You put your left soul in, you put your left soul out
Oram gave his verdict on the Girl, then went to take his place at the restored altar as Fireforged. He hoped that others could see his point, regardless of whether they agreed. He felt sure he’d made the right choice, yet it pained him to think that others would think him some sort of heartless bastard because of it. He was sure Bao would be horrified; would they still be friends afterward?
One by one, the others said their peace. As he listened to them, the hunter grew increasingly restless. It wasn’t that they were disagreeing with him; it was that he had no idea whether they were. Cassion had asked them to choose between life and death, and everybody was talking about other stuff, other workarounds that somehow didn’t involve killing the Girl.
Frowning, he listened, hoping that the others’ answers made more sense to the Immortals than they did to him. They were talking about all sorts of tricks involving spirits and souls and magic that he didn’t begin to understand. A common refrain seemed to be: if nothing else works, death, but let’s try all this other stuff first. It was all very fussy.
Oram supposed he should be glad that others could be so inventive in finding ways to be merciful, but as he watched the vile little being, the traveler just couldn’t believe it was a worthwhile exercise. Yes, the Girl was a victim of a greater power, and that was unfortunate and not her fault. A beloved pet bitten by a rabid fox or bat was also a victim; at some point, however, as the creature grew ever sicker and more dangerous, you stopped looking and hoping for alternatives to killing it.
The evil thing that was now the Girl was real; the tender innocent that may once have been was imaginary, or a thing of the past, or…there was another word. A fancy word that learned people like Professor Seams or Perdita Westcott or that Doran guy would know to use. What was it?
“Hypothetical”. Yes, that was it. The evil thing that the Girl was now was real; the tender innocent she may once have been was hypothetical. And a lot of the others seemed to want to risk and undertake a great deal to save that hypothetical girl. Oram did not, albeit, in a way, he was glad that *they* did. People like Bao and Zoro needed to exist, minds that worked like theirs and voices like theirs needed to exist, even if the hunter did not agree with them.
It was all so complicated. At this point, he could only sigh and let things unfold.
And then Cassion began to weave his tale. Oram had never experienced a story like it. All his life, he thought that reality and truth were givens, they were what they were regardless of what anybody tried to say about them. Stories could be more or less true, but it was reality and truth that determined whether they were; the story itself didn’t have a say in that. Many people had assured him that stories *did* have a say; that stories “had their own truth” and whatnot, but Oram always suspected that that was rubbish.
Yet this story was different; Cassion insisted that stories had power, and as the tale unfolded, Oram saw more and more that this meant something far more literal and impressive than just that they affected people emotionally.
Things happened in the story, and out of the story; images of events appeared in that cavern as Cassion spoke, and then those events happened. Or maybe they didn’t. Or maybe they would happen. Oram could only watch and listen and try to keep up. The Taleweaver recounted events the hunter knew to have happened; then he went on to portray Xander and Praetorum vying mightily to hold off Qylios, which then seemed to happen. Mildred returned, alive once more and transfigured, to sever the evil spirit from the Girl’s soul.
Too late to do anything, Oram realized that Bao and Zoro were serious about sacrificing themselves, and that Nir’wei really intended to try to control the evil spirit through sheer force of will. He cried out in disbelief and dismay as Cassion recounted those events, and they unfolded before them.
And yet, all was supposedly well. Immortals appeared. A lot of them. Saoire and Vhalar were there, Qylios and several others Oram did not recognize. And they all thanked the mortals present for what they had done. And then one stepped forward and foretold how reality would map onto the story Cassion had just told, a season hence. Oram did not understand it.
He looked anxiously over at Bao. The cadouri was going to die? Or not? Or die and come back? That would happen at a feast? They were having a feast so they could celebrate watching Bao die and then come back to life? Would he want to attend such a feast, even were the foretold events to happen without a hitch? What if they didn’t?
None of that sat well with the hunter, so he was preoccupied and not as focused as he should have been during the ensuing ritual. That made the “tad uncomfortable” balancing ritual even more so for Oram. He was relieved when, at length, it ended. He was almost as relieved simply that it was over as he was that it had apparently succeeded.
This trial had been too much. He was spent, physically, mentally, emotionally, altogether. If Audrae were to suddenly appear to get one last kick in, he wasn’t sure he had anything left for fighting her.
He wanted to go home -his tent here in Scalvoris, the Ranger headquarters in Egilrun, the rock at the head of Ol’ Tuck’s Run, wherever. Any place familiar enough that he could lay his head there and go to sleep.
It barely registered when Bao came over to hug him. Somewhat numbly, though not indifferently, he hugged the cadouri back. ”You’d better come back,” he grumbled down at the furry head as he patted it. ”I hope you know what you’re doing.”