There was a saying where I came from.

“Let two girls play near a river, they’ll both come back clean and dry.

Let a girl and a boy play by a river and they’ll come back soaked and lie.

Let two boys play near a river and one comes back drenched, the other not at all.

They say a river monster got him.”

Pretty grim. Also, pretty stupid. Ugh, that story makes no sense. I always got wet when playing near a river. I just… don’t remember who I was playing with. Or why.

Not that it was my fault, definitely not! It was that girl’s fault, she made me wet, but I forgot her name…

Wait, where am I again? I was doing something. Something important…

A vague pressure around me washed past but didn’t recede. I bumped my head on something and immediately, the spike of pain made me want to go back to sleep.

I think was unconscious again, for a moment there. Ow. Don’t close your eyes, Rye. Don’t let go. Where am I? Am I dreaming again?

No. I’m in hell. Underwater. Drowning. Dead. Punished. My body is still flailing, twitching, but it feels so distant now.

Weird, how thoughts tend swerve right before imminent doom. Am I trying to take my mind off the fact that I’m about to drown? That I’m sinking, being pulled by half a dozen terrible limbs into the deep below?

I feel my eyes open, and it stings. I can see even less than rough shapes and outlines now. Only swirls of muted black on black.

I feel my lungs burn as I gasp instinctively despite being underwater. There’s the sound of bubbles leaving me, the thrashing of water, screams, muffled, drowning…

How heavy I feel. Slow, slowly I’m being pulled beneath the muck of the world. To be forgotten and never remembered. Slowly, beneath all the troubles of existence. I don’t have to be a knight. I don’t have to be anything. What else can I be when I’m drowning? All I can do is… let go.

Drowning feels peaceful, in a sense. There’s this weight, a burden all around. Its presence makes one feel as if nothing else in the world mattered, as if you did all you could and would do nothing more. As if you could allow the embrace to come and… let it all wash away.

…

But then, I feel it in the back of my mind. That tingle. That small feeling that I’m doing something wrong, forgetting something. Or someone… important.

I’m always forgetting important things. I’d like to say that I’ve gotten a hang of living despite not knowing much about myself or anyone else, for that matter. But that’d be a lie. Lying is… wrong. Maybe. In some cases.

I would never lie. Would I? No, why would I? I feel so comfortable right now.

…

Time passes slowly and I am pulled deeper, far, further away. Down, down, down, a maw opens up. first a flat line, then an oval, then an endless circle of pitch-black. I reach out towards it, one hand barely free.

Such a pretty circle. Sparkly. Glowy. Cold. It’s for me. My circle. My hole. Mine.

No teeth. Thank the gods it doesn’t have human teeth. That’d be…

Wait, I’m forgetting something again, aren’t I?

Oh right. I’m drowning. Huh. I should be afraid, not so… calm. And weird. Am I supposed to feel this light?

I look to my right. I can’t see my arm, it’s too dark. I wriggle a bit and a carpet of vines squirm, tightening around it.

Oh.

Oh right. I tripped and the mud sucked me in and then… drowning.

I float into the maw, barely any resistance. I try, but my legs, my hip, my chest are wrapped tight with roots – no, no wait, that isn’t wood... And it wasn’t mud that sucked me in either. But what then?

I can’t remember.

The maw closes but for a thin slit, and it is just dark. Dark except for the tiny, ever so fragile circle. I hold up my hand, noticing the dimmest of shimmers coming from under the glove.

Muted. Restrained. Beautiful.

A ring. My ring.

I take in a deep breath. It tastes like dead plants and deader mud. I exhale.

I can breathe. Am I dreaming? I can’t remember.

Breath in. Breathe out. Ocean, water, calm, just a drop, drop dr–

Wait. I can breathe.

I’m not drowning. I’m not drowning!

It’s the ring. It’s glowing. It’s magic.

I feel the pressure around my legs and arms recede, the tendrils leaving me.

I am not drowning. I’m alive. I have a chance. A deep breath. Calm, stay calm. If you panic, you’re dead for real. Don’t panic, Rye. Not yet, not yet.

Don’t.

Calm.

Ocean.

Then, there is a sudden pressure from all sides, like being stuck between two boulders. It presses the air – water – out of my lungs and I cough. Underwater. What a weird feeling.

Focus.

I feel around with my left hand.

Something metal.

A grip. My sword.

I take it, holding it tightly. The press of forces on my body gets worse. I feel rather than hear my chest-plate creak.

I turn the sword around and start poking whatever is around me. Carefully, I prod, the tip sinking in slightly before meeting resistance and slipping off. My heart jumps but my armor is holding. For now.

Focus.

Calm.

It snags something and I feel a pulse go through everything around me. The pressure lessens, then suddenly increases to near twice as much as before.

