i will face god and walk backward into hell; round iv

[Wayra]

Wayra felt the water fill her lungs. She felt breath abandon her. She had felt herself die. Tears slipped down her cheeks. It had felt so good, to die. It had felt peaceful and warm, long awaited after months on the ice. Yet, she had woken up. Somehow she lived again. Wayra knew that she was alive, not for a moment did she doubt it. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet, but she knew she was alive. She didn’t, for a single moment, believe she had died and gone to paradise. She could feel the dank wetness of the cave, and the sour smell of old blood. A cold thought came over her.

Maybe she had died. Maybe the hellhounds had killed her in the Chamber’s pine forest all those months ago. What if she was dead, and instead of paradise, eternal damnation was to be hers?

Wayra shivered, the very idea made her blood run cold. She shivered hard enough to make her teeth chatter and her knees knock. She shivered so hard she couldn’t help but folding her legs up as tight against her body. It wasn’t just her thoughts that was cold. She was cold.

Finally, Wayra opened her eyes. It hadn’t always been this cold, had it? Around her she could feel the air, it was almost warm. She shouldn’t be this cold. It felt like the cold was coming from inside her. Wayra whimpered. Behind her a voice croaked.

“It’s you, girl. You’re cold. It’s not the cave.” Wayra jumped, and scrambled to her feet. You would think, after all this time, that a voice in the dark would hold no power of surprise.

On her feet, Wayra groaned, and instantly collapsed back to her knees. She felt a sharp pain, like someone had pricked her heart. The blue girl sobbed in exhaustion, and each gasping breath brought its own pain. Had her time on lake been real? Had she really been run through by the ice? She cried for long minutes until, eventually, she was too tired even for that. When the tears had run out she looked for the voice.

The voice was a mare, and by the looks of it, a very old mare. She had once been a blue roan, like Wayra, but her coat was almost white with age and starvation. Her mane was long and tangled in places, and patchy and falling out in others. Wayra recognized nothing but the eyes. She had seen those eyes reflected back at her in the ice for months. They were her eyes. Her big doe eyes, once filled with mingled hope and fear of the future held nothing but pain and loss. In the old woman’s eyes, Wayra saw the years of suffering that made them bleary and dull.

“What’s wrong with me?” Wayra asked. She knew the old woman would know. She felt like she was speaking to a mirror, and in that mirror she saw her soul. The hag answered her in a world weary voice.

“It’s your heart, child. The great gray bastard left a piece of of the ice imbedded in it. The pain, that will lessen, but the cold will never leave you. I’ll spare you the torment I’ve known, and tell you now that the cold will never go. You will always, always be cold.” The mare’s voice was wheezy by the end, and it seemed like she had used every ounce of strength she possessed.

“How long have you been here?” Wayra paused, reconsidering her question.

“How long have we been here?” The mare sighed, and her eyes floated shut. For one long moment Wayra thought she had died, but eventually, the bleary eyes fluttered back open.


“I don’t know. Long enough for youth to leave me. Long enough for an eternity of rats to grow old and died, long enough for him to lose interest and leave us to rot.” Wayra swallowed hard. She had expected as much. If she had learned anything on the ice, it was that time was an illusion. A single moment could last a lifetime, or be gone in the blink of an eye. Perhaps, it was because her heart was frozen, but Wayra didn’t feel the hot flush of anger or despair anymore. All she felt was the cold. She was beginning to numb, beginning to turn into the creature of cold lay before her.

“Who is he?” Wayra asked, not knowing why it was relevant, not knowing what she would do with the information. The mare snorted and wheezed, something that might have been a laugh, many many years ago puffed from her throat.

“He never does tell you. Don’t waste thought on it, a name means less that nothing.” Wayra nodded, accepting this as easily as she accepted the mare’s presence. The old, dying creature spoke the truth that was buried deep in Wayra’s thoughts. It never would have occurred to her to doubt it.

With a sigh, Wayra titled from her knees, to her side, and felt the comfortable feel of stone against her cheek. She had laid like this once, when she still had tears left to shed, when she still had warmth enough to feel anything at all. She closed her eyes, and waited for an eternity to pass.

