THERE ARE NO ANIMALS HERE BUT US
“Alright,” Wren says, suddenly, his voice wrecking from his throat like defeat, like rapture, like he’s bargaining with god. “Say that you do it. Say that you slay the dragon, that you get your treasure, and then you put a knife through its heart. Say that you have your way and the universe is quiet. Say that you destroy everything just to find your own name again in the wreckage of it all.”
Marek snarls above him, his body blotting out the filmy neon orange light that spills down across the dark ichor of wires and massive buildings high above them, the damp twilight that casts its fractured reflection on the belly of the planets upper ring high in the atmosphere beyond. He is sweat stricken, his hair matted with dirt and blood, and he looks animal in the half-light. One wrong step and those teeth will grow sharper, that mouth will tear Wren apart.
One wrong step and he’s done for, but Wren’s been making every possible mistake he can for years now, and at this point he isn’t afraid of what the consequences of his actions are.
“Say that you win, Marek,” Wren says, “you get everything you wanted and more. What happens after that? Where do you go when you have nowhere to return to because you’ve set fire to it all?”
“Nowhere,” Marek says. The world around them suffocates itself in the sluggish, brutal wet heat of the planets interior. Marek shakes his head and beads of sweat drip from his neck, scattering across Wren’s skin. “I break my crown, I rest my laurels. I go nowhere, Wren. Because then, at last, I’ll be done.”
“And how long until the emptiness itself haunts you?” Wren asked him, closing his eyes. “How long until you turn around and look back on the bridges you burned?”
Wren laughed, the sound a jackal cry, humorless and torn apart by grief.
“It matters,” Wren says. “Because down here, we’re not knights or emperors. We’re not saviors. We’re not gods. We’re just animals. And if it takes putting down one more dog for you to realize that you’re on a collision course with your own misery, then I’ll gladly eat the bullet.”
Marek snarls, his mouth tearing open into a protest that Wren denies by lunging upward, forcing Marek back to his feet. Wren hurls him into one of the near walls, the uneven brick biting into his body, cutting and scraping at his sweat stricken skin.
“Because at the end of this line,” Wren says, breathing bating in his throat like fire, “it will always come down to me and you. It will always come down to the universe or this.”