it'll be fine

“I’m sorry.” Seelah groans. “Maybe we could just… rest for a minute. Feels like we’ve been down here for days…”

“Only about nine hours,” Camellia replies.

“It’s alright, Seelah,” Anevia says, setting a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done more than anyone could ask. We’ll rest for a while; we could all use a break. My leg is killing me.”

Nereo drops back on his haunches. He curls his tail beneath him, resting on it as the others find a spot on the cave floor. He knows he is a mess, covered in mud and cobwebs (such cobwebs down here! he would not like to meet the architects).

He considers that they are probably going to die here, and with that thought, all his other concerns suddenly matter less. So what if Kenabres is lost, along with his memories? Who cares that their new acquaintance is probably a murderer? What if they meet a dead end? What if they end up in Nar-Voth?

He just doesn’t see any reason to be optimistic. And he is too tired to care, anyway. The bones fall in a spiral and sometimes the spiral lands you 100 feet underground.

Then again, perhaps not.

As their eyes grow accustomed to the dark, something peculiar happens: nebulous shapes begin to form around them. A trick of the eye? No, Nereo can recognize three of these shapes as his companions: Seelah, hunched over and exhausted, Anevia with her splinted leg held straight out, and Camellia, sitting a distance from the others, rapier in hand. But he can only see them in a sidelong manner. When he tries to focus, the figures blur, like those meager little stars in the night sky that are best viewed indirectly.

“Do you guys see that?” Anevia asks.

“I… see something, yes. There must be light down here!” Seelah says.

The shape that is Camellia walks cautiously towards the cave wall. She extends her gloved hand, feeling at the edges of the passage, then pulls something loose.

Whatever she’s found, it is glowing. She crushes it in her hand.

“Bioluminscence,” she declares.

“Some kinda mushroom!” Anevia gasps. “They glow in the dark?”

“And they’re getting brighter,” Seelah observes with a laugh. “Our eyes only needed to adjust. Thank the Inheritor!”

Nereo observes the cave around him, teeming with previously unnoticed life. The mushrooms cluster in colonies that spread across the cave walls, providing a uniform, if meager, source of light. They are mostly green, but here and there he spots hints of blue and even purple.

~

Having rested, they press on, now aided by the cave’s natural light.

The further they go the more mushrooms they find, vast colonies of them covering the stone. The passage they are in also changes; it widens until they find themselves in an open area, where the rock formations take on curious shapes, huge stalagmites protruding from the ground like fingers about to close around them.

The others are in better spirits. Pretty mushrooms aside, however, Nereo remains unconvinced of their odds.

He runs scenarios through his mind: starvation, dehydration, attacked by giant spiders, falling again (into a deeper pit; there is always a deeper pit). He thinks of Nar-Voth, that strange subterranian land in the books he’d read in his youth. The world had seemed so vast when he only knew it through pages. But if he had to pick, he’d pick the spiders.

He bumps into a stalactite, hanging low enough to knock into one of his horns.

“Careful there-” Seelah says. But then she stops mid-word and mid-stride. A moment later, he sees why.

Someone—or something—is down here with them.

Nar-Voth is home to many curious beings, this he knows: the frightening dero, xulgaths, and hryngars. Moldfolk and dark fey.

The figure in the distance is incongruous, blue and many-limbed. It is as if these nostalgic recollections from his childhood books have taken physical form. Its movements are measured and careful. Cautious? Dangerous?

“Hey,” Seelah says, hesitant at first, then much louder, “Hello? Who’s there?”

A head swivels toward them. A pair of cat-eyes shine in the dark.

In an instant the figure dips low to the ground, crouching in a predatory posture. Its spider-like legs splay about it, and it dashes toward them with startling speed, growling with a warning timbre as it moves; it is a sound that viscerally screams stay away.

Eagle Watch instincts kicking in, Anevia tries to reach for her sword, but no, she cannot defend, not in her current state. She loses her balance, falls, and a pained cry escapes her as her leg strikes the ground.

