by M. K. Gibson
I thought of all the children who would die, sleeping on the ground. Without beds.
Nikola Tesla. Perhaps one of the greatest minds to ever exist, who cheated death and continued on, would be snuffed out in fire and pain.
Grimm. What could I say? In such a short time, he had become an uncle to me. A mentor. A friend. Gone. And I doubt even the powerful Ricky could bring back a pile of immolated ashes.
Vali? Vidar?
There wasn’t a fucking thing I could do. There was nothing in my pitiful scope of power I could do. So I lit a smoke and continued weeping.
Oddly, Sariel and Gabrielle sat down next to me while Remiel simply continued to watch me.
Had someone taken a picture, the scene would have been laughable: two giant archangels in their heavenly regalia sitting next to a little human who smoked and cried like a child.
“Even in sadness, there is Hope,” Sariel said.
“If the Will is strong, so will the flesh be,” Gabrielle said and she rubbed my back with her massive armored hand.
There was something unsettling about an armored figure who was triple my size being maternal.
I hated being beaten. It wasn’t the first time, but it churned my guts with fiery anger as it did every time. A lifetime of getting knocked down made me get up and try harder. It inspired me to find a new way, a new approach. And then I would win.
Maybe that was the answer? Maybe that was the real choice I needed to make?
“Can the Deep Ones be beaten?” I asked.
Gabrielle smiled. Sariel nodded. “If the world united against them. Perhaps.”
I stood up, took another drag and flicked my smoke aside. “I’m taking The Tears.”
“If you can, you can,” Sariel said.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means The Tears of God are of Him. If The Tears allow it, then you will have them.”
Not understanding anything the archangels were saying didn’t stop me. Hell, I didn’t understand half the crap I go through. But if I let ignorance rule me, I’d still be holed up in my underground bunker counting the years until my long, shitty life finally ended.
I looked at The Tears, floating on the pedestal.
In a hundred years, there had been no new music. No new creations of beauty and art. People just weren’t people anymore. They were cattle. Drones and worker bees. They worked and existed, but didn’t live. And sometimes, something needs to come along and force a wake-up call.
I hoped this was the right choice.
If I took the tears, then my people would be safe. For now. And others around the world would be forced to deal with a darker presence of the Deep Ones.
But so would the Legions of Hell. Demons would have to contend with them.
They would have to come off their elevated perches and deal with it right alongside people. And people would be forced to wake up. They would be forced into situations where they had to grow. They would live and suffer. But they would be human again. They would inspire others. And their souls would grow.
I stood at the precipice of human change. A new era. And all I had to do was reach out and take the two floating objects before me.
“What will happen when I touch them?” I asked.
“We do not know,” Sariel said.
“Then here goes nothing,” I said, and I reached out to take the tears.
But before I could, a ripple of golden-white power erupted from The Tears, blasting me back as my mind burst into a million pieces.
********
Day Ninety-five, the end of the Wild Hunt
He was gaunt, starving, and frozen. Yet Father Grimm stood. Nearly three months of running, yet he stood.
Grimm crested the ridge of a dark, snowy hilltop, shivering and nearly naked. His robes had long since torn away. Without his normal protective magic, his once pristine black cassock and black leather pants had succumbed to the near three-month exposure to the elements. His tattooed spells were nearly depleted.
Nights of running and hiding, hunting and fighting. Bit by bit, his sanity, like his clothes, was torn away. Constant running. Constant fear. Constant grappling with his waning humanity tore through his being as he ripped through the undeserving Fae.
Now both soul and clothing were threadbare.
But at the bottom of the valley below, shimmering like a silver beacon, stood The Windgate. The ancient yew-and-oak-blended frame was engraved with the words of power that tethered this pocket dimension to the prime plane. The small valley opening was set in a circular clearing with dense forest all around, and the gate sat in the exact center.
Once he crossed though, all the pain, the suffering, and the killing would be over. Placing one frigid, weary foot in front of the other, Grimm began his trek down the ice-covered hill.
