hand, flexing her fingers as if something about them were different. But all she said was, "Interesting," before dropping her arm and continuing forward.
They had gone only a short, silent distance before reaching a crossroads. Renathal peered cautiously in either direction, but the swirling blue fog enveloping the halls prevented him from seeing far. Vorpalia zoomed off to the left and returned in seconds.
"Dead end," she announced, already heading down the right-hand path, Renathal following quickly.
It was a minute before he noticed the lack of echoing footsteps. The Maw Walker was not behind them. Renathal whipped around, searching for her through the mist. There - the outline of her purple shield was bobbing away in the opposite direction, down the left-hand path Vorpalia had surveyed.
Curious, Renathal doubled back. He found the Maw Walker inspecting an enormous, rusted cage propped haphazardly against the wall as though it had fallen. The wicked, grinning skull lock was cracked, the door slightly ajar. It had clearly been unused for eons.
"If my friends were there, Vorpalia would surely have noticed them," Renathal commented.
The Maw Walker gave no indication she heard him. She bent down to peer into the dark space underneath the cage.
"There is nothing there!" called an indignant Vorpalia, and Renathal winced at her voice's many echoes. "Or do you not trust my vision, Maw Walker?"
Straightening, the Maw Walker aimed a sharp smile just above where Vorpalia hovered.
"I merely thought someone with eyes should have a look," she said archly, and swept past them both, following the right-hand path.
Vorpalia remained incensed for several more long hallways - and a dozen anima-imbued guards - while Renathal grew more confused. The Maw Walker made a point of investigating every crevice and shadow, inspecting each obviously empty cage or set of chains. She offered no explanation for her bizarre behaviour, and sidestepped all his attempted inquiries. He could not fathom what she was looking for - though he was fairly certain it was not his friends - until they reached a circular anteroom at the bottom of a winding staircase.
A pitiful moan made the Maw Walker freeze.
"Is someone ... there?" called a hollow, thready voice.
A small cage at the back of the room held what looked like flickering, white flame. On closer inspection, Renathal realised it was the remnant of a soul, probably bound here for millennia, until reduced to little more than suffering vapor. Normally, he would have little pity for it - anything condemned to Torghast was the worst sort of irredeemable soul - except ...
Renathal thought of Dehavia's screams, and the Curator's wide-eyed terror, and of his own excruciating, solitary torment ... He shivered involuntarily. Could there be other souls imprisoned here that did not belong?
The Maw Walker approached the cage with the closest thing to trepidation Renathal had yet seen from her. She fumbled the lock several times before succeeding in releasing the catch, her shaking hands pulling open the door and reaching in tentatively to touch the flickering wisp. Her fingers curled as though to cup the tortured thing's cheek, but this soul had long shed any semblance of mortal form and her hand passed right through. She bent down to whisper something to the broken remains of soul - a word in her language, perhaps, or a name? - Renathal could barely hear it over the breathy sighing of the wisp as it collapsed, fading from existence entirely.
The Maw Walker remained still for a moment. Her back was to Renathal, but he could see her shoulders rise and fall in time with her trembling breath. When she turned, however, her face was once more impassive, as though nothing whatsoever had happened. She skirted Renathal's open stare, and Vorpalia's questioning tilt, and began the steep trek up the staircase.
Curiousity had ever been Renathal's downfall. It might not be a sin, but he certainly had enough of it to qualify as a vice, and his overindulgence of it was the reason he was here. His curiousity had spurred him to investigate Denathrius' many contradictory statements and odd behaviours and eventually discover his Sire's downright lies; and now it resurrected itself in Renathal to wonder loudly about the Maw Walker and whether she had another motive for accompanying him through Torghast.
It was clear she had no intention of explaining herself, and Renathal battled his desire to ask about the soul's significance all the way up the stairs and across the creaking landing. He was just grappling with a tactful way to form the question when the Maw Walker stopped so abruptly he walked into her.
Glancing ahead to see what had her attention, Renathal's unneeded breath caught in his chest. The room beyond, far from being disconcertingly empty like the others, was teeming with Torghast's enormous breed of Mawsworn. They hulked together at regular intervals around the circular room; fastening on armor, sharpening weapons, watching the sparring taking place in the room's center. Apparently, this was some sort of training ground for the sentries of the Tower.