“Anevia!” Seelah draws her sword and steps between the figure and her friends. Even Camellia holds her rapier at the ready.

Then the figure stops, and laughs. The sound is husky and ragged. But not quite animal. No.

“Made you flinch.”

The words come out slow and mocking, spoken by a woman who appears to be wearing a spider’s exoskeleton as armor. That’s not the only peculiar thing about her: her skin is blue as midnight, and her ears are pointed like a cat’s. Suddenly she extends one of those spider legs towards Seelah, perfectly articulated, and covered in tiny hairs.

“Frightened uplanders,” she says, in that ragged voice.

“Wenduag!” A second voice calls from deeper into the cavern. “Did you find it?”

“I found something, alright,” Wenduag replies curtly.

Seelah, not quite ready to sheath her weapon just yet, speaks with as much calm as she can muster. “We are not here to cause trouble. Wenduag, is it?”

At the sound of her name, the blue woman growls again. Her lips pull back, displaying a row of sharp teeth lining her mouth.

“Wenduag, who are you talking to?”

The man comes to a stop just a few feet behind Wenduag. He regards them, wide-eyed, as if surprised to see them. He himself looks as improbable as his companion: a single horn on his head, a patchwork of skin and scales forming his face and the rest of his body.

“Uplanders!” he marvels. “Oh, goody.”

“Yes!” Seelah says, thinking quickly, “Yes, we’re ‘uplanders’… we fell down here during the attack. We’re looking for a way back to the surface. I’m Seelah. Tell me, please: Can we put away our weapons?”

“Oh? Are you so weak-willed as to not decide for yourself when to wield your weapon, See-lah?” Wenduag asks with a hoarse little chuckle.

“Wenduag, maybe they can help us,” the man says, coming up to press a hand onto her shoulder. “They can at least tell us what’s going on up there! Stay your swords, uplanders. I am Lann, and this is Wenduag. You mentioned an attack?”

With a sigh of relief, Seelah lowers her guard. She returns her sword to her belt, where it hangs free, since she’d given her scabbard to Anevia.

“You truly do not know?” she asks. “Demons are laying waste to Kenabres as we speak. Deskari himself leads the charge. We need to reach the surface, we need to help-”

“And how much help will you be, tired and injured? This one here cannot even stand.” Wenduag steps near enough to give Anevia’s boot a deliberate kick.

Anevia grits her teeth and fixes her with a glare. “Back. Off. There is plenty I can do to you, even with just one working leg.”

Wenduag smiles.

“That’s for us to worry about,” Seelah says firmly. “Rest assured, we have the strength and the spirit to fight. I realize that you must have your own troubles, I do. But people are dying. Please, show us the way to the surface! We have been here too long already!”

Lann fixes Wenduag with a curious look. He raises a brow, and gestures to her with a tilt of his head, something only they understand. Then they move a distance away and confer together in hushed voices. Whatever the subject of their conversation, it seems to be trending towards disagreement. Wenduag lets out a frustrated grunt, before raising her voice.

“I care not what happens to the uplanders’ city! The fact that they have found themselves here proves they are not worthy of the very fight they seek to rejoin! But the Shield Maze…”

“Demons, Wendu,” Lann says emphatically. “If what they say is true, then it’s all the more reason to hurry.”

“So you will help us?” Camellia asks, speaking to the strangers for the first time. Wenduag hisses in response.

“We’ll help,” Lann adds, with an affirming nod. “But first, we’ll need to ask for something in return.”

“Of course you do,” Camellia laughs. “How very typical. Even down here, people are all the same.”

Wenduag glances at her through narrowed eyes. “Still your wagging tongue. You and I are nothing alike.”

“Yes, you are quite right,” Camellia replies with a smirk. “It was generous of me to say so, and I see now my generosity was misplaced. You are not the same as people.”

“Let’s settle down,” Seelah interrupts. “What are your terms? What do you need help with?”

“Lann, this is a waste of time,” Wenduag says with a lazy shrug of her shoulders. The motion rolls gracefully through her many, many legs, which click like hollow bones striking together. “They will not help us.”

