Exousia - The Patron Saints of the Damned -Book II

Exousia awoke once again, feeling grass beneath her and seeing the twilight sky beyond the branches of the cursed tree. Last she remembered it had been daytime, which meant she’d been out for several hours. She felt her temple with the tips of her fingers, touching the makeshift bandage. She felt pain shoot through her skull like a spike and pulled her hand away. She wondered if the injury had anything to do with his hallucinations or if it was solely the figure with the white pendant.

Exousia realized that the human named Megan was kneeling on the ground beside her. Upon noticing Exousia awakening, Megan seemed … unexpectedly relieved in her exhale. There was also an openness and transparency in her eyes, which had replaced the hostility with which she’d regarded Exousia before. Of course, there was still plenty of fear within her.

Exousia averted her eyes, beginning to feel uncomfortable at staring at her, for reasons she didn’t really understand. Instead, she turned and glanced at the state of the other humans. That was all she needed to pick up on the mood shifts of the group. Jodie, Sam, and Billy seemed similarly relieved that she was awake. Marshal looked a little less pleased, though his emotions were clearly mixed. And Derrick now looked more distant than they had before–radiating a cold loathing through his aura. Brennan turned away, but his emotions seemed as mixed and confused as ever.

Exousia stood and felt that her legs and hands were trembling. Just like before, the sleep was no sort of natural sleep that would have made her feel rested. Her head was still groggy, and her body still sore. But not having used them for a few hours had improved her condition at least a little from what it had been directly after the fight with Ammon’s followers. She turned to the humans and said, “We need to get going.”

“In the dark?” Marshal asked.

“It isn’t ideal,” Exousia replied, dusting off her clothes and trying to regain her balance as she took a few steps. “But we don’t have food or water. And every minute we wait is longer for our enemies to prepare for us.”

Some of the humans gave small and haggard nods.

Exousia picked up her fallen staff and then began to walk through the brush. She led the humans through the brambles, bushes, and saplings, and stopped right before she reached the invisible line of protection. She paused to feel wind across her face, hear the rattling of the leaves, and see the buzzing of the insects for one last moment before returning to the death of the forest that had once been her home. Then, she stepped over the invisible boundary and was again immersed in silence and stale air. To the north, the forest thinned considerably. It was a pine forest, so the needles smothered all other plants that tried to grow. The easily traversed terrain would serve to quickly get them to the closest city. There, the humans would be safe and the challenge concluded … if they could survive that long.

-O-

Billy was the last of the group to pass over the threshold between the tree and the woods that surrounded it. His stomach was grumbling, his throat felt like sandpaper, and his body trembled with hunger. Had there been no water or food available, he thought he could have just given in to his desperation and proceeded forward.

But … there was fruit, and he could hear water trickling not far from where he stood. The knowledge of food and water caused his instincts and desires to betray him. So, without really thinking, he slipped away from the group while the others pressed forward into the woods. He planned to quickly find the stream of water.

Part of him wondered why the Woodcutter hadn’t brought them to it. She’d said that the fruit was poisoned … and there was quite a bit of fruit sitting in each of the ponds. And it wasn’t difficult to believe that the strange fruits really were poisonous. After all, there was something wrong with the woods themselves, not.

Or maybe the Woodcutter had just forgotten; she had water in that canteen of hers, so why would she be concerned with whether anybody else got any?

Billy followed the trickling sound until he found the stream, which was small and easy to miss under the grass. It seemed to spring out of the ground and form a pool a few inches deep. From there, it vanished underground on either side of the water. Just under the surface, there were several fruits in various stages of decomposition.

The hope that Billy had felt seemed to leave him, exchanged for a sense of trepidation that caused his armpits and forehead to itch and sweat. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from the water and run to catch up to the others. He wondered if a poisonous fruit could have been as strong as man-made poison. Surely, it would have been diluted by passing water, at least enough so that it wasn’t deadly. There were also plenty of plants living comfortably on the edge of the pool and bugs buzzing around it.

Maybe if Billy just drank a little, it would be okay. He could just put a little on his tongue and see if it tasted bad. If it did, he didn’t have to drink it. Worst case scenario, a couple drops would only make him sick. And feeling sick sounded no worse than what he currently felt from dehydration.

