Beyond Oblivion

by Daryl Banner

  Athan shrugs. “I suppose he might still be working. Is that what we’re hearing? What we’re … seeing?”

  “Very possibly. The earth is stirring. I hear rock splitting, too. Lots and lots of rock, and …” Edrick turns suddenly. “Wait, who?”

  Suddenly, Athan’s heart races.

  His Legacy heart.

  His instincts.

  His fear of survival.

  “Goodness, your heart is thrashing,” Edrick notices. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, but someone just said ‘chaos’ quite distinctly. I think what I’m hearing is just Chole doing his—”

  “It’s more,” Athan realizes, not knowing at all from where his information comes. “Something is happening.”

  Edrick frowns. “Are you doing your Athan thing again?”

  At once, Athan runs off. His shoes scrape the pavement as he leaps over every crack with perfect grace, running at top speed down the street, around the corner, and on and on, straight ahead.

  He runs until the pavement becomes dirt, and all around him are the endless spreads of Greens.

  Somewhere far, far beyond the Wall of Atlas, said Prat.

  Athan speeds ahead until the road curves away, and so he bolts straight off the road, cutting through the crops themselves.

  It showed coordinates for Wick, said Prat.

  Plants nearly fling out of his way as he sprints at top speed, his legs numb, his feet numb, his hands thrashing back and forth as he runs and runs and runs, air blasting past his ears.

  All the Greens turn red, then turn green again. The sky before him ripples with the noise of thunder—BOOM!—and then nothing.

  You are losing your mind, Athan Broadmore. He runs and runs, desperate to chase the noise. You know it isn’t him. You know it isn’t.

  He breaks out onto a road again, and now he sees the Wall of Atlas far, far ahead of him. He must have been running for twenty minutes solid already without pause. Athan Broadmore is trained for this. He huffs and puffs and pants and never stops running.

  Wick’s location …

  Athan’s panting turns vocal, every footfall turning into a grunt.

  Somewhere out in the Oblivion …

  The ground turns into two-inch-deep water, tiny sprouts of grass and rice and root poking out of the water like green and white needles, and it’s through that water that Athan’s feet now splash.

  Two Greensman shout at him from somewhere far off. Then he hears the protesting cry of a Greenswoman behind him. He heeds none of them as he beelines for the Wall, which seems so fucking far away, he wonders if he’ll reach it in ten hours’ time.

  But he runs anyway as fast as he can. He is determined to reach the Wall. He knows he can do it. He knows he won’t stop until he is there, until he knows where the red light comes from, until he is safe.

  Somewhere far, far beyond the Wall of Atlas …

  The world flashes red, then gone.

  Athan’s heart hammers so heavily in his chest, he feels as if it might burst. He nearly knows it will. It’s just your Legacy, he tells himself, feeling like an insane individual who has lost all sense of reality. This is normal. You’re doing exactly what you’re required to do.

  Just like when he departed his family’s last meal, leaving a dish of his own on that table with poison that was meant for his tongue.

  Just like when he fled the Warden’s Tower in the sixth mere moments before it was raided by the Wall Breakers.

  Just like when he was bolted to a wall in a small office in the eighth with a man who threw darts at the speed of bullets.

  He is doing this for his survival.

  For my survival …

  Athan’s running slows suddenly. Then he finds himself stopped, standing in the center of a dirt road, staring ahead at the Wall, which now seems to loom much closer than it was a moment ago. It is so tall now, he has to lift his chin to see the top.

  For my survival …?

  The thought hurts. Is he running because the red is coming for the ninth ward neighborhoods? Is his Legacy getting him out of the way of some stray bolt of Madness that has yet to fall from the sky, just like how his Legacy made him flee his family dinner to spare him his own life?

  Am I fleeing, only to return later and find all of my friends that I have made in the ninth burnt alive by the red and fiery light?

  Athan glances back over his shoulder. All he sees is Greens, and Greens, and Greens, the neighborhoods so far behind him.

  I’m sick of being the sole survivor, always.