Grimm’s vision blurred. Narrowing his eyes, he forced his slipping mind to focus. Focus on the gate. His last meal, his last taste of blood was over two days ago. He left the little hamlet of spriggans mostly intact. But he had to consume one, lest his bloodlust cause him to kill them all.
Starving, Grimm pushed onward. Taxed to his very mental and physical limit, Grimm never noticed the streak of silver spectral energy blending into the continuously falling snow.
Bursting forth from the forest, the beam struck him in the chest. The psychokinetic energy slammed into him with incredible force. Grimm’s hat flew from his head as his body was launched backwards and his head slammed into a snowdrift. His tenuous grasp of control slipped, and his eyes went black.
The beam of energy snaked through the air at odd, infrequent angles. As Grimm sat up, the beam redirected, shooting back towards him and striking him in the head. Grimm didn’t exactly feel his cheekbone and nose fracture so much as he was aware of it.
When Grimm sat up, his face resembled the maw of a far deadlier, and eviler, creature. His eyes were now canted black orbs and his mouth hung open impossibly wide, revealing elongated teeth. The nails on his hands likewise turned black, coming now to razor-sharp points.
A wooden arrow suddenly pierced his chest. Grimm looked at the shaft as a nuisance and snapped it with a swipe of his hand. From the woods several more arrows rained down, each one piercing his flesh. Angered, Grimm pulled the arrows from his body and bellowed in rage.
Chimera stepped forth from the woods with her longbow drawn. As she did, the beam of silvery energy streaked past Grimm, snaked past Chimera, and disappeared in the woods.
“I’m glad you’ve finally revealed your true nature!” Chimera cried out. Taking aim, the angry Fae fired three arrows in rapid succession.
None landed.
Grimm, in his monstrous form, moved too fast for her to see clearly. His hand and arms moved in a blur. Grimm simply snatched the arrows out of the air as if they were slow gnats. Missiles in hand, Grimm spun in a small circle and hurled them back at Chimera.
The arrows sailed through the air towards the awestruck Huntmaster with supernatural force in spite of the arctic winds. Striking her armor, the arrows pierced her shoulder, stomach, and thigh.
“Ahh!” Chimera gasped, dropping her bow. Her injured leg buckled as she took a step. Falling to the ground, she rolled as best she could to keep from driving the arrows in deeper.
“NO!”
The colossal armored golem burst forth from the forest, splintering full-grown trees. The massive form tore across the clearing and headed straight for Grimm, who was fast approaching Chimera. The mighty Ghost swung his maul-like fists down onto Grimm, intent on crushing his enemy.
The blows never landed.
Flesh impacted steel, resonating like a bell across the snowy field. Ghost’s helmeted face showed no emotion, but his body conveyed surprise that such a small thing could not only survive, but also match his strength.
The two held there, locked in mutual hate. The golem bore down with overwhelming mass and leverage. Grimm’s knees buckled under the sheer power of the armored titan. Yet Grimm held, matching the cr
eature’s strength with sheer supernatural ferocity.
Grimm’s hands began to squeeze. The metal of the golem’s fist slowly buckled under Grimm’s grip with a high-pitched squeal of shearing steel. The silvery-blue eyes flashed in a moment of uncertainty.
“AGATHA,” Ghost boomed.
At first Grimm said nothing, because the word meant nothing to him. The power of thousands upon thousands of years of otherworldly existence poured into him. His legs straightened as his hands closed around the behemoth’s steel fists.
Pivoting, Grimm moved aside while pulling the titan to the cold ground. Immediately, Grimm was atop the golem, slamming his fists down over and over, denting and breaking the giant’s armored form.
“AGATHA!” Ghost repeated as Grimm slammed a fist down across the downed giant’s head, bending one of the horns. “DAUGHTER!”
The word stopped Grimm, his fist cocked back, ready to strike. Daughter? Then, slowly, Grimm began shaking his head. Agatha. Daughter. The words echoed through his primal mind.
