Osias watched — almost mesmerized by how fast Kiran's wounds closed and regrew missing flesh as they returned to their earlier pace.
They slowed down when Osias said that the two creatures of the mist chose against pursuing them.
"Third Ordeal — the ivory one. Not of flesh and blood," Kiran uttered darkly.
What thoughts were hidden behind his flinty eyes, Osias didn't know, nor did he want to.
Osias didn't say anything in response. He just wondered if he could've done anything more than merely survive.
Perhaps Kiran could've killed it had he amassed all his external blood essence into his weapon. Perhaps he could've pincered the wooden beast together with Kiran if he was strong enough to fight.
He laughed a little at how out of place he was. One bellow of the wooden beast was enough to kill him without Kiran…
'Baggage.' He thought with gritted teeth. Truth was merciless. And although Kiran didn't show it, he knew his brother shared the same dire incentive for him to get stronger.
Osias silently loathed himself, but before he could gather his thoughts, Kiran suddenly spoke:
"We won't rest again. Not here."
His brother spoke curtly and quietly, but it was probably because of his ears that it seemed so muffled and quiet.
Could they even heal naturally?
They stopped coming across trees for a long while now, and what should've been rolling plains of grass as far as their eyes could see was now hidden by the mist. Perhaps if it had been untouched by such an unnatural mist, the valley could've been a beautiful stretch of land, ripe for the taking.
They made quick progress, occasionally turning and switching directions at times for reasons Osias didn't know. Yet it always seemed they were heading downwards, and if he remembered correctly then the only time this wasn't the case was the brief ventures of the foothills at the base of the hounds' mountain that felt so long ago.
Not once have they stopped, but Kiran did hand him the waterskin when he needed it.
Occasionally, Kiran made prompt halts and told him to wait before briefly returning within minutes as he scouted ahead. Though, you can hardly call it a rest. A stood guard wearily waving his head as he focused his senses to no avail. If something wanted to ambush him, he was free for the taking.
But eventually, they came upon something they had yet to see even once. Not in the long weeks below the mist, nor the months in Outer Valleys themselves.
They came before a river. A river that appeared along the endless valley covered in mist. Freely flowing north through a series of long series of short curves.
Anything new, strange, and unfamiliar was never to be trusted. But because it flowed north, they couldn't avoid it.
So they followed alongside it, but never too close.
It was strange… The entire time they spent within the Outer Valleys has been atop stone and earth.
Mountains and raised land.
Even their water was taken from small streams found along mountainsides.
Only once have they come upon a large body of water — guarded and perhaps even made by a treacherous Heron.
…They were not inclined to brush sides with possibly another pool of poor memories. So they avoided the callous flowing waters and its black sandy bank. They continued to only use it as a sign of direction as it flowed north.
As they kept their distance from the bank, Osias recalled Kiran's finding… Kiran's ears perked up from the increasingly loud flowing water as they approached the thin mist above it, eventually getting close enough for him to hear it.
Gentle water was poured and swept against the sand. Despite the distance between them and the river bank, they could hear it. Though it might've seemed louder than it actually was because of the eerie silence that enveloped the rest of the mist-covered valley…
Regardless, it was hard for Osias to judge truly how loud it was because of his ears, but he welcomed a constant and gentle sound — a welcome trade compared to before.
And this continued on for hours upon hours, undeterred from the river's company and unimpeded by the horrors of the mist.
Osias felt like a drifting corpse. Exhausted he clawed for life over and over.
He found himself shaking his head to focus more often as his eyes began to droop again.
How long was it… the last he slept?
At the very least, his hearing seemed to improve a little bit. The river flowed and washed downstream, and his ears were increasingly able to pick up the quiet sweeping against the black sand that made the riverbank.
Swiping his head to his side, he watched the flowing greyish-blue water. It looked like dirtied cobalt, mixed and unrefined by the surrounding grey stones. Except it was the sunless grey mist.
Though… Thinking of the river, he remembered that the water skin, it needed to be filled. It's also been quite a while since he both drank and ate something.
But they continued following the river, and Osias didn't find it important enough to bring it to Kiran's attention. Persevere, he told himself as more time passed.
He looked upwards, trying to find signs of the sky. The stars and moon were missing tonight it seemed.
Perhaps it was the last time he was able to gaze at them after all, he morbidly thought.
Shaking his head away from the thoughts and the fatigue he focused on the path ahead of him made by Kira—
"Brother?"
Kiran was gone.
"What…"
Without a sound, his brother disappeared.
He had grown so accustomed to his brother's presence in front of him all this time — the only thing that remained constant in this hell of mist. But his armor still remained against his body. He didn't know the exact range or if there was one for Kiran's True Extraction, but if there was, it couldn't be too far. Kiran still needed to control his constructs.
But it was still shocking. Alarmed, he immediately stopped moving and looked around him. The mist was thin like it was the entire time they came upon the river.
His gaze waved and lifted as he earnestly observed the obscured world around him somberly.
His ears tried their absolute best to hone in on everything, but it all blended into the washing of the river.
Kiran was gone without notice. Too sudden, he was just looking a his brother's figure before glancing up.
But he has done this many times now, even earlier against the wooden beast he was separated from his brother briefly.
Kiran at times left him to scout himself, but he always said something — anything to let him know. Kiran would stop abruptly, say he's heading to scout for a few minutes, and then return. Nothing more, nothing less.
…With all these thoughts racing in his head, Osias remained motionless.
