Chapter 101

Stranger Tales Unspoken

The fire continued to burn while the strange woman nibbled away at some rabbit meat. Sylas, in the meantime, drank some wine, marooning the thoughts of the doe and the crow and trying to clear his head. As for who the strange woman was, what her intentions were, where did she come from, how wasn't she freezing to death... he didn't ask. He wanted to, but her stomach growled shortly after the two met, and he felt bad.

Looking at her again, she really was strange, her eyes especially so as they were a mix between ruby-red and pearl-white. No, no, he shook his head. The fact that she’s wearing a fucking dress is weird. Not her eyes.

“This is really good,” she said suddenly. “Thank you.”

“Really? Glad you liked it.”

“You don’t seem surprised to see someone like me here.”

“I’m reeling, in fact,” he said. “But just before meeting you, I met Death I’m pretty sure. So, you know, the effect ain’t as high.”

“Death? Really? What’s it like?”

“Strange.”

“How strange?”

“Who are you?” Sylas quizzed

“A little lost girl.”

“Nothing in that sentence was true.”

“Did you just call me fat?” she asked, though the tone of her voice remained impartial.

“Considering how hard you’re going at that rabbit,” he said. “I’m surprised you ain’t.”

“That’s mean.”

“Oh, my apologies. I’ve lost my delicate side to the numbness of time.”

“Care to share some wine?” she glanced at him and asked.

“Here,” he handed her one of the last two jugs as he didn’t plan on going any further. Not this loop, anyway.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“So, what are you doing here?” she asked, finishing off the meat and leaning back into the stone, cracking open the jug.

“Exploring. You?”

“Following you.”

“H-huh?”

“I was surprised,” she added. “To see an ordinary man trample out through the Cold Snap.”

“... how long have you been following me?”

“Not long,” she replied.

“Though I am flattered to be stalked by a beautiful woman,” he said. “I’m equal amounts creeped out. Who are you?”

“A little lost girl.”

“Lies beget lies.”

“I’m not lying,” she said. “I’m truly little. I’m truly lost. And I’m a girl. How am I lying?”

“... how indeed,” he mumbled, taking a sip of wine. “Alright, why aren’t you dying right now, then?”

“Why would I be dying?”

“Because you’ve got barely any protection and it’s like negative billion.”

“You’re also not equipped to handle the cold,” she asked. “So, why aren’t you dying?”

“Magic.”

“There you go.”

“So, you’re using magic too?”

“Is that strange?”

“It is,” he nodded. “Not many people who can use magic that delicately.”

“And yet, there you stand.”

“I’m not a good example of that, I’m afraid.”

“... there’s a story among my people.”

“Who are your people?”

“It goes,” she continued after taking a sip of wine, ignoring him, and tossing her gaze toward the horizon. “That men who have seen Death have seen it only because they’ve outlived Life. And yet those who do not accompany Death upon sight and continue to Live... are apparitions of the world’s guilt. You were supposed to have died,” she glanced at him. “But didn’t.”

“... I did,” he said. “Many times.”

“How many?”

“Innumerable.”

“Everything is numerable.”

“Even time?”

“Especially time,” she said.

“How old are you, then?”

“Thirty-one,” she replied, cracking a smile. “What? Did you expect me to be hundreds of years old?”

“Pretty much, aye.”

“How old are you?”

"Huh," he exhaled. "Somewhere in mid-hundred, I think. I lost count."

"You don't look like any other mid-hundred person I've met," she said. "You lack... that sagacious look."

“That’s ‘cause I’m a moron.”

"Life is not so gracious as to allow morons to live into mid-hundred," she said.

“There’s an exception to everything,” he said, taking a sip of wine.

“Your bones, though, tell me you are thirty-five,” she added.

"Isn't it rude to ask the guy's bones questions before buying him a dinner at least?"

“Tell me a story,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“I like hearing stories,” she elaborated.

“I’m beginning to think you’re Death too.”

“Why?”

“’cause those things seem to like stories as well.”

"Who doesn't like stories?" she asked. "We are born, molded, and killed by stories. Every life is a story unto itself. Every day, every hour. Every meeting. Every word exchanged. The world itself is just a string of stories. A woven tapestry of confessions."

“... you wanna hear a story?”

