by DJ Molles
Perry swallowed but there wasn’t much to go down. He retracted his hand from Niva’s, and she didn’t move to stop him. He mumbled, “One second.” Then he marched over, reached his hands up and took Teran’s face. “Don’t punch me,” he said. “It’s just a kiss.”
She didn’t punch him. Actually seemed to like it. Which was nice.
When he pulled back, he knew the question that was going to be next, and he went ahead and answered it. “Just felt like that should’ve happened before. Didn’t want to have any regrets.” He cleared his throat, and looked at Stuber. Let go of Teran’s face. Put his hand on Stuber’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend. I gave you a lot of grief. Honestly…I was just jealous of how you could just punch and smash your way through the world with a smile on your face. But I’ve come to like it.”
Stuber looked concerned. “Why are you being mushy right now?”
Perry waved him off. “I just want you all to remember me at my best before I…lose it all. Go back to being nobody.”
Mala rolled her eyes. “Self-important prick, it’s always about you.” Then she gave him a smile. “This time I guess it really is. Though I don’t know why we don’t have to give her back our Confluence.” Mala frowned at Niva. “What’s to stop us paladins from using Confluence to ruin everything again?”
Lux jumped in, hissing like he’d been stung. “We won’t. Of course.”
Niva only smiled at them. “No. You won’t.”
Perry nodded to the two demigods, the mechanical man between them, and tinkerer still holding on to one of the wires.
Sagum nodded back. “Don’t be dramatic, Perry. The only thing different will be that you can’t blow us all up, which, honestly, was a background worry of mine most of the time. Frankly I’ll be relieved.” He smirked. “Go on. Get it over with. We’re not going anywhere.”
Perry felt his throat thicken slightly. “Suppose I am being dramatic.”
“You’ve always had a flare for it,” Stuber commented.
“Alright.” Perry took a deep breath, strode back to Niva and held his hand out again, fingers close enough to feel the heat from her palms. “If you only got one road to travel, best to stop bitching and get to stepping.”
And then he touched her hand and
INTERLUDE, AGAIN
That’s it. No more. Off to bed, you rabid monkeys.
Wait. What? You can’t stop there. You didn’t even finish your sentence.
I did finish my sentence. I finished it with “And-that’s-it.” Don’t argue with me, you little fuck, I’ll put you to bed by choking you out.
Primus help us all. What would their mother say to hear you talk like that, Stuber?
CHAPTER FOURTY-ONE
THE STORY OF A LIFE
“That’s why she’s not allowed to be here,” Stuber countered. Then he looked across the dwindling fire at the boy and girl staring at him incredulously. “Look at these soft little piles of mush! They need some toughening up! No better way to toughen someone up than with coarse language. It’s like sandpaper for your brain. Builds calluses. Idn’t that right, little fucks?”
“Fuckin’ right,” the boy said.
Stuber jabbed a finger at him. “Hey, you don’t talk like that. Your mother’d fucking kill me.”
“But what happened?” the girl said. “You said he reached out his hand, and touched hers…and then what?”
“Oh, that,” Stuber said. “Well, he touched her and when the power came out of him, he shit himself. There. End of story. Are you satisfied now, tiny female?”
“You said you were gonna tell us the story,” the girl said, deadpan. “Made a big deal out of it. ‘Oh, hey, you’re ten, you’re old enough now, blah blah.’ But you didn’t end the story, so you haven’t given us the story.”
Stuber made a face like he’d never heard such monumental bullshit in all his life, made a few disgruntled noises, then looked pleadingly to Whimsby.
Whimsby was no help. Simply shook his head slightly. “The girl speaks right. It’s not a story without an ending.”
“Not a story?” Stuber started to bluster, but it turned into a wheezy, racking cough. Brittle and dry sounding. Whimsby stiffened, almost reached out to pat him on the back. Didn’t like the flush at the sides of Stuber’s gray temples, or the way his still-broad, but somewhat withered shoulders seemed to strain so hard at each cough.