Lann grimaces. “I hate to say it. But do they have a choice?”

For a moment, no one answers. The air hangs heavy with tension and uncertainty. Then Wenduag sweeps her critical gaze over to Nereo.

“You all have much to say, and none of it impresses me. What about this one?” she asks slowly. “Does it even talk?”

“I talk,” Nereo says, bristling. “When I am inclined to talk.”

“It talks when it is inclined to talk…” Wenduag repeats. She shakes her head.

Nereo looks squarely at Wenduag. Until now he’s allowed the others to take the lead; diplomacy is not his strong suit, after all. But he can hardly make things worse, and the matter of his own survival is important to him, if only to leave, and run far, far away, once they are out.

“We need to get back to the surface,” he said. “We’ll either succeed, or die trying. Perhaps you can help us. Perhaps we can help you. But we will only have a problem if you try to stop us. Are you stalling, I wonder? Do you mean to keep us from reaching our goal?”

The question is met with a thoughtful silence. Then, Wenduag chuckles. There is almost a forced nonchalance to the sound, and she looks away from him as she answers. “We do not care enough about you to stop you.”

“Good,” Nereo nods. “Then we have no quarrel. And our offer of help stands. What will you ask of us?”

“Stupid,” Wenduag mutters, still looking away.

“We’re looking for something, see.” The patchwork man licks his lips, mulling over his words before he speaks. “A sword. A very special sword.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Seelah says. “Tell us about this sword.”

~

Lann explains everything, patiently dispelling their disbelief. By his telling, the cavern they find themselves in is in fact an ancient hall. The stalagmites interspersed through the uneven ground were once mighty pillars, now eroded by the passage of time. It is even harder to understand that the neathfolk have lived in these caverns for nearly a century, ever since the forces of the first crusade swept through Mendev. And the bit about the angelic sword seems nearly to good to be true.

But Lann tells it all with such rapt attention, it feels true, and worthy, his eyes bright in the dark. His bow safely stowed away on his back, his quiver untouched, he recounts how the first crusaders became trapped here and gave rise to descendants plagued by Abyssal corruption.

Mongrels, he says, though Wenduag scowls at the term.

“So you are not tieflings,” Camellia clarifies.

Wenduag rounds on her so abruptly, for a moment it seems a fight will break out. Camellia’s hand darts to her rapier and she holds Wenduag’s gaze, waiting.

“Tieflings,” Wenduag spits out the word, “are the descendants of fools who sullied themselves by mating with demons.” She aims a venomous glance at Nereo, taking in his hooves, his horns and red eye. “Our ancestors would never sink so low! They suffered the consequences of demonic corruption to protect Mendev. How quickly the uplanders forgot the sacrifices they made!”

Nereo remains completely impassive, until Wenduag, with a frustrated scoff, turns and storms ahead.

“Oh. My sincerest apologies.” Camellia giggles, watching Wenduag go. She settles into an amused grin. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, anyway. Mortal, mongrel, or tiefling, the sword of a fallen angel would loathe to be wielded by such impure hands as ours.”

“I’ll carry it in my teeth if I have to,” Lann mutters from up ahead. He seems wholly accustomed to Wenduag’s mannerisms, not even flinching as she pushes past him.

“But why,” Seelah asks, “do you need the sword now?”

Lann sighs. Now comes the next part of the tale. “There’s this… old story,” he begins.

“A prophecy?” Seelah asks.

“A- a story.” Lann holds up a hand, as if intimidated by such a profound word. “See, our chief believes that we have a purpose. That we are a sort of military reserve in the endless fight against the demons. Story goes, one day things will start to go downhill up top, and that’s when we’ll emerge on the surface and, well, save the day, as it were.” He clears his throat. “But when the tremors started, and parts of the cavern began to collapse, a group of our youngins took off for the Shield Maze. They figured the time had come.”

Seelah fixes him with an exacting gaze. “Do you think the time has come?”

