Chapter 11
The moment Basuin exits his ruined hut, running from the sharp smell of smoke, someone yells above the noise of the village. A war cry.
Basuin turns, but not quick enough to dodge the body that barrels into him. They go rolling in the dirt. He gasps for air, wind knocked out of him as he hits the ground. His lungs are so empty they ache with a fever.
Black spots blur out the face hovering over him, but he can feel the press of ten fingers wrapped around his neck. He’s choking. He is being choked by someone with skin ochre and dark, with eyes beady and black.
“I can kill a god,” his assailant says, but it sounds far away. “I can. I can do it. I’ll kill a god—I’ll kill anyone!” They snarl like something predatory with teeth gnashed together.
The wolf-man inside him presses up on its four paws, stretching up on its hind legs and clawing into Basuin’s flesh.
Its hunched back grows into Basuin’s spine and it balloons within his body until the black of its fur consumes him.
Until wolf hair is spurting out of his mouth, coughed from his lungs like smoke and ash.
Until he feels like he is trapped inside the wolf-man like the wolf-man stays trapped inside him, like they have taken each other’s place within this prison cell of what used to be a heart.
The wolf-man howls, and then Basuin snaps like a broken neck and howls, too.
He shoves his knee straight into the stomach of whoever is on top of him.
They wheeze, grip loosening long enough for Basuin to gulp down air.
He kicks them off but they claw at his body and take him with them, rolling through the dirt.
Basuin reaches for his sword but it’s too far.
He fights for his life, and his assailant fights back.
It’s only once Basuin topples them and gets an arm pressed to their neck that Ren stops them.
“Enough,” she says, voice loud but not yet a shout. It’s cutting, firm as a command so that his attacker drops their hands and lies still against the ground. Basuin, heaving breaths above them, pulls back an inch to let them breathe.
Yaelic scrambles forward from the crowd of onlookers. His hands pull at Basuin’s shirt, tugging him away until he is sitting in the dirt. Basuin touches the tender skin at his neck. It’s skin, still. It’s not fur. He’s still himself.
Anxious, Yaelic’s eyes glance back and forth between Basuin and the other. His assailant digs their nails into the dirt, crumbling it between their fingers. Their dark hair falls haphazardly over their shoulders, ends sticking out every which way.
They hiss at him, scrambling back on the forest floor. “What of a god who hurts those he’s sworn to protect?” they spit out, beady eyes staring him down.
I swore nothing, Basuin thinks he says, but it comes out garbled. “You are nothing to a god, nothing to protect,” he rasps out instead, but it sounds more like the scratching of the wolf-man’s claws against his vocal cords. Nothing of him. None of him is left.
The assailant lunges again, eyes raging mad, but there’s a burst of blue light that hits them both. Basuin flinches away from its brightness. There is no heat to it, no pain as he had anticipated, and he’s left with his arm covering his eyes until the light fades from view.
There, between them and towering over them despite her stature, is Ren.
She doesn’t look angry, but the cool slate of her countenance isn’t the same one Basuin’s seen before.
Her cheekbones are knives that could pearl with blood but she doesn’t even sweat.
Her eyes are darkened amber, fossilized magic threatening to burn out the sun in the sky.
“I said—” her hair whips on the wind, “—enough.”
Basuin stares at his attacker still sitting across from him, steeped in the same shock. But then, just as quick, their eyes narrow back into sharp slits directed at him, and their nostrils flare.
“What kind of a god are you?” the assailant asks, wiping their arm over their face and smudging what looks to be ash painted in stripes down their cheeks. “A god who kills others? A protector who hurts those weaker than him?”
Again, the word clings to him. Wraps around his body and shoulders like it’s trying to find his neck and strangle him. Protector. It makes the scar over his left eye ache with phantom pain. Basuin isn’t a protector. He’s a soldier.
A god, the wolf-man nips at him. It noses his insides, snuffing, pulling him toward Ren.
A man, he thinks.
Before he can say anything, Ren turns her gaze to the assailant.
“And what of a sparrow who flies toward the sun in hunt of its god?” she asks, voice breezy and nonchalant. “What of a bird who is pushed from its nest and builds a new one with blood as paste?”
