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Nine new stones had been laid on his altar, painted with his eye, and with the names of the lost. Nine stones, for nine fallen paladins. They had finally found the bodies. The ruin left of those who had fought in his name.
The grief was a shard in his chest, ragged and tearing. It always was, each and every time. The day it faded, he knew, the day each new loss did not stab at him, was the day he had finally failed his duty.
A shape moved, in the corner of his eye. A grey shape, subtle and all but invisible, but Yorm was not called the Watcher for nothing. His eyes, the one in his head and the one torn to earth, had never yet failed him. He turned, shield raised, his grief kept safe behind it, and faced down the interloper who thought to trespass upon it.
The shape did not flinch. Nor flee. Distantly, Yorm respected that. Instead, it resolved itself. The figure of a man, shrouded in grey, a hooded lantern in his hand. A wary, weathered face, with dark, watchful eyes. The figure inclined his head. Bowed a greeting.
Orem, Yorm thought. The new god. The mortal thief who had stolen the old god of death, freed it from its role, and granted it rest in the grey lands of the dead.
It was … such a failure of his duty, the feeling that had stirred in his breast on learning of that. Such a betrayal of all his people, to have been so very envious.
The thief god drifted closer to him. Cautiously, as if half expecting a blow. A new grief appeared, splintered from the old to jab his heart afresh. Yorm had never meant for any save the most evil to fear him. His foes were demons. Monsters. Not thieves. He would not strike a being for granting mercy, not for skirting where the light could not go. His duty was his duty, but he had never held others to it, nor punished them for failing it. He would not. Duty must be upheld by choice, or it was naught but tyranny. He was … uncompromising, yes, but for himself. For the weakness he knew lurked in his own chest, the weariness and the envy. He had not meant to seem uncompromising to all. He had never wanted them to fear him.
They did. He knew they did. The Grey Watcher, stern and unyielding. He knew now that many feared him, feared his judgement, even when they were naught to do with him. But that they were demons, but that they threatened the world and the light, they were naught to do with him. And yet they flinched from him even so, and came near half-ducked, as if they should expect a blow.
But … came near regardless. In this instance. This thief, dark eyes wary but unflinching. He watched Yorm’s hands, held himself ready to dodge, but he did not falter, nor fail in his approach. He came to a halt in front of him, within easy reach of Yorm’s sword.
They stood there wordless for a moment. Utterly silent. The thief, perhaps waiting, and Yorm … words had never been his strength. He knew not how to wield them, at least not well. He had been grieving. Was grieving still. Orem had come for some purpose of his own. Let him speak it then, and Yorm decide how to answer afterwards.
And perhaps the thief realised this. Or perhaps he ran out of patience. Either way, he straightened. Gently. Cautiously. Avoiding harsh movements. But he straightened, and carefully clipped his lantern to his belt. The better to … The better to open his cloak. To hold it out from his body, one hand on each side. To strip himself of its shield, and reveal …
Reveal the souls, soft and golden, tucked carefully into the pockets arrayed along the inner lining.
Nine. Nine souls. Tucked carefully and kept safe.
Yorm’s heart froze. All his words, what few he might have gathered, died uselessly in his throat. His breath stopped in his chest. His shield arm had half-sagged before he realised, his sword hand slipped from the hilt and reaching blindly, openly instead. Half-extended, curled to a halt before the thief had even started flinching. He froze. His hand inches from the cloak. From the souls of his people, and the slender, vulnerable form of the thief who had gathered them.
The thief’s face, when he managed to raise his eye to it, was a picture. A strange mix of fear and defiance and something … gentler. Not pity. Not quite. But something soft, and conscious of pain.
“They were lost,” Orem said quietly. “They were taken and trapped, locked in pain and darkness. I came too late. I couldn’t save them. But I stayed with them, and when they crossed I gathered them. They are … warm, here. Safe. I will leave no soul ungathered, no matter how lost or mired in darkness. No matter how chained. It gave me that power, and that is how I plan to use it. No one will hide or keep a soul from me. But these ones … They were yours, I know. I thought … you would want to see. To know.”
Yorm … Yorm moved, then. Unwilling. Half a step closer. The thief’s body curved, but did not step away. Yorm reached out his hand and brushed it, so carefully, just over one of the souls. One of his people. One of the names laid upon his altar. One of the bodies so recently brought home.
Safe. He could feel it. There was no pain or fear to burn his palm. Only exhaustion. Only peace.
He looked back at the thief. His voice was slow and thick, tangled by the warmth against his palm.
“… It is dangerous to walk in darkness,” he managed finally. “To go among demons. Divinity will not protect you.” He shrugged his shield arm, gesturing towards his face. The gaping absence of his eye. “I have felt their touch myself. Weyloun, too. If you go among them, and they catch you, they will cause pain. They will do damage. They may make you wish for your own destruction. If this is your quest … If you go where I cannot see …”
He had not even known to look. A thief among the demons, invisible to all. Gathering souls. He would not even have known, had Orem fallen. Another stone upon his altar. Another soul he could not save.
But the thief smiled faintly. A thin, wry flicker, his dark eyes glittering.
“All thieves know the price of being caught,” he said softly. “But first they must be caught. And even caught, they must then be kept. And that is not such an easy thing as many might think.” His lips curled darkly, his head tilting. Challenge. So softly uttered. “Demon, god, or otherwise.”