  Is that the true nature of his Legacy? To survive anything, at all costs? To narrowly avoid? To escape just in time? To rely on the loose whims of others who will always have his best interest?

  The world flashes red.

  And then the ground begins to tremble.

  Athan crouches by instinct, his balance suddenly compromised. He spins around and looks ahead at the Wall once more, eyes wide, terrified. His heart thrashes and thrashes.

  Then he sees something high atop the Wall let loose, some small thing. For one fleeting moment, he thinks it’s a bird.

  Then it grows closer and closer.

  It’s a chunk of stone, he realizes with horror. The Wall, it’s …

  When the chunk of metal and stone slams against the ground, the whole planet shakes, and Athan is thrown off his feet, slamming onto his back.

  The world flashes red.

  Three more enormous pieces come falling from the sky—slam, slam, slam to the ground—and the world trembles and groans.

  It is now in the opposite direction that Athan races, clambering to his feet. Behind him, he hears the slamming of enormous boulders the size of houses into the earth, followed by chunks of metal and slabs of heavy stone. One after the other, they slam and pound and punch the earth. Soon, Athan starts to hear the squealing they make as they cut through the air, thumping the ground over and over.

  One unsettlingly nearby crash has Athan’s balance thrown, and he goes flying into the nearest patch of Greens off the side of the road. Blinded by the tall, bushy plants, Athan scrambles to get back to his feet amidst the earth shaking beneath him. It’s the end, he tells himself, knowing he isn’t moving fast enough to avoid the fall of the Wall. It’s the end and this is where I die, where the Oblivion at last breaks into Atlas, all the unknown horrors that live beyond it.

  At once, the earth settles, and there is nothing but silence.

  Athan waits there, buried in the greenery, as if he is protected in its earthen hold. He waits and he listens, trembling.

  My heart, he realizes. My heart no longer races …

  He listens some more.

  Only a calm breeze meets his ears, the Greens hissing in reply.

  Athan finally dares to climb back to his feet. He returns to the dirt road and peers out at the mess left behind in the wake of what just happened. For that matter, what did just happen? He sees chunks of rock that now look as if they’ve been there all along—tall, massive stones that jut right out of the ground, discolored by mud and water, jagged and unsightly. They are spread from where Athan stands all the way to the Wall, where now a crooked fissure runs from about the midway point to the ground, like a black lightning bolt drawn down the side of the Wall.

  And even so, even with the fear that sits in his stomach, even with the fatal shower of stones that just fell about him, Athan starts to walk toward the Wall. He took himself this far, and he will take himself the rest of the way.

  Somewhere out in the Oblivion …

  Far, far beyond the Wall …

  Athan climbs atop a giant chunk of fallen stone that has made a home in the middle of the road, a stone as wide as a house and as tall as a tree. And it’s standing upon this stone, looking out toward the Wall, that he makes out the shape of five approaching figures.

  Athan remains atop that rock, staring suspiciously at them. Are they Greensfolk? He waits and watches. They must be Greensfolk …

  And he listens to his h
eart.

  Will it race in warning?

  Will it tell him to run back and warn the others?

  Or will his Legacy keep his feet planted right here, perfectly in place, waiting and watching?

  They are closer now. A woman and four men.

  He listens to his heart.

  It starts to race.

  He takes a single step down the rock, his eyes on the five figures who still approach. He may not have blinked once since seeing them, the calmly blowing wind of the Greens stinging his eyes.

  Then one of them breaks into a run.

  Athan watches, takes another step, then stops, staring.

  It isn’t him. Don’t be deceived. It isn’t him and it will never be him again. He is dead. Anwick Lesser is dead. He was destroyed atop Cloud Tower by the touch of Metal Hand. Anwick Lesser—

  And the boy stops at the base of the rock, staring up in disbelief, out of breath. A boy in a loose slip of fabric that hangs off his lithe, slender form, and weathered pants. A boy with brown eyes, and with messy, overgrown brown hair, and a blanket of stubble and whiskers across his astonished face.

  His full lips are parted.

