The forest was empty, lifeless, unnatural, and steeped with fētis. She sunk her heel bone into the ground, but the picture was of poor clarity: everything was so muddled and shifty as if the environment itself was trying to hide from her, but nothing stayed hidden from Morrigan Queen for too long. She traipsed as loudly as she could through the swamp, trying to attract as much attention as possible. The boy was right: there didn’t appear to be any life in this fētis-ridden heap aside from the trees overhead. They moved and breathed ever so carefully, less like actual flora and more like someone’s poor interpretation of it. No, she didn’t care for this place one bit.

  Morrigan felt a touch at the nape of her neck and snapped around quickly: nothing was there. Perhaps the leaf overhead had touched her, but there was certainly no assailant. The touch was faint and, for a moment, it reminded Morrigan of the voice that caressed her mind of late. Isold?, was it? The memories Morrigan recalled felt so disconnected from her. People spoke of memories like they were a tangible thing: familiar fragrances could still be smelled, recalled textures could still be felt, and even flavors of one’s past could still be tasted—Morrigan couldn’t relate to any of that. She couldn’t recall the scent of Isold?’s hair, the warmth of her skin, or the taste of her love. Yet she could vividly see her before her eyes when they were closed.

  Rays of sunlight were captured in her hair, held within perhaps by her twisted bun. Though she’d done a good job of hiding it in every other avenue of her appearance and mannerisms, Isold?’s hairstyle—and its lack of tidiness—showcased her high upbringing for anyone attentive enough to notice. And it wasn’t because Isold? had a hairstyle properly indicative of her status: no, it was precisely because the rendition of the hairstyle Isold? was replicating was so poorly done. And why wouldn’t it be? Isold? came from a world of servants and retainers: she’d never done her hair by herself. As such, waiting on her in the mornings became a regular habit for the party, despite her being the first to wake up. Isold? was nothing if not earnest in her efforts, though, and she’d gotten much better at handling her locks by the end of the journey.

  Her skin was pale like the mane of a bisselback, unmarred by the harsh world around them; mayhap the armor she typically wore aided in any sort of necessary skin protection. With her delicate skin in mind, one might assume Isold? was of the fragile sort, and they could not be more incorrect. Isold?’s feats of strength played in Morrigan’s head without her consent: even she could see how impressive Isold? was for one without any livēsēns enhancing her physicality. Her lips were full, her eyes were inviting, and her nose was straight and simple.

  Morrigan’s visions of Isold? were so personal, yet she was a stranger. Morrigan didn’t know how it felt to be held by her, kissed by her, caressed by her—she didn’t know her in the slightest. Yet, Morrigan could perspicuously see Isold? at her peak, toes curled and begging for more.

  Deny me my rest. Deny me reprieve. Deny me everything but your touch.

  The very thought left even the queen herself flushed in the face. But it felt less like a nostalgic recollection of a lover’s embrace and more like she was living out a voyeur’s fantasy. The offscape left too many thoughts unclear, perhaps this too was a symptom of the offscape’s influence. What she was certain of was such incessant intrusions in her thought process were unwelcome in the current circumstances. She did her best to bury the lucid images and focused on the task at hand.

  “Find the fētis." Morrigan said to herself as she looked around the swampland. "Exterminate it.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to feel out the world around her. The vi shivered and shied away, but Morrigan Queen would not be denied. She bounced her senses off the motes around her, but she found nothing: no malice, no bloodlust, and not a single spark of life beyond the campsite she’d left behind.

  This was pointless: the fētis hid as fētis does so often. And trudging through the swamp was taxing, more so than it ought to be, she thought. Instead of wandering around blind, Morrigan would simply wait for the inevitable encounter. She jogged back to the campsite and slowed her trot as she neared the clearing. Her footsteps grew quiet as she moved from tree to tree. When the picture came into view, Morrigan observed from a safe distance. Why? She wasn’t sure. What was she looking for? She couldn’t say.

  “In a way, it’s lucky the offscape doesn’t seem to have any weather to worry about.” The boy spoke as he and his pet unfurled some sort of bedroll from his pack.