I push against a soft space, deeper, and the pulsing gets stronger. Then, I put my body weight fully behind it and thrust it as far as it can go. It sinks up to the hilt and abruptly, the water around me is filled with pandemonium. Like a muted earthquake, the walls around me shift and flutter, the air filled with thick bubbles trying to escape.

I’m also a bubble. I want out, too.

I follow the bubbles, pulling myself along slowly, the sword coming free with some difficulty. But rather than swim of my own power, I’m pushed out by a swell of water that makes my ears go pop. I feel something cold as my body is vomited towards the surface. The cold is everywhere and it washes over me. Air.

Air.

AIR!

I sputter, blinking muck and filth off my eyes. I try to stand but collapse back into the muck.

Need. Air. Island. Land. Breathe.

I cough and hack as I hear something large behind me blubber and writhe in the mud. Turning around, I make out the rough shape of something wide, like a fish but not quite, flailing in pain. I vomit up half a lung-full of the most horrid bottom-drifting water and mud I’ve ever tasted, full of roots, dead things and sharp rocks that cut me up from the inside.

“Serves. You. Right.” The rest of the lung-water frees itself shortly thereafter. I turn away and struggle forwards, crawl.

I can’t stand, I want out, out of the water, out of the bog. Out of, of–

I’m almost there. It’s getting shallower. Just one last push. Put everything into a box, Rye. Deal with it after you’re safe. Deal with it later.

Those were the longest ten feet I’ve ever crawled, walked or climbed. I did a bit of everything and when I finally reached dry land, I continued a few staggering crawl-steps further inland, just to be safe. The splashing grew distant and then ceased completely.

It’s a big island. Good.

I tried standing up again. Mud and gunk squished beneath my armor plates, between my toes, in my boots and in my gloves. After staggering four steps further, I finally sank to my knees, shaken. I curled up between some roots, knees pulled to my chin.

A pulse shook through my body, and I turned to the side as another gush of swamp water emptied my lungs. I stared in muted horror towards the darkness. Where I came from. Where the swamp began. Where that thing still is.

It never followed after me, but I couldn’t close my eyes. I couldn’t stop breathing either, heavier and heavier, heaving and hacking and nearly seizing up whenever another dribble of slimy-coarse stuff made its way up my throat. It was cold. So, so very cold.

That’s enough. I did it. I’m alive. I’m done. I can, I-I’m, I…

Sitting beneath a gnarled dead tree, there sat a sad and tired me.

Hey that rhymed. Nice. Happy thoughts now. Happy thoughts. I need to clean the mud out of every nook. I need to be clean, need to make sure I didn’t lose anything. I–

Images of a muted struggle underwater. Thrashing, twisting, wrenching, choking, bubbles fleeing the scene and I’m alone, all alone.

I held my legs tighter, shutting my eyes tight, so tight, hoping that it would squeeze out those memories like an unwelcome zit. My whole body trembled.

I’m alive. I’m fine. I’m ok. Not everything’s bad, right? I made it. I made it to the other side of the swamp. I have no idea where I am, but it’s dry land and I’m ready to expl–

The feeling of mud, slowly forcing itself against my will down and into my lungs. Slimy, sandy, rancid, I can breathe, but I can’t breathe, and I can breathe but I don’t want to breathe.

Moving on, moving on. I think I still have everything on me. Armor, check! Shield, check! Sword, Ch–

The sounds! The sounds of screaming, a filthy struggle, the struggle, the struggle! I had to pierce it; I was inside the stomach. I twisted, into soft dark and tainted flesh and something tore.

…at least I have my boots. Boots. Boots. Boots… That counts for something, right? I killed the monster, I’m on an adventure, I did the thing, right? Right?

Complete silence. No one answered me.

At least I’m alive and well.

Except that I know I’m not well. Not great, not good, not even ok or bad or horrible or anything. I’m just… here. Breathing. Coughing. Shaking, sobbing, thinking. Shaking some more. Thinking again.

Scared. Horrified. Mostly scared, though. Lots of thoughts on horror. Flashes. Everything’s dark. So, so dark.

I think I need a moment.

Time passed and washed over my body. Mud beneath my armor became dirt. Tears dried up. The burning exhaustion in my legs faded into a cramp. I didn’t know how time could have passed. How it dared to pass just like that. To me, it was still like I was underwater, immobile, stuck in a series of moments.

It was a fish. A big, bug-eyed catfish with a beard of tendrils and front fins shaped like the greedy grabbing hands of a lizard. No teeth, just a stupidly large mouth, a cavernous interior, the skin slimy and–

The taste of dead mud, the feeling of being helpless, being crushed like a bug, squish, squish, squish…

Something nibbled at my finger and jolted me from my spiraling stupor.