Careful to remain as still and silent as he was capable, Renathal glanced down and met the Maw Walker's eye. He thought her face showed some apprehension, but all she whispered under her breath was, "Perhaps you should hang back. Conserve your strength." It was a polite way of reminding him he had nothing to contribute to a fight, and Renathal - in spite of the painful truth in this - was stung.
"I assure you, I am perfectly capable," he hissed in her ear.
The Maw Walker made no more arguments, simply nodded. And stepped forward into the room.
Renathal winced at the echoes of her footfalls, almost excessively loud ... was she doing it on purpose? Every helmet in the room swiveled to regard the intruders, but it was a solid minute before the information appeared to penetrate their armor. One by one, the sentries went still, weapons slack in surprise. But Renathal knew their training would assert itself any second, and he clenched his hands, desperately calling upon any hidden reserve of power.
"Well?" The Maw Walker's voice broke the silence. "Come on then."
Renathal shot her a sharp glance, but she was not speaking to him. She was watching the nearest of the towering guards with a small, supercilious smile.
Several things snarled, growled, and yelled simultaneously, and then every being in the room was moving all at once. The Mawsworn fell into step with each other like the soldiers they were, advancing rapidly and precisely on the three intruders. And the Maw Walker, dwarfed by even the smallest of the sentries, planted her feet and lifted her hands.
Renathal had to wonder if she was always this formidable. Always capable of knocking back half a dozen forces with ease, raining clouds of some sparkling ice that froze the sentries where they stood. Always able to keep an entire horde of enemies from coming close enough to touch her - each one who tried knocked back by her crackling shield of purple light. Or if her exceptional display of power was due to the anima currently strengthening her magic.
Vorpalia cut in and out of the guards with cries of triumph and delight, slicing clean through limbs and joints in anima-empowered armor. Renathal raised his hands as well, scraping his insides for the last dregs of anima, and joined his loyal sword in picking off those Mawsworn knocked back by the Maw Walker's shield. He knew his magic had precious little effect, knew the Maw Walker and Vorpalia could have handled them easily. But he was compelled to do his part, no matter what it cost him.
It was over in remarkably short time. A last raucous clatter of armor hitting stone echoed through the cavernous room, a sea of grey-black clouds rising from the broken, empty husks. Renathal waited for the Maw Walker to collect them, but she turned to him instead.
"You take these," she said, looking him up and down. "You could do with some empowerment."
Renathal wanted to protest but could no longer hide the fact that he could barely stand. It might be miniscule in comparison to the power he was used to, but at this point, anything would help. He staggered into the middle of the swirling clouds and, immediately, vitality surged in his chest, the anima rushing like a waterfall through each of his aching limbs. His fingers tingled with the potent magic, and when he clenched his hands again he could feel it gather obediently in his palms. It would not last, he knew, nor would it undo the weakness the Maw had inflicted on him if he ever made it out of here, but Renathal still felt much better, much more like himself, and much more confident knowing he was no longer entirely useless.
The doubts that had eaten at Renathal throughout Torghast retreated as he strode through the subsequent chambers and lantern-lit hallways purposefully. He reveled in the presence of the increasingly frequent guards, enjoying the ability to exert his new-found power. Perhaps she could sense his change in mood, because the Maw Walker now hung back, leaving the majority of the fight to Renathal and Vorpalia, while she focused her attention on searching for more imprisoned souls.
He paid little attention at first, preoccupied with the thrill of battle after his long imprisonment, but as his stolen anima hoard gradually depleted, Renathal became annoyed at the way the Maw Walker was slowing them down. She could leave no cage unsearched, no dark corner uninspected. She lagged many paces behind, forcing Renathal and Vorpalia to stop and wait for her to catch them up, her face as neutral as ever. The only thing capable of wringing emotion from her, it seemed, was the discovery and rescue of another broken, fading soul.