'Kiran was never gone for more than a few minutes for a scout. The longest was an hour earlier. I'll wait. It'll be foolish to move ahead, and besides, there's nowhere to hide anyways.' He quickly thought.
To one side was the blurry riverbank and to the other was a vast rolling plain of a shrouded valley.
He could not risk running into a creature blended with the mist, he thought as he recalled how the wooden beast was shrouded or was even partially made of the mist. Nor was he going to call out any louder than normal speech.
So he stood guard. Constantly weary and cautiously watching his surroundings he tightly gripped his sword.
But eventually, this carried on for a few minutes.
And those secluded minutes stretched for more than an hour.
Then hours passed.
Hours upon hours he fought against sleep.
It must've been days he was awake — since they ran. How many times had the bleak sunset, and how many times did it come again? Was it the second time?
'Sleep. Can't sleep. Sleep. I'll die.' He thought, constantly cycling these empty thoughts in his mind.
And more time passed, so much so that he stopped trying to count. Counting… it reminded of how many steps he took back then.
So instead, he let the constant flow of water break the monotonous surroundings.
It must've been a few hours ago since his arms felt too tired to hold up his sword in guard. His head began to sway slightly.
He needed to do something, anything before he'd collapse.
But he hesitated.
Then the same dark thought that Kiran may not appear again swelled in his head. That he was alone, and if so he should move.
This cycle continued on, gnawing at his mind as he grew weak.
Perhaps it was perverse and against what he thought before… he began to follow the river.
He walked. Too tired and too fatigued to even care if he encountered something… he would die regardless. He was nothing to the creatures of the mist.
His crimson-clad figure dragged his feet forward, even if he wanted to welcome the embrace of slumber.
'I'll die.' He convinced himself.
Over and over, he told himself that he'd die if he slept. If he so close his eyes for longer than a second.
So he continued.
The river curved and he followed, just like what he did with Kiran.
Unknowingly through this long dreaded walk, he dropped his sword somewhere. Yet it didn't matter, he pushed himself to continue walking.
Walking and walking. Each step… each step was the only way to know he was alive.
It felt like he was wading in a sticky puddle of pain and blood below his feet. His fingers were throbbing worse than they had in the days atop the summit, and his head was pounding too.
Hunger clawed at his throat, and his mouth was beyond parched.
Even so, he continued to plod forward, further and further, and his eyes began to droop even more. But his ears could still hear it, the slow flow of the grey and cerulean river.
'The river… I'll die.'
'I'll die.'
'Death.'
And through his blurred sight, he continued.
Until the river once more curved slightly around and made a roundish bank. But he continued to drag his feet.
However, his dreary dull eyes blinked as he turned his head ever so slightly in confusion.
He blinked once more to make sure it wasn't a trick playing against his eyes.
…Through the thinned mist he saw something slowly reveal itself in the distance. A lone tree, large and lengthy dangled over the river. One larger than any other he had seen before. And a deep weathered brown bark encased it. It looked as though it was a lone and battered warrior who escaped from death, bending over as he drank from the lake.
A drink from the lake… It sounded nice. A cool sip from the icy lake in the company of the wooden warrior.
'Drink.' A thought welled from his mouth.
'I'll die.' A fear screamed from his head.
'Death.' A truth whispered from his soul.
He tiredly blinked once more, and from his lowered gaze, a bank of wet soil and stones lay under the tree, bright despite the sunless embrace of the mist. Water was trickling off to form small shallow pools. The small puddles cut the stones and earth below the tree by tiny streams, sparkling and dancing around the glimmering stones.
He closed his eyes once more, but in the next moment, he found himself already squatted over the river as he brought his hands together, cupping the runoff between his fingers.
'Drink.'
The long snowmelt was icy cold like he thought it was. He drank and splashed some on his face until his cheeks tingled.
'Alive.'
He was doing the right thing by quenching his thirst. To live and to survive. That's what he's always done — clawed for life despite running between death. The thought resounded through mouthfuls of water.
Yet why did he feel an unbearable regret that filled his soul, as if he betrayed something so dear to him?
He didn't know. Even as he felt something so long forgotten flow down his cold cheek.
Tears — he was crying.
He lowered his chin, looking at the water inside his clasped hands… he looked at himself. Tears flowed down his weathered, filthy face.
But behind the grime… he jarringly jolted back, and his head slammed against the stones that littered below the tree.
Indescribable groaning and moans were let out as he wailed and cried.
Disbelief and horrified sobs as he bawled and wailed. Shrieks unbecoming of… him sounded and all blended into unutterable sounds.
But then... the sounds were cut short.
"Urk-"
And a wet thud sounded as he looked down at his chest. Something large punctured him as his body screamed in pain.
He could feel it searing vividly as he gasped and inhaled for air that wouldn't come. Pained gasps of an old man desperately struggled to draw in air.
He clawed at what hit him miserably with his meager strength — trying anything and everything to pull out the source of his agony as tears and blood seeped below the great tree.
Sprawled against the tree's roots, the tiny cutting streams between the stones turned red, stained with blood. His almost limp and weak arm dragged up and down against the stones as he clawed for a miracle.
His decrepit hair, long and white flew out the old and weathered helm, now wet with red in his flowing blood as he lay atop the watered stones.
He silently gasped and coughed for life that wouldn't come. And his last view before his eyes closed for eternity was his wrinkled sunken hands reaching for the decaying tree…
End Of Volume One: The Pitiful Longing Of Azaleas