Chapter Thirty-Six

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THE LEVIATHAN'S maw parted, and a thin seam of light peaked through the curtain of bristles at its mouth.

Red light. The colour of a fresh cut.

Vassago took another step, kicking at the skull of some unfortunate creature that had snagged in a fold of spongy flesh. He breathed into the restlessness of the simurgh, the yearning to be set free.

The Leviathan opened wider, allowing more light to filter in, and reveal this place that had stolen so much from him.

Blood Lake did not live up to its name.

The water was clear. Crystalline to the point of barely being visible at all. There was certainly no hiding place for the dense layer of bones upon the lake bed, some of which were piled till they pierced the surface. But those piles were not large. The lake here was barely a foot deep.

‘It is shallow?' he said, taken aback.

‘This close to the halo, yes,' Satine replied. ‘Elsewhere, the fathoms are great. This shoal is the first of many, then you shall find a more treacherous reef. The halo stands there at its centre.'

Vassago turned to ask another question when the howls came.

The morose, anguished cries took him straight back to Goodrich Castle. An age ago it seemed, since he'd shattered the Blight-filled prism and freed the Spirit of the Forest. But he'd not forget the cries of tormented dead.

‘The lake does not welcome us,' said the lady.

‘You don't fucking say?'

The cacophony told of endless sorrow, of grief-spiked rage, of all things lost and unknowable. Vassago wavered on his feet, bent over by the wretched. But as he braced himself upon the thick baleen hairs at the Leviathan's mouth, he smiled.

‘You will never know him,' he whispered. ‘You will not take him from me.'

A small, but important victory.

Leaving Silas had pained Pitch, like no torture he'd ever known. But this moment was a sweet justification for his betrayal. If he was so hammered by the despair of all the long, lost dead here, how much torment would they have brought Silas?

‘Your Highness, do you hesitate?'

The question stirred up his anger nicely, and he let it ripple through him, feeding it to the simurgh who took it up greedily.

‘Of course I do not hesitate.' Flame stoked in Vassago's eyes, and warmth filled his skull.

‘The cries are terrible.' That much was obvious. Even the Hellfield had not sounded so rotten at its fiercest battles. Vassago said nothing. ‘What blessed relief it will be when you silence them for the angel, at last.'

‘There is no surety in this.' He glanced back at the serpent, where only her head was visible, the rest of her long length extending into the Leviathan's gullet as she stretched to follow him. ‘And I don't do this for Seraphiel.'

‘Your reason is far greater. And it is why are you are best placed to succeed. Now go, Vassago. We can draw off the creatures of the lake only so long, but they will return in greater number.'

She stretched her body long, slipping her head between the corner of the Leviathan's lips. With a forked tongue taking place of the wave of a hand, she drew Vassago's attention out to the deeper waters on their right. Enormous swells disturbed the surface, froth lifting from their tips; the triangular fin of an gigantic creature cut a path through the pandemonium. Another identical point of calamity lay just west of the first; another fin moving like a knife through sponge cake.

‘There are more Leviathan?' he asked.

‘No. Only one. She creates illusion to draw the dwellers of Blood Lake away from here.'

Vassago clenched his fists and looked away. He'd seen such a talent for replication in other djinn before: in the Red Horse, and Pale Horse.

Vassago pressed thoughts of Lalassu aside. The Berserker Prince did not mourn.

He stepped up to the lip of the massive creature who bore him, gripping the baleen hairs, coarse as a dead man's beard.

The Berserker Prince did not suffer heartache, either.

Vassago took all thought of the ankou and set his flames to them. Burning them upon a pyre of rage that was ever-growing. A curl of hunger gripped him, the bloodlust of old stirring.

Here he was free to be nothing but the lady's Horseman of War.

The simurgh let out a cry, one that made his blood bubble and spit.

With his pulses maddened, and his skin heated through, Vassago jumped from the pliant folds of the Leviathan's lip, and landed in the shallow, utterly clear waters of Blood Lake. The water was tepid.

Lady Satine and her monster had delivered him to a sandbank, one of firm, though coarse, sand. He kicked off his one remaining slipper, and his heels sank only a little as he gathered his bearings.

