“Think of a light,” she instructs. “Imagine it in your hand. Think of it as something inside of you and pull it out.”
Bass takes a deep breath in. There it is. Deep in his chest, an ache. It burns, but it doesn’t hurt. Like a fever growing inside of him. And the wavering light of magic in his hand starts to solidify, becoming an orb of light that pulses right from his palm. It’s ruby red, spitting golden shimmer-embers. And it belongs to him.
It’s so beautiful, so precious. It’s a living thing, a collection of energy, like he bottled up lightning and laughter and the static on his skin when his mother’s lavender light poured from her mouth late at night when she communed with gods in the godrealm. It’s foreign, and yet so familiar. A kind touch, something he’s known before, but hasn’t felt in so long.
“I did it,” he says. He flexes his palm and the ball of magic jumps. This magic, it belongs to him. He created something out of the darkness that festers inside of him.
From behind the glow of the ruby, artificial, magical light that bursts forth from his palm, Ren smiles. It eases her in a way that takes his eyes away from the brightly lit orb to focus on her. The curl of her mouth is so astonishing, so unfamiliar, but so perfect where it sits on her countenance. It softens her. Not so much a god now, but a woman.
“You did it,” she says, and the way her lips mold words catches him a moment too long. “Well done, Wolf God.”
There is so much inside of him. Too much—filling him up in the strangest of ways. The weight of that name hangs heavy on his heart-bone. There’s something akin to pride, burning like a flush infecting his chest, that washes over him. The wolf-man is yipping, a soft pup keening to play with its master, rolling over onto its side and sneezing.
It makes him feel full, and that smile of hers—small and quiet but there—threatens something. He just doesn’t know what yet. His magic is what he’ll blame for the warmth in his face. But then, he curls his fingers over the red light he’s created, snuffing it out. No heat races over his palm, only a sparkle of something once real.
Seeing her like this, more at ease here with him than ever before, makes words tumble from his mouth. “How did you learn magic?”
She hums, eyes flicking far off into the distance for but a moment before returning back to the space between them. “The spirits taught me,” she says. “Ko was one of my first teachers—and one of my first friends.” Admiration fills her voice. It’s the first time he’s heard it.
“He seems kind,” Basuin says. Guilt shivers down his spine.
“He is,” she agrees. “Very forgiving.”
He hangs his head in shame, stretching his fingers out as if he could break them all. It might be easier that way.
“Long ago, I also had trouble wielding my magic.” Ren doesn’t look at him. “Before you came, I had much more. It was too much to control when I was young. Ko has seen many of my mistakes just as well.”
The small admission—the fact that Ren’s made mistakes before—makes something inside him seasick. Like he’s back on that ship sailing to this island and he can’t find the shore. Something claws its way out of his mouth and he can’t stop.
“Who were you,” he asks, “before you were a god?”
Ren’s face falls, and Basuin feels the empty space he’s forced between them. All warmth, all kindness that Ren once projected, is swiftly cut off. The loss of it is so sudden that the magic crackling alive between them dies—as all things do, anyway.
Ren yanks her hand away from his and stands quicker than he can press himself up off the ground to follow. She doesn’t walk away, but she turns her back to him like she could close a door on the conversation. Desperation, for something he doesn’t even understand, claws down his back.
“Did you want to be a god?” he tries, though he knows he should stop. His mouth has always caused trouble. “Or did you die—like me?”
Ren curls her fingers into a fist, drawing the magic that connects them back into her palm. It shimmers, disappearing into her glowing white mark, and the glitter of it dissipates into the air.
“That’s none of your business,” she answers coldly.
“But it is,” he presses, a haze of hopelessness swallowing him. “I don’t want to be a god.” He takes a step toward her. “I didn’t ask for this.” It’s shaking in his chest, this feeling. This desperation. But it isn’t the wolf-man.
“And you think I did?” she hisses between clenched teeth. “I don’t care what you want. Unwilling or not, they siphoned my magic into you so you could play god until your army kills us. You’re leaching my magic and instead of doing anything to help, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself.”
“It’s not my fault,” he growls out. “As soon as I find a way out, you’ll be free of me.”
“You can’t escape this,” Ren says. “You can’t escape duty.”
“I don’t want to escape duty,” he snarls. “I want to escape you.”
The wolf-man’s teeth snap at his ribs, breaking one clean in two. Basuin hunches over, clutching his chest. All the air has been punched out of him. It aches, but when he looks up, the steel that’s replaced Ren’s visage in a way he’s not seen before—it leaves him struggling for air.
He didn’t mean to say that. He didn’t. Not that he cares, but he didn’t mean it.
Basuin’s thumb finds the black mark on his palm, this scar the Wolf God’s left on him. The runes of protection Basuin carved into the exterior walls of the shack he built for his mother and himself marked their house in the same way. Basuin has no heart left. The wolf-man, growling and chewing on the bone of his left rib, made its nest there. It makes a mockery of him even now, feeding off of Basuin’s anger, and he presses harder against the mark burning his palm.
You can run, little soldier boy, the wolf-man huffs a laugh as it gnaws on his bones, but she’ll always catch you.
