Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (33 page)

“It's what people believe in,” Will said with a shrug, suddenly feeling self-conscious. The Titans had left the world to its own devices; who were they to laugh at the shortcomings of humanity? “And besides, the Clergy is so powerful that nobody wants to try to oppose them. People are afraid of death here and of a terrible afterlife to follow.”

Feothon bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I stand chastised.”

“You're here now, though, right? We can show people the right path.” Will's words sounded almost hopeful.

“If people choose to listen,” Serah said quietly. “It is often difficult to find an ear to preach to. Ainos, Karkash, the Hinterlands—we tried countless times to bring them back under our sway, but they would not have it. Why, look how much it took to convince
you.
”

“Do you think that has something to do with Keth?” Will asked hesitantly. “Could he be influencing them from afar?”

A look passed between Feothon and Serah. “We have often discussed the same thing, Will,” Feothon answered, and his voice sounded suddenly very tired. “But I do not think so. Keth's intention was never to cause pain and suffering; those things were the byproducts of a hasty decision made
without proper forethought.”

“But he made all those terrible things...”

“He is insane,” Serah said. “His mind has been taken over by something that calls itself the Dark One. It was under the Dark One's influence that he breathed life into his children.”

“But that's still him,” Will argued. “Even if he's going under a different name, they're still his choices.”

“If every night you woke up and murdered someone, but you'd no recollection of doing so, could you be held responsible for your actions?” Feothon cocked his head and gave him an unreadable look.

“Well...I...” Will looked away, thinking. “I'm not sure.”

Again, they lapsed into silence. For his part, Will's thoughts were a swirling vortex of unsettling ideas. He had never believed in Gefan—how could he, when the supposedly merciful god had never granted mercy to those who obviously needed it? How could he when a little girl's father had been beaten so brutally by the Clergy's men that he could not stand, and it took a mercenary's kindness to make him well again?

But when the Titans had entered his life, the world's madness and shortcomings had suddenly seemed to make sense. There was an evil god who had created all of the world's nightmares. He was responsible for everything—only the Titans apparently thought he wasn't. But all of the stories went differently—weren't they supposed to be enemies?
Can a blacksmith be held responsible when his weapons are used to kill?
Will wondered.
Well, of course he can...that's what he made them for. But...what about the metallurgist? If all he does is sell the metal to the blacksmith, thinking they'll be used to make farming tools...

Will shook his head, which suddenly ached. Assigning blame was not the important thing right now—Clare and the Fallen were.

But still...the idea that humanity, and not some divine spirit, was responsible for its own problems...that was unsettling. In the short time between awakening and entering the Dark Forest, he had been growing used to the idea that violence and death could be blamed on something else—that his own bloodlust was, perhaps, Koutoum's, and not his own. But the Titans did not seem to agree.
They were only the metallurgists,
he thought.
Humanity are the blacksmiths.

“You've a troubled look to you, Will,” Feothon said softly.

“It's just...it's a lot to take in.” He ran his fingers through his hair and breathed a sigh.

“It is,” said Serah. “Take your time. Realizing that you are an immortal god is a heavy weight, yes?” She smiled softly. “I know—I have been in your position.”

Will smiled back.
What has my life come to?
he wondered.
Have I just gone completely mad? Or did I die, and this is the space between?

“I have sent word to Leyra and Borbos,” Serah said to Feothon. “They should arrive in a matter of days.”

“Who are they?” Will asked.

“Leyra,” Feothon explained, “is the Lady of the Mountain. Borbos is the Lord of the Sea. Except for the Phoenix Empress, they are the final two Titans.” He smiled warmly. “Undoubtedly they will wish to meet their new brother. Borbos was especially fond of Davin and Talyn.”

Will cocked an eyebrow. “But not...the other one? Leyra, was it?”

“She never met them,” Serah said. “Renne was the last Lady of the Mountain. She died during the Great Fall, and it was only several years after Davin killed himself that Leyra was reincarnated.”

“Ah,” said Will. “That was another thing I was wondering about—why did it take so long for me to come back? Five hundred years...that seems a little bit ridiculous, doesn't it?”

Feothon gave him a look that said he felt very much the same way. “Think about how 'tas been for us,” he said with a sigh. “To my knowledge, none of us have ever taken so long to come back. I do not understand it. 'Tis usually a matter of months or years. We are the guardians of life—the world needs us.”