Stuber came up for air. “Fuck me.” His voice hoarse and gravelly. “I’ve told you so much of a story I’ve lost my damn voice. And you say it’s not a story. Make yourself useful. Pass me that whiskey.”
“You shouldn’t,” Whimsby said, though he passed him the bottle. Not much left in it now.
“I shouldn’t, he says.” Stuber shook his head as he pulled the cork out. “As though I’m trying to live any longer than I already have.” He drank some. “As though I’m playing for time.” He took a deep breath, looking skyward at a cool, black night. No moon, but quite a few stars. His breath pluming. “No, I’m in a rush, Whimsby. Always have been.” He drank again then corked the bottle. “Funny. Doesn’t seem to be working. I’ve rushed and rushed and everyone else has got there first.”
Whimsby smiled painfully. Sat back.
The two children watched their grandfather keenly. They knew he wasn’t going to refuse them. They’d broken him. Now they were going in for the kill.
Stuber looked at them with eyes a million miles away, not seeing them at all, but the people that they’d come from, and the people that those people had come from. Old friends. Old battles. Old fires to light old hearts, but dimmer every time, it seemed.
He got that way often these days.
Whimsby gently cleared his throat.
Stuber blinked. Seemed to see what was sitting in front of him. “Right.” Thumbs rubbing both sides of the whiskey bottle. Slowly up. Slowly down. The cuticles pressed white as bone. “Well. He reached out and touched her hand, and the power flowed out of him. We were all expecting something dramatic but it…it wasn’t dramatic at all. In fact, my dubious descendants, it’s not all that dramatic from then on out, which is maybe why I tried to stop the story there. It’s done with the action parts, you know? But…I suppose you need the…what is it?”
“Closure,” Whimsby said, looking wistfully at the fire.
“Right. That. Closure.” Stuber sighed long and heavy. “Well, there were more wars, as there always is. Buncha assholes trying to fill the power vacuum. But that gradually settled down after people got tired of fighting and killing eachother. And then we all grew up, and lived happily ever after. Everyone got what they wanted. Everyone was free, and the world was at peace for the first time in centuries, and the sections of it that had been destroyed by the Nine started to slowly, slowly come back to life.” Stuber glowered at the fire. “Then we all got old and lame and never did anything fun or exciting ever again. And that, rabid monkeys, is truly the end of the story. And I am tired. And it is time for me to drink what remains of this bottle, and then to lay my bones next to this fire.”
“Shouldn’t sleep outside,” Whimsby said.
“Shouldn’t sleep outside, he says.” Stuber rose and uncorked the bottle, used it as a prod to get the two children grumbling to their feet. “Onwards. We march to the indoors, because our nanny Whimsby has told us so. Can you see the light ahead?”
“We can see,” the boy replied.
“Good, continue heading towards it until you walk into your house. I’ll…be along.”
“What about wild dogs?” the girl worried.
“They wouldn’t dare. They know I’ll stomp their fucking brains out. Now go.”
The children headed out, murmuring amongst themselves. Stuber trailed behind them, and Whimsby easily caught up. Stuber was a slow walker these days. Even slower when he’d been drinking so much.
“When are you going to start telling the truth?” Whimsby asked.
“The truth?” Stuber scoffed. “My version is better. The ending is
not the point of the story. The point of the story is all the other shit that came before the ending.”
“Oh, I don’t know. The truth does have a certain charm to it.”
Stuber shook his head, slowing to a stop. Bottle swishing slowly, gently. Was he doing that on purpose or was it palsy? “To distill a man—all the things he’s done in his life—down to that one second? The one second when he dies? That’s…” his eyes had grown watery. He smiled through it. “Well, frankly, Whimsby, it terrifies me.”
Whimsby opened his mouth, but then shut it again. Decided to stay silent. He just had never decided what to say to Stuber about Perry. Didn’t know if it made any difference at all. Didn’t know if telling Stuber what his mechanical eyes had recorded would help or hurt.
Best not to say anything at all, then.
Whimsby started walking again, because if he didn’t, Stuber would forget to and wind up passing out in the dirt.