“I’d like to hear a story, yes.”

“This is a story about a boring man,” he said, taking a sip of wine. “Who lived a boring life and died a boring death. But instead of truly dying as he should have, the man awoke in a strange world he’d never seen before, inside the body of a man he didn’t know, surrounded by strangers, in a land of frozen death.”

“...”

"And the boring man spent years trying to crack a hole in the wall with his head. He died. Over and over again. Some deaths were painless, some soul-boring. He watched others die. At first, he was cold to their deaths. But each new life was another dive into their souls. Bit by bit, the boring man started to care. But not enough to think past himself. The boring man continued to die, and the boring man got bored. Tired. He wanted to stop dying the same death. And so he did, condemning others to the fate he avoided. And then the boring man suffered for all eternity. The end."

“What a boring story,” she cackled.

“Fit for a boring man.”

“I almost died once,” she said in a mellow tone. “It was... terrifying.”

“...”

“But then a brave man appeared... and he saved me. He was a hero, but nobody knew. And he died without anybody knowing.”

“... most proper heroes do.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “The boring man can die, but only if he allows another man to start living.” Sylas glanced at her and her faint smile.

“Who are you?”

“A little lost girl.”

“Ah,” Sylas chuckled suddenly. “A play on words. I hate it.”

“Really? I think it’s fun.”

“I ain’t clever enough for it.”

“You got it, though.”

“... you musta’ve approached me for some reason,” he said. “Can you at least tell me why?”

“I was hungry. And you, being the kind man that you are, fed me. Just like I thought you would.”

“... haah,” Sylas sighed, taking a sip of wine. “Strange things surround me in this world, yet I still get surprised time and again. How can one place hold so many mind-bending things?”

“... tell me another story. A happy one, this time.”

“I’m all out of those, ‘m afraid.”

“Want me to tell you one, then?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“There once was a brave man,” she began, her eyes locked at the fire. “Who never stepped back, no matter what. What others feared, he challenged. What others ran from, he ran toward. All his friends mocked him. All his enemies mocked him. All of the world laughed at the man, calling him stupid.”

“...”

“But when evil came, that stupid man was the only one to step forward,” she added. “And defeat the evil, while all others watched. The brave man died, and the world was saved. Do you think he was stupid?”

“... no,” Sylas mumbled, looking down.

“The world may say that to care is to lose,” before Sylas knew what happened, he felt a pinchingly cold finger on his chin lifting his head up, and the woman sitting directly next to him, her eyes mere inches from hers. “To believe in good is to be naive. To hope for the best is to be ignorant. The heroes are dead, the world will say. There is no good or evil. Just compendiums trying to make the best out of the worst. Don’t listen to them.”

“... you know, don’t you?” Sylas asked emotionlessly.

“There is a hero in all of us,” she smiled suddenly, a kind of smile that sprung a spring upon the relentless cold. “Though deep we try to bury it, shunned by shame and relentless mockery, the little boy who dreamed of saving the princess never truly dies. True heroes are not those who never fail, but those who keep on walking. You kept on walking. Always.”

“... who are you?” Sylas asked again.

“A little lost girl who found her path,” she grinned suddenly.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, not really,” she shook her head, pulling back. “I just hear a voice.”

“A voice?”

“She tells me your stories,” she replied. “Not all. Just some. I wasn’t supposed to meet you. Not yet, anyway. But when I saw you sneak out of the castle and belt toward the buried lands... I had to.”

“I never seen you before, though,” he said.

“You did,” she chuckled. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ve chosen to help you.”

“... why?”

“Why? Hmm, you inspire me, I suppose?” she mumbled. “I was absolutely certain you would break completely after that day. But you didn’t. I would have. Most others would have. Which is why none of us can be heroes. However... we can help one.”

“... you said you hear a voice,” Sylas pulled the line back a bit. “What voice?”

“Oh, that,” she chuckled, taking a sip of wine and leaning back casually. “Something intrinsically binds us, Sylas.”

“H-huh?”

“I am what you claim to be, after all.”

“... you are a... Prophet?!”

“Prophet!” the two exclaimed at the same time. “Bingo.”

“...” No, seriously, WHAT THE FUCK WORLD?!! WHAT THE GODDAMN FUCK?!!