It bothered Renathal. Most of these souls deserved to be here, after all. It was the heavy task of his own realm to condemn souls to the Maw, and his purview specifically to ensure the Venthyr took this responsibility seriously. Releasing these souls was a defiance of his own judgment. But Renathal decided it would be ungrateful to berate his rescuer just now. And, more importantly, he needed her. Whether or not his purloined power would allow him to rescue his friends on his own, he knew he could not escape the Maw itself without the Maw Walker.
After defeating another chamber full of heavily armed soldiers, and collecting still more hoarded anima, Renathal began to feel the itch of impatience. How long had they been traversing these labyrinthine halls? Could the Tower, which defied all traditional logic, be leading them in an endless circle? He was just about to suggest this to the Maw Walker when she stopped short again, catching him by surprise.
A cloud of obfuscating white mist was visible at the foot of a staircase just ahead of them. The Maw Walker cocked her head, and Renathal squinted at it, magic ready at his fingertips. He could just make out the shape of a being within the mist, stock still. It appeared to be watching them as well. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it did not look like anything they had yet seen in Torghast. In fact, it looked like...
"It's a broker," the Maw Walker confirmed in some surprise. "Good. We can ask directions."
"Greetings to you." The broker nodded politely as they stepped within its protective circle of mist. "Might I tempt two weary travelers with my wares?"
"Possibly," the Maw Walker replied with equal politeness. "You wouldn't happen to have any armor or..." She shot an amused glance at Renathal that made him feel oddly self-conscious. "...a shirt? My friend has lost his."
"I have the best of food and drink, and trinkets to aid you in a fight. Clothing, I do not possess," the broker admitted. "Perhaps you will bring some to me to trade the next time you are here."
"Oh, I do hope there won't be one of those," said the Maw Walker, and the smile she gave the broker was so tired it nearly slid from her face.
It was the first indication of weariness Renathal had noticed from the Maw Walker, and he was abruptly reminded that she was mortal. Mortals needed extensive rest, he knew, and food and drink. When was the last time the Maw Walker had any of these things?
It occurred to Renathal for the first time to wonder what she had been doing before descending into the Maw to rescue him. If she had met Vorpalia, then the Maw Walker must have been in Revendreth, but Renathal felt certain he was not the reason. There had been many rumours circulating about the Maw Walker before his imprisonment - they called her undefeatable, un-killable, claimed she had met the Jailer face to face and arrived in Oribos unscathed - but the only one Renathal knew for sure was that she was in the Shadowlands on a mission for her own world, Azeroth.
But, apparently, she had put that mission on hold to save him, and then his friends at his request. In hindsight, Renathal realised he had asked quite a lot from this being whose name he did not know in a very short span of time, and not once had she protested or complained or acted as though aiding him put her to any sort of trouble. Nor had she asked anything of him in return.
Renathal watched the Maw Walker negotiate calmly with the broker, as if they were nowhere more dangerous than the Night Market, and wondered again what kind of being she was. He had existed for longer than mortal history was recorded, and in that time he thought he had encountered every kind of being. But the Maw Walker ... she was a new experience for Renathal. He supposed souls like hers did not end up in Revendreth.
When the Maw Walker's transaction had concluded, she produced coins from somewhere in her robes and added in a would-be casual voice:
"By the way, we're looking for friends of ours, you wouldn't happen to have seen them? They would be Venthyr, like my friend here."
“Three of them," added Renathal, snapping out of his reverie.
He gave a broad description to the broker, unable to determine from its visage if his words had any effect. There was a short, anxious silence. Then the broker inclined its head once.
"You are going in the right direction to find what you seek," it confirmed quietly. "But tread with caution. These prisoners are ... heavily guarded."
This warning seemed overly ominous to Renathal, as they took their leave of the broker and continued up the staircase. Perhaps it was the stolen anima hoard within him pulsing for release, or perhaps the Maw Walker's supreme confidence had infected him somehow. But he now felt sure that between himself, the equally empowered Maw Walker, and the ever-enthusiastic Vorpalia, they should be able to defeat whatever beast the Jailer had set to torment his allies.