Agatha? Daughter? . . . AGATHA! Grimm’s eyes cleared, if only for a brief second. Pushing the massive fist aside, Grimm spun away, his hands coming to his face.
Looking at his hands, at the talon-like black nails, Grimm emitted a low, mournful wail. Memories trickled in, pushing past the mindless rage of his altered state. Something of Father Grimm flashed in his mind.
A last resort?
Tearing at the last bit of his robes, Grimm placed a hand over his last tattoo, a small intricate knot work design with the letters “AG” woven into the ancient pattern over his heart. As he released his last bit of stored magic, the final tattoo vanished in a crackling flash of red and white energy. The creature dropped to the ground in shock and pain as his form changed, reverting to the more “human” Father Grimm.
Shaking his head, Grimm sat up. Looking along the treeline, Grimm saw her, lying alone, in the cold wet snow, riddled with arrows.
“Agatha!”
Leaping from the ground, Grimm sprinted through the snow, leaving the fallen Ghost behind him. Grimm dropped to his knees, sliding in beside and Chimera cradling her head.
“Agatha, Agatha!”
“You . . . don’t get to call me that anymore,” Chimera said weakly. “You left me.” She rolled her eyes to see Ghost rising from the snowy ground. “You left us.”
“I . . .” Grimm began to speak, but shut his mouth. He knew no words could salve her wounds, both physical and emotional. Instead, he held her for as long as she would let him.
Chimera shook off his hands and began to pick herself up from the ground. Instinctively, Grimm reached his hand out to stop her. “Don’t—”
Chimera slapped his hand away as she stood. With a grunt, she grabbed the arrow in her shoulder and pulled it out with a wet pop. Gritting her teeth, Chimera repeated the process with the remaining arrows, pulling each of them until her greenish-red blood flowed from the wounds. As she focused, Chimera’s skin changed a slight shade of green and the wounds began to heal.
“Troll blood?” Grimm asked.
Instead of answering, Chimera threw the arrows in her hand at Grimm, who was still on the snowy ground—not out of intent to harm, but out of sheer contempt, the way one might discard trash at a beggar.
“That thing,” Chimera said, not looking at him. “Is that what you truly are? It’s fitting.”
“I never wanted you to see me that bad.”
“So I didn’t know the truth?”
“Yes,” Grimm said flatly.
“How did you change back?”
“My last stored spell. The ink had a touch of your blood and the power of an old friend. Enough to give me an hour of . . . clarity.”
“And if you don’t feed?”
“I will return to that other form. I will hunt and I will kill.”
Chimera nodded, saying nothing. Grimm looked at her, not knowing what to say. “Ag—Chimera, you have to know, I did not wish to hurt those Fae.”
“But you did. They were my friends.”
“So was I, once.”
“But you left.”
“I had to.”
“And you had to leave me here? A forgotten mistake?”
“You were never a mistake. It was—it is—for your protection. And theirs,” Grimm said, holding his hand out wide, gesturing to the whole of The Hitherlands.
“Bullshit. You hate them. You always have.”
Grimm hung his head. Many Fae lives he took. Some for sustenance. Some to invoke fear in others. He told himself it was to preserve lives.
It was only partly true. A part of him enjoyed it. At his core, he was still mostly “human,” and it was only human to take partial delight in hurting those who would hurt you. But the war between Grimm and the Fae had waged so long that who started it no longer mattered.
The truth was, Grimm never truly hated the Fae. He hated only their inherent weakness. Their existence was anathema, for their creation was never intended. Over the centuries, their continued existence was a nuisance on mankind, hence the stories and legends he taught his sons, who committed the folklore to books.
But it was the Fae’s vulnerabilities that allowed the Formori to come into being. The Altered Ones. And those creatures were a danger to mankind. That he could not abide.
However, those were not words one spoke in order to repair the broken trust of a child. It is easy to talk directly to a friend or an enemy. But to one’s own flesh and blood, the words turn to ash. Only deeds matter. And from her perspective, his deeds were those of an absent father.
