Attempts at any clear communication had proven futile, though not for a lack of effort on the girl’s part. She, for whatever reason, had taken it upon herself to rabble as many incoherent words as possible when they had met.

Even now, with Keter staggering down the catacomb, feeling the last remnants of vigor slip from his body with every stumble, she blabbered on in her guttering language. The absence of oil pots on this side of the crypt were the least of his worries.

Her sentences were filled with R’s and hard G’s, making it sound as if she were chocking on something constantly. There was also little telling where one word ended and the other began. If only he himself could string more than two thoughts together then, perhaps, there’d be any sense in what she was trying to explain to him.

The light of his sputtering flame waned for a brief moment, Keter’s sight already a greasy smear. His legs gave in and he floundered at a wall, breathing poorly. Again, the girl spoke in her vague tongue, holding something in her hands, this time.

Keter watched the shadows crawl across a bag of hide she was presenting him. A glint in his eyes, and he saw it was a water-skin. He lurched for her, then faltered and fell into the girl, tumbling to the tiles in a tangle of limbs.

Keter groaned, too tired to voice his irritation any louder. This was not the first time he went without succor for days, but it was still a thing this body had yet to learn and grow accustomed to. The girl rolled him onto his back and pressed the water-skin’s end to his chapped lips.

Oh, sweet water. But he was no fool. Keter, even in his blurred state, took care and only sipped small swallows. Too much wouldn’t do him any good.

“Rog’var Goghvih dor Virrah!” The girl said, again.

Keter squinted at her, thumping her chest.

“Dor Virrah!” then pointed at him.

“Grievoh! Grievoh!” Keter paused between swallows, his mind churning. He pressed his hand to his chest.

“Keter.” But she shook her head fiercely.

“Grievoh!” She stared into his eyes with reverence, as if it were a thing of rarity. Novelty. Hers gleamed eagerly in the flames dull glow.

She stared at his black hair, then at him and said with absolute certainty, “Grievoh!” She seemed pleased about that for some reason.

Keter sighed, but then perked up when she offered him a strip of dried flesh, which he devoured quickly, almost chocking on the thing. When his breath returned to him, he ate another, and another; filling himself well enough. I had been long since he had felt his stomach swell full, and Keter felt his lids growing heavier as he slowly sank into slumber.

*

His eyes sprang open, flitting around in absolute darkness. Where was his candle? His knife? Where was –

His mouth was open, and he was drinking something of bitter iron. Blood. Lurching away, sprawling to the dirt-caked floor and tried to peer through the shadows. A pause, then,

“Grievoh? Grievoh dorgh gha Doark.” Her voice resounded again, confused.

Keter slowed his breathing. Why was he panicking so quickly? Had his mind grown to be that of a child, too? He hissed like a viper and heard the girl recoil. He was The Crown, not some kid. Magic coursed through his veins once more, reinvigorated by his rest. Keter sacrificed some heat in his veins and willed fire to burn.

A small flame sprouted from his fingertip, yet not hurting it with its heat, as he was carefully redirecting it upwards and away. Keter spotted the lantern before anything else and carried the flame to it, and the pool of light grew. He saw the girl stare at the tiny flame with fascination.

Blood lined the edge of his blade, held in the girl’s hand. Keter’s eyes moved over her and found a shallow cut in her wrist. Whatever reason did she have to cut herself? He wiped her blood from his lips. Pointing at her wound, he cocked his head.

“Why?” He asked in a questioning tone. But she only grinned.

“Grievoh gough vagha dorst!”

He shook his head again, failing to make any sense of her explanation. Judging from her clothing, all pelts and twine, she probably belonged to some primitive society. Perhaps they still thought blood to have healing powers… Though that could actually be the case, though, Keter pondered. If magic existed, then why not healing blood? There was so much that he didn’t know, but at least now his head was clear enough for thought.

A bag, placed on the deck, earned his attention. He hadn’t noticed her carrying it before through the blur of exhaustion. She got up from the floor, winding a crude bandage around her self-inflicted cut, and Keter discovered all his wounds to have been treated in a similar way, too. Not so primitive, then?

