Heng X

PA 1 – June

Heng returned to his tribe that night, needing to be just—away.

Away from Michael. From the other immortals, from the prisoners he took, from any reminder of what he’d been a witness to.

From what he’d helped cause.

Instead he’d stumbled his way over to Mohu the mammoth, finding her sleeping peacefully on the outskirts of their camp. With a grunt he slumped down against her, drained.

“Heng? Are you alright?”

He glanced up to see the face of Wachiwi, his wife, staring down at him, a worried frown on her face.

He opened his mouth to tell her—he didn’t know. Nothing came out. Eventually he just closed his mouth and shook his head, unable to speak.

Her frown deepened, but she didn’t press. Instead she just sat down next to him, leaning against him. Reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

Reminding him why he couldn’t let Michael anything destroy this.

“…I hate it,” he rasped after a long silence. “I hate what we did. We killed people. We destroyed lives. How could I… how could I have been a part of that…?”

“If it hurts you so much, then stop,” she told him simply, as straightforward as ever. “You’re their equal, aren’t you? Can’t you just tell them no?”

The image of the burning city flashed behind his eyes.

“If only,” he sighed, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. He grasped for her hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m technically their equal, but the way they see each other—see us—isn’t quite the same. In the other’s eyes, we’re comrades in arms, out to rid the world of evil. But if I were to speak up against them, though…”

“…You believe they would turn against you,” she narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s why you haven’t done anything yet? Because you’re afraid of them?”

“There are four of them and one of me. If they decide to kill me there’s not much I can do.”

“You forget, husband, that you are not alone. I stand beside you, as do our people—and should they turn against us they will find our spears in their guts.”

Heng felt warmth settle in his chest, even if his stomach squirmed at the talk of casual murder—damn, was this really a him thing?—but he forced himself to respond rationally. “Thank you, Wachiwi. You have no idea how much that means to me. But beyond them still outnumbering us four to one, I would never put us in a situation where any of you could get hurt if I could help it.”

“Don’t be so arrogant,” she scoffed. “You are but an Elder—the first Elder, the Chief himself—but an Elder none the less. You don’t have the power to stop us if we decided to destroy these people for you. And trust me when I say, should they continue to hurt you like they did today, we will return the act tenfold.”

“…You’re that sure the rest of the tribe would fight for me? I mean, I know I’m in charge, but… I’m still an outsider.”

“You are Kin, Heng. Our children will be Kin. And their children, and their children after. And if there is one thing we understand, it is that we fight for our Kin.”

…Heng didn’t know what to say about that. So he didn’t. Instead he simply leaned against his wife, if for only a moment letting the rest of the world melt away.

--

The tribes began their search come morning, though they didn’t find the Stonesmith King until the next day, when their scouts finally found his army marching upriver. It then took another day for them to prepare and arrive.

They set up a trap in his path, their army hiding in the forest as they waited for the army’s arrival. The King didn’t know of them—couldn’t know of them, when they’d cut off anyone fleeing south and sacked the nearby undefended village for good measure. The King didn’t even have scouts searching for danger ahead of him—perhaps feeling himself secure this deep into his own territory.

If only. With how easily they’d circumvented all his defenses, Heng wasn’t going to feel secure in his own home for a long, long time.

Well, he didn’t particularly feel secure where he was right now. Unlike the sack of the capital, all of the immortals in their group were going to be leading on the frontlines—everyone in that army was an armed enemy, trained and tested in combat. They weren’t taking any chances.

Of course, it’s not like Heng knew how to fight. He sort of knew how to hunt by this point, but getting into a face to face fight wasn’t something he was capable of doing. So his duty for this battle was less ‘fight’ and more ‘meat-shield for the people who knew how to fight.’

Fun.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Four bird calls echoed through the forest, repeated over and over, getting closer and further away.

“Is that the signal?” Heng hissed quietly to Tȟatȟáŋka.

“No, that’s the signal to wait for the signal. It means they’ve spotted the army. Prepare yourself, it’ll begin soon.”

Ah. Of course. He should have known.

(Why didn’t anybody tell him what the signal was? Was it a trust thing? Did they think he was incompetent!?)

“There,” Tȟatȟáŋka grabbed his shoulder. “See them?”

He did. They marched along the river, along the dirt road that had at some point been laid out. They were intimidating, though unlike the Capital City, which had intimidated through its towering walls and technological superiority, they intimidated for a different reason. Soldiers marched in lines of ten, heavy packs of supplies on their backs and spears resting on their shoulders. They all wore matching grey leathers, the only exception being the man who marched in the middle, for whom the hundred-some-odd army acted as some sort of massive honor guard.

He was the King. He couldn’t have been anything else. He wore a red cape over the grey leather armor the rest of his soldiers wore. It was impossible to see his features from all the way in the forest, but he had pale skin with short brown hair framing his face. Some sort of helmet—or perhaps a crown?—rested on his head, pulled low over his eyes.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

They burst from the forest, battle cries flying from their lips. Hundreds of them suddenly exploding forward, surrounding the army before they could possibly understand what was going on.

Heng himself was more dragged then charged. As the mass of men and women around him burst forward, he found himself running with them, his eyes wide and vision blurring as they got closer and closer to the enemy.

His heart was pumping. Adrenaline was flooding his systems. And yet, it didn’t feel real.

It felt like a dream.

The soldiers were competent and disciplined, but even the most disciplined soldier would fall if caught unprepared.

Their warriors broke through their ranks like a hot knife through butter. Instantly any order was lost, and a chaotic melee was joined.

Heng held his spear in front of him as he charged, but once they hit the army it buried itself deep in—something. He didn’t have time to look. Didn’t want to look.