An idea suddenly formed in Will's head. “Could...could it have something to do with the Fallen?” he
asked. “I mean, they were obviously powerful enough to take control of Talyn's soul, right? So I wouldn't be surprised if they were also able to stop us from being reborn.”

“A valid point,” Serah said. “The thought has crossed my mind before. With half of Keth's soul under their control, meddling with the affairs of life and death would certainly be within their reach, yes?”

Feothon popped another grape into his mouth and chewed slowly. The sound of his teeth squelching the fleshy fruit permeated the otherwise silent and contemplative atmosphere. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I believe everyone has had quite an...eventful day.” He looked at Serah with a smile. “Would you agree?”

Serah nodded and her fingers went to the ragged hole in her armor.

“You both deserve some rest,” Feothon continued. “The Dark Forest will be your home; nothing will hurt you here unless you provoke it through an act of stupidity.” He winked. “Anywhere you wish, you may sleep.”

“Thank you,” said Will, moving to his feet. He stretched, realizing suddenly that all of his muscles had cramped. How long had they been there talking? “I think I'll go sleep next to Clare,” he murmured. “Just...you know. To make sure she's alright.”

Feothon smiled but said nothing. After Will had gone, he shared another knowing look with Serah. No words passed between them; none were needed. Soon Feothon left as well, and only Serah remained. She stayed sitting on the ground for a very long time, never once moving, never once making a sound.

Dinn was the first, as she was in everything. From the towering mountains and the barren earth she fashioned herself a body as strong and enduring as stone. The earth is old, a remnant of an age before time; it will persist long after the last Titan is dead forever, and it was from this timeless quality that Dinn drew the ability to see far into the past, present, and future.

Beros was next, and he shaped his body from the shifting seas. Water was as much a part of him as his own soul, and his human form was an avatar of the sea as well as a vessel for his power. Like the sea he was ever-changing, and like the sea his fury knew no bounds.

Sorr was the third, and she was born from the calm of a summer breeze and the rage of a hurricane. Like the weather her temper waxed and waned with the slightest provocation, and where the winds blew she was able to see.

Forod then drew from all the living things in the world, and in human form his command over life was unequaled. Men mortally wounded in battle rose when he willed it, renewed and ready to fight again, and the creatures and plants of the world rallied to his call.

But when it came time for Koutoum to descend, the Titan hesitated. His brothers and sisters looked to him expectantly, awaiting his arrival. They knew they could not defeat the deranged Dark One without him, and yet still he tarried at the edge of the mortal realm.

“Koutoum,” Forod called to him. “Join us.”

Koutoum looked down on his brothers and sisters, and then at the chaos that had befallen their world. Finally, he turned his gaze to Keth, whom he could not bring himself to harm. And it was clear that he would not fight the Dark One.

So the other Titans turned away and strode into battle without their greatest asset, and Koutoum wept as the world tore itself asunder.

~

Pain.

That was the first thing she felt—pure, biting, excruciating pain throughout her entire body. But it was gone in an instant.

Fear.

That came next, a natural reaction to the agony, and her eyes flew open and she sat up with a gasp. The blurred collage of shapes and colors that slowly greeted her began to solidify as her vision cleared, allowing her confusing glimpses of what appeared to be plants of all shapes and sizes.
Plants? Why are there so many?

Without warning she felt something large and heavy collide with her, nearly knocking the breath from her lungs, and then a pair of muscular arms wrapped her in a bear hug. Freshly frightened by her unseen attacker, she struggled briefly only to pause when a familiar voice cried, “You're awake!”

“Will?” she asked weakly, her voice a coarse wheeze, and a white mass solidified in front of her. She realized it was his shoulder and reached up to touch him, her arm trembling. She felt strangely weak. “Where am I?”

He held her out at arm's length and she saw that he was smiling with relief, which confused her. Had something happened? He looked different, too—his scars were gone, and he was wearing a white shirt rather than the red one she had grown used to. She noticed then that her own clothing felt different, and saw with some surprise that she had been garbed in someone else's. That was the only explanation she could think of; she did not, after all, own a grey shirt or deerskin breeches. Her boots were gone, too, leaving her feet bare.