Billy looked towards where the others had gone and noted that he could hear their footsteps. He still had a little bit of time. This made him think about how thirsty the rest of them probably were. If he was right and the water was alright to drink, then he could tell the others. He smiled at the thought of bringing them to the water and seeing them all drink. He knew that, so far, he’d contributed nothing to their survival. He thought that he might have even caused a few problems. The memory of shouting that they were free and sabotaging whatever chance they had of saving their friends, came to mind. And for all he tried, he still couldn’t understand what had compelled him to say that. He could have just run silently to the tree and been safe …

Billy shook his head and wiped a stray year from his cheek. He knew should have tried harder to help them. And this was his chance to redeem himself for that, even if it was a risk. They’d forgive him for being an obnoxious asshole. Then he’d be part of the group, and try his hardest to act like his cousin—cool, encouraging, friendly. The old Billy was gone; this was his chance to begin anew. He nodded with determination and stepped onto a flat stone that was close to the water. It was slicker than he’d thought, and his foot slid into the pool. Immediately, he felt like his foot had been lit on fire. He tried to shout, but the noise was caught in his throat. He lost balance, and his knee fell into the puddle so that his entire pant leg was soaked. He gasped for air, while he clawed at the grass to push forward and get free. It didn’t take long to get out, as his body still seemed to work fine. But his leg felt like someone had poured boiling water on it.

Rage filled Billy as he quickly stood to his feet and began to limp as far away from the tree and the water as he could get. He felt fury against everything, from the bugs to his wet shoe. In response, he stood on one leg while he grabbed his soaked shoe and tossed it at the damn tree, along with his sock. Then he took the dry one and did the same, as if the throws were an act of sacrilege against the towering plant that had burned him.

Billy thought about taking off his pants and throwing them too, but he knew that this would make him look ridiculous. So, he resisted the urge and gritted at the pain they caused him. It was then that he realized that the others were almost out of hearing distance. They were just going along … and hadn’t even noticed that he was missing! He felt stupid for ever having thought that those jerks would like him, and even more so at having been willing to taste the poisoned water and risk his life for them. If he’d learned anything, it was that the only person who looked out for Billy was Billy. Nobody else cared … nobody. These sorts of thoughts continued to churn within him as he rushed to catch up to the others.

When he arrived to the others, the first person he encountered was Sam, who was standing around and waiting like some kind of moron. “... have to pee?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Billy muttered.

“Well tell us next time so we can wait for you,” Sam said, offering a small smile.

“Shut up, Sam,” Billy said, quietly enough so that the others couldn’t hear, Though he just barely managed to contain himself. He roughly brushed past him and continued to brood as he followed behind the others. He tried not to think about the slowly diminishing pain in his leg.

-O-

Exousia led the humans in silence, and hours passed with no sign of any demons. She wasn’t sure of whether this was to her advantage or disadvantage. For now, all that mattered was maintaining vigilance of the dark and open woods around them, looking out for whatever the demons had planned for them next. Fortunately, the woods were illuminated enough so that this was not impossible. The full moon, though blurred, still shone its soft light through the bare pine trees. The silvery glow provided them with a wide range of vision, which was their safety net from enemies. It made the woods seem more surreal than they already were.

Exousia remembered what they’d been like before she had accidentally brought the curse upon them. Back then, they’d regularly glowed with a more mystical and ethereal surrealism, rather than the feeling of walking within a nightmare. This dreamy silence endured for another hour before she sensed a presence. It was like a liquid shadow had filled the empty space of the forest. This meant that something supernatural was attempting to make its presence minimal. Soon, black eyes peered at them from all around. The light of the moon glanced off their glossy surfaces. However, they were not in formation for any sort of attack. They were watching.

Exousia took a silent but deep breath. She gave no indication she sensed that more demons were beginning to quietly fill the darkness around them. She didn’t want to give away that she knew, and she didn’t want to cause the humans to panic. Exousia considered ways of evading the trap but thought better of it. The moment she tried to avoid it, they would chase the humans to wherever they wanted them. It was better to keep things calm and under control.

It took another hour before they came upon a metal picnic table, with a black rubber coating. There was something familiar about it. It was the exact same type of table that he’d seen in his dream, with the bench that the child’s friend had hit her head on. Was it the exact same bench … or just one that was similar? It didn’t matter. Exousia refused to let these cheap tricks play on her mind. Instead, she focused on what was on the table–platters containing the bread, dried meat, and drinks. The niceties made her feel hyper-aware, and she attempted to ready herself for whatever this trap entailed.