The handle snapped off in his hands, and in the cramped, close quarters stuffed between hundreds of bodies that might have been a blessing in disguise.

With barely enough room to move his arms he threw the broken shaft of his spear over his head, just blocking an overhead strike from the soldier in front of him. Then he blinked, and the man’s head was turned to paste by the axe of the warrior next to him.

The warrior spared a moment to give him a smile and a shoulder thump before charging further into the fray with a roar.

Heng on the other hand was frozen. He could do nothing but stare horrified at the corpse in front of him. He’d seen people die before, yes, but—

It should be noted, that standing still in the middle of a battle is not a good idea.

Heng let out a choked gasp as he was run through, a spear shoved straight into his gut far enough that he felt it exit the other side. The soldier who’d done it had an enraged scowl on her face,

Heng choked, staring down in horror. The pain of the blood gushing from the wound was only drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears.

Ah, this wasn’t a dream.

It was a nightmare.

And because the nightmare never ends, the wound healed. The spear was torn out, dragging chunks of flesh along with it, and an odd feeling in his gut the wound was gone as if it had never been. Only the blood remained to show he had even been hurt in the first place.

He fell to the ground. And perhaps he needed that, as the sudden shock knocked him back into focus.

He let out a gasp, stumbling to his feet, looking around wildly. The soldier who’d stabbed him was long gone—either dead or somewhere else, killing—killing his people.

With shaky hands he pulled the spare axe from his belt, holding it up. He didn’t know how to use it to chop anything but wood but maybe—maybe people weren’t too different from trees.

With shaky hands he set his eyes on the grey armor of the enemy soldiers, and not giving himself another second to think about it, he charged.

--

They succeeded, in the end.

He didn’t know when. All he knew was that at some point Michael himself had grabbed onto his shoulder, dragging him away from the battle while repeatedly shouting, “We’ve done it, we’ve done it! Fall back!”

It was a bit of a blur after that. They ran far and fast, where and how long they ran not registering to his adrenaline-fueled mind.

It felt both an eternity and an instant later that they finally stopped. Meeting up with the rest of their tribes, they regrouped by evening, their nomadic tribes having easily outsped the King’s soldiers. Some had managed to catch up, but those who did were quickly ganged up on and defeated, until none were left to follow them.

They settled down around a hill, breaking up into their various tribes. They dropped down, exhausted and drained, letting their rested and unharmed tribesmen set up camp and take care of them for the moment. Šóta came around at one point, checking everyone’s wounds. A bit later he saw the Stonesmith King, captured and bound, being dragged around by Ivan. The man, who perhaps at some point had looked like a King, now looked nothing more than a tired, broken prisoner.

He never learned the King’s name. He didn’t think he wanted to, either.

Some people, Heng noticed somewhat deliriously, were not a part of his tribe a couple days ago. He also noticed that there was a large chunk of his tribe that had been there that no longer was.

He hoped they had just migrated to one of the other tribes. He didn’t believe, but he hoped.

Wachiwi came across him at some point, getting Ehawee’s help to drag him over next to Mohu. Ehawee left after that, but Wachiwi sat down next to him, letting him lean onto her side.

And as the sun set over the horizon, a large bonfire was started at the hill’s peak. They were all gathered together around it, hundreds of tribesmen from different tribes coming together for this single night. And at the center before the fire stood Michael, the captured King bound at his feet.

And Heng, tired and shaking, couldn’t bring himself to do anything else. He simply sat beside his wife, and watched.

“Tonight, we’ve gathered to witness justice!” he spoke, his arms raised as he spoke to the tribes gathered before him. “Today we will protect our lives, our families, and our tribes! Long have we lived on this land, and long shall we continue to!”

The bound King shuddered, and began shifting frantically, only to be stopped by the warriors surrounding him, shoving the blade of their spears around him. He had already tried to escape once, and they weren’t taking any more chances on that happening again.

The Stonesmith King slumped, resigned to his fate.

“But now, our way of life is threatened,” he grabbed the King’s head and yanked it up, showing his wide, fearful eyes. “By people like this. So-called ‘God-Kings,’ who arrogantly claim that they and only they should determine the fate of the world. Tyrants, who claim to land as their own, destroying the forests, slaughtering the wildlife to the last, and destroying what remains to fuel their boundless ambitions! And they call themselves righteous.”

The crowd jeered. Heng looked at each face, seeing both true rage and confused, but quiet acceptance.

Michael dropped the King’s head, letting him fall back to his knees. “And because of that they would kill you! They would kill your family, your tribe, your very culture! They would enslave you, and torment you, sell you and buy you! And what, might you ask, would be the purpose of this? Why this cruelty, this hatred? Why, it is so that they can write arbitrary lines on a map, and declare that they own it! They see every one of their lives as worth less than a line on a map!”

The crowd spat and crowed at the fallen King, and Heng knew none would speak up in his defense.

Heng would not speak up in his defense. And yet, knowing he was apart of this, regardless of who was right or wrong…

He did not want this responsibility. But it was far too late to turn back.

“So let us end this farce! Show these tyrants that they are not, in fact, Gods. Let us remind them that even they are bound to death!”

Michael raised the King’s soul-orb high into the air.

Heng looked away.

And the Stonesmith King died.

“And so, it is finished.”

And as Michael spoke, two of his tribesmen lifted the King’s body up and threw it into the fire, an explosion of heat rushing into the air as the flames greedily devoured the King’s corpse.

The crowd did not cheer. Perhaps they respected the man’s death, even if they didn’t respect his life. But despite that, an air of quiet accomplishment settled over the tribes. If any felt the death unjust, they did not speak up.

“Tonight,” Michael spoke softly, yet his voice carried to every tribe, “we are one step closer to peace.”

9,866 God-Kings Remain