Stuber grunted a single, bitter laugh and took a sip from the whiskey. But a measured one this time. Almost like he put the bottle to his lips more out of habit than any real desire.
Whimsby stopped again, realizing that Stuber wasn’t going to follow. It looked like it was going to be a long night. Not that it mattered to Whimsby. He didn’t need sleep, and he only had one friend left.
Stuber opened his arms, as though addressing the night. “How am I the last fucking one?”
Whimsby sauntered back to Stuber’s side. “Good genetics, I suppose.”
“I miss them,” Stuber said. “Petra most of all. But really, I’d even take Sagum at this point, that old, skinny fuck.”
“They were hard years for all,” Whimsby observed. “But you’ve survived. And, like you said, things have settled down. Which is why it’s more important than ever for you to tell the story. Accurately and publicly.”
Stuber scoffed. “What? So someone can twist the truth again? Prop Perry up as a deity like they did with Primus and his chaps?”
“That is true,” Whimsby admitted. “So true that people are already doing it. Perhaps the best antidote for twisted truths would be the straight truth. From someone that was there.”
Stuber made a disgusted face. “They’ll all want to know how he died. That’s all they’ll get out of it.”
Whimsby sighed. It was a poor night for old arguments. Best to leave it be.
“What if they do that to me?” Stuber’s voice creaked a bit.
“It’s a legitimate concern,” Whimsby stated. “Your vital signs are abysmal. Frankly, I’m not sure how you’re still alive.”
Stuber grunted, drank the last of the bottle. “What if all they remember is me shitting my pants? Mumbling to myself? No longer able to crack a good joke or to curse with such beautiful fluency?” Stuber shook his head at the darkness. “I think I’ll just go. Not, you know, right now. But when I think I’m just right there at the edge—when I have just enough left in me to walk a good ways, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”
Whimsby favored Stuber with a longsuffering look. He hated when Stuber talked like this. But time and grief and loss wear all men down to nubs eventually. They could be hard as rocks, but life cuts like diamonds.
Stuber didn’t seem to notice Whimsby’s expression. He had a small smirk on his face, still staring off into the night at nothing. “Wasteland survival,” he chuckled. “No one’s coming, so pick a direction and start walking.” He looked at Whimsby, his face becoming resolute. “That’s what I’m going to do, Whimsby. One of these days, I’m gonna pick a direction and I’m gonna start walking. Just disappear into the sunset. You won’t even know that I’m gone.”
“Of course I would know,” Whimsby said, wrapping an arm around Stuber’s shoulder. “Now come on. You just need to sleep it off. You’ll feel better in the morning. And various other things you tell drunk people.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Of course you’re not.” Whimsby gently pulled Stuber along, and to further motivate him, he gestured at the house and told him a hopeful lie: “Maybe there’s another bottle inside.”
***
It wasn’t long after that.
And Stuber was true to his word.
Whimsby went to go find his one remaining friend at the edges of the farming freehold, and instead found a mudbrick house with an unlocked door and open windows, letting the warm spring air in. The place was small, but tidy. Stuber’s single bed, neatly made. No plate left uncleaned from the night before. No mess at all.
Like he wanted the place to look like no one had ever lived in it. Like he’d wanted to just vanish without a trace. Leave the world like he’d never been in it. Which was silly, Whimsby thought, because he was Stuber.
Who was going to forget him?
Certainly not Whimsby. Whimsby remembered everything.
Everything…
The sound of a unified gasp from a hundred throats, as the blade of a longstaff cut Mala down, the sneering face at the other end just another one of the many demigods-turned-warlords. Mala had finally met a better fighter, in the form of Paladin Articus.
The look of rage written on Lux’s face, all smeared with green light so that his teeth seemed to glow, just before he took his revenge on Paladin Articus by destroying them both.
The taste of bitter shock, like electrical arcs on his tongue, as he learned of Teran, shot in the back of the head by an assassin from some rival sect, as she was walking out of her house.
The sweaty grasp of Sagum’s hand as the cancer in his chest squeezed the last bit of life out of him, and his eyes turned as empty as marbles.