There was little to see but endless stretches of water. Sparkling, like he'd been dumped in an empty paradise. The light was red, but neither the water nor the sky took on the tinge. Both were clear. And so similar to one another with their white hues, above and below reflected like mirror images of one another. It added an oppressive feel to the place; despite its vastness.

Vassago grimaced at the pummelling of deplorable cries. He despised this place. The simurgh's wings shifted, dancing across his bones, whilst the Seraph-made wound at his back pounded with dull pain. He despised the angels, too.

‘Do you doubt yourself?' Lady Satine stood framed by the rounded mouth of her beast. Its huge bulk was more evident now through the clarity of the water. Shaped not unlike a whale, but with a fin that reached skyward, tipped with a strange gathering upon its point; as though a great eagle had made its nest there. The Leviathan's mass was such that no tail end was visible; its green-grey flesh disappearing in the depths. That flesh held an astonishing array of barnacles; some large as anvils, peaked like tiny volcanoes, others smaller, and layered like cold hard roses.

‘No, I do not doubt.' The Berserker Prince had never dwelt on failure.

‘Good. Then this is the last time we meet. I shall go with the lake into oblivion, when the halo is no more. The djinn will finally be free of this oath.' She did not hide the swell of longing, of exhausted happiness beneath her words.

‘You and I were not so dissimilar, Satty. The chains that bind us to this lake are only slightly different.'

‘Arrogant youngster.' Snakes could smile, though not well. Bare gums, dark grey, glistened around sharpened fangs. ‘My chain held many more centuries in its links than yours, but I am glad were are not so similar there. The waiting would not have suited you at all. Goodbye, Vassago. May your fire burn true.'

The serpent withdrew into her beast, the red light tinging her quartz eyes crimson, visible until the very last, when the Leviathan's slowly closing mouth finally shut the Lady of the Lake away.

He did not say goodbye, he was tired of farewells.

Bones cracked and snapped as the beast sunk back into deeper waters.

Vassago was alone.

The simurgh shifted, its tail battering his leg bones, suddenly, painfully and rather aptly.

He was not truly alone.

‘All right. Show me the way.'

He took another step, the shoal of bone crushed fine as sand, a natural pumice upon his soles. The water seemed thicker than when he'd taken his first step, dragging harder against his ankle. And the forlorn cries were louder, as though the Leviathan's massive presence had kept them at bay.

Vassago followed the weight in his legs, the alternating pressure that urged him forward, one step at a time. He followed the simurgh's instruction, walking on. The water rose slightly, never higher than his knees, lapping at the jagged cuts of his shortened gown. He tore open the bodice, the diamond buttons spilling into the water like stardust, and pulled it off, letting it drift away on the current less liquid. Seraphiel had not bothered with undergarments when he clothed Vassago. There was no underbodice, nor a chemise under his corset. And the corset itself was plain ivory satin with no trimmings, no lace.

All the better to be ruined.

Vassago moved on, his foot catching at larger pieces of bone, his ears reverberating with the calamity of sound that lay upon him, heavy as a drenched shawl. Now that he stood in the Blight's birthplace, he did not wonder at how such a force had come to be, but how the sheer pressure of the lake's dolorous air had not shattered the Seals, and spread its anguish further and wider.

He leaned into the oppression, his breath coming in short bursts, his back aching as Seraphiel's wound pin-pricked with pain beneath the growing load of Blood Lake's raucous agonies.

They touched at him like bees testing their stingers, glancing at his skin, seeking the soft places to impale.

Seeking a way in.

Not into his flesh…but into his thoughts.

The onslaught was quick. Stealthy.

And he doubted himself before the next breath.

He dragged his feet, the enormity of the lake all around him, reducing him.

Dampening his rage, raining upon the fire he sought to burn.

‘Fuck off, fuck off.' He hunched his shoulders, searching for his strength. Finding only misery. Cracking fortitude. Vassago kicked out at the water and its impossible clarity; his own reflection barely flickering on the surface. The water was warmer now; like a bathtub.

That thought slipped in like an assassin, quiet and dark. Landing its knife upon him, digging up the ashes of times spent with the ankou.

The Blight sensed his falter, like it was truly blood in the water, and rounded on him. Pummelling him all the harder with its gloom and woe.

Bringing forth a surge of lament.

What if Lucifer double-crossed him once more and reneged–just as Pitch had done–on his promise to protect Silas?

The ankou was left vulnerable. Open to hurt.

Pitch gasped, tripping over a bone large as a stovepipe. Water splashed up into his eyes, stinging like vinegar.

‘I have to go back.'

The certainty overwhelmed him. Sickened him to the very depths of his soul.

He was not Vassago, not Dominion, not the Berserker Prince. He was simply a fool, who had made a terrible mistake to believe in the lies of a mad angel.

The simurgh rose up and scratched at him, right at his heart.

Pitch cried out, stumbling where a dip in the terrain marked a shift from coarse sand to rough chunks of coral the size of loaves of bread. He lost his footing, and his shin found a sharp edge.

A thin trail of dawn-pink fluid stained the pristine water. He stared down at it, dazed, uncertain why he was crouched in warm waters.

‘I have to go back.'

That was all he knew for certain, though the where eluded him.

Another jolt came from the simurgh. A vicious slam against his senses, a boiling of his marrow.

‘Fuck.' He clutched at his belly, trying to calm his scattered thoughts. Trying to move beneath the drenching press of sadness. He was miserable.

Go back.

Go back. Save him from this.

For this was Silas's lot, this utter despair. Day in, day out.

He shook his head. ‘No…no, that is not it. That's not how it will be done.'

The cut on his leg stung like a branding iron. His blood ran freely, fanning into the water. He swept his fingers through the mixture, making the blood swirl in pretty patterns that defied the ugliness of this place.

The desperation of this place.

That single word stirred something…a memory, a thought, a message forgotten?

Whichever it was, he knew it. He was desperate.

Desperate for what? Pitch's hand flew to his belly, where a sharp pain bit at him. A misstep followed, and he was going down again; onto both knees where the reef of bones was ready to stab at his flesh. He sent his hands before him, a terrible mistake for the shards of whittled bone impaled his palms. Pitch stared at the white stalks that protruded from the back of his hands: revulsion, anguish and agony mixing a terrible cocktail inside his head. A cry of woe echoed around him.

But it was not a sound he'd made.

Tearing his hands free released two macabre dribbles of blood, further marring the clarity of the water.

Blood Lake. The single thought pushed itself forward, and he grasped at it, tried to hold it long enough to make sense of what that meant. The stab in his belly repeated. He was shackled by despair. Fuck, he felt atrocious.

He sent a bloodied hand to his back, a point near his hipbone where his flesh seemed to throb with a discomfort even greater than that at his belly.

The angel's mark.

An angel had hurt him. Manipulated and deceived.

The thoughts flashed and died quickly. Too much so to do anything but cause confusion.

Pitch dragged himself to his feet, feeling the tug of his flesh as his knees came away from the bony reef. He stood in a spreading film of his own blood. The water nearest him now matched the pale red hue of the light.

He searched the landscape. For someone? Perhaps. There was an endless stretch of the water and reef.

He took another step and found it akin to walking through treacle. Treacle laced with pins and razor blades. The skin on the underside of his feet tore open. Another step and the blanket of blood around him darkened.

But he should move on. He should continue to suffer. He must…why the fuck could he not recall what he must do?

‘What am I doing here?' he asked of the mournful cries that accompanied him.

Their loud and debilitating wails were beneath his skin, behind his eyelids, tying his veins in knots. They soared around him, a flock of ravens setting eyes upon its prey.

Pitch clutched at his head, a dazzling pain behind his eyes. A flashing image of birds aloft: feathers drifting, feathers upon a mask, cloaks of black, horns of onyx. Chocolate eclairs. A man with silver glasses. Hot cups of tea. A cloven foot. A dagger that flashed as it came for him. Pitch cried out and threw himself beyond reach of the attack.

Only to find the unyielding hardness of the reef. Another cut of skin. Another bloodletting. And the near overwhelming desire to give in to a torrent of tears.

Pitch blinked, his eyes stinging. Tears were not familiar to him. This was not right.

Heat filled his belly. Not scalding, but comforting. He drew in a breath and cradled his bleeding, punctured hands against his stomach. He found satin and stays; damp and hard and familiar. Pitch looked down at himself, his fingers tracing a bloody line over the simple corset he wore.

‘Blood Lake,' he whispered.

Something fluttered beneath his skin, fanning the fire that despondent sorrow sought to destroy.

Destroy.

Destroy the halo. He was here for the halo. The Blight faltered in its song of dread and loss.

‘Where the fuck is it?' Pitch shouted. ‘Where are you, Samyaza? It is pointless to hide from me.'

Pitch ran. The bones slashing at his feet, his blood leaving a cape of crimson spreading out behind.

He ran. Trying to outpace the gathering storm of the Blight. Trying to bring Vassago to the fore once more.

The toes on his right foot were all but bone, and his lungs were wracked with painful spasms by the time he finally saw a shift in the landscape. A singular rise amongst an endless flatness. All the hue and cry of the lake's woeful inhabitants suddenly dulled, his blood thundering in his ears. A dizziness coming over him.

The hilt of a sword protruded from a jagged assembly of bones piled high in the shallow waters, as though swept up by an enormous broom, left for a cleanup that never came.

The halo.

Pitch let out a wild laugh and rushed forward, lamentations rising around him, surrounding him. He stepped over the countless dead, the many who had fought and lost and fouled these waters with their regret and sorrow, and whose remains took the flesh from his own bones. They bled him until he was woozy with the pain.

But he was so close.

The simurgh spread itself into his fingertips, into his badly damaged toes, and right down the lengths of his hair. Urging him to lift his feet higher, even as the flesh there dangled and the white of his bones shone through. Misery scratched at his back, and grief tangled itself in his thoughts. His face was streaked with tears that would not stop falling.

But he was so close.

The hilt of the sword was plain, the pommel a bulge of dull iron-grey, the grip black as tar and its leather fraying, the blade blunt where it was not buried in the stone.

The water grew shallower. Barely covering his bleeding feet.

Just another few strides and he'd be there. At the source of so much suffering.

A sob left him. A searing wretchedness that burned his nostrils. And by the gods, it was agony to take every step. He faltered, and the Blight came at him again, with a hammer strike of abject wretchedness. His cries joined the chorus.

‘Bleed, little prince.' The voice emerged from the cacophony of forlorn regret. Or, rather, the voice was that cacophony. ‘Feed the lake. You are in the good company, amongst those whose only greatness lies in the magnitude of their failures.'

‘Failure…' Pitch coughed, spraying yet more blood into the water. Crying more tears he did not fully own. ‘No, I'm not a fail–'

The suffering crashed down upon him, an enormous wave, invisible to the eye but all too well-known to the soul.

Pitch was lifted first, cast upon his back, and then thrown down. He struck a reef of destitution, impaled on the lost armies of the Day of Ruination. Fingers of bone pierced him, striking through between the ribs, at his collarbone and his groin, there too, upon his thigh. Another spear of stark white pushed through his belly, emerging drenched in specks of flesh, blood cascading.

A terrible, dislocating ache began.

‘No,' he gasped, understanding, despite all else, the devastation of that blow.

Another wave crashed upon him, driving him down into the crevices. The bone reef reddened with the terrible flow of his blood.

A coral born of corpses.

The regretful choir struck up again. Blood Lake drank of him. Took its fill of his sorrows and regrets, and grew fat-bellied upon them.

The fire in his belly waned. The buffeting of the simurgh grew weaker. They slipped from him, those wilder parts of himself, draining away in bright red rivulets: Vassago, the Berserker Prince, the Dominion daemon, and the wildness, flowed from his veins and into the lake.

The inferno that Satine had stoked was all but dying embers now.

The waters lapped at him, caressing his emptying body. His tears added to the flow; failure was salty and hot and stinging. He struggled still, worked his ruined body against the bones, but only sunk himself deeper into their pinching clutches. The halo lay within arms' reach, but his guise of skin and bone was too fragile to reach that far.

Pitch had hesitated to shed his skin, to destroy Tobias Astaroth, and return to the wild prince Seraphiel had chosen him for. Now, at the worst possible time, he learned the cost of being human.

To be ruled by more than mindless rage or lust for battle.

To be crippled by a power that went unseen. That of self-doubt and lost chances, laments and, most destructive of all, grief.

Now, the dead armies of Blood Lake claimed him. And the halo lay hauntingly out of reach.