jackal-among-snakes-16091326
chapter-183

Argrave and Anneliese sat in their tent, which had been pitched in a relatively dry spot of the wetlands. Argrave leaned up against Anneliese as she read, feeling a little exhausted. Galamon sat atop one of the crooks of the tallest trees, keeping watch vigilantly, while Durran read a book just beneath him. The two of them had separate tents just by each other.

There were two other guests—one anticipated, and the other wholly not so. Silvic laid down on the ground, doing nothing but merely existing. And Drezki the Coward… Argrave scanned their camp, looking for the woman.

“What will happen to my Lady and Light?” Drezki questioned, somewhat surprising Argrave. She stood just off to the side of the entrance to their tent, holding her sticks in hand. Up so close, Argrave could see the sticks she bore. Their core had been hollowed out and filled with the same glowing liquid light that resided within Silvic. To be struck with them was to be struck by an aspect of an elder spirit of the wetlands—that is to say it would hurt very badly.

Argrave gazed at Drezki, then cast a glance at Silvic. “I suspect… Orion will bring both of you along to aid in the expedition through the wetlands, and the fight against the Plague Jester. He may be zealous, but he isn’t stupid. He’ll know your help is important in traversing the wetlands, dealing with whatever enemies might abound.”

“And after?” Drezki insisted.

Argrave said nothing, searching for the right words.

“I will be killed,” Silvic answered before Argrave could say anything. Outside of the Marred Hallowed Grounds, her voice did not have the all-encompassing power it once did, but it was still bizarre.

Drezki whipped her head back. “What?!”

“Drezki, sweet child… if you had the opportunity to kill any of the gods of Vasquer, would you take it?” Silvic questioned, unmoving.

The woman stepped slowly to Silvic, wooden armor clanking. She knelt down, then collapsed to her knees ungracefully before Silvic. Though the wetland spirit did not move, the roots themselves curled out of the ground, bunching around Drezki’s legs as if in comfort.

“Silvic…” Drezki muttered, not quite crying but verging on that point.

“Would you rather I succumb to this disease of the Plague Jester, what the human calls the waxpox?” Silvic questioned, voice almost amused. “Let me die in service of the wetlands. This disease ruins all. That it came from this glorious land is tragedy enough. I must do what I can to right this wrong. It is not the natural order of things.”

Argrave was glad to be spared answering that question. Drezki grieved silently for a time, then went to sit elsewhere not far from Argrave’s tent. He felt sympathy for the woman of the swamps, yet he could not deny being mildly annoyed that he was denied privacy with Anneliese.

“I apologize for earlier rudeness,” Drezki finally said.

Argrave shook his head at once. “Rudeness doesn’t bother me. And we had not met under the best of terms. Were it something avoidable, I would not have slain those I did.” The words came easy because they were the truth. It wasn’t as though he had compromised his morals in killing Silvic’s guardians, but he generally did not like fighting. It was risky, and it hurt.

“Why do they call you ‘the Coward?’” Anneliese questioned Drezki after a long amount of time had passed.

Drezki wiped something away from her yellowish eyes, then turned to Anneliese. “’They?’” she repeated. “I call myself that. How do you know of it? I never mentioned it.”

“I told her,” Argrave closed his eyes. He had neglected to inform Anneliese of the background for the nickname, largely because it wasn’t important. It seems her curiosity spurred her to learn, anyway.

He heard Drezki shift, then answer, “It’s to remind me of what I am.”

“Usually nicknames are for other people, not yourself,” Argrave pointed out tiredly, and Anneliese nudged him with her shoulder in slight reprimand.

“Remind you of what?” Anneliese continued, trying to suppress Argrave’s comment.

“When the men beyond the swamp invaded, with gleaming metal armor and spells that tore apart the very land… I did not fight in defense of my land. I ran, as a coward. I let my family die alone,” Drezki said. The words had weight, but she had moved past her grief enough to say them without shaking. “My Lady and Light welcomed me into her hallowed land. She protected me, sheltered me. She taught me. When the waxpox came and ate away my flesh, she imbued her own body into me to prevent my death,” she noted, pointing to patches of her body that had been replaced with wood.

“I vowed not to make the same mistake with my Lady and Light. I vowed to defend her to my last breath. And so, I call myself ‘coward,’ because it is what I hope to prove I am not.”

Argrave opened his eyes again, looking at Drezki as he leaned against Anneliese’s shoulder. Willingness to die for something… on his first day here, that sentiment might have been foreign to him. He was beginning to understand it, though. Maybe it was because he was around people who would die for a cause—people like Titus, Orion, or the southron elves. Or maybe it was because he had something to value in this life beyond himself, now.

Just as the somber tones were beginning to set in his head, Anneliese tilted her head and rested it against his. It was a simple act, but it made him feel warm.

“…if the waxpox is cured, you don’t need to die,” Argrave said slowly. “You can still escape, Silvic.”

Drezki looked towards the wetland spirit with hope, but Silvic said at once, “You make it sound like escaping this man you call Orion’s grasp will be something easy,” it pointed out. “The wetlands themselves balk in fear of him. I fear I am powerless before him, even were my power not waned by this rotting disease.”

Drezki looked greatly dispirited.

“What is your purpose?” Anneliese inquired of Silvic. “Why do people worship you?”

“I am simply the wetlands. I am the advocate of the water beneath us, the trees around us, the beauty and ugliness all. I simply wish to see it prosper, as it always has. I am but a manifestation of the desires of the folk who once lived in this swamp. I am the spirit of the wetlands.”

With the emphasis on the word ‘spirit,’ Anneliese nodded as things fell in place.

“That is another reason I am not afraid to die,” Silvic added. “In time… centuries, perhaps… so long as this land persists, another of my kind will be born. Perhaps it will be different from me. Perhaps it will not be called ‘wetlands’ any longer. There is something special to this land, you know.”

Maybe the wetlands will progress into coal forests, Argrave mused, recalling useless geographical knowledge.

“And this plague uses what is special of this land to sow discord,” Silvic said. “That is why it must be stopped.”