She started walking and beckoned him over.

“Grievoh! Gha vet Virrah!” She tapped her chest again. “Virrah!”

And so, Keter started following the girl named Virrah through the aged crypt.

*

One path had long become many, yet Virrah never flinched or paused at the branching halls, confidently navigating through the vast catacomb. Every now and then, she shot a backwards glance at him to see if he was still fine. But for whatever reason, be it the food, the drink, the sleep or the blood, Keter had since long shed his fatigue. In fact, the warm magic wreathing in his gut pressed him for action. To move faster. This desire, though, he ignored.

Watching her tangled, pale-blond locks ahead reminded Keter of how much he relied on her. Without Virrah to guide him through the endlessly branching pathways, he’d become lost, and would remain so forever. It was not a pleasant thought. Keter felt way too old as to be lead around by a little girl, even younger than what his new body looked from what he had seen in the reflection of a clear pond.

“Wait.” He called out to her as she chose another path out of three. Virrah turned back to regard him.

Keter raised his hands, gesturing to the different tunnels.

“How do you know?” He asked in a questioning tone.

She took a moment to digest his query before figuring out what he meant. Virrah strode closer, then stopped and pointed at the base of her chosen path.

“Zogh Doveghn.” She said, blocking one hand with the other and nodding to his lantern. Keter understood and complied, stopping the light from spilling. A moment was all it took for his eyes to adapt to the dark, and where Virrah was pointing, he noticed a faint, glowing bleach-yellow. He realized, she had marked every turn along the way with some sort of concoction.

That propped him to raise his eyebrows in slight surprise and to reevaluate this girl, obviously a lot cleverer than he had first given her credit to. Virrah’s eyes were round as the full-bellied moon and blue as flame. Apart from the usual mesmerized twinkle they held whenever she watched him, there was now also a hint of smug satisfaction.

As they continued their journey, Keter remarked that the tiles and brick on this side had eroded past recognition. The bewildering patterns and obscure shapes were no longer present. They had worn away in the passing of ages. There were also rough tunnels along the walls at intervals, too round for them to be natural, too harsh to be carved by sophisticated tools. Keter found that the longer he roamed in these depths, the more questions he had.

His attention was caught by something on the wall. Pausing, he raised his lantern to the spot. In the warm glow, a deep claw-mark was cleaved in the rough brick. Four long gashes ran down the for length of his body. Whatever creature could have wrought damage such as this?

“Virrah!” The girl walked over after being called and positioned herself next to him. Keter pointed at the jagged grooves, and she immediately understood. Virrah flapped her arms like wings, then formed them into claws, and lashed viciously at the air.

“Grievfa! Griefva!” She tapped her chest knowingly. “Virrah!” Then pointed at Keter. “Grievoh!”

It didn’t make any sense to him. All he understood is that whatever had left those marks was dangerous. Something he had already figured out.

“Lead the way, then, Virrah.” He shrugged.

*

“Leedh sthe wheiy, Sacrifice.” The Young God spoke again in his hissing tongue. It reminded Slickleaf of the noise a Splitjaw made when enraged; a sound she had only heard once in her life before and wished to never hear again.

Once more, she started walking, following her marked trail through the Hollows of the Old Gods. The sack Silva, the Crone, had sneaked her along snuggly fit on her back. The food inside was running out though as none of them had expected her to run into another person, let alone a God. But that was fine. They were nearing the Hollow’s end, anyway.

No matter what the village elders had to say about Slickleaf, or their superstitions, if she brought back the black-haired, black-eyed Godling, they would have no choice but to lift her tittle of Virrah; Sacrifice. Though, she still wondered how the Young God would deal with the Herald who had made these Hollows its home.

She shrugged to herself. If the winged speaker of the Old Gods would not listen to the Godling’s tongue, he could use his wordless magic to lay waste. Legends spoke of mountains being leveled, rivers being drained, and forests turned to ash with their silent augury.

Whatever chance stood the Herald against that?