They lunge at Ren, and before he can even breathe, the wolf-man howls something fierce and broken and Basuin is moving—he doesn’t know who forced his feet on the ground.
He plants himself, a rooted tree grown from his body, in front of Ren and blocks the incoming blow, arms held defensively in front of him and eyes raging mad.
But the blow never comes. A shadowed figure from the forest wraps itself around the assailant—a flash of pale skin bared from a wide sleeve of black.
“Haaman,” a deep, slow-crawling voice calls. “You traitorous thing.”
Behind the assailant stands a tall, tall man—the man who Basuin lashed out at and burned. His eyes are closed as if he were asleep, long swathes of dark hair falling over his shoulder to hide his red-marked arm. Still, he looks at ease as he holds the assailant, Haaman, from attacking Ren.
Haaman slumps in the man’s grasp, a look of shame crossing their face. Then, that shame turns to a boiling anger, head snapping up to look at Basuin.
“You tried to kill him,” Haaman spits raggedly, voice shattered by rage. “Ko could’ve died at the hands of a careless god.”
Basuin can’t find the right words to counter. Though he hasn’t drawn his sword against anyone since Valkesta, the wild magic that erupted in chaos had done the job for him. Magic he didn’t even know he had.
“Little bird,” the man murmurs, his head ducking toward Haaman’s shoulder. “You tried to kill a god. Two, even. Are you any better?”
“Shut up,” they bite back, bristling.
Ren holds her hand out to Haaman, halting him. “I understand your anger, Haaman. But it was an accident. The Wolf God did not intend to harm anyone, though he did.”
“Intention is shit!” Haaman shouts back, anger foaming in their mouth. “The Wolf God was sworn to protect our forest, not hurt it!”
Ko snakes his hand around Haaman, covering their mouth. “Hush, little bird. I can speak for myself. Now, be quiet before Am-sa decides you’ve committed treason against her.”
With that, he slinks forward, pushing Haaman behind him.
Risen to full height, he is taller than Bass, but much less heavy and bulky.
He sways when he moves, sleepy but somehow confident.
Unlike Haaman’s ripped-hem trousers and black shirt, he wears an elaborate set of robes that drape long and glide over the forest floor, his hair following it.
Of course, his left sleeve is torn at the seam, leaving bare and burned flesh. It’s a dark wound, colored in bark-tones but already healing to a pink at the edges.
“My name is Ko,” he says, bowing his head—first to Ren, deeply, and then to Basuin. “I am of the many oaks who make up this forest. I beg your pardon that I’ve yet to introduce myself to you, Wolf God. And for startling you this morning.”
Yaelic kneels to the forest floor, bowing his head. “I am so sorry, Ko. My master—he’s new to our way, our life.”
Shame stabs through him like his own goddamn blade. He caused this, as he’s always caused pain. Basuin curls his fingers into tight fists at his side. These hands are scarred from war. Soldier’s hands. It’s all they know anymore.
Haaman darts from behind Ko, snarling at Bass. “Bow to him,” with a snap of their teeth. “You disgrace of a god.”
The wolf-man cracks bones in Basuin’s body, the force of it making him hunch over as his spine curves and his shoulders curl inward.
Inside him, it snarls and snaps its maw like Haaman until there’s foam on its snout and Basuin has a taste for blood.
It brings a fever that makes him desperate to sink his teeth into a bloody steak and tear it into shreds.
Basuin sets his hand where his heart should be, shoving the wolf-man back. He straightens his spine, rolls his shoulders back, and draws to full height again. Not like this. He won’t let the wolf-man puppet him like this.
“Haaman,” Ren calls, her words with more bite than he imagines. “Your anger is heard.” Basuin hates her words. He hates that she speaks for him, hates that she wears this constant countenance of calm as if nothing can touch her.
Under Ren’s gaze, Haaman wilts. Their eyes fall to the ground as they shift from foot to foot.
“Would you have me bow, too?” Ren asks as the winds of the forest ruffle her shirt.
Haaman’s eyes widen to black moons and they fall to their knees in the dirt. They bow their head, a display of submission and worship.