However, the teenagers froze when they saw the table, staring with wide eyes at the food. Some of their stomachs began to grumble, and they looked at Exousia desperately. It was almost as if they were asking for permission. Was that the nature of the trap? The humans had finally gained some amount of trust in her direction. So, if she told them to eat the food and it was poisoned, they would blame her for killing those who died. If she told them not to eat the food, their animalistic drive to meet basic survival needs would push them to anger, especially since she had already denied them food and water from around the tree. Either way, the result would be a loss of control and esteem.

Exousia thought carefully about her response and finally decided that, as usual, the truth was her only real option. She turned to them and said, “They’re watching us, which means one of two things. Either they’re buying time to recover from their injuries and attack again, or some of the food is poisoned.”

Jodie stepped in front of the others and said, “Then why the hell are we waiting around here?” He forced himself to look away from the table, though his stomach grumbled in protest.

Exousia shook her head. “Because you’re all dehydrated and barely able to stand. And if you refrain from eating, they will attack anyway. They’ll be wounded, but you’ll barely be able to fight or run.”

“Well, that simplifies things. I’m eating” Billy said, and reached his hand toward an apple.

“Wait!” said Marshal. His voice sounded strained, and his face looked around the woods with a confused expression. “There’s something wrong … can you guys hear it?”

The rest of the humans just stared at him with scared and confused expressions. It was clear that some were worried about him.

Marshal seemed to notice this, so he spoke up. His voice cracked so that he had to clear his throat and clench his jaw to keep from sounding like he was crying. “I’m serious. There’s something wrong. There’s something whispering … it’s telling us which of the food is poisoned. Can’t you hear it?” There were dark circles under his eyes; they were slightly bloodshot and definitely watering. But there wasn’t any distant brokenness to them. He was telling the truth and hearing the voice of something in the woods. But why was he letting his friends know about the poison? Any demon could have manipulated him not to tell the rest of them about what he’d seen. His poisoning his friends would have been a sure way to corrupt him.

“Even if Marshal really hears something, we’d be stupid to listen,” Jodie said, passing the table and beckoning the others to follow with a wave of his arm. “The voices are lying, trying to break us or poison us or whatever. So, let’s go. I’d rather take my chances with wounded wolves anyways.”

“Yeah, except that nothing has lied to us yet,” Billy said, his eyelids mostly closed as he brooded over the food and sent occasional glares at the others. “The Woodcutter hasn’t lied. Nothing in the woods has lied. Everything here makes sense. It’s not about tricking us … it’s about making us see how horrible we are.”

“But if they told you which food is poisoned, we could just avoid it,” said Megan, seeming to ignore the rant. “It doesn’t seem like a very effective trap.”

Marshal looked between the woods and his friends, and then stopped. The longer he paused, the hollower his eyes seemed. But he was not frantic; he became deathly calm. Finally, he said, “The voice is saying that this is part of the challenge. I have to give one of us the poisoned food. They’ll let us sleep for the rest of the night if I do.” Beads of sweat dripped down his face.

Exousia clenched her jaw, finally getting it. Ammon was going to twist their hearts by making them murder one another … as a group decision.

-O-

Brennan stood furthest from his friends who were at the table. He kept his head down as he noted the weight of the fruit inside his pocket. There was also a slight burning from the juice that soaked into his pants and touched his leg. He struggled not to erupt into anger, panic, and pain. He had to keep himself under control and think of a way to get rid of that fruit without sticking his hand directly into his pocket and losing control again. He remained quiet while the rest of them talked the matter of the poison out. Finally, Brennan moved away from the table so that he couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see the food, couldn’t hate what they were saying. He just needed a moment to figure out how to lose the fruit before he hurt one of them.

For a moment, Brennan wondered to himself why he hadn’t gotten rid of the fruit already. Even with it all mushy, he could have dropped his pants or asked for help. But some part of him felt afraid and ashamed for having touched it after being warned. He didn’t want for the others to see that he’d stupidly picked up one of the poisonous fruits and lose their faith in him. But now that the rest of them were distracted, he had his opportunity. Brennan pressed his hand against his pocket, forcing the fruit out by squeezing it gently from the outside. There was a small trickle of juice from this, but the fruit soon fell out of his pocket. Even with the continued burning, he gasped with relief and collapsed onto the ground.

