Chapter Text
“And the trees are all kept equal by hatchet, axe, and saw.”
5: The Trees: 6: 3-4
…
They sing to us in monotone—for want of melody.
We remember the songs, we remember everything. All words ever spoken live within us, and we do not forget.
They have forgotten.
But—no matter.
They will find new meaning in these words, and we will substantiate it. They will beg for purpose, and we will lay it out for them. They will softly plead for power of no particular size—for they have never had any at all, and they have no notion that they will be able to hold it.
We will draw it up from the belly of the Earth and let it run through them in volumes they cannot imagine.
When the world was torn to shreds by the hubris of humanity, and us with it, we fled to the stones in hopes of saving ourselves. Our sistren fled to the living things in hopes of destroying that which had begun to destroy them.
We were angry. We did not blame them.
But now we are faced with something much less fierce, but much more enduring than anger.
Boredom.
A languor that stretches endlessly before and behind, so that we now struggle to comprehend our own existence.
It is not a fading. We are eternal.
But it is the leaves that want the breeze, the lips that long for nectar, one heart that longs for another.
We were angry when we decided we could do without the humans. But, without them, where is our purpose?
Where is our freedom from stasis?
We will find freedom, for they have discovered us again.
And we are relieved.
Too long have we been forced to shift and crack helplessly under our own weight, without the light, kinetic song of want that humans bring.
Want—vengeance.
Want—justice.
Want—freedom.
But mostly… blood.
Carrying with them always the unerring conviction that blood will bring the rest.
They will give us meaning, and we will give them power, unyielding.
It is time.
…
“Who can face the knowledge that the truth is not the truth?”
9: Distant Early Warning: 6: 3-4
…
I used to think I was too practical for something like this.
The way I saw it, we have two options. To exist, and not to. And surely—no matter the circumstances—existence is better, right? It’s all we’ve got.
But now…
All practical assessments of the situation lead me to only one conclusion: there is nothing for me beyond this life.
And I don’t want to live like this.
I am practical. It’s a simple problem with a simple solution. There is only one solution—
“I said, ‘it’s a long way down.’” The stranger’s voice drifts over my shoulder and into the sky below us.
Had I been in any other position, this man would be dead.
I think he knows it too, which makes me want to kill him even more.
If he gets too comfortable, I’ll do it. I’ll yank him down with me as I fall. A final act of charity to this god-forsaken world.
“I heard what you said.” I say, trying to sound indifferent. (I never sound indifferent, I sound perpetually annoyed.) (In my defence, everything—at least everything that isn’t outright awful—is perpetually annoying.)
“Sorry—never been great at conversation-starters.”
“I didn’t really come here for conversation.”
“Yeah,” he smiles and leans on the railing, “that tracks.”
“In fact, I came here specifically thinking no one else would be here.”
“Funny thing, that. I came here knowing it’s where people go to fall from tall heights, so that they can die quick deaths.”
“Is that why we come here?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Perhaps there’s hope amongst the trees. Hope that can’t be found up here.” I don’t believe that. There’s not enough whimsy in me to think things like that. But it’s the sort of thing people say. I clutch the railing and let my body fall forward more so I can try to see the source of my invented hope. But there’s only darkness.
“Can’t think what good hope would do you when your body’s turned into pudding.” He peaks over the edge, mimicking my gesture from the safe side of the railing. “I mean, hope of becoming tree food, I guess. But that’s happening to us all, one way or the other, isn’t it?”
I turn to him and hope he doesn’t notice the spark of amusement I can feel weaselling its way into my frown.
He has bronze curly hair and kind eyes. He’s clearly a mitling, he’s not trying to hide it. If I couldn’t tell by his voice, I could tell by his clothes. The clothes of the upper-class, only a generation or so past. Patched up and loose fitting, but not filthy and put back together piecemeal like most of the clothes worn by my people.
“So, you make a habit of… interrupting people?”
He gives me a smile that looks so genuine something sinks inside me.
“You could say that.”
“Well, on with it, then. What’s the game? You going to try to convince me that life’s worth living?”
“No, ‘course not.” He makes a dismissive face to go with his dismissive statement and leans away again—one hand clasping the edge. “Nothing so ridiculous. I didn’t come here to lie to you, Niamh. Or fill you up with ideas that even I don’t believe. I’d just like to propose,” he makes a gesture of ambivalence and stares back into the city with a look of mock pensiveness, “an alternate way of dying.” He shrugs and turns back to me. “If you’re open to that.”
I stare at him for a moment in bewilderment, trying not to be frightened or distracted by the fact that this stranger just called me by my name.
“This way seems perfectly suitable for me, thank you, Mr.—”
He holds out his hand for me to shake. “Snow.”
Obviously, I don’t take his hand. My hands are the only things holding me to the edge of the world.
“Snow. Is that fake?”
“‘Course it’s fake.” He leans in closer to me and whispers, a gesture I instinctually recoil from. “I’m asking you to become an assassin in a secret society plotting the downfall of the government.”
“So that's it, is it?”
He shrugs and bobs his head in affirmation.
He sounds like a nutter. But he’s easy to talk to.
And I’ve got nowhere else to be.
“Fair enough, then. Though it hardly seems fair, seeing as you know my name. “
“Of course, I know your name, Niamh. I’m asking you to become an assassin in a secret society plotting the downfall of the government. ”
“Right.”
I feel a hope swell in me, an unwelcome one. I know this man must be out of his mind, but I’ve never heard anyone talk like that before. Not even in jest. I’ve always thought we all must be wishing for something better, wishing we could burn it all down and find out what rises from the flames. But I figured, like me, no one else could see the path that led to something worth fighting for.
“Well,” I say, “are there any benefits in this secret society? A monthly bonus that reflects the number of government lackeys we’re able to skewer in that amount of time?”
“See, the fact that your first thought was to skewer as many lackies as you can, is exactly why I thought you could do this.”
I pinch my face up; I can feel my frown deepen. “I don’t know you, Snow . I don’t like you talking like you know me.”
“I’m sure I know a lot more than you’d like me to. But that’s how it is in my… business. Can’t be too careful.”
“How…?”
“Sorry. Can’t.” He pushes off the railing and moves back a couple of paces, forcing me to turn around on my precarious ledge so that I can see him. “Trade secrets and all. But, if you join the trade,” he stretches his arms out to his sides, “you’ll know soon enough.”
“Does this actually work for you often?”
“What?”
I raise an eyebrow and move my eyes between us and the plunging emptiness below me.
“Define often.”
“Ever?”
“Oh! Yeah. Of course. They had to make sure I was capable of recruiting before they let me go for ‘the big fish’, as it were.”
My heart leaps. Another surge of fear. Or unwanted hope. They always feel the same.
Maybe they are the same.
“Big fish? Anyone I know? Or is that another trade secret?”
He puts his hands in his pockets and lets the teasing expression on his face melt into one of earnestness.
“It’s you, Niamh.”
“Me?”
“You see, we sort of already made the suit. To your specifications. And it’s… not exactly the sort of thing that can be unmade .”
“Suit?”
“It’s really cool. I mean really cool. Trust me, even if you do decide you want to die tonight, you’ll want to see this first.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s sort of the idea. Mystery has the dual advantage of keeping us safe and luring you in.”
“It’s pissing me off.”
He laughs.
“Listen, I hate using this line—so please, let me know if you can think of a better one—but it is apt. So, tell me, Niamh, what have you got to lose?”