He’d struggled with his heart for too long. He’d tried to live on borrowed time for too long. Finally, all his paths were cut off. The realization brought relief.
“H-How was it?” Quin asked anxiously.
“It worked,” he said, smiling. “I can heal my heart with the Wraiths.”
“Yes!” Quin punched the air and yelled at his loudest, without giving any thought to the danger around them.
Clay trembled, however, and gritted his teeth at him. His eyes reddened. “You could never pass a lie through me,” he said.
Thorin chuckled without any intention of fighting for his lie. “Indeed, I still can't, it seems,” he said.
“W-What does that mean?” Quin stuttered. “Did it work or did it not?”
Clay took a deep breath. “You just hunted a weaker Wraith,” he said, ignoring Quin. “We’ll hunt the stronger ones too.”
“Answer me!” Quin screamed. “Did it work or did it not?!”
“It didn’t,” Clay said, glancing at Quin, who nearly collapsed at the reply. “But it will. It has to.”
“Don’t worry,” Thorin said, laughing. “I’m not giving up. Let’s go in and find some stronger Wraiths to hunt. Be careful though, my heart could pull some nasty surprise in here.”
……
The outer layer of the battlefield only housed undead that showed a whiter-than-white hue on the mana tester, especially the outskirts. Most were a layer weaker than them while some matched their level. But they all fell to their combined might. From Walkers to Wraiths to Banshees, Thorin hunted and devoured all kinds of undead. He even met a Ghoul on the edge of the inner circle and destroyed it with the help of his brothers and all the resources they had at their disposal. The slippery bastard almost cost Quin his arm. In the end, the Aether brothers won with their control-spells and destroyed it with a nonstop barrage.
With each kill, Clay’s and Quin’s mood worsened. While Thorin felt lighter and lighter, as if he’d put a burden down. It was the burden of survival. For regardless of how many undead he ate, his fate remained the same. His heart kept beating towards its death, and he could do nothing to stop it.
Even though his life was slipping away through his fingers, Thorin felt at peace. Now that he didn’t have to struggle to survive, he could focus on other things. Important things. The first of which was to stop his brothers from picking reckless fights with the undead.
“You said you won't give up,” Clay said, scowling at Thorin. “Is this you not giving up?”
“We’ve tried enough,” Thorin said. “If we continue on towards the inner circle, someone among us will die.”
Quin carried the whimpering Grey Direwolf on the side, watching his brothers fight in silence.
“Don’t fuck with me! Stop making excuses!” Clay snapped back and grabbed Thorin’s collar, pulling him closer with a growl. “You’re doing exactly what Rylan did. Remember how we lived after he died? You were there; you went through it all too. You want to see Quin and I go through the same thing again? You’re trying to take the easy way out. You’ve just given up, you bitch!”
“You think I want to die?” Thorin howled back. “Do you think I like suffering like this? Knowing exactly when my heart will stop beating. Seeing that day come closer but unable to do shit about it. Do you think I don’t want to live?”
“Yes, you don’t!” Clay yelled. “If you did, you would be hunting the undead right now regardless of the cost, you bastard!”
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“One of us will die like that, you motherfucker!” Thorin finally punched him.
“So be it, you pussy! Let us die! What do you care anyway? You’ve already decided to lie down and count your breaths like an old fuck!” Clay got back up and kicked him in the stomach.
Soon the argument devolved into a complete brawl. Barely any words were exchanged after that, and kicks and punches replaced reason and logic. They rolled around in the dirt for minutes, drawing blood after the bruises weren’t enough. In the end, ironically, Thorin’s heart gave up and ended the fight. Clay left him sprawled on the ground, gasping for air.
“Do whatever you want,” Clay said, heaving deep breaths. “You can wait for your death, I won't. Not again. I’m moving on alone from now on. I’ll be hunting and capturing the undead and bring them back. If that won't work, I’ll shove the Ashes of Death down your throat. Something will work. I will find what does.”
Thorin didn’t even have the capacity for words anymore. His chest heaved. His inhales ended in whistles. But he still gathered all that he had and crawled back up to his feet. When he had enough air in his lungs, when he could finally speak, Clay’s back had already faded into the dark mist.
“Quin,” Thorin said, looking at his brother glancing between him and Clay, trying to decide who he should stay with. “Go with him. I’ll retreat to the outskirts and wait for you guys there. Please don’t do anything reckless and stupid.”
“Can you go out alone?” Quin asked, handing him the Direwolf.
“I’m not that weak yet,” Thorin said. “When you’re coming out, use the
“Alright,” Quin said, but his feet still wouldn’t budge.
“Go now,” Thorin said and shooed him. “You’ll lose him if you don’t move your ass now.”
Quin nodded and rushed out after casting one last look at him.
Thorin stood there in the quiet as the mist churned around him. Only the Direwolf, his bruises, and his sigh accompanied him. After so many years, he felt lonely again…
……
Thorin walked away towards the outskirts, his thoughts quiet and calm. A pin-drop silence filled his head, broken only by the clack of his boots on dry earth. The Direwolf puppy trotted ahead with his leash dragging behind, then sprinted back to Thorin whenever Thorin changed directions. The numbers of the undead around him had soared, but they all merely stared at him from within the dark mist. None moved to bar his path.
“Where are you leading me?” Thorin murmured, changing direction again. Amid the quiet of his thoughts, his mother’s voice rang from time to time, guiding him to an unknown destination. Even so, from the turns he’d taken, he was still moving towards the outskirts.
“You’re free. You can leave now,” Thorin said to the Direwolf puppy, who stayed on his heels regardless. No matter how he shooed him away, the little guy refused to fall back. “You’re just as stubborn as my brothers.”
Before long, the mist parted from his path and let him gaze at the towering banyan tree with sheer awe. Its crown was a perfect dome that sat on its hefty trunk, with beard-like roots hanging to the earth below. The leaves were green, and life rushed through the branches, despite the endless attempts of the dark mist to stain them. The clearing and the tree preserved a pocket of serenity within the chaotic battlefield.
“Is this it?” Thorin said under his breath and looked around. Except for the will-o’-the-wisp that adorned the place like fireflies of the realm of death, the place had no trace of any activity. Regardless of whether his mother intended to bring him here, it was a good place to rest his legs. So, he sat against the trunk and closed his eyes. A gentle breeze blew past him, bringing the iciness that soothed his bruises and fatigue.
Though he waited for his mother’s prompt at first, the tranquility of the place soon made him drowsy. Even though he was amid potential enemies, he felt at peace. In the end, he slept with his head resting on the trunk. The Direwolf slept with him too, snuggling against his thigh.
He had a dream. He knew it was a dream. After his death, his soul scattered. When his brothers shed quiet tears at his funeral, as his pyre burned higher and higher, the bits of his soul gathered and became a Wraith. Instead of staying in the real world, however, his mother led him to the Death Arcana—a withering arcana that was on its last leg. There, he fought the savage undead who came for his ‘life’. Bit by bit, he clawed his way up the ranks. Eventually, he stood atop a mountain of death. When no one could contest him, he obtained the right of royalty. Under the smile of his mother, he wore the crown of bones and became the king of the Death Arcana.
“Thorin, the Crowned!” The dead chanted his name aloud. A wave of vigor spread across the waned arcana. Swarms of Wraiths roamed the sky to salute his coronation, while the physical undead cheered from the ground. Even the Vampires left their castles to kneel before him. Thorin had truly assimilated into death, as if it were his calling and his destiny.
“Why show me all this?” he muttered as his dream shattered. “Is this what you want me to become?”
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