“Gah!”

Squeak something squeaked. I looked down at my left hand, clinging feebly to my sword. It was a rat. A rat sniffing the air, its nose twitched and bobbed up, down, left and right.

A rat! What an adorable little thing. A good thing. It looks soft, it looks warm, it’s not a fish and it looks so squishable.

I pulled off my glove, a splattering of goo falling out of it as I did and, out of reflex or some long forgotten impulse, I started petting it. The rat didn’t seem to mind. It explored my hand, sitting there with all the patience in the world, politely letting me touch it. It had nice fur.

Did you squeak at me, little guy? Girl?

I put my sword and shield down and picked the rat up, cupping it in both hands. I took a peek under its butt and yup, definitely a guy. It let out a cute and indignant squeak. Something about it was making my heart warm up. Just a little bit, though.

I bet you taste better than spiders– Wait! No, bad Rye! This a good rat. He is friend. He needs a name.

Squishy. I will call you squishy and you shall be mine.

Squishy bit a bit harder into my gloved hand. Ow! I almost dropped him. But he was a good boy and I forgave him.

He probably didn’t like the name.

“Squi…shy?” The biting continued. Ow. Ow. Ow.

He definitely doesn’t like that name. Very well. I will give him a different one. I’m great with names! He’s very squishable, but I have to think like a rat. How would I feel, being called “squishy” just because I’m small, adorable, and someone ten times my size wanted to knead me like dough? Well, not great. Not great at all.

I loosened my grip, letting my little rat friend sit on my palms. He skittered to the side, sampled the air, then turned around and repeated it a few more times. He found my arms and, once he did, it took him no time at all to use them as a bridge to waddle on over to my shoulder. There, he started rustling the tattered chainmail around my neck.

Inquisitive. Adventurous. Bold, yet careful. I have the perfect name for you, little man. Henceforth, you shall not be known as Squishy the rat. You shall be known by a name that stresses the best of your features, a great name, a name for the ages. I shall name you…

“George.” George the rat was entirely enthused, nibbling, and pulling at the small rings making up my chainmail.

“George.” I giggled.

“George. George. George.”

I’m not alone now. I have a friend. I have a George.

He will help me. He is soft. He is good. With him, I can get back on track, get up, get away from the water and the swamp. I’ll get up right now.

Right…now!

Right… after I’ve caught my breath. And cuddled the ball of fluff for a while longer. His fur is a bit slick, and his nose tickles, but he’s warm.

I haven’t felt warm in a while. And while sitting in a pile of drying muck, touching my new adorable little friend, the other thoughts started slowly drifting away.

Eventually, I did get up.

Most days I would have stopped at nothing to violently scrub and clean myself of all the mud, rotted plants and roots and whatever else lived in the swamp out of every crevice of my body. I felt filthy, unclean inside and out.

Right now, though, I was content with just emptying out the gunk out from my boots, gloves, and from under my helmet and plates of armor.

Let’s face it, I’m never getting the smell out of my clothing. Or, well, the mummy-bandages and age-old cloth that I’m currently wearing in place of actual clothes. No amount of scrubbing is gonna help with that.

Come to think of it, there’s probably mud stuck between every ring of my mail as well. Ugh, better not think about how I’m going to get that nice and neat again.

After a while, I felt content enough with the amount of dried sludge on my body that I took a few tentative steps. I struggled, my whole body feeling like it was made of lead. But I pressed on, and it got better.

George was sitting on my shoulder, nestled in between the ring mail surrounding my neck and my right pauldron. It still had the large gash from when I took it off a corpse right before being flung through the air by the one-handed giant. And another from when the giant had stabbed through it.

I felt similarly trashed after my… recent encounter. Except instead of a series of concussions colliding in my skull, it was more like I’d just risen from the dead a second time.

No creepy frog trying to steal my soul today, though! Just a friendly rat and a lotta mud. I can deal with mud.

Things I can also deal with: weirdly shaped rocks that were probably statues once, strewn about a grassy field. I was finding quite a few of them, walking slowly up a stone path with a slight incline that led away from the swamp. I wasn’t going to return there anytime soon. Not ever, if I could help it.

Anyhow, these statues were weathered and were mostly detailed from the hip upwards, the legs melding together into a natural rock base. They looked human, at least to me, but most of them were missing their arms up to the shoulder or pieces of beards, hair and armor. Their faces were rather, well, defaced. I counted twelve or thirteen of them, all facing outwards towards the swamp of horrors.

A lone stone head looked up at me from the ground where it lay half hidden within a sea of grass. Its surface rough and porose, its eyes dim and worn down, revealing a blank look with the slightest hint of dissatisfaction on its face. It probably wasn’t happy at all, sitting in the mud like that, perpetually looking up and to the side.