And then she looked down at her hand. Panic seized her at the sight of what had once been her palm, now a twisting spider's web of shining scars that looked as though someone had dribbled melted wax
across her skin. It should have been a relief to see that the back of her hand was mostly unblemished, but it was not; she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a cry that turned quickly into a sob, and her breath came in rapid, choking gasps.

“What—how—?” She tried to close her fingers but found that they stopped halfway, and when she ran her other thumb across the scar she felt nothing. Another sob escaped her throat. Was the rest of her body just as damaged as her hand? What in the name of the Void had happened to her?

Will seized her hand then, covering it with his own, and drew her into another embrace, holding her tightly. The gesture was so unexpected and uncharacteristic that for a moment Clare could only sit frozen in that position.

“It's alright,” Will said, but the forced calm in his voice belied the anxiety just beneath the surface. “You're going to be fine. Does it still hurt?”

He spoke as though she were a child, and she realized that he must not have had much practice in comforting the wounded. She appreciated the gesture, though, and shook her head against his shoulder, ashamed as hot tears stained his shirt.

“Just scared?” he asked, and she nodded. “You're safe now,” he said, stroking her hair. She wondered what had happened to make him so forward. “You don't have to be afraid anymore.”

“I'm s-sorry,” she stammered into his neck, her voice hitching awkwardly. She tried to regain her composure, not wanting Will to see her so.

“Don't be,” he said. “Let it out.”

Eventually, she was able to quiet herself, and she simply sat there, leaning against Will with her good hand around his neck and her face against his chest. A distant part of her mind registered the fact that, despite being completely disturbed at the lack of memory to go along with her injury, she was very much enjoying being held by him.

“Better now?” Will asked softly, and in answer she pulled away. An awkward moment followed in which each seemed reluctant to let go of the other, but soon she was sitting on the ground next to him.

“What happened?” she asked hoarsely after a period of silence. Her gaze roved down to her hand, and she ran her thumb across her scarred palm again.

“You don't remember?” he asked, and she shook her head. He was quiet for a moment until she looked up to meet his troubled gaze. “Well...you saved me.” He nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “Again.”

He brushed the backs of his fingers against her stomach, startling her. “That was from Pestilence, the yaru-boy-thing,” he murmured, and she lifted her shirt slightly, exposing a long, thin scar on her abdomen. Then he touched her maimed palm, gently as though afraid to hurt her. “And that was from—from me.” He whispered the last and looked away.

“I can only remember bits and pieces,” she said. “I remember the yaru attack, but...Pestilence...?” Something jarred her memory then, and images flashed through her mind. “Wait—I can remember a man in black robes...” Her eyes took on a distant look. “And...and pain. I can remember pain. And fire—so much fire. Did they burn the city?”

Will's face fell. “No,” he whispered, unable to meet her gaze, “but I nearly did. I almost died twice that night. The first time you distracted Pestilence when he would have killed me.” A single tear ran down his cheek, and Clare was reminded of the small wooden flute he had found. What could he have done for him to show so much raw emotion? “The second time,” he continued, “I...Serah said I awakened. I
am
the Dragon King. I almost killed myself. But you pulled me back and stopped me.”

Memory slammed into her then, and images whisked through her mind like flashes of lightning—how she had crawled across the ground, the horrible pain in her torso, the unbearable heat scorching the air around her, and then the feeling of her flesh burning as she grasped his hand and begged him to stop.

“I won't let you die. Come back to me.”

“I'm so sorry,” he was saying. “Clare—please forgive me. I never meant to—”

She kissed him. It was short and soft, and on his cheek rather than his lips as she would have liked.
She tasted salt from his tear, and the short stubble that had sprung up across his face rasped against her skin. It took an immense amount of willpower to pull away, but it had the desired effect of shutting him up. She leaned against him and wrapped her arm around his waist.

“I was the one who took your hand,” she said. “And I did it of my own free will. I'm just glad you're still alive.”

He laughed then, and the tension broke. He mimicked her gesture, though more awkwardly, and his hand did a nervous little jump when it touched her. “Can you stand?” he asked, pulling away much too quickly for her liking and rising to his feet.

“I think so,” she said. “Where's Grim?”