From the corner of the cell the voice croaked.

“Do you intend to die here, girl?” Wayra opened one eye and fixed the hag with a flat expression.

“Don’t you?” The hag nodded, and Wayra was certain she saw her bleary eyes gleam.

“Aye, I intend to die here, and very soon. If you’ll help me.” Wayra sat up again, rocking to her belly to look at the crone more carefully.

“Why would I do that? Why would I kill you, who is myself?” The old mare rolled her eyes.

“And why do fools fall in love? Get up you lazy girl and let me show you something.” Wayra sighed and struggled to her feet, wincing, as she felt the sharp stab in her breast. On shaky legs, she wobbled over to the mare. The crone, it appeared, couldn’t stand, but she lifted her neck a little higher. On the mare’s breast, Wayra saw the brand, a circle with a stake driven though it.

“What does that look like to you?” Wayra squinted, it looked just like her own brand, or how hers would look after many lifetimes had passed. She didn’t understand. The hag could tell as much, and growled softly.

“Look at the wall you little fool.” Wayra did as she was told, and looked at the wall. What she saw there caused her heart to quicken, and that caused a sharp pain each time it pulsed. Her own little metronome. There, on the wall, was the brand. Beneath the brand was a slot. Wayra staggered over to inspect it. At the far end of the slot was a button, a button that could be pressed. Slowly, hesitantly, as if it would bite her, Wayra stuck her head inside. She could almost reach the end. If only, if only her nose was a little longer, she could reach it. As she craned her neck towards the button, the giant stone door the of cell rumbled slightly, but it did not open.

Wayra staggered back to the crone, and sank to her knees beside her.

“If we could push the button, would the door open?” The ancient mare nodded, the edges of her movements tinged with excitement.

“It would. I’m sure of it.” Wayra felt her pulse quicken again. Some feeling she couldn’t understand, some feeling she used to know flickered. It was hope.

“Okay,” She said, some excitement in her voice. “What do we need? Something to push the button. A rock perhaps?” The crone shock her head.

“There are no rocks, none that are loose. There never will be as long as you stay here.” Again, Wayra nodded, not for a moment did she doubt the mare’s words.

“Okay, well, you’re so very thin. Perhaps your neck would fit, if I helped you to stand?” The old mare shook her head.

“He will never allow you to get thin enough. Your neck will never be small enough to reach the end.” Wayra puzzled it out of a moment.

“If you were to lean against my back, would you be able to put your front hoof through the slot?” The mare didn’t bother to shake her head, she simply looked deep into Wayra’s eyes.

“I’ve tried that. It can’t be a hoof, it must be a nose.” Wayra huffed in irritation, but did not question her. The women were silent for many moments. For the first time in a long time, Wayra remembered what it felt like to have another heart beat beside her own. She knew what it was like to feel the warmth of another’s hide, even if that hide was as chilly as her own. They sat like that for what seemed like a long time. Finally, the hag spoke.

“Child,” She said, slowly, hesitatingly, as if the words she spoke were as important as the earth its self.

“Do you know how many times we’ve sat here together? Do you remember how many times I’ve seen you fresh from the ice?” Wayra, her eyes wide, shook her head. The mare sighed, and answered her own question.

“A dozen times, I’ve told you this story a dozen times.” Wayra’s eyes got wider. She didn’t know what to say. With an inch of frustration the crone continued.

“A dozen times I’ve helped you, and a dozen times you’ve refused to give me the one thing that I wanted. Each time you’ve wasted away and died, each time he has come for your body.”  Wayra didn’t say anything immediately. She didn’t know how, but she knew the mare spoke the truth. She recognized the words as her own. Finally, very quietly, Wayra murmured.

“And what is it that you want?” The crone looked at Wayra intensely through bleary, squinted eyes.

“I want you to rend my head from my body and use it to open the damn door.” Wayra scrambled to her feet, tripping over herself in her urgency to escape the image of her hooves sinking into the mare’s neck.

