I’m not. I’m ugly.”
“I’d hoped to help you see otherwise.”
Enitan had to look away. “Go work on your house.”
Without another word, Rig left.
Enitan hadn’t known it was possible to feel simultaneously deeply relieved and completely bereft. He stood inside the cabin for quite some time, rubbing his head and feeling ill. He would have liked to write Rig a letter, to thank him. To tell him that if Enitan had been capable, he would have loved Rig. But there was no parchment in the cabin, or ink; and anyway, Enitan had no idea if Rig could read. It didn’t seem a very necessary skill in the Downs.
In the end, Enitan had to do Rig another disservice— he stole his borrowed shirt and pants. He’d become a thief after all. He stuffed some dried meat into his pocket, filled a waterskin, and tied it to his waist.
That was all, he thought, taking a final look around the cabin. Odd how the little room felt more like home than his family’s mansion ever had.
His feet had toughened over the past weeks, so he felt no discomfort as he left the cabin and ventured into the woods. He didn’t take the well-worn path, instead traveling a fainter trail almost overgrown with vines and seedlings. He took care to avoid the plants Rig had warned him about— the ones that stung or had thorns or caused rashes.
Where had Rig fallen when the fog had caught him? In which spot had he lay unconscious, his skin peeling, as his lover died atop him? And merciful gods, how had Rig stood again and lived ? How had he kept himself from turning bitter— from hating the fog and the Downs and the villagers who had sent him away? And the cursed city dwellers who fell, robbing him of everything?
Enitan’s eyes stung, but he continued walking.
It didn’t take him long to get to… the edge. There was no other name for it. The trees and brush stopped abruptly, as if they wanted to avoid the slopes of the Reach, and the last forty paces of the Downs contained nothing but bare, rocky soil. The steep incline began so suddenly that Enitan stood with one foot on completely flat land and one foot beginning to climb. He looked up and up, but he couldn’t see the top. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen so far and survived. Of course, he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Rig.
That thought was enough to set him moving. Along with the realization that although the sky was currently an innocent blue, nothing stopped clouds from reforming. He imagined himself halfway up, the vapor beginning to coalesce, his flesh peeling, his eyes going opaque, his body spiraling down and down. Rig wouldn’t be there to save him this time. Probably wouldn’t want to, now that Enitan had abandoned him. And anyway, Enitan could not go through that agony again. He’d prefer to die.
The ground on the slope was softer than he expected. He crawled upwards on all fours, fingers and toes digging in for purchase. His back began to ache almost at once. Quite often, he slid back down a ways, desperately scrambling to regain his grasp. By the time he came to a slightly flatter bit where he could rest for a few moments, every muscle in his body was sore. But he still had a long distance to go.
He drank some water and ate some dried meat, and then he resumed his ascent.
The day was impossibly long. Hours after it seemed that the sun should have set, it continued to shine above him. He began to believe that he’d always been climbing that endless slope. Maybe that was the truth of the Downs— the demons taunted a man with false tastes of kindness, then set him to a perpetual, impossible task.
Then he began to laugh, and the sound was not sane even to his own ears. But he couldn’t help it. He’d been struck by the irony of his fate. First he’d fallen to love and kindness, and now he was rising— still fucking rising— to hatred and revenge and destruction. The gods had made a very good plaything of him.
He crawled and he crawled, and he constantly expected the
“I’d hoped to help you see otherwise.”
Enitan had to look away. “Go work on your house.”
Without another word, Rig left.
Enitan hadn’t known it was possible to feel simultaneously deeply relieved and completely bereft. He stood inside the cabin for quite some time, rubbing his head and feeling ill. He would have liked to write Rig a letter, to thank him. To tell him that if Enitan had been capable, he would have loved Rig. But there was no parchment in the cabin, or ink; and anyway, Enitan had no idea if Rig could read. It didn’t seem a very necessary skill in the Downs.
In the end, Enitan had to do Rig another disservice— he stole his borrowed shirt and pants. He’d become a thief after all. He stuffed some dried meat into his pocket, filled a waterskin, and tied it to his waist.
That was all, he thought, taking a final look around the cabin. Odd how the little room felt more like home than his family’s mansion ever had.
His feet had toughened over the past weeks, so he felt no discomfort as he left the cabin and ventured into the woods. He didn’t take the well-worn path, instead traveling a fainter trail almost overgrown with vines and seedlings. He took care to avoid the plants Rig had warned him about— the ones that stung or had thorns or caused rashes.
Where had Rig fallen when the fog had caught him? In which spot had he lay unconscious, his skin peeling, as his lover died atop him? And merciful gods, how had Rig stood again and lived ? How had he kept himself from turning bitter— from hating the fog and the Downs and the villagers who had sent him away? And the cursed city dwellers who fell, robbing him of everything?
Enitan’s eyes stung, but he continued walking.
It didn’t take him long to get to… the edge. There was no other name for it. The trees and brush stopped abruptly, as if they wanted to avoid the slopes of the Reach, and the last forty paces of the Downs contained nothing but bare, rocky soil. The steep incline began so suddenly that Enitan stood with one foot on completely flat land and one foot beginning to climb. He looked up and up, but he couldn’t see the top. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen so far and survived. Of course, he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Rig.
That thought was enough to set him moving. Along with the realization that although the sky was currently an innocent blue, nothing stopped clouds from reforming. He imagined himself halfway up, the vapor beginning to coalesce, his flesh peeling, his eyes going opaque, his body spiraling down and down. Rig wouldn’t be there to save him this time. Probably wouldn’t want to, now that Enitan had abandoned him. And anyway, Enitan could not go through that agony again. He’d prefer to die.
The ground on the slope was softer than he expected. He crawled upwards on all fours, fingers and toes digging in for purchase. His back began to ache almost at once. Quite often, he slid back down a ways, desperately scrambling to regain his grasp. By the time he came to a slightly flatter bit where he could rest for a few moments, every muscle in his body was sore. But he still had a long distance to go.
He drank some water and ate some dried meat, and then he resumed his ascent.
The day was impossibly long. Hours after it seemed that the sun should have set, it continued to shine above him. He began to believe that he’d always been climbing that endless slope. Maybe that was the truth of the Downs— the demons taunted a man with false tastes of kindness, then set him to a perpetual, impossible task.
Then he began to laugh, and the sound was not sane even to his own ears. But he couldn’t help it. He’d been struck by the irony of his fate. First he’d fallen to love and kindness, and now he was rising— still fucking rising— to hatred and revenge and destruction. The gods had made a very good plaything of him.
He crawled and he crawled, and he constantly expected the
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