  It isn’t him. Tears fill Athan’s eyes. It isn’t him. It can’t be him. You’re meditating in Wick’s room. You’re pretend-dreaming.

  “A-Athan …?” chokes the boy from the bottom of the stone.

  Without thinking, Athan rushes the rest of the way down the side of his little hill, and stops some distance from the boy. All his strength depleted from running, his system in shock, Athan collapses to his knees, staring at the boy. This isn’t real. This isn’t him. Tears flood Athan’s eyes. This isn’t him.

  “No …” breathes Athan, trembling. “You … You’re not …”

  “It’s me.” The boy has tears in his own eyes. “It’s me, Athan. It’s me. It’s really me.”

  Athan buries his face in his hands, unable to see him. This isn’t your Anwick. You’ve lost your mind. His shoulders shake as the tears burst from his face. All this running. All the red in the sky. You have imagined it all. His heart neither seems to race nor beat at all. Even his breath is stuck in suspension, the world rendered still, like the statue of a girl in a shed. I must’ve turned to stone when I hugged her, Athan decides. I turned to stone, and this is what comes beyond.

  Then a set of arms hooks under Athan’s arms, gently lifts him up to his feet, and then Athan opens his eyes.

  He’s there. He’s standing right there in front of him. His face …

  “Athan, it’s me.” The boy wipes the tears from Athan’s eyes, a tear at a time.

  “No, it’s not,” breathes Athan, his voice shaking.

  “It’s me. I’m alive. I’ve been alive, all this time.”

  “No. No, no, no. You’re not.”

  The boy takes hold of Athan’s hand and presses it to his own chest. “I am.”

  Athan feels the boy’s heartbeat. His eyes drop to his chest, staring at it through a curtain of tears. “N-No … You’re … You’re …”

  “You’re wearing my jacket,” says the boy. He tries to smile. “You look better in it than I ever did.”

  Athan looks up. “Anwick …? Is it really—?”

  “It’s me, baby.” He spreads his arms. “It’s me.”

  The next instant, Athan throws his arms around him. When he feels the boy’s body against his, he realizes his own body remembers Anwick better than his eyes did, every inch of him, even if the boy has lost so much weight. He remembers the way Anwick smells, even if that smell is coated by mud and sweat and grass and nature right now. He even recognizes his warmth, as if Anwick Lesser has a very specific temperature that his unique body always maintains, different from anyone else’s in the world.

  Athan can’t open his eyes and he can’t let go. He knows that the moment he does, he’ll find he’s hugging a stranger, or nothing at all. If he lets go, this perfect boy will disappear from him again. Even if he speaks, he might destroy the illusion and wake up in that lonely room in the Lesser house. It’s more likely that Three Sister was cruel enough to grant me my wish. They gave me the curse of sleep, and this has all been a dream.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment,” whispers the boy in his ear, his face buried into the side of Athan’s neck. “I’ve dreamt of it every night. I crossed a desert for you, Athan Broadmore.”

  His voice … Wick’s voice in his ear …

  Athan bursts into tears over his slum boy’s shoulder all over again, knowing at long last.

  He doesn’t even care for an explanation. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t care if this is real, or just another play of some daydream he orchestrated for himself in the safe confines of Wick’s old room. The bone-crushing, tight embrace they share is one that makes nothing else matter at all. For the first time in over half a year, Athan finds he can breathe again, and the first thing he does with that newfound breath is let it all out in tears.

  When Wick tries to pull away, Athan won’t let him, keeping him pressed to his body.

  After a moment, Wick whispers, “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

  “You’ve said that before,” Athan blurts.

  “I am not leaving you this time. I am not. I will not go on a fucking mission to the Lifted City. I will not confront any Mad Kings. I will not be touched by Metal Hand and teleported to the middle of nowhere.”

  It is at those words that Athan finally does pull away, looking into his slum boy’s eyes in disbelief, his lips parted.

  To those lips, Wick says, “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “The middle of nowhere? Metal Hand …?”