“No!” Wayra shrieked.

“I cannot, you cannot ask it of me.” Wayra wheezed with the strength she was exuding, breath came to her in shallow, short gasps. Each breath felt frigid, cold as ice. The crone simply waited for her to finish. When Wayra had calmed the old mare spoke again.

“I’ve been here too long, daughter. Do you know what he brought us? Years and years ago?” Wayra shook her head mutely.

“He brought me father’s body. Dad died of old age, as we rotted away in here. Do you know what he brought us after that?” Wayra could guess, but she refused to do so. The crone growled out the words.

“Mother, he brought me mother, as a sad old corpse. He brought me everyone we knew and loved until there was no one left. Each time he told me they died of a mortal wound. Can you guess what that wound was, Wayra?” Wayra refused to meet the mare’s eyes, but she didn’t need to, the crone’s voice was harsh now.

“A broken heart!” The mare all but screamed. Wayra winced visibly, and cowered in the corner of the cell.

“Everyone in the world, Wayra, dies of a broken heart. You will come to know that, if you don’t do this thing I ask.” The tears Wayra thought had left her began to trickle again. For a very long time she said nothing. Finally, when she couldn’t stand it any longer, Wayra slinked back to the mare, and laid down beside her.

“I will do what you ask.” Next to her, Wayra felt a heavy, relieved breath. Wayra continued.

“But, before I do, can I sleep? I’m so tired, I didn’t know I could be this tried.” The crone hummed, almost happily, beside her.

“Yes, lay your head on my shoulder, and we will sleep, one last time.” Wayra did so, gratefully. She draped her neck across her own back, except this back was withered with age. For the last time, Wayra feel asleep an innocent. For the last time her sleep was peaceful. Wayra didn’t know it yet, but the crone did. The crone knew that never again would Wayra be able to close her eyes without dreaming of him, the gray, nameless god.

She wouldn’t always remember those dreams, but they would be there, silently lurking in the darkest corners of her mind.

When daylight came, Wayra only knew it by the slight weakening of the dark around them. The crone was already awake, an expectant smile on her face. For a sickening instant, Wayra recognized her own face, the face that had belonged to her before she found this lair.

That face was happy, hopeful.

Without a another word, Wayra ripped into the mare’s neck. They lay as close as lovers, their legs entwined, but instead of kisses, Wayra tasted blood pouring in around her teeth. Wayra heard the groan that escaped the mare, but she, herself, was beyond feeling. Her heart hadn’t woken up with her this morning. It was cold as ice. It was at the bottom of the lake she had died in.

It took a very long time to rend the head from the body. When she got it free, the neck was mutilated, barely recognizable as flesh and muscle. Wayra had needed to stomp on it before the spine would break.

Numbly, she carried the head by the forelock and carefully inserted it into the slot. Wayra made sure not to look in the eyes. The next part was almost worse than the one before. In order to push the head far enough into the hole, she had to press into the destroyed flesh with her nose.

Wayra was surrounded by a world of blood and pain as she sunk her nose into the flesh. But, inch by inch, the head scooted towards the button. With an audible pop the door sprang free.

The exit to the cave was so near, maybe 50 feet away. All she had to do was walk out. Somehow, she knew the gray god wouldn’t stop her. She had played his game, and while she hadn’t won, she had completed her task. Wayra staggered towards the entrance. Feeling more like she was walking into a dream, than waking from a bad one.

When she had fallen into the lair she had been a creature of light and life. What staggered out was a dead girl, smeared with her own blood. Her cold, cold heart was only waiting for the moment it could return to its watery grave.


It was not Wayra that staggered out of the cave. Wayra was back on her cell floor, her head rendered from her body by the shadow puppet that had lived on. Wayra had lived many lifetimes in the dark, and would never see the light.

The shadow dropped to its knees in the snow. They belonged together, shadow and snow. A child of summer had gone in, a corpse of winter had come out. Behind her the cave entrance melted away, burying the real Wayra in her tomb.

Outside the shadow sobbed.