But Basuin doesn’t stare at them. He stares at Ren, whose eyes aren’t cold, but knowing. She waits, watching Haaman, the smallest movement of her throat as she swallows.
“Forgive me, Am-sa,” Haaman pleads. “I meant no disrespect toward you.”
“Disrespect to any god in this forest—to any spirit here—is disrespect toward me,” Ren says, as easy as if it were but a conversation. “What would you have done?” she asks. “If you had killed me?”
A sound like a sob comes from Haaman, their nose pressed into the dirt. “I’m sorry, Am-sa. Truly, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. I am loyal, I swear it.”
“Stand up,” she commands, and Haaman scrambles to their feet. “Wipe your face, sparrow. Look at me.”
Though her voice is soft, light and airy and spoken with such a calm cadence, her words hold no room for argument. Basuin almost stands at attention under the spell of her voice.
Haaman does as she says, wiping their face on their arm. Then, they take a breath and look at her, eyes full of shame. Basuin knows the feeling. That look. He knows it well and he knows he would have done the same as Haaman.
He did, at one point. Fight an army for Isaniel, to protect him. But he still marched Isaniel to Valkesta in the end.
“You are free to leave, Haaman,” Ren says. “You are not bound to this forest and you are not bound to me. I have never asked for your loyalty. The Wolf God has not either.” Ren speaks so gently that Basuin isn’t surprised when Haaman’s eyes fill with fat tears.
She speaks like a mother would. Scolding with love. Disappointed.
I’m doing this for you! he once roared at the top of his lungs at his mother, until his shouts shook the very roof he built for her. I have no choice but to go. Don’t you understand that?
And his mother, calm and gentle like Ren, but with sad eyes, looked at him from her bed and asked, Do you truly have no choice? Is there no path but the one you see in front of you?
Basuin takes his godstone into his hand and curls a fist around it. She was right. He had a choice, and he chose wrong.
Haaman cries into the crook of their elbow, hiding their face from the Forest God. Ko places his hand on their shaking shoulder.
“We are ever grateful to you, Am-sa,” Ko says. “Even if you do not tie us to you, we are loyal.”
Then, Ko turns to face Basuin, and he bows his head slowly and shallowly. Basuin doesn’t mind it. In fact, he bows his head right back, quickly retracting to stand up straighter. There’s the smallest quirk in Ko’s mouth, as if he’s amused.
“I apologize, Ko,” Basuin speaks first. “God or not, I have much to learn.”
“All is forgiven.” Ko draws his hand from the sleeve of his robe to wave Basuin off. “I am glad that no one was seriously hurt. I hope you will forgive my little bird as well, Wolf God.”
“Basuin,” he corrects. “My name is Basuin.”
Now, Ren turns her head. He can feel her stare on the side of his neck; she stands just outside the reach of his peripheral vision. What is she thinking? She’s unreadable, has been since they met. But he’d burn to know what she thinks of him.
Haaman’s dark skin has turned a shade warmer from their crying, but they wipe their face again and face Basuin. They hang their head, not quite a bow, but heavy with the same shame coloring Basuin’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” they say, shifting from side to side restlessly.
Yaelic, hands dirty, clings to Basuin still. His golden hair is mussed, and Basuin resists the urge to fix it for him.
“Myself, as well,” Basuin says, but it sounds awkward. In all his years given to the legion, Basuin’s never surrendered. He’s never had to—he’s always been victorious. Until he wasn’t. And even then, in failure, Basuin didn’t surrender. And look where that brought him.
None of this belongs to him. Not the land, and not these people. Not the gods who speak to him now, after he’s prayed for decades with no answer. Not the magic he never asked for.
Not even his own hands. He unfurls his fingers to reveal the scarred mark burned into his palm.
Basuin couldn’t even control his own hands—he hurt someone else, again.
Shame is the tongue of the wolf-man that licks up the walls of his esophagus.
And Basuin bends to its will, this thing, this wolf-man, that’s possessed him. Like any soldier would.
He’s just that—a soldier.
A bad one at that, the wolf-man laughs at him.
He agrees. A bad one at that.