He-Thing sipped the tea.

It was more foul, by far,

than anything

Zolantos had ever given him.

But he drank it nonetheless,

choking down the hot liquid

like he was drinking putrid fire.

When he swallowed the last drops,

he handed the cup back to Vaila,

his fingers trembling.

He was suddenly

incredibly exhausted,

his body like stone.

The shock had worn off;

his broken ribs

stabbed in his torso,

and his ruptured insides

screamed in his abdomen.

Zolantos and Vaila

set up camp

while He-Thing

disguised his suffering

as best he could.

“What now?”

he asked, finally.

“We are going to take you

to the Hospital of the Blue Nectar,”

Zolantos answered.

He-Thing shook his head,

fear cold in his blood.

“No,” he argued. “Not me.

Not that place.”

Zolantos glared at him.

“You have no choice

in this matter.”

He-Thing shook his head again.

“No,” he spoke, more forcefully.

“Not me.”

“Do not be a fool!”

shouted Zolantos.

“You are dying!

And your power is

symbiotic

with the perpetual fate

of the Omniverse!

If the prideful pebble

of your mind

could only open its eyes

and see,

you would understand...

there is no choice.”

The weight of futility

filled He-Thing’s veins.

He cast his eyes to the ground.

“I will do as you ask, Teacher,”

he relented.

“There is no choice,”

Zolantos repeated.

Vaila’s tea began to take effect,

and He-Thing fell

into a deep slumber.

He dreamt.

In his dream,

he was stepping onto

the planks of a chariot,

harnessed to two sphinxes —

one black, one white.

He-thing grabbed the reins,

and stirred the sphinxes

to motion.

The chariot’s wheels rumbled,

and they raced up the wet sand

of a beach.

The sky above him

was a searing blue.

But,

he began to lose control

of the sphinxes —

the black one tugged inland,

and the white turned to the sea.

He wrestled with them,

but they were strong,

very strong.

They diverged,

pulling his arms apart;

the wood of the chariot

splintered,

his shoulders burned,

he was being ripped

in half.

The chariot broke

beneath him,

he was dragged across the surf,

the sphinxes

ran in opposite directions,

He-Thing’s belly ripped open,

his chest exploded,

and he was torn in two.

He-Thing awoke

in bright, warm, morning sun.

He could smell meat

cooking in the fire.

He saw that Vaila

was watching him

and he averted his eyes from hers.

A cool, dawn breeze

made the hair on his arms

stand up.

Insects chirped

and hissed.

He saw that Zolantos

was stirring something in a pan.

They ate.

The taste of the meat

rushed

through He-Thing’s body,

filling him with confidence.

But at the same time,

his bowels rumbled presciently,

and tremors ran through his fingers.

Zolantos and Vaila

dismantled the camp.

He-Thing struggled

to get to his feet,

but after he shivered

in painful convulsions

and coughed up

gobs of blood,

he allowed his companions

to help him.

They stepped

into the lasercopter,

and it ascended precisely,

as though it was strung

on a fiercely taut thread.

They departed,

the lasercopter streaming

across the sky,

en route to the Sweet Lands

and the Hospital

of the Blue Nectar.

But all was not still

at the remains of the campsite.

The ground beneath

where He-Thing had slept

began to gurgle and sigh,

spitting globules of mud

and blades of grass.

Two gray hands sprung forth

from the earth,

grasped at the air,

and then dug back into the mud,

pulling a gasping head,

and then broad shoulders

to the surface.

A gray-skinned, beastly man

climbed out of the ground,

soaked with the fallow mud.

He struggled to his feet.

Slowly, unsteadily,

but with adamant determination,

Shadow-Thing

took his first steps in the Omniverse.

End of Book One