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  “Weather?” The child asked him ignorantly.

  Her questions were somehow even more taxing than his.

  “Yeah," he responded. "Where I come from, sometimes things fall from the sky.”

  Why did he have a smile on his face as he wasted time going over something so obvious? Morrigan balled her hands into fists as she watched on, still unsure as to why she was hiding.

  “Well, mostly water, I should say. Sometimes the wind blows you around or the sun makes you sweat and…” He trailed off, perhaps noticing he was trying to explain something beyond the child’s small scope. “The point is, sleeping outside usually isn’t so easy.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No, because all the weather can make it too hot or too cold, but it’s just a little chilly out here. We can work with that, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  The child seemed to be in better spirits, not that it concerned Morrigan. The child was too dull-witted to realize Morrigan’s decisions were mutually beneficial and she was far more merciful than she needed to be. She needn’t be kind at all: kindness wouldn’t defeat enemies, avenge her fallen comrades, or save anyone from the Malokith. Yet still Morrigan attempted to account for the wellbeing of the tools at her disposal—she was a saint, really.

  “Tsk.” Morrigan spat at the ground and stepped into the campsite.

  The boy turned to her and smiled, like she hadn’t threatened him a few hours earlier: he was an anomaly. “Find anything out there?”

  “The fētis hides because it is afraid, and it is right to be.” Morrigan exhaled in frustration as she stepped atop the platform.

  The pair had spread out a tarp of sorts and there was a blanket topping that. The boy looked at Morrigan, seemingly waiting for something.

  “Speak.” She hoped her tone would dissuade him from bothering her further as she sat back on the platform, dusting the filth off the soles of her feet.

  “The platform,” he whispered, trying to keep the words between them. “She worked hard on it. Could you maybe thank her?”

  “What?” Morrigan hissed.

  Thank her? Thank her for doing something that ought to have been simply within the range of things she could do? Does one thank their teeth for breaking down sustenance? Does one thank their feet for carrying them to and fro? Asinine.

  “Could you at least compliment the job, maybe?”

  The boy was relentless and Morrigan debated breaking his nose again. Instead, she found herself leaning into her thankless mercy—all that thinking of Isold? left her feeling softer and she wanted no part of it.

  “The platform”—Morrigan started, ensuring her volume would be enough for the child behind her— “is of sufficient condition.”

  She waited a moment for the gratitude: it never came. She looked over her shoulder and caught the child doing the same, though she shied away before saying anything back. Tsk. Wasted effort, wasted time: all of this was unfair. What was this creak in her forge?

  It should have been you.

  Was it that the scorned voice in her head clearly belonged to Isold?? Concerning as such a revelation was, it wasn’t the source of her frustration, though it didn’t exactly leave Morrigan feeling any better about herself. So what was the issue? She couldn’t say, but she had no energy left to give her tools for the night.

  “We should sleep,” Morrigan said matter-of-factly. “A battle soon beckons.”

  She rolled over to the furthest section of the platform she could reach without rolling off entirely. She closed her eyes, feeling them well without purpose. Sleep would put a stop to this, surely.

  “Can I have that?” The child asked him for something. Exactly what, Morrigan didn’t know nor care.

  “Oh, sure, Fig.” He responded with his nonsensical pet name for her. What an establishment of needless connection.

  Red.

  Morrigan grit her teeth, her breathing growing irregular.

  “I have a cover that’s probably big enough for all of us,” the boy offered, to which Morrigan proffered silence. “It’d probably make this more comfortable for—”

  “Mada, mada, mada.” Morrigan roared, her voice breaking as she felt anguish run down her cheeks. She didn’t dare turn and face the boy and his pet, content to let her tears slide toward the marshland below. “You want a lesson in Vo Katima, boy? Mada. It means shut your accursed mouth.”

  The boy fell silent, finally. All was still and not a single sniffle left Morrigan’s nose. She wouldn’t let a soul know of the bevy of tears falling down her face. She'd rather feed the swamp her corpse.