The scent of burning sage, bundles of it stacked up around Petra’s pyre, as Stuber stood, much too close to the flames, sweat and ethanol steaming from his skin, the night after she’d simply fallen down face first in the dust and didn’t wake up again.
And now this. Another thing he would never forget: The sound of complete silence, in a home that should have been filled with Stuber’s gruff, grumbling banter.
Whimsby stood by Stuber’s small kitchen table for a long time, mulling these things over. Found his fingers brushing along the wood that’d scuffed to an almost waxy sheen over so many years of use. Wondered if he might feel his old friend in it. But there was nothing there. Just wood.
Stuber was right. These petty little deaths didn’t do justice to the great people they were attached to.
“You know,” Whimsby said, feeling a slow, dull ache that made no anatomical sense. It was right there, in the top of his chest, in the bottom of his neck. Tethered to something else that was down deeper. They seemed to be trying to pull away from each other. But there was nothing in his diagnostics that said anything of the sort was happening. “I was going to tell you today that I think you’re wrong. But I suppose you escaped me. You old bastard. Couldn’t let me be right a single time.”
Whimsby smiled around the room. Remembering things with that perfect memory of his. A bottomless pit of human experience, never to be filled, never to die, only ever to watch, and watch, and watch, and every once in a while, come across a person you might call a friend, and have someone to care about for a little while. “A little while” being relative to the years Whimsby himself had left to live. Which would be forever if they kept maintaining him so nicely.
“You see, all of you frail, organic, sacks of meat were dead after the skiff got blown up. Me, being the only one made of hearty alloys, was still alive, still watching, still recording everything.” Whimsby tapped the side of his head. “I saw what happened to Perry when he exploded with that blue light. Which is to say, he never actually exploded. The blue light came out of him and he kind of…I don’t know. Shrunk into a tiny spot.” Whimsby held up his fingers, a miniscule distance apart. “Like a little pinprick in the fabric of reality. And then boom, he zoomed back full size again, just as quick.”
He looked up from his fingers, half expecting Stuber to be sitting there at the table. But the table was abandoned. And it felt so damne
d lonely that Whimsby decided to project Stuber’s image there, constructed from his flawless memory of a million moments.
The humans had their imaginations. This was Whimsby’s version.
“See,” Whimsby pointed to his mechanical eyes. “You need incredibly high resolution imaging systems to see that. Which I have.”
“Right.” The Stuber at the table rolled his eyes. “But that’s not what happened when he touched that mad bitch’s hand.”
“Oh, come now,” Whimsby chided. “That’s a harsh judgement of Niva. And besides, it has everything to do with it. And that’s what I’m trying to say, Stuber. I don’t think Perry died. Because, you see, when he touched her hand, he didn’t just disappear. He shrunk into that tiny spot again.” The fingers again. “And the woman named Niva went with him.”
The Stuber at the table frowned at him. “So…she killed him after shrinking him to a tiny bug?”
Whimsby laughed. “No. I don’t think she killed him at all, Stuber. I think he went away. Both of them. Into wherever it was that he went to when he exploded in blue.”
He waited for a further challenge from Stuber, then remembered that it wasn’t the real Stuber. Decided to let the projected image whiff away.
Silence again. An empty table. An empty house.
Whimsby walked to the back door. Opened it, but didn’t exit. Just stood there, looking out. Fields of grain, stretching out. Not just millet anymore. Wheat, and barley, and oats. And trees too, young and scrappy. Growing now where they hadn’t grown in centuries.
Through the green wheat, Whimsby’s high resolution imaging systems could make out the tiniest vestiges of a path where someone had cut through the field, heading west, as though chasing a setting sun. Maybe a day ago, Whimsby guessed.
He thought about following that path. Tracking Stuber down. His daughter and his grandchildren would probably like to cremate his body. Put his ashes in an urn where they would sit uselessly on a mantelpiece. And if any piece of Stuber’s soul was left in those ashes, it would be pissed at Whimsby for all eternity.
