Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (37 page)

“How am I supposed to do that?” he whispered, and a moment later he felt Feothon's hand on his shoulder.

“With our help,” said the Titan. “We are not as defenseless as you may think. We've each an army of followers ready to die for us, and you know what we are capable of—you have seen Serah in action, after all.” He smiled. “I think that together, 'tis a task we can accomplish.”

“Serah...Serah was incredible,” Will said, thinking back to the battle in Prado. “At one point it actually looked like she was
made
of lightning.”

“Ah, yes—her true form,” Feothon assented with a nod. “'Tis what we look like without our mortal skins.”

Will gave him a sidelong glance. “Really? So I have one too?”

Feothon laughed. “Of course. I believe you may have almost reached it in Prado based on what Serah told me, but alas, I was not there. It happens when we draw too much power from the cores of our souls; the more we use, the more difficult it is to keep our human appearances. Our mortal shells are, after all, simply an artifice designed to contain a power far too great for them.”

“So...it isn't necessarily a good thing,” Will said slowly.

Feothon shrugged. “I suppose 'tis all in the way you look at things. You almost died, but then you've no idea how to control your power. For Serah, it simply meant that she was at or near the limit of her abilities. There was very little chance of her actually killing herself as you nearly did. She is, however, very old, and her years have given her a great deal of time to practice. She is in no danger of losing herself to Sorr—not anymore.”

“And what about you?” Will asked. “You're ancient. You must be very strong.”

Feothon's booming laugh echoed throughout the forest, and he slapped his thigh as his whole body shook with mirth. “Oh, Will,” he said, “if only you understood.” He cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his composure, but the smile on his lips remained. “We do not get stronger with age. Each of us is as powerful at the moment of our birth as we will be at the moment of our death. We simply learn how to use that power more effectively over the course of our lives. Here—let me show you.”

And then Feothon was engulfed in brilliant green light so bright that Will had to shield his eyes with his hand. The glow intensified until he was able to just barely make out the bones in his palm through his skin, and then it slowly began to fade away.

“For me, 'tis easy,” said Feothon, but now his voice—like Serah's had been in Prado—was different.
It sounded like...life. When the Titan spoke, Will could hear hundreds of voices speaking with him. It was beautiful. The light had all but faded away then, and Will let his hand fall to his side.

What had just moments before been Feothon the human was now Feothon the Titan. He was taller—much taller, over half again Will's height. His skin had been replaced with tree bark that creaked and groaned when he moved, and his limbs had changed as well—his legs were now the legs of a deer, but covered in lichen rather than fur, and his fingers had become long, twisting roots.

Where his hair had been was now a flowing shroud of red-gold wildflowers, and from his forehead sprouted two majestic antlers. Butterflies, which had appeared seemingly from nowhere, now fluttered serenely about him and occasionally perched along his body, gently fanning their wings before detaching to flit about once more.

But his eyes were what captivated Will the most—they swirled with glowing colors, blue and green and yellow, and from their depths Will thought he could see pictures, moving pictures of...was it people? He leaned in closer to look, captivated—

And then, with another flash of light, Feothon was human once again. The artificial rays of sunlight that beamed down from the canopy seemed to dim and, ridiculous as it sounded, the forest seemed an uglier place to Will. “I should have warned you,” Feothon said with a soft smile, “that to look too deeply into my eyes is to look into the eyes of life itself. 'Tis easy to lose your soul in that beauty. Stare too long and you will find yourself on the wrong side of the gateway to the Void.”

Will nodded, unable to formulate words.
A Titan's true form,
he thought numbly. It had been beautiful. Majestic.

Perfect.

“How?” he whispered. It was difficult to speak, as though the beauty that had left the world upon Feothon's reversion had also taken some of Will with it.

Feothon chuckled. “You will learn in time. But not now.” He smiled. “Serah will be taking you to Falcos as soon as you are ready. She wishes to teach you, as Davin taught her so long ago.”

