Chapter 102

Dazzled by the Winter’s Snow

It was different. Surreal. The way the world bent and bowed infuriated Sylas. It did nothing but stood it his path like a wall without ladders, barring him entry. And yet, for her, it not only bore ladders, but gates and doors all flung open. Wherever she walked, the snow melted on its own. It parted like the sea, creating a path for her to thread.

She didn’t have to do anything--for anything. Where she walked, she encountered edible plants that somehow grew in the deadly winter. She encountered fresh corpses of deer, of rabbits, of all manner and ilk of stranger creatures Sylas had never seen before. The world loved her dearly and it wove the tale for her to never struggle.

Walking behind her was like walking behind God itself, for all wants and desires were immediately fulfilled. Miracles abound, left, right, and center, and she didn't have to do anything. She was blessed, and he was cursed. It angered him. Infuriated him. And yet it awed him.

To be loved by the world, he realized, was a beautiful thing, was a resplendent thing. It shone everlasting and it gave birth to something beyond description. All he wanted was a mere portion of it. Just a twine. Not even a whole branch. Instead, he not only had nothing but got punished. Beaten. Singed and scalded. The world tossed fire at him and tossed melodic songs at her. And they were sung by the angels themselves.

“Here, cook us a lunch again,” she said, pointing not only at the fresh corpse of a strange, eight-legged, wolf-like animal that Sylas had never seen before, but also a whole set of incredibly dry firewood. In the dead of winter.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a coyler,” she explained. “Its legs are poisonous and inedible, but its liver is~~yuuum. One of the tastiest things I’ve ever eaten.”

“...” without saying much, Sylas set down the now-full jugs of wine to the side and got on with it.

She’d promised she’d escort him through the woods and into the nearest village, as she desired to help. Though he intended to only humor her for a while as to learn more about the in-world Prophet, the first day in he knew that they’d likely reach the village with no issues. In fact, he suspected that the road wasn’t nearly this good in the dead of summer. Her mere presence fixed all that was broken.

“Are you jealous?” she asked with a smirk, her head resting against her hands while she sat and observed him.

“Very much,” he replied, starting the fire by belting two stones together above the thin and dry branches.

“The world is very kind to me,” she said.

“That’s an understatement of the century,” he said. “The world isn’t kind to you. It worships you. I was told that all the Prophets were insane, broken men and women who were hearing horrid nightmares since they were babes, dead before they became adults, mostly due to self-harm. And yet, lo’ and behold.”

“... you didn’t hear wrong,” she said. “I hear ‘em too, you know?”

“...”

“I heard yours, repeatedly.”

“And yet, you’re alive and loved,” he said, beginning to skin the beast according to her explanation.

"Loved... hmm, more like compensated, I suppose?" she said, leaning back into the suddenly-blossoming tree. The dead branches were infused with life all of a sudden, leaves and fruits growing beautifully as though the entirety of spring passed in a matter of a few seconds. "We aren't all that different--no, that's unfair to you. You experience nightmares, I merely hear and sometimes see them. But I see plenty of them, too, you know?"

“Where’s my compensation, then?”

“But you aren’t a Prophet?” she grinned.

“... was it always like this?” he asked.

“Hm,” she nodded. “That’s why my mum and dad left me in the woods when I was only four. They were terrified of the villagers finding out all the strange phenomena that happened around me.”

“... I’m sorry.”

“I understand them. They did what they thought was best for the rest of the family.”

“... still,” Sylas said, pulling out what looked like a liver from the beast. “No child,” he grunted, struggling a bit as it was much heavier than he expected. “Should experience a loveless childhood.”

“I was loved. Just not by them, I suppose.”

“Right. No greater love than that of the entire world itself. What? Did the dead, cooked birds fall from the clear sky?”

“... you are bitter,” she said with a chuckle.

“I thought that was established,” Sylas struggled with cutting through the liver, needing to use energy and the sword as the knife was too dull for it. “Where’d you go after?”

“I wander,” she said. “Here and there. Wherever the winds take me.”

“What winds bore you here?” he asked, glancing at her.

“I saw the dead,” she said. “A whole sea. And then I saw the light banish them. I grew curious. Just... I didn’t know that light would take shape of a bitter, jaded man who hadn’t shaved for months.”

“Contrary to your view of ‘heroes’,” he said. “Most actual ones end up that way.”

“Perhaps,” she stretched lazily. “But do they all have a cute girl accompany them?”

“... yes, actually,” he said. “They do. From the start, in fact.”