As he rested from the ordeal, Brennan found himself especially glad that his sister hadn’t seen. It was a good thing that Megan hadn’t seen most of what had happened in his head since being brought to these woods. All their lives, their parents had always treated the year age difference between them like it made all the difference in the world. Brennan had followed suit—acting like a child and letting her take the brunt of responsibility and adulthood. It was only now that he realized how unfair this had been.

Brennan remembered feeling abandoned when their parents had first stopped caring … when they’d grown bored of being a family … he’d never wanted to feel that way again. Maybe … he had unknowingly acted on those feelings all his life. His parents had often told him of having put a broom in the fireplace and lighting the carpet on fire when he was 3 years old. They laughed like it was a great family joke that he had not even been scolded; his sister had for not having kept an eye on him. Their whole lives had gone like that. Eventually, this broke any sense of childhood that Megan had and made her into an adult.

But having been robbed of that, Megan was now strong and mature enough to face this place. Even if she was secretly terrified to tears, the burden of responsibility kept her going. Brennan suddenly felt anger towards his parents for cheating him out of learning how to be strong like that. And he felt guilty that he had not helped his sister carry the burden of their parents’ abandonment. He wanted to step up now, but he didn’t know if he could. He was terrified of the woods, of making decisions that would get his friends killed, of the voice in his head, and of what the fruit had revealed in him. Brennan wondered if he feared the burden more than he feared anything in the woods. So long that he didn’t take charge, all the blame and responsibility for his friends’ lives were not on his shoulders. But … was it possible that David’s and Ted’s deaths were his fault already for not having taken a risk to try to save them?

As Brennan considered this, the chill from his realization was offset by the warm fruit juice in his pocket. It burned hot enough that it felt sharp like a needle. He remembered his dream and the promise that this sharp pain would pop the bubble-illusion that he was free of responsibility. The problem was that eating the fruit would also bring consequences, both to his friends and to himself. But … if he threw the fruit away, would the rest of his friends die? Now that Brennan knew that he had a choice, was he not equally responsible either way?

As Brennan thought, he wrapped his hand in his shirt to carefully pick up the warm fruit from the ground. The fruit, like a large plum, looked black in the light of the moon. And it seemed to promise more nourishment to him than anything on the table. Perhaps it would let him see the same truth and secrets that the Woodcutter saw when she looked with that distant gaze at the woods around them. The fruit would make him a player in the game too, no longer a pawn. But … was he ready to play?

A dark question began to form in the recesses of Brennan’s mind. He focused in on a recent memory—of Mr. Kale the creepy substitute teacher. He’d talked about them all being bullets in a war. He’d spoken of this as if it were a tragedy, and even a challenge to be taken up. Yet, he’d never addressed the necessity. After all … the nature of war required bullets to be fired.

What if by being a fighter in such a war, Brennan found himself without bullets? What if … he had to be willing to sacrifice some of his friends if he wanted to save the others? Would he be able to choose which friend would be best sacrificed for the good of them all? Who would he be willing to give up?

Would biting the fruit cause Sam to become an expendable bullet, too cowardly to be worth the trouble of keeping? How long before Jodie would just seem like a big powerful weapon to be used against the monsters? Would it be easier to get rid of Derrick than the others, now that he was so unpleasant? Would Billy start to seem like an easily manipulated tool? Was Marshal, who sat perpetually on the sidelines, need to be sacrificed so that those who actually lived their lives could continue on? What if he found out that the only way for any of them to survive was to sacrifice Megan?

Without having even eaten the fruit, Brennan could already begin to see his friends in terms of their potential attributes. The fact that those thoughts came so easily for him made him feel a little bit disgusted with both himself and the prospect of what he was considering doing. But … when it came down to it … was it more important for him to see his friends as human beings that he loved–even if it killed them? Or was it better for him to see them as bullets that he could manipulate to their own survival?

Softly, the same voice as before whispered, “In the end, we’re all bullets ... each with our own strengths and weaknesses, and each of us fairly simple to manipulate. Yet just because you analyze others and move them as they best serve, you are not necessarily using them for your personal benefit. No more than a general sacrificing troops to save civilians in a warzone. Being a commanding officer in a war is a change in perspective, not motivation. It doesn’t feel good … but fighting for survival never does.”

