Beside him in a twinkle of light, the deer-girl appears. Her white skin is nearly translucent in the thin light of twilight as it struggles to dawn. But they walk together, side by side. It’s comforting in a way. He’s not alone, even as he walks the shameful path back to Ren.
Do not be so sad, the deer-girl tells him. Without war, there is no peace. With everything, there is balance. Humans always struggle with balancing their scales.
Basuin looks up at the sky. The shadowed lavender above their heads doesn’t feel like homecoming. It feels like the break in a nightmare he can see, but he can’t reach. It’s too far.
She told me that, too, he says.
Yes, she did. The deer-girl nods.
It aches. He almost wishes the wolf-man were still here to shred his insides. It always liked to eat at him when Ren was hurt. He’s surprised the wolf-man didn’t show up to kill him in light of Ren’s last breath. But he’s become it. The wolf-man has become him. Finally.
Ren is dead and he marches toward her. To come home and to lay her to rest. It’s agonizing.
Basuin closes his eyes as the burn of tears begins. The deer-girl walks alongside him as they weave between what’s left of the forest. He can feel the eyes of spirits who have yet to leave on him, can feel the weight of their stares.
His heart is heavy in his chest, weighing him down until his belly almost scrapes the forest floor. His bones ache with every step. Basuin misses his mother. He misses her terribly.
If she were here, he’d lay his head in his ma’s lap and let her stroke his hair and soothe away the pain. He’d cry to her, tell her that the girl he loves is dead. The home that he found in her is gone now, laid to rest in her stopped heart.
Will you continue to love her? the deer-girl asks. Even in death?
Of course, he answers. I’ll love her even once I end up in the Blacksalt Sea.
His paws are bloodied and raw by the time they return to the flowered field where the Winter River lies waiting. Before he enters, the deer-girl disappears in a mist of something warm, and then it’s only him. He passes through the barrier, shifting until he’s on two feet once more, where day is never-ending and water still flows. It’s bright here, too bright, and he winces from the light.
Spirits have gathered in this sacred place, many of whom he recognizes and many he doesn’t. They bow to the broken statue of Sa-cha sitting in front of the waterfall, its pieces littering the stream. The blood has already washed away.
Basuin picks up a large shard of the idol, turning it around in his hand. Sa-cha, in all his glory and godhood. Because this is his domain, the first, and this was his shrine, his hiding place, and Kensy destroyed it. Glory to the gods.
With a gentle hand, he places it back down in the creek, then presses his hand to the statue in promises to fix it later. He’ll put it back together. It won’t resurrect Sa-cha, but maybe it will give him a home to come back to. Another reparation to pay.
When he ducks through the waterfall, everyone is there waiting. Not for him, but for Ren, he’s sure. They all look so broken—and he feels it. He feels shattered, in pieces, like Sa-cha’s shrine. When Yaelic sees him, he scrambles to bow to Basuin. Qia, face streaked with tears and eyes reddened with grief, does the same. Nobody needs to bow to him, especially children. Especially those who grieve their friend.
As he passes them by, he places a soft hand on their heads. He takes Qia’s chin and raises it, but can’t bring himself to smile.
Haaman sits further inside the cave, resting against one of the walls with their head thrown back. Staring up at the stalactites in a numbness. They look as though they haven’t moved at all.
And Hou-tou, blue eyes milky and long, dark hair spread across the cave, sits by Ren. Her hands are still hovering over the wound in Ren’s chest, and when she upturns her face to look at him as he approaches, her cheeks are stained with tears.
“Wolf God,” she calls him, pressing herself up off the ground to make room for him. “I tried—I’m sorry.”
Ren’s body lies in the River, floating and still, but glowing blue. When he kneels beside her, the ripples fluoresce with his movements.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “There was nothing you could do.” Ren’s death colors his hands, not anyone else’s. But her killer is dead. And he’s here, and her family and friends surround her, and this is all anyone can do for her now.
The ache and the exhaustion finally sets in and Basuin collapses beside her in the River. One of his hands finds her cheek, soft and cold, and he closes his eyes.
“I went against you,” he admits, as if she were still here. Still housed in this dead body. “I chose war. I went down to Shaelstorm and I killed them—many of them. Burned the bastion down. I wanted them to hurt.” He breathes out, looking over her pallid face. “I was angry and I wanted to kill them, and I did. But—”
Basuin slips his hand into Ren’s, jaw tight and trembling.
“How did you do it?” he asks her. “With all that anger, you still chose peace. I felt it and I ran straight to the legion. Brought war to them the way they brought it here—we brought it here.” That blame still lies on him as much as it does anyone else. “How were you strong enough to keep choosing peace over war?”
He brings her hand up and kisses her knuckles. “But I did, at the end of it all. I chose peace, after everything. They’re gone now. We can regrow the forest, rebuild Gyeosi. I’ll do it. I’ll keep choosing peace.”
Tears break, and Basuin leans over her to press his lips to her forehead. “Are you proud of me?” he asks, a tremble to his voice. A sob in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry, truly. For not seeing it before. I love you, Ren.”
And now that it’s over, now that he’s ended the war and there’s only peace left to be found, Basuin lays his head on Ren’s chest and cries. Like he first came into this world, like he’s been reborn again, like the god inside of him is renewed, Basuin cries in the sanctity of Ren. Her heart beats beneath his ear.