“Ha ha ha, apologies, then. But in my defense--even now I am going against my Goddess’ wishes. Doesn’t that count for something at least?”

"I don't know," Sylas said, finally finishing off the preparations and storing the chunks of the liver into the pot while he began cutting up various vegetables that just happen to fall from the sky in front of them. "It all depends on how vengeful gods here are."

“Very,” she said. “Rather than vengeful, they’re... warlike. After all, we do take a lot after them.”

“What gods do the dead worship?”

“Just the one.”

“Of Death?”

“That’s one of the names, yes,” she said, looking up at the sky. Strangely, though ashen and gray it spread across the world, directly above her... the sun shone and warmth descended. “Some call him the Passenger, some call it the Carrier, some the Reaper, some the Beholder, some the Savior. It is not just the dead that worship him.”

“What about the doe and the crow, then?” Sylas abruptly asked, though his question didn’t seem to surprise her.

“What about them?”

“They’re not the gods of death?”

“Hmm...” she looked at him for a moment with a smile, seemingly deliberating. “Before that, you have to first ask yourself: what are the gods?”

“... uh, all-powerful beings controlling the world?”

“Hah, hardly,” she shook her head. “Gods are prayers spoken into existence. That’s... a bit simple, but you’ll learn about them eventually, I suppose. They have great powers, true, and command men and women and laws that bind us... but they are not all-powerful. Gods die all the time, just like we do.”

“...”

“They, though, don’t,” she added. “Tales and stories of them stretch as far back as the first word, written or uttered. Not just them, however.”

“H-huh?”

“Just like how every God has many names,” she explained. “They, and those like them, have many names as well. Most just call them Immortals, however, for the ease of it. We... we don’t know what they are. Or who they are. Or even how they are. They just... are. For the most part, they don’t interact with our world. We, humans and gods alike, have no idea what they do. We just end up hoping they do it without harming us. The doe and the crow are the ones that appear the most frequently, though don’t take their shapes and forms as gospel.”

“... this world’s really complicated, huh?” Sylas mumbled, finishing up the preparations and tossing everything into the pot to boil it above the fire.

“... for us, perhaps,” she said. “For most, it’s the simple matter of surviving and finding moments to live in-between. Few concern themselves with the dead and the gods and even fewer with the Immortals.”

“You’re like a bank of knowledge,” Sylas said with a sigh, sitting down as well. “Where were you all my life?”

“Oh my ~~”

“Oh, get your head out of the gutter.”

“Ha ha ha,” she laughed freely, flapping her bare feet around. “Apologies, apologies. But I was busy with my own things, you know?”

“...” Sylas remained silent, taking out a jug of wine and drinking a mouthful. “How can you laugh like that?” he asked after a moment of silence.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re singing a song.”

“... is there any other way to laugh?”

“The one where you’re trying to exorcise all your demons in one go?”

“That sounds a whole lot like a wail and a whole lot unlike laughter.”

“Tell me,” he looked at her suddenly. “Do your Gods ever grant prayers?”

“...”

“...”

“You can’t fix them.”

“... why not?”

"Because to fix someone is to give that part of yourself away."

“Then there’s a chance?”

“No,” she shook her head. “A prayer that grand has to be selfless.”

“And mine isn’t?!”

“It’s fueled by guilt,” she said. “Regret. Pain. You can’t martyr yourself into forgiveness, Sylas. Besides, you should trust them more.”

“Trust them more?” he quizzed, stirring the stew.

“They’re not broken little toys that need you to glue them together with your guilt-ridden tears. Have faith in them.”

“Is there ever a selfless prayer, even?” he asked.

“... there are,” she said gently. “But neither you nor I are the kind of people that can make them.”

“Who can, then?”

“Children.”

“...”

“The unsullied,” she continued, looking up. “Those untouched by the reality of things. The unblemished.”

“Haah,” Sylas sighed, taking another sip of wine. “For all the whimsical magic surrounding you, you are quite the bearer of depression, no?”

“Oh, wow, that one stung! What do you mean?! I’m the bringer of joy and laughter, aren’t I?”

“Well, you are funny-looking, I suppose.”

“...”

“I’m joking.”

“Sure you are, bear-looking cud.”

“If you’re gonna insult someone, you gotta be better at it.”

“Like you?”

“Well, I did cut deep. Unlike you who couldn’t even scratch the funny bone.”

“... just shut up and keep cooking, funny man.”

“Aye, aye...”