The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

take the leaves from him. He thinks she is crying, but he cannot tell why. Too many other thoughts and impressions fill his mind for him to be sure—the freedom of the sky, the way his hand felt on the trunk of the cypress tree, and the green taste of leaves on his tongue.
    Just as the storm reaches its height, Prudence eats the gift he has brought her from the wood.
    Everything falls silent. The darkness clears as if it has never been real and the day is itself again, although he is sure the air has a richer colour to it. His sister stands before him, her fingers pressed against her mouth.
    “It tastes bitter,” she says. “Like a herb you should not eat.”
    Sloth shakes his head. “It tasted sweet when I ate it. But no matter, what you have done has saved us both. Look, the storm is gone and the morning is clear once more. We are ourselves as the Spirit wished us to be.”
    Next to him, and before his sister can reply, the wolf howls. The sound of it pierces his mind, dividing thought from imagination, bone from flesh. It is a grey noise, driving out the hope he has been dwelling in. Within it lie sparks of flame that scald his skin. Prudence screams again and tumbles to the floor. Hands over his ears, Sloth falls across her, the instinct to protect pushing her as far away from the wolf’s wild calling as he can.
    It can never be far enough.
    For the wolf is upon them, tearing at their bodies, drawing blood. Now its teeth glow white and its eyes are red. Sloth cries out, hears his sister’s sobs, knows the wolf’s meaning in his mind—you have turned away from the Spirit who would protect you and now you are lost.
    “Please. Please, have mercy,” he begs, but his words are unheeded.
    This is the true death, he thinks. I have been deceived, and my sister and I will die.
    He hugs her to him in what must be their last moments together and reaches for her thoughts. He finds the same torment spilling through his own, branding him a fool and a murderer.
    But as his mind begins to collapse, he senses something else in his sister, too, something he does not have, which is protecting him when he thought he was trying to protect her. He senses innate strength and the willingness to fight.
    She whispers, “I did not eat all the leaves, brother. Some remain.”
    She is speaking to him, and the wolf does not hear. Perhaps it is too intent on its destruction of their bodies and pays no attention to the link between the siblings or, perhaps, it is this clear sanctuary in Prudence’s voice that keeps their mind-whispers unheard by anyone but themselves. He does not know.
    “What can we do?” he breathes. “I am sorry, I…”
    “Hush, no matter. You tried to help me, brother. Now let me help you. I have long thought that the day of temptation would come. Now that it is here, we must use the weapons left to us, whether they are those we have or those we have been given.”
    With that, she takes the cypress leaves remaining in the hand as yet untorn by the wolf, gazes at Sloth with such a look of love and acceptance that it splits him open and then plunges her fingers and the leaves into the animal’s mouth.
    Sloth cries out as sharp teeth cut through his sister’s flesh. He tries to pull her free, but she shakes him off as if he is mere water. The wolf continues to tear at her hand, saliva dripping from its mouth. There is a smell of blood and flesh, acrid and dark. Then the animal howls. Once only. Within its mouth, the cypress leaves are pulsating, becoming tiny green daggers ripping into the wolf’s tongue and cheek. Its eyes glow crimson. It breaks off its attack, staggers away.
    Paying the animal no attention, Sloth turns to his sister. Blood flows from her body and he knows the brunt of the injuries is hers. He can barely feel the pain of his own wounds.
    She is dying.
    He does not know what that means, but he understands her mind is weakening and he cannot save it. She is dying. Without her, he does not know what to do, how to be himself. Without her, he is nothing.
    He feels the cool touch of her hand on his face. Her eyes are open, but she does not see. Her faint words fill his mind.
    “The wolf…?”
    He glances sideways. “It is dead.”
    It is true. The animal’s jaw and head have been torn from its body and he sees only a scattering of green across grey fur. Somehow, the leaves have killed the wolf. He does not know how.
    None of that matters. Before he can look again at Prudence, he