“I have to go,” Grimm said, standing. “You know what will happen if I stay.”
“We could just kill you now,” Chimera threatened, inclining her chin towards Ghost as the giant came slowly to stand next to them.
“In other circumstances, and if I could, I would allow you. Yet I must leave. I have friends counting on me.”
“They’re more important than me?”
“They are in danger. You are not.”
A tear rolled down Chimera’s cheek, followed by several more as the stoic warrior stared at her father with hatred and contempt.
“Go. It’s what you’re good at,” she said as she walked away.
“I do not wish to part like this.”
Chimera spun, lashing out with her cold iron whip. The lash sliced a ragged gash along the mage’s exposed chest.
“Fuck off and die!” Chimera screamed as she snapped the whip twice more. Each flick of her wrist added another scarlet rip in the skin of her father.
Grimm did not move. He simply bore the suffering in silence.
“You did this to me!” Chimera yelled as she pointed at herself, her voice echoing through the small valley. “You left us here for almost two hundred years! And when you do show up, it isn’t to bring us home; it’s by accident. And instead of actually doing what you promised, you’re leaving me . . . us . . . again!”
Chimera struck out with the whip once more. Grimm’s hand snapped up, catching it. The whip tore the flesh of his hand, and Grimm’s blood ran down his hand as he stared at his child.
“I said I would return for you. And I will. It is not the time.”
Grimm released the whip. Chimera snatched the whip back and rolled it up, returning it to her hip. The silence between them reflected the distance in their hearts. Lifetimes ago, they were close. Now, they were beyond strangers. Beyond enemies.
“My blood, the one in your spell, is the last thing I’ll ever do for you. I don’t ever want to see you again. If you return, I’ll kill you.”
Chimera turned and sprinted into the dark vastness of the forest. Grimm watched her go, wanting to hold her. To tell her he kept her, and the Fae, in The Hitherlands for their protection. Instead, he said nothing.
In all his many years, being a father was what he had failed at.
Grimm stood for a few moments in silence, listening only to the falling snow and the soft humming of the Windgate.
/> “TRUTH,” Ghost said, placing a gigantic hand on Grimm’s shoulder.
“No, you can’t, Marcus. If you do, she will hate you. She will hate them. Let her hate me. I can take it. It is perhaps the only fatherly thing I can do for her.”
“RETURN?”
“When it is safe.”
“FORMORI?”
“Yes. The threat is far too real now. If they were to return, then they would change.”
Grimm turned to look up at the giant being. He placed a hand on the crumpled steel of his armored form. “I am sorry for what I did to you.”
“HEAL,” Ghost offered.
“I know you will. And thank you. Thank you for keeping her safe and being her friend.”
“RETURN.”
“I will, I promise. Goodbye, Marcus.”
“GOODBYE.”
After Agatha and Marcus left, Grimm stood alone in the cold a few more minutes, breathing in and out, listening to the snow fall. When he deemed it time, Grimm adjusted his hat and tied up the loose shreds of his robes as best he could. His spell would not last long. As he approached the Windgate, he looked back once more at The Hitherlands. The time would come when he would free the Fae. He would bring Agatha home.
“You made it,” a voice said from behind him.
Grimm turned to see The Green Man standing there. Grimm was not surprised. The Hitherlands were his domain.
“Yes,” Grimm acknowledged. “I did.”
“You know she is more my daughter now than she ever was yours.”
Grimm’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“If you return—”
“You will kill me?”
The Green Man smiled. “No. I will kill her.”
“If you do, I will slaughter everything you have ever created,” Grimm countered.
The Green Man smiled. “I know. But she will still be dead. Goodbye.”
Grimm watched as The Green Man’s form flickered for a brief second. In the shimmer, Grimm clearly saw the brown- and green-armored archangel in his winged form before disappearing.
“Goodbye, Orphiel.”
Stepping through the gate, Grimm returned to the prime material plane, marveling at the thought that he was perhaps the only man ever to have wept in two dimensions at the same time.