Ren disappeared, taking Ko’s body with her. He hasn’t seen her since.
The forest isn’t quiet and that’s what he likes. There’s life here still. The fluttering of birds’ wings and the croak of frogs. Buzzing insects and breezy canopy. Even the light, shimmering through the leaves, makes a sound that reminds him of a bright, melodic hum.
He should look for Haaman, even if he’s the last person Haaman wants to see. Him, or Ren. But Bass doesn’t want them to be alone out there, grieving their lover. He knows what that grief feels like. It wrapped Bass in its tight cocoon, suffocated him slowly, bit into him like glass.
Haaman shouldn’t have to fight that by themselves.
Bass climbs the nearest oak tree he can find, smoothing a hand over its bark and murmuring a short apology. The trees will grieve, too. Every spirit will feel Ko’s death in some way. He finds footholds in each branch until they thin out and the leaves begin to sprout densely, then he sits to rest his back along the trunk and survey the forest.
Kensy’s cruelty knows no hesitance. Even if Ren doesn’t wish it, this is war. And Bass—well, Bass is best at war.
He’s torn in half by indecision, perhaps for the first time in his life. Part of him is screaming to run at Kensy now, to take off by himself and hunt his commander down. End this, here and now, before anyone else gets hurts. But the other half of him can’t bring himself to leave without Ren.
Ren said she wanted to go together. But Ren doesn’t want war, either.
Haaman wasn’t wrong. He would’ve soaked up all the bullets for Ren if he could, but as sharp and killing as their words were, they weren’t wrong. Bass should have worked harder to protect them. He should’ve gone against Ren sooner, met the legion head on and tried to save more spirits. Should’ve killed Kensy when he had the chance—should’ve bore Ren’s anger, or hatred, or disappointment. He should go now. Track Kensy down, meet him at the Winter River, and kill him like he was meant to. Made a god to.
He has to kill Kensy.
Hami and Ko are yet another weight of guilt sticking to his back, something to carry in the grooves of his armor. Inaction—his fear every time a wound breaks Ren’s skin—has made him weak. Protecting Ren should’ve meant protecting the forest, too. But he forgot. He won’t let himself forget again.
He’s going to kill Kensy.
Bass leans his head against the oak he sits upon, staring up at the sky. There’s so much distance between him and the godrealm. He reaches for the godstone around his neck, but there’s only skin and bone there. Maybe his mother could comfort Ren now. He would like that.
And, like the thought called for her, Basuin looks down and spots Ren wandering through the forest. If he didn’t know her so well by now, he’d call it aimless. But Ren’s never done anything without a goal in mind.
Without a second thought, Bass drops from the tree and lands on his feet right in front of her. The only thing that hurts is the creak in his knees as he stands, thirty years of war still in his bones.
Ren doesn’t startle, but she does take a step back as if preparing herself to twist away from his touch. He doesn’t move toward her, though, and she doesn’t jerk away from him. He should say something, but his mouth doesn’t move. He can’t say a word; doesn’t know how to comfort her. So they stand there, staring at each other, waiting for the other to break the silence.
It’s him, first. Because Ren’s nose is blushed and her eyes glassy. The last time he saw her cry, it was as beautiful as it was painful. Now, it cuts through him like a knife carving meat away from bone.
“Sit with me,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else but pulling her close and kissing the crown of her hair.
Ren’s eyes fall. “I was searching for Haaman.”
If he had a heart, it would ache. The blinding hole in his chest is too empty—the wolf-man has stolen into the shadows of his organs. He aches despite it.
Bass stretches his hand out toward her, fingers unfurling. His god mark runs red, magic pressing beneath the surface of his palm. And when she takes his hand, her god mark slotted to his, Bass’ whole body jolts. Like lightning’s struck, birthed him into a new man.
He doesn’t tell her not to worry, and he doesn’t say that Haaman will come back. He doesn’t say anything at all, but he leads Ren toward the tree he climbed earlier and shelters her beneath it. Ren tucks her knees beneath her, leaned toward him, and Bass spreads his knees and leans back against the oak’s trunk. It’s quiet—a bird chitters above their heads, singing a song that no one returns.
Ren hasn’t let go of his hand, and Basuin hasn’t let go either.
“I’ve never left this island,” Ren says, gaze turned upward to the sky. “I’ve been here since I became the Forest God. It’s all I’ve known.”
It’s the first time she’s admitted it out loud—that she was once a human, before.
“You’re bound here?” he asks.
“No.” Ren turns her head away from him. “I’ve always feared the ocean. I can’t remember it well, but I was just a child when I came here. The water—” Ren swallows, “—scares me.”
Her voice is an echo-chamber of fear, full and unending. She won’t let him see her face, but she sheds the spikes she wears on her skin for this one moment. He’s looking. He hopes Ren knows he’s looking at her.
“How did you come to the island?”
“She saved me,” Ren says, her hand falling to his knee. “The gods gave me life and let me grow. Then, when it was time to repay my debt, I became the Forest God.”