“Off in the forest somewhere, probably playing with the locals. Strange, that. He really seems to have taken a liking to them, especially the children. But he should come if you call him.” He held out his hand with a smile. “Come on—there's someone I'd like you to meet.”

She reached up to him, and then a man's voice spoke from behind her.

“We are already here.” The voice was low and pleasant, and strangely she found herself sinking into a deep calm. She craned her neck around to see Serah standing with a bare-chested man she had never met before, but who looked oddly familiar. She felt she knew him, but that couldn't be—she was sure she would remember hair such as his, and the kindly eyes that had seen more than their share of both happiness and tragedy. They were wise eyes—ancient eyes. This man was much older than he looked.

“Hello,” said the man, smiling down at Clare. “My name is Feothon. This is my forest. I trust you are feeling better?”

For a moment all she could do was stare at him. Everything about him told a tale of graceful perfection—the way he moved, the way he talked, even the way he smiled. And yet the youthful vigor that radiated from the way he held himself belied the age within his eyes, and his accent was strange—like a tavern fiddle, it almost made her want to dance.

This had to be another Titan.

“You're...old,” she murmured, and then her cheeks reddened; it was all she could think to say. Serah cocked an eyebrow at her, but the man took her completely by surprise with a booming, jovial laugh.

“Why, yes!” he chuckled. “I most certainly am. One thousand seven hundred and forty-two years old, to be exact.” He walked over and knelt down next to her, a sincere smile upon his face. “Forty-three in six months and seven days.”

Clare gaped. “You still know exactly how old you are even after all this time?”

“He is the Lord of the Forest, the god of life,” said Serah. “He can feel another's age just as surely as you can feel the wind on your skin.”

“Really?” asked Clare, astonished.

In answer Feothon pointed at Serah. “Seven hundred sixty-five years, eight months exactly.” His finger moved to Will. “Thirty-eight years, one month, and three days.” And then he pointed at Clare. He opened his mouth to speak, but faltered. His smile changed to an expression of mild confusion, and he raised one eyebrow. “And you...I've no idea.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “I can feel your life force before me, but...'tis muddled. Hidden. Like a wisp of fog that breaks apart when I try to grasp it.”

His eyes opened slowly, and on his face Clare saw...realization? Understanding? She couldn't be sure. “Ah,” he breathed, so softly that she barely heard it.

“Wait, what do you mean you can't...feel her?” Will asked. “Feothon?”

But the Titan stood without a word, the grandfatherly smile back on his face and all traces of whatever had been there before gone like so much smoke. He extended his hand and lifted Clare easily to her feet as though she weighed nothing. “Are you able to walk?” he asked, and after briefly testing her legs—and finding that, though shaky, her muscles were largely fit for duty—she nodded.

She let go of his hand and took an experimental step forward. Her body felt...strange. Like a ball of dough that had been stretched and kneaded into an altogether new shape, and then had the process repeated several more times. It was an unpleasant feeling, to say the least. “What happened to me?” she
asked, absently running her good fingers over the scar on her palm.

“You almost died,” said Feothon, and out of the corner of her eye Clare saw Will look away, ashamed. She wanted to tell him she didn't blame him—how could she, when it wasn't his fault?—but she had no idea what to say. Perhaps later, in a more private setting, she could get him to stop feeling guilty.

“The plants told me what shape you were in,” Feothon continued. “The sword had done tremendous damage to your organs, and it broke through one of your ribs. Obviously you know about the burn. The air around Will should have killed you, hot as it was, but I think subconsciously he was protecting you from harm as best he could.” For the span of a blink, that look of understanding flitted across his face again, but it was gone in the next instant and Clare was left wondering if she had even seen it at all. She put it out of her mind and focused instead on the man's words.

“Thank you,” she said to Will, and smiled at him. But once again his eyes were downcast, his face a mask of shame, and the smile died on her lips.

“I really am surprised that you made it this far,” Feothon continued. “You lost a great deal of blood.”

“So...why am I alive, then?” Clare asked.

Feothon knelt and gently ran his finger around the petals of a wildflower, which leaned into his touch like a cat. Clare's eyes widened. “This forest has power,” said the Titan. “The plants here can heal any ailment, save death itself. When Will brought you here, they sensed that you were close to death and covered you in a protective cocoon, filling you with their energy. 'Tis because of them that you still live.”