Finally, Brennan understood what the Woodcutter was doing, looking at them as trash so that she could act with efficiency. The problem was that she was not willing to acknowledge or utilize any of their strengths to be real bullets. She was carrying them along like a burden, like a heavy box of ammunition she did not trust enough to actually fire in the way they could.

“She won’t use us to fight because she doesn’t know us,” Brennan replied in a low voice. “But if we continue to be helpless and useless, we’ll die. I know my friends’ strengths and could use their skills to make sure that they stand the best chance of surviving.” Then he looked out at the woods and addressed the voice directly. His chest felt full of rage, and he nearly shouted when he said, “But why should I trust you to help me? You’re one of them, one of the things in these woods. You killed Ted and David!”

“I did,” the Voice replied calmly. “I used the bullets I had to. But I used them to their strengths. I allowed them to die in the noblest part of who they were, instead of driving them to corruption and eternal torture. Brennan, none of your friends are enemies of mine. I have no need for any more of their deaths, so long as the Woodcutter does not win my Challenge against her.”

Brennan swallowed and whispered, “So … you’re asking to corrupt my soul.”

The Voice did not seem to affirm this. Rather, it played with the idea and asked, “What if I am, Brennan? It is still up to you to decide if your morality, your humanity, and even your soul are a worthwhile sacrifice for the lives of your friends.”

Brennan rubbed the ever-warming fruit in his hands, dimly aware that the arguing voices of his friends were becoming more muffled as he did. He turned his head and looked at his sister. He saw her eyes, heavy circles of exhaustion beneath them and red swelling that he could see even in the silver moonlight. For a moment, he remembered his dream about Eve. He again thought about how she must have felt with the possible outcomes of either saving her entire species or incurring death upon them all. The core of the matter always came to price versus gain. What was the true extent of the cost of entry into this dark game and what was the reward?

“There are no guarantees, Brennan,” the Voice said. “Untold pain and suffering must always be traded for meaning, importance, and the slim hope of a better future. It is simply the cost if one wishes to be more than just a bullet of true warriors. Give the power of sight to the blind, you risk that it will push them to madness. Give the power to drive to a teenager, you risk that they will lose control and inadvertently kill innocents or themselves. Everything worthwhile comes at a risk, and every freedom with terrible consequences.”

Brennan turned to look at the others again.

The Woodcutter was no longer even involved in the conversation among them. As they played blindly with their lives, she stayed utterly silent in either contemplation or disinterest. After all, what was it to lose one or two more of them, so long as she won her bet with the Voice? Maybe power would turn Brennan into a monster, but at least he would be a monster who cared.

Brennan looked down at the fruit, feeling that the dark flesh was getting hotter. If he did not choose now, he would never again have the chance. He’d have to trust and hope that the crazy girl from the woods knew his friends well enough to make sure they survived, that she cared enough whether they did live, and that she wouldn’t lose against the supernatural beings set against her.

No.

Brennan lifted the fruit to his lips, bit into it, and momentarily wished he hadn’t. It felt like boiling water that scalded his lips, and tongue, and his throat as it went down. It only cooled after it pooled in his belly. Then, warmth began to manifest itself in the pit of his stomach, making him feel drunken and dizzy. There was a piercing pain that went from his belly to his chest. He heard the sickening sounds of something sloshing and tearing inside him. Then he watched as the skin and fabric over his chest ripped. A small bit of blood spurted from the hole, and a minuscule silver light exited his chest. He looked down at the hole and noticed a yellow one of the same size burying itself in the same wound.

Brennan reached a trembling hand to touch his bloody chest, and his fingers became sticky and wet. But then he felt the wound heat up. Even as he watch, the wound mended between his fingers. Soon, the injury was gone, along with the pain. All that was left was a small tear in his blood-stained shirt and a suspicion that some part of himself had been lost.

-O-

Dufaii maneuvered his way west from the south-eastern corner of the dead woods. His progress was aided by the cover of night, which kept him hidden from both demon and loyalist patrols. In fact, it was the only reason that he was able to limp forward as quickly as he had without being seen. At first, this had been a challenge, with him having to intermittently brace himself against a tree to endure the dizzying amounts of pain. Then these feelings would subside, and he would continue. Typically, the healing process for an arrow puncture would have been nearly completed. With as fast as demons healed and their resilience to the effects of most physical damage, arrows were mostly used for temporary disablement. However, Dufaii’s constant movement had slowed the process significantly. Fortunately, his arm was now somewhat mended from its fracture. Soon, he would be able to revert to his wolf form and regain some of his speed, even if it would take a couple days to fully heal.