But whatever beast Renathal had been envisioning was not what met them at the end of the passage. The enormous, lidless, armored Eye was larger than any Stoneborn in Revendreth, and a world more disconcerting. It took up fully half the chamber, the other half given over to a row of narrow cages, as cruel as every other cage they had come across in Torghast. Except these were decidedly not empty.
"Renathal? You came back?"
The Curator's familiar voice was as full of broken pain as when it had haunted Renathal in his own prison. He wanted to call out words of reassurance, but the unblinking Eye had momentarily robbed him of voice. Unlike the rooms full of training Mawsworn sentries, this abomination was clearly waiting for them, and being caught in the wide net of its evil gaze made Renathal feel strangely shaky.
"Is that it?"
Beside Renathal, the Maw Walker cocked her head. She seemed entirely unfazed by the monstrosity before them.
"Were you hoping for more of them?" Renathal asked, diverting his own nerves into sarcasm. "Or just something bigger?"
"Not necessarily," the Maw Walker said. "Just something ... I don't know ... less anti-climactic? This isn't even the worst thing I've seen today." She heaved a dramatic sigh, then gestured to the cages behind the creature. "Go free your friends, Vorpalia and I can handle this."
Renathal raised an eyebrow at her, and the Maw Walker smiled. It was a calm, self-assured smile, just bordering on smugness; an expression that clearly could not conceive of failure.
She wore the same sort of smile again, after the enormous, wicked Eye laid dark and oozing on the floor, when the newly freed and oddly-muddled Curator warned the Maw Walker that using her as their escape route might be painful.
"I'll attempt to endure it," was all she said, entirely unperturbed, that infuriatingly serene smile not flickering for an instant.
It half-impressed, half-exasperated Renathal. Enough so that, for a moment, it actually amused him to see the Maw Walker lying flat on her back long after he and his fellow Venthyr had all risen to their feet in the depths of Sinfall. Tenaval helped a shaking Dehavia brush dirt from her torn dress, while Renathal struggled to convince the confused Curator they were back in Revendreth, and safe, so it was several minutes before he could spare a glance for the Maw Walker, still motionless on the floor, and another minute before he understood the implication.
In the space of one unnecessary heartbeat, Renathal was kneeling next to the motionless being. Her purple glow was gone, and she looked much smaller and more fragile without it. He leaned in close to her face, trying to feel or hear the breath he knew was not an affectation for mortals. But there was nothing. No mist of exhaled air from her slack mouth, no rise and fall to her chest. And Renathal's first thought, before all the implications of it fully hit him, was that he could now add "death" to his list of new experiences.
The sadness mortals experienced at the passing of others, and even themselves, across the veil to the Shadowlands had always somewhat puzzled Renathal. After all, it was hardly the end of anything. Now, for the first time, he thought he had an inkling of what their grief entailed. The Maw Walker had rescued him, protected him, been an unlikely friend in the darkest place he had ever known. And now she was simply ... gone, and he did not know where to find her. He had lost her. And with her, virtually any chance of stopping Denathrius.
Hopelessness hit Renathal like a hammer, and he sat back on his heels, dizzy and stunned. He wondered distantly where her soul was now ... whether he would survive the Master long enough to find out...
The black of despair was so vivid across his vision that he did not see when the Maw Walker's eyes shot open, did not register that her hands had sprung up to clutch at her throat until he heard the spluttering, choking sound. Renathal's noise of surprise was lost in her loud, gasping breaths as the Maw Walker fought to get air back into her lungs. She rolled to one side, still panting hard, and Renathal felt relief so tangible it was as if someone had draped his own coat across his shoulders.
"The Maw Walker's alive!" said the Curator in mild surprise, and the Maw Walker looked up at her words.
"You weren’t kidding about the painful bit," she said.
Her voice was cracked from the strain on her throat, and her blue-white eyes were bloodshot. But she pushed herself into a sitting position, took another deep gulp of air, found Renathal's face ... and smiled.
And Renathal, sitting in an undignified heap on Sinfall's floor, where he himself had been made and nearly unmade, felt reborn.
Maybe it wasn't hubris. Maybe she was unkillable. Maybe Revendreth was not doomed after all.
Renathal looked at the Maw Walker's undaunted smile, and dared to feel hope.
