1


    Vincenzo slipped back into himself with huge eyes and empty lungs, his heart pumping. Snow, fields of the stuff, surrounded him on every side, locking him in a sea of white. He dropped Heavy Metal and his pack off his back. Where am I? he asked himself, whirling around. Where the fuck am I? He stopped his frantic surveillance and fell to his knees, his hot breath visible in the cold as he shivered. It happened again. It happened when he was getting killed. One moment, the mantis’s arm came down on his head for the second time, and the next… I fucked up. Jesus Christ, Vincenzo, you fucked that up. What did he promise that dark pit in his mind? He promised that it’d never take control. That he was the master of himself. But then what happened? That’s the question, he thought. What happened? The Winter winds screamed in his ears, turning them pink like his nose and lips. I’m in Winter. He knew that much, at least. Somehow that part of him managed to get him out of the depths. And I’m alone.


    Where was Frey?


    He scanned the frozen fields again and saw exactly what he did the first time: nothing.


    “Frey?” he whispered, putting one foot forward. His next call was louder. “Frey?” He stood. “Are you out there?”


    Snow began to fall. A light sprinkle to begin, but it was gathering strength.


    “Come on! Just let me know you’re out there! Please!” he said. “I need to know!” Stop it. “Just yell it out! Say it! Tell me you’re okay!” You’re embarrassing yourself. “I won’t come after you, I swear! I’m not possessed! I’m me!” And who is that? Is that any better? “I promised Gult! I promised Gult I wouldn’t hurt you!” And your word is worth something? “Come on!” He started to get angry. “Come on! Come on! Just a fucking syllable! Just one!” There was no answer. He grew angrier still. “You fucking…! Cunt! Just fucking curse at me then! Call me a motherfucker, an asshole, or whatever the fuck’s normal for this piece of shit planet! Just say something for fucks sake! Anything!” She’s not out there. “SPEAK!”


    The snow and wind shot across the plains, almost pushing Vincenzo off his already unstable feet. He cursed and turned his back on the onslaught, specks of white pushing past him on the sides of his vision. And with the storm came the wails. They cut into his ear as he screamed again.


    “Frey!” he yelled, his voice quieter than Winter’s. “Please! Just say something!” Desperation replaced rage. “I didn’t hurt you!” But you did and you know it. You’re a failure, Vincenzo. “I didn’t! And if I tried, you got away! You were fast, weren’t you?! You would’ve got away!” Unless you shot her down. “Frey!” You’re a failure as a son. “Frey, please!” You’re a failure as a man. The way you looked at her… You’re lower than garbage. You’re scum. “ANSWER ME!” Scum. “PLEASE! SAY SOMETHING!” Filth. He fell to his knees again. “Frey…” Look at your hands. Vincenzo didn’t understand the command, but he followed it, curling his fingers as he brought the palm of his hands to his face. He saw nothing. The nails. Heeding the instruction, he focused on the nails. Do you see it? He saw it. What is it? He knew what it was, but admitting it… You have to. “No, I don’t,” he said, slapping his palms on his lap. “I don’t.” You owe it to her. “I know… but I can’t.” You must. “I can’t.” Speak the truth, if not out loud, in your mind. “Not even there.”


    His conscience let him be silent. Vincenzo had stuck his hands in his armpits, keeping them as warm as he could—but he couldn’t keep them there long. That was why, he guessed, that voice in his head let quiet reign. He, or it, knew he’d end up looking. Vincenzo brought his hands up again and saw it: there was dried blood under his fingernails.


    Frey’s dead.


    He vomited, painting the white a shade of brown and yellow, and felt loose in his mind. His vision became blurry, and it got hard to take in air, leaving him panting in the frigid storm. His body felt weak, and he couldn’t hold it up anymore. The next second he was laying on his side. And the second after that he was on his back. Snowflakes were melting on his face and getting in his eyes, but he didn’t care. He simply closed them, the air from his hyperventilation blowing in the wind''s direction.