Demon, god, or otherwise. Because he had been a mortal man, and he had stolen a god, and he had carried that god’s soul to safety. Against all eyes and hands that sought to stop him.
He was a god himself now. A god of thieves, a god of boundaries, and a god of souls. He had said it himself. This was how he planned to use his power.
Defiance was the heart of him. Yorm could see it. Defiance … and gentility.
He smiled himself, soft and weary, and moved his hand from the soul the thief had saved to the thief himself. He touched his fingers, very gently, to a warm leather jerkin, and the still-so-mortal heart that beat beneath it in a divine chest.
“Perhaps,” he said. Gathering all the warmth and weight of his own duty into his words. That which he had chosen willingly, and upheld, no matter what grief it caused him. “But if you are caught. If you are held in darkness, and cannot escape. Find some way to send for me. I will come, thief. I will defend you if I can.”
The thief’s eyes shuttered. The defiance faltered, gave way to something smaller. Almost afraid. Yorm nodded, and turned his hand to press the full of his palm to Orem’s chest.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Thickly. Nodding to the souls. “Thank you for finding them. For staying with them. Thank you for keeping them safe.”
The thief swallowed faintly. His hands trembled on the edges of his cloak, that grey shield that kept all his souls, and his own heart, safe. Yorm saw the urge to close it, to draw that shield close. But Orem kept it open, and answered Yorm’s duty and gratitude with his own.
“Always,” he said simply. “All those who are lost. All those who are taken. I will gather them. Always.”
A strange flicker, in his eyes, and then he reached up. Closed one half of his cloak, and touched his fingertips to Yorm’s wrist. So carefully Yorm might almost not have felt it.
“Even gods,” Orem said gently. Unhesitating in his trespass. “If they’re lost. If they’re tired. I have carried gods in my lantern before. I can carry one again.”
Because he saw … he saw Yorm’s weakness. Of course he did. A thief’s eyes for vulnerability. He saw Yorm’s weariness. He saw Yorm’s envy.
Peace. A rest. A chance to lay down his duty, lay down his pain. As that old god of death had wanted, as that old god of death had won. There was a reason Yorm must grip his duty with both hands, cleave to the letter of his law so tightly. He was weak. He knew it of himself. He could not step outside the lines, as others did, or he would fall, and lose all hope of finding his way back. He could not compromise. Not of himself. He had not the strength to recover from it.
It was cruel, in a way, for the thief to offer this. As it had been cruel when Elaia Siveth had offered the same, all those years ago when his grief had first started to weigh upon him. They had not meant it cruelly. He knew that. But it was cruel nonetheless.
And infinitely, desperately kind.
All the more reason to refuse. Each time, every time. They meant it genuinely. He knew that. These gods, new and old, of gentle death. If he asked, they would help his soul find peace.
But who would guard them, and all the world, if he allowed it?
He shook his head, and patted Orem gently on the chest. “To each their own duty, Thief God,” he said, meeting dark, suddenly sad eyes with quiet dignity. Quiet weakness, quiet strength. “To each their own fate. But I thank you. And I don’t … I answer only for my own soul. None other. Please. Do not place my words in my people’s mouths.”
They were mortal, as he was not. He would not ask them to suffer infinitely. He knew what his duty entailed. He would demand no other endure beside him.
That thing glittered in the thief’s eyes. That soft thing, conscious of pain. But he smiled gently, and stepped away from Yorm’s hand. Closed his cloak, that fall of grey, and shielded its precious cargo once more from sight. Tucked away. Kept secret. Kept safe.
“Of course,” he said, smiling dark and wry. “The boundary is my realm, Watcher. They do not answer to you while in my care. Nor to anyone. Their choices are their own, and their souls mine to care for.”
For he would steal the souls of gods themselves to best protect them, and defy anyone to chastise him for it. Living law had no hold on the thief god of the dead.
As it should be, perhaps. From all things, there should be a respite.
“… Go carefully,” he said finally. Raising his shield in salute. “Remember that we are not beyond pain, Thief God. Go carefully. And remember to call for my aid.”
The thief laughed. Already fading around the edges, and only aeons of practice keeping his shape half-resolved in Yorm’s sight. His grey cloak shrouded him completely, his black eyes glittering in his lantern’s hooded light. He raised it, that lantern, a salute and a promise both, and inclined his head.
“Remember me when things are taken where you cannot go,” he offered back. “You need not even ask. Only think of it, and of me. And fear not, Watcher. I am a thief. We are not given to self-sacrifice. I wander for no one’s will but my own, and shall let none keep me from my path.”
And it might even be true, Yorm thought, as Orem vanished from even his eye’s prodigious sight. The thief had stolen divinity itself and carried an immortal into death. Perhaps none would be able to hold him, to pin him down and cause him pain, save that he ever-so-temporarily allowed it. Perhaps he would be safe, untouchable, and never need to call for Yorm’s aid.
That made no scrap of difference to his duty, or his promise. All things were possible, and pain more so than most. The promise had been spoken, and Yorm would willingly, gladly, hold himself to it.
There were nine stones laid freshly on his altar, and nine souls carried safely into death.
He had not failed his duty yet.