I looked around for any glowing symbols but couldn’t find anything like I’d seen before. There were inscriptions of course, but again, too weathered to discern anything and definitely not glowing. It wasn’t too hard to guess who they were dedicated to or who had built them. Only the annoyingly rich built expensive statues, usually of themselves, or their family or pets or something. Monarchs, governors, generals, the churches, and nobility.

The road narrowed and evened out, leading into a crevasse where the sides of the hill rose without a care. I kept on going but checked the sides for spiders. This was optimal spider-on-face territory, and I wasn’t going to let myself be surprised by anything.

Not again. Not ever.

I also checked for fish and suspiciously shaped roots and twigs. All of these things combined slowed my progress to a crawl. But I did progress.

George squeaked and I tried rubbing my check against him. Stupid helmet! It was in the way.

The way forward was dark and ominous, walking down this twisting pathway, sandwiched between two ever growing stone walls. The sound of my steps didn’t exactly echo, but I turned around more than once, getting the feeling that I was being followed.

The fish is gone. You’re out of the swamp. Keep on moving.

After a few minutes of twisting and turning, the walls thankfully fell away, revealing a rather open area, as far as I could see at least. The path was completely blanketed in wet and dark flagstones, once neatly arranged. A few wayward pieces had cracked, become dislodged or were grown over by simple weeds.

Before me stood an old stone bridge. It was the only way I could go, and it was only a bit more than three foot wide. Wide enough to walk on safely, but thin enough to have the involuntary idea of slipping and falling off nipping at the back of my mind.

One step. Careful.

Two steps, make sure George is doing fine.

Squeak.

Ok, good. Now another, gently. Don’t look down.

I peeked over the edge. It was… not a very long fall. Huh. seven feet, maybe eight. That was nice. Don’t get me wrong, it would still hurt a lot if I fell down there. Might even break something if I didn’t catch myself right. But knowing that it didn’t spell instant death sure made crossing the rest of the bridge a lot easier as I swiftly scurried along.

I took a look around. Rock, weeds, wet cobblestones on the floor, worn statues, pots, sarcophagi…

Wait, am I in another graveyard?

Relief washed over me like a hot shower.

Not a swamp! That’s my new standard now. And by the looks of it, no spiders either. My day started horrible in ways I’m not going to think about because if I do, I’ll have to sit down and take a moment to despair again, but things are starting to look up.

Wohoo! I stood up straight, surveying the area immediately ahead of me. Man, those were some big looking graves. Like someone built a tiny temple around their own one and then everyone else decided they wanted one, too. Like when a farmer’s boy got his first knife and then all his brothers wanted the same thing. The idea of kings fighting like children over whose grave had the most swagger played across my mind. I smirked, a bit.

This one’s so large it even has a small window. Damn.

I looked inside, finding that the window ended in a small antechamber filled with pots, or urns, rather. I opened a pot and sneezed.

Ew. Dead people dust.

“Sorry.” I whispered, trying not to further disturb the dead. Who knows if this place harbored any vengeful spirits or cursed kings? I don’t think many of them died as peacefully as they’d liked to. I can deal with ghosts. They’re better than that thing at least, that fish, that…

Ok Rye, breath in and out. Don’t think about it. It’ll drive you nuts.

But as I was peering inside, a nearby sound like rustling metal made me jerk up and out, my head instantly facing in the direction the noise was coming from.

There, out from the edge of my vision, came a person. He looked male and was clothed in wet, hanging cloths well-worn and torn in places. I swear, I could make out the faintest color of green, which was weird, because I still only shone with eleven feet of very dim light.

He seemed to notice me as he reached the ten-foot mark, his head slowly rising to look me in the face. He didn’t look very healthy, frighteningly gaunt cheekbones under a leather cap, holding up some sort of stick above his head. The poor lighting shadowed his eyes completely. His mouth hung slightly agape.

“H-hello?” I asked, raising my sword and shield hand and waving.

“I. Mean. No. Harm.” I said.

It was true, in that moment I really couldn’t have hurt a fly if I’d tried. My body was pulling me towards the ground with a heavy leaden feeling in my every muscle, but more than that, I just didn’t want to fight another person, if at all possible. Or anything else, for that matter.

He took a step towards me, his form easily a head taller than mine.

I instinctively took a step back.

He took another step towards me, still fully silent besides the clinking of some form of mail. The smell of wet iron filled the air.

“Friends?” I asked, my hopes dripping away as I backed up even further.

Another figure came from the same direction and slightly to the left. She had long straw-like hair that hung in tufts and patches from an otherwise nearly bald skull. As she pointed at me with her stick, they both let loose a horrible scream in a guttural gargling tone and charged.