“She misses him,” Will said simply, finally finding his voice. “Every time she talks about him she looks close to tears.”

Feothon nodded, and his eyes took on a distant look as memory enveloped him. “He saved her life,” he said softly. “That was how he found her—her tribe had been slain by a night terror when she was very young. But Davin reached her before it got to her and killed the creature. She adored him. 'Twas all I could do to keep her here when...” He trailed off, and his gaze fell to the ground. Will's eyes widened as he saw a single, glistening tear trail down Feothon's cheek. When the Titan spoke again, his voice shook with emotion.

“When Davin set off to kill Talyn. And himself.” He looked back up at Will then, and the sad smile on his lips made him look every single one of his many, many years. “You heard Serah's story. Talyn lost control—'twas how the traitors were able to seize her soul so easily. Without Davin there...that is why 'tis dangerous for us to fade back into our true forms. 'Tis an issue that has been easily remedied by time for Serah, Borbos, Leyra, and myself. But for the Fire Hearts...for you it will be a battle you fight all your life.”

Will felt as though the bottom of his stomach had suddenly fallen out. Would his entire life be like this? Constantly afraid, constantly holding himself in check? He wasn't sure he wanted that kind of existence.

“'Tis not your choice to make, Will,” said Feothon, and Will met the Titan's sad eyes with his own. “I see the turmoil in you. But you are destined for greater things, and for a life spent in service
to
life. I am truly sorry, Willyem. But now you know what it means to be a Titan.” He slid an arm around Will's shoulders then. “But know this also: we will be with you every step of the way. We are your family now, and we will always be here for you.”

~

Clare was only mildly surprised when she awoke to find that Will had left. What really got her attention was the wooden bowl of fruit, nuts, and what smelled like venison, as well as the sight of a pair of very pale feminine legs. Her eyes followed the legs up their owner's body until she saw Asper's smiling face.

“Good morning,” the woman said, pushing a red lock of hair behind her ear. “Did you sleep well? I've some food here for you. I hope I did not wake you.” The way she said “did not” was strange—almost as though she were trying to say “dinner”.

“No, no,” Clare mumbled drowsily, pushing herself into a sitting position. Asper knelt down beside her. “Thank you for the food. It looks delicious.” She reached down and plucked a large, ripe strawberry from the plate and raised it to her lips. She was using her left hand, though, and half-way to her mouth the berry fell from her numb-fingered grasp.
And here I was hoping it had all been a nightmare.
She let her hand fall slowly to her lap, her appetite gone.

Asper reached out then and gently caught hold of Clare's maimed hand. “Such a noble scar,” she murmured, tracing her fingers along the waxen flesh. “Would that I'd one just like it.”

“You don't want one,” Clare said, her voice a dull monotone. “Trust me.”

“But I do.” Something in the way Asper said it made Clare raise her eyes to meet the other woman's. “The only scars I bear are here,” she said, one hand falling to her belly. “They are the marks of one too weak to defend what she loves with her life. I am too much a coward for scars like yours.”

“How can you say that?” Clare asked, aghast. “You're acting like giving birth to a child is shameful.”

Asper smiled. “Then I misspoke. But you should not despise the mark on your hand. Wear it as a badge of honor.” She stood then, drawing Clare up with her. “Come, I've a mind to bathe, and you smell as though you need a bath.”

Clare giggled. “Yes, I suppose you're right.” She sniffed at her shirt and wrinkled her nose. “I smell like rotting vegetables.”

“Yes,” Asper laughed, “an inconvenient side effect of the plants' healing powers.” She began to lead Clare by the hand, drawing her away from the plate of food. As though sensing the thoughts crossing Clare's mind, she said, “Do not worry about the food. 'Twill all return to the Dark Forest soon.”

“What do you mean?” Clare asked.

“Very few of the plants or animals here ever truly die. We may kill them and eat them, but eventually their remains will find their way back to the earth, and they will be reborn. The food on that platter will soon be several lovely fruit plants and a happily frolicking deer.” They made their way through the trees, Asper continuing to lead Clare by the hand. Clare, for her part, was torn between listening to Asper and letting her gaze rove around the forest. She had never seen so much beauty in one place before; the water here was clear as crystal, and the plants all seemed to be far more vibrant and green than she remembered plants looking.

“Why do they call it the Dark Forest?” Clare asked quietly, her words more of a vocalization of her thoughts than an intentional question. She stared at the rays of not-sunlight, her eyes following the dancing motes of dust that swam in and out of the beams.

“Feothon does not,” Asper said with a chuckle. “Truly, I think 'twas more a name that his enemies came up with. Many fools over the course of history have tried to breach the protective layers of the forest. They have all failed, and done so very painfully.”

“What does Feothon call it?” Clare wondered, turning her gaze back to Asper.

“Yalkul,” the latter answered. “'Tis an ancient word from a language long dead.”

“What does it mean?”

Asper shrugged. “I am not sure. I know of nobody who speaks Felothel anymore. But you could ask Feothon when you see him next.”

By then they had entered what appeared to be a living area for the humans of the forest. Clare saw men, women, and children all around her, all garbed similarly to Asper—in clothing woven from the
forest itself. Amid the smattering of small crowds she also saw Pradian refugees, their city raiment standing in stark contrast to the naturalistic wear of the forest folk.

The forest people were either distributing food and drink to the refugees or showing them the ways of life in the forest; Clare saw one man, garbed in what amounted to little more than a leafy loincloth, show a Pradian how to call food from the ground. The man sang a low song, his lips a scant finger's breadth from the ground, and to her amazement Clare saw a tiny green stalk erupt from the soil. In only a few moments more it had grown into a full-sized apple tree, its branches heavy with ripe, red fruit. When the forest man and the Pradian had picked their fill, the former gently stroked the tree's bark and whispered to it once again. Its purpose fulfilled, the tree shrank and withdrew back into the ground until there was no trace that it had ever existed.

Clare stared in open-mouthed amazement, and when Asper saw her expression she let loose a musical laugh. “Everything in the Dark Forest is provided for those who need it. All you have to do is ask.”

“That seems...” Clare struggled to find the right word. “Well, parasitic, I suppose. Sorry, I'm not trying to be rude.”

“No, I understand.” Asper smiled and gestured expansively with her free hand. “As I said, the Dark Forest provides for those in need. And we, in turn, provide for the Dark Forest when it needs us.” She pointed off to the right, and Clare followed her finger. A short distance away sat an old grandmotherly woman, tenderly stroking a doe's face. The doe was lying on her side, her chest rising and falling quickly and her eyes darting madly too and fro. The woman cooed to the animal as she ran her fingers along its muzzle.

“What's wrong with it?” Clare asked in a hushed voice. She was startled when, in answer, Asper laughed again.

“There is nothing wrong—look more closely.”

She did, and then she, too laughed. “Is...is that a baby?” she asked, and Asper nodded. From where she stood, Clare could just make out the nose and front hooves of a fawn, its fur glistening wet in the morning light as it struggled to reach the outside world. There was something
enchanting
about the scene that tugged at the corners of Clare's mouth, something that she could not remember ever having felt before. This was no dark forest—it was a forest of light and life. The old woman looked up and, seeing them watching, waved cheerfully.

“So you see,” said Asper, waving back, “we help the forest when we are needed, and in turn it provides for us.”

One main difference between the Dark Forest and a city like Prado or Dahoto, Clare realized as they continued on their way, was that here the crowds of people were not oppressive. Even the Pradian refugees, so out of place in their city clothes and with their city mannerisms, seemed to blend in wherever they were. Voices did not carry and mingle in Yalkul, and the ever-present, deafening hubbub that drowned out all sound in a normal city was muted, until the noise seemed to fade into the background just like the people. Peaceful—that was the word that kept resurfacing in Clare's mind. The Dark Forest was peaceful, and among the trees she felt safer and more content than she ever had in Dahoto.