After several hours of travel, Dufaii came upon the body of a femme-presenting human. There was a stench of sulfur on her body–a sign of demons who had recently left Hell. Next to her body were cut ropes as well as human footprints that went along a deer trail, toward the fire tower.

Dufaii followed the trail for an hour without incident. Then, like before, he got the feeling like he was being watched by something. Unlike with the loyalists, there was no definite movement. It was just an eerie feeling, like there was a shadow snaking through the trees above him. It seemed to perpetually remain out of sight and to always keep pace.

Then, without warning, the shadow leaped into a tree in front of him. “How long are you going to pretend like I am not here, Godkiller?” asked the thin dark being, as it crawled its way down an oak tree.

Dufaii stopped, nearly ready to start the encounter with violence. The constant interruptions had long-since overstayed their welcome. He had to get to Exousia before anything happened to her!

When the figure reached the ground, they rose to face him. It was familiar, a night-black lizard with white dots like stars covering its unclothed, scaled flesh. He stood a head taller than Dufaii, and a white moon was painted on his face. His cyan eyes revealed revealed his divinity.

It took Dufaii a moment before he realized that this was a god he’d met before, though not in over a thousand years. His name was Wati-kutjara, which he shared with his brother who was mysteriously absent. The two identical twin brothers of the same name were patrons of the aboriginal human peoples. The two minor deities had been created by greater gods to act as shepherds of their mortal followers. But, as with all gods, it wasn’t long before their superiors faced the Madness. No match to fight them alone, the brothers had enlisted the help of demons.

Dufaii and Ammon had found the brothers to be quite similar to themselves—beings forced to rebel against their creators. On the condition of a solemn oath not to create life and thus make themselves just as vulnerable to the madness, the demons had taught the brothers how to create soul-weapons and use them in the destruction of gods. One of the Wati-Kutjaras had chosen to create a boomerang with unparalleled power, and the other an amulet that gave them complete control over the realm of dreams. They used these to lull the gods into a state of sleep, while the demons cut their souls free.

“Wati-kutjara … or at least half of you,” Dufaii said and dropped his sword to his side. Still, he held it with white knuckles, nearly frantic to escape this conversation.

“Godkiller,” Wati-kutjara replied, moving his boomerang between his fingers so that it seemed to float and spin in place.

“I’m not going to stand here indefinitely,” Dufaii said with a glare. He decided that the best tactic here would be to get the god to throw the boomerang at him. He would use his sword to knock it out of the air and then attack. Until then, he would have to keep space between them while leaving his chest as an exposed target for the ranged weapon.

Wati-kutjara eyed him curiously.

“Go ahead and fight me,” Dufaii said, narrowing his glare. “I’ll cut your heart out, and you can join the rest of your kind who have lost themselves to madness.”

“You misunderstand, Godkiller,” Wati-kutjara said, with a small shake of his head. “I do not act out of a desire for power or to change my place in this world. Though this world has changed and left my kind behind, there are still those humans that would be led to a higher spiritual state through the Dreamtime. I am only here to repay my debt to your former apprentice.”

“Then I call upon my half of that debt and ask you to move,” Dufaii said, from between his gritted teeth.

“Unfortunately, that would conflict with my first repayment, which was to stall you to the fullest extent of my power,” Wati-kutjara replied, continuing to move the boomerang faster and faster. “But I have something you’ll want more. A true repayment, fitting the extent of the efforts you made alongside your apprentice.”

Dufaii suddenly realized that his body and eyes felt oppressively heavy. As a demon, he hardly knew sleep except for as a thing which mortals required. But now it was so consuming that he could scarcely keep his eyes open or concentrate. There was a brief feeling of his chest and face hitting the ground before even that was gone.

Wati-kutjara’s voice followed him into the darkness. “In your weakened state, your mind fogged by a protective instinct for that human, you may not immediately be able to appreciate my gift. But trust me … you will.” The sound of the god’s voice then became distant.

All that was left for Dufaii was the darkness.