“I… well, I dunno.” He laughs, a nervous sound. “Chief Sull isn’t convinced… but once he sees the sword, I’m sure he’ll change his mind. Even if he doesn’t, we have to go after those kids. Of that, I’m certain. We can’t abandon our own! As for whether I believe the time has come…”

“He does,” Wenduag chimes in. “There is a legend among our people that when the walls of the Shield Maze fall, it will signify the beginning of the final confrontation against the demons. I have been in the maze myself,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice. “Nobody has ventured further than Wenduag. The further I ventured, the fresher the air became. Make no mistake, it leads to the surface. But it is ancient and treacherous. Even I have not mapped it in its entirety. I warned them of this.”

“So the maze is that dangerous?” Anevia asks. “It sounds like you’ve explored it for years, and only scratched the surface of its depths! We don’t have that amount of time. Are there other ways to the surface?”

“None nearby,” Wenduag says airily. “And those have surely collapsed in the tremors. Does that frighten you, human?”

Anevia presses her lips into a thin line for a moment, but the weight of this information strikes her hard. Again, Nereo gets the impression that she is hurrying toward something. Something vital to her heart.

“I need to—sit for a second,” she says. Her features are sullen, uncharacteristically so. Seelah helps lower her to the ground.

“Such weaklings,” Wenduag observes. “Leave the crippled one here. Let’s split up and search.”

“Yes, go,” Anevia says, all the fight gone out of her. “Please, go, hurry. Find the sword. We don’t have a choice, right?” A bitter laugh bubbles form her throat. “We don’t have a choice.”

~

At Wenduag’s insistence, they do split up.

As Nereo searches, he tries to picture those men and women of the First Crusade, trapped down here, just like he and his companions now are trapped. What is most curious is that the structures here do not appear to have been built by those crusaders. In fact, the weathered stone tells a story far more ancient. Those crusaders were merely hermit crabs, moving into an old shell. Who lived here, untold ages ago?

He’s no scientist or archaeologist, so his musings are limited to half-formed thoughts. He scarcely can focus on what he’s supposed to be doing. His stomach growls. Sword, yes. Find the magical angel sword. He snorts.

“We’ll never find this damn thing,” he says to himself, glad the others are out of earshot. “I wonder if the glowing mushrooms are edible…”

Solitude has always suited him best. He hadn’t realized it until now, but the constant company of the others has begun to wear on him. It is taxing to share space, even as he acknowledges that would never have made it this far alone.

Wenduag and Lann are particularly unnerving to him. He isn’t sure whether to trust them. They certainly don’t seem to trust him or the others.

The ground below him gives way suddenly. Slick with a layer of sand, his hoof skitters and slips, and he stumbles into a stalagmite.

“Ugh,” Nereo seethes. Sharp rock digs into his shin, drawing blood. As he tries and fails to find his footing, he tumbles forward gracelessly, now going over a ledge—yes, of course, why not? there’s always a deeper pit, gods damn his luck—

It’s a short fall, just a few feet.

With a thud, he lands on his back.

“AH!”

He lands on something sharp.

Pain occludes his senses for a moment, pain greater than he’d felt when he woke up in the caverns, greater than what he’d felt back in the festival square, when Terendelev healed him. He looks down. Dark blue blood blooms into his tunic. The blade of a sword, radiant and golden, sticks out through his chest.

Cold panic settles in first. Disbelief. Cold metal, hot tears brim in his eyes, blurring his vision. But the sword is also hot, blinding, burning, full of wrath… is this happening?

It cannot be happening. Surely he can’t survive this? Surely he’s not alive for this? Oh gods, it burns. It reopens the wound, as it cauterizes the wound, as it reopens the wound again. And it is in dialogue with him. And it reviles him. He knows it with striking certainty, a rise of loathing in his gut.

It hurts. It breathes, it grieves. What is happening?

“H-help!” A strangled cry, unbidden, rises to his lips. Wordless, feral with death-panic. “Help!”

Mustering his strength, he tries to pull himself up. He cuts his hands, grasping at the blade helplessly, oh no. It can’t. Please.