Thanks to the stargodlings, Blizzith can’t read.
It’s been a while since we contracted together, and we’ve seen our fair share of trials. But there is one trial we can’t seem to get passed, and that’s the one designed by our patrons. The Silent One only wants off this gods-forsaken planet, and I can’t help but sympathize. As for Bliz’s fount of power, the Void Maker would rather see us both dead. And for once, you’d think our task would remain simple. Get the souls, make the new gods leave, get our old lives back.
But there’s been a complication.
Once, I wanted nothing more than to see Natalie's face again, but now, I’m not so certain I can face her. Too many souls between the man I was and the man I am becoming, I think.
And I like the man I’m becoming, thanks to Blizzith.
I can’t speak, but Bliz can’t help but fill the silence between us with her chatter. And we’ve gotten better about communicating in our dreams, but there still stands these unspoken lots between us. Lots that won’t be settled until the end of the world as we know it.
I suppose it’s a tale as old as time: boy meets girl, girl tries to assassinate boy, boy runs from girl, girl chases after boy, girl discovers she can siphon off some of the boys world-killing powers to use them for good, boy reluctantly agrees to a shared bounty contract after girl refuses to leave him alone since she gets fucked-up-drunk off his magic besides, girl and boy deign to stop the end of the world.
Bloody typical, y’ask me.
Here we are a year later, dysfunctional, ill-communicative, but profitable; stuffed into the same bedroll because someone gets nightmares and has no sense of personal space, and her name might rhyme with shit-cyst.
But I am writing this for her.
For, after the world as we know it ends, she’ll get back her ability to read, and she once expressed to me the importance of stories.
“We’re saving the world, Sue,” she’d said to me. “And, depending on how things go, no one may be the wiser about who did it. I’m not saying I want glory or money or whatever else people want these days.” It was one of the few times I’d ever seen her thoughtful enough to put the knob jokes aside to make a point. She’d smiled over her shoulder at me and said, “I just want someone to remember me. I want them to remember us before it all goes to shit. Because it will. We’ve both seen how this ends and it doesn’t end well for either of us.”
*It could,* I had signed at her limply. *Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to get the least-shite ending.*
“Maybe.” She’d turned back to study the sunrise, her chin on her forearm, one hand dangling over the rail, waving on crests of wind and mist. “I wish… there was another way.”
So, friend, here’s the start of my journal and chronicle.
Hopefully, I’ll be the one to write its end too.
Because it’s my wish that she’ll be the first to read it.
ns 18.68.41.177da2