  “Are you okay?” Wick takes hold of Athan’s face suddenly, a palm on either side of his jaw near the ears, then his hands slide down to the base of his neck. His eyes search Athan’s. “Is everyone okay in the ninth? What were you doing out here? You could have been crushed!”

  “The red light,” says Athan. “It was scaring everyone. And then the earth began to tremble, and … Are you really you?”

  Wick lets out a short laugh. “I’m really me.”

  It’s now that Athan feels the presence of the four others, who are some distance away. A woman stands in the road holding up another younger man, who is sweaty and looks unwell. A man is picking fruit off nearby plants, a big brute with a reddened face and a thick beard. A slenderer, younger one who has coppery skin and big eyes is behind him, and his mouth is full of fruit, like it is the first fruit he’s eaten in weeks.

  Maybe it is the first fruit he’s eaten in weeks. “You … You were all out in … in the …” Athan starts.

  “Oblivion.”

  Athan faces his boy again. At once, his protective instinct kicks in, and all his confusion is shaken away. “We need to get you home. All of you. It’s a very long walk from here, but we’ll get you there. We have food and shelter, lots of shelter, and—”

  It’s Wick who throws his arms around Athan this time, shutting him right up. Athan feels his boy cling to him desperately, tightly, squeezing with every ounce of his strength. Gentler this time, and fully aware, Athan wraps his arms tenderly around his boy.

  He hears Anwick whisper, “I love you, Athan Broadmore. If I haven’t said it enough, if I haven’t dreamed it enough, I love you a thousand times. I love you a million times. I have never felt more at home than when I’m in your arms.”

  Athan closes his eyes, enjoying the tight embrace all over again, as if it’s their first embrace. Then he pulls away to get a look at his slum boy’s face. With a thumb, he gently wipes away some dirt that clings to Wick’s stubble. “You look cute with a little starter beard,” he says sweetly, smiling.

  When Wick smiles back, a tear lets loose from his eye. Then the boys come together in a more intimate way, their lips joining at long last. If Athan Broadmore lost any faith in love over the past six months, it has only in the space of seconds been fully restored and grown even stronger than it was before. If he at any time swore his he
art turned to stone like Anwick’s little sister, he’s just been proven a liar. Anwick Lesser is alive. Anwick Lesser is in my arms.

  I’ll never need to dream again.

  0335 Forgemon

  The office he finds himself in belonged to a Keep Warden.

  That’s what they called them, according to Benton. The Keeps, in fact, were thought of very much like another ward of Atlas, except beneath the ground, and each section required a Keep Warden.

  Like an invisible King with no throne.

  The room is sickly white, just like the halls in which his own leg was bit by the bullet of a prison guard’s gun. Red …

  Forge stares down at his hands, lost in the trauma of many things. I killed that boy. Tears fill his eyes again. If I had not punished him by locking him away in that cell, then someone would not have murdered the boy, and the boy would still be alive, and Geoff would still have both his sons.

  Had the tables been turned, and it was Forge who came out of those dark corridors carrying Link wrapped up in wool …

  Or Lionis, wrapped up in that wool …

  Or Anwick … Or Aleksand, Halvesand …

  Ellena …

  Am I wrong about Geoff? Was I wrong this whole time? Should I have listened to Aphne and allowed the man’s charisma to infect me?

  Forgemon buries his face into his hands and cries. He can’t stop the tears now. He’s alone, anyway, all his guards on duty, every sect of the Keep under strict eye and supervision. All the screens before Forgemon—restored and operating—show it so. But those screens are nothing but blurs now through the eyes of Forge, who is a big baby full of big boy emotions he can’t handle.

  I killed that boy.

  The soft scuffles of feet indicate a presence at the door behind him. He nearly forgot he was waiting for someone. Forge wipes his eyes quickly, blinks with conviction, then turns in his chair.

  Aphne stands at the door.

  Her face is sunken and devoid of her usual bite and darkness. She looks as if she’s come directly from a slum funeral.

  Neither say a thing. Aphne, after a moment of studying his face, invites herself into the room and leans against the wall, folding her long arms and staring up at the screens, which flicker with activity from each area of the Keep.