    Why don’t you just lay here a while? his mind asked. Just freeze. You’ve wanted to die too long. Or rather, you wanted someone to kill you. But isn’t that the coward''s way out? You want something done right, do it yourself. Do it yourself.


    He couldn’t come up with a reply. It was too much. All of it.


    Just let the snow cover you like a blanket. In this weather, it shouldn’t be that hard. Eventually, you might even feel comfortable.


    “What about Plum? And Cammo?” he whispered. “What are they gonna think? She’s waiting for me.”


    You blew your chance at redemption or whatever the hell you were looking for. Just forget about her. In time, she’ll forget about you. Sure, she might wonder for a bit, but she’ll move on. And in time, you’ll be a distant memory. And isn’t that better than the alternative? Isn’t that better than telling her, to her face, that you failed? That you killed Frey? And what makes you think they need you? You’re not needed anywhere. Plum will be better off.


    Maybe, he thought, the voice was right. Maybe this would be the way his story ends. And maybe it’d be a good ending. He couldn’t hurt anybody. And as he’d come to realize, that’s all he ever did.


    That’s right. Just go to sleep…


    That sounded good to him.


    Go to sleep; you won’t wake up again. Won’t that be nice?


    It did sound nice. The snow piling on him felt nice. The noise the wind made sounded nice… He slept.


    2


    Slogine tried his communicator for the five-hundred-and-eighty-second time, letting it drone and drone in his hands, until it eventually went dead. He tried his communicator for the five-hundred-and-eighty-third time, letting it drone and drone in his hands, until it eventually went dead again. His finger, nearing the crystal screen, stopped just above it. How many more times did he need to clarify the obvious? Calmly, he snapped the device in half. Everything was nearing its end. He slithered off his bed and grabbed a rag. The moon-man started to cough, violent and lung rattling coughs that scratched his throat, and pulled the cloth away. It was red. More than usual, he thought. I have a month left—give or take, depending on whether it worsens—before I can’t fight anymore. He was the only one left.


    He grabbed his sword, a long and wavy weapon of almost two feet, and threw it out of his tent and into the sun. He grabbed a blanket, a rain-shield, his pack of food, and some clean rags, and brought it all into the sun as well. Next, he lit a small candle and exited his tent. The tent was bigger than what he’d usually use, but Buta, Frey, and Gult all decided he’d need a more substantial shelter than the usual lean-to. It had cost almost fifty kings, and while they were there, he had decided to get something for Frey and Gult too. He owed them that much. And another twenty kings later, they both had matching shelters for whatever weather the crater brought on—it did that job well. For the weeks Slogine had been forced to sleep under the mix of leather and cloth, he had not been left wanting. It was worth the price, hefty as it was.


    But none of that mattered anymore. What was a tent without someone to sleep under it? All it was was a collection of poles and fabrics. They didn’t need to exist. And he couldn’t sleep in his own without thinking about the other two, and the children that were supposed to house them. So, they all needed to go. He had his food, his sword, his protection against the rain, and his source of warmth—he’d be okay. So, under the hot sun of Spring, he lit his tent on fire. As the flames grew, eating up the cloth greedily, he slithered to the other two and lit them ablaze.


    On the high and cool grass, sitting in the coil of his tail, he watched them burn. He wasn’t a creature who could cry. He lacked the glands to cry, but if he had them, he felt like they’d be in use. He felt—even though he never had before, even after Cammo, his brother’s betrayal—like crying. But alas, as a creature without the glands necessary for tears, he just watched them crumble into piles of black and red under the sun in utter silence. He couldn’t help but think about the past. About everything that led him to this moment, giving his children and his love a funeral without bodies. He thought about his adventures with Cammo, their meeting with Locine, their battle against a Guerriero, and eventually, the betrayal that forced Slogine to start it all over…


    It had been a dark day in Mophia, and they’d just lost the war. Mercenaries left and right were running, the approaching army of Unigard fast approaching. The Raid of Rainbow Road was a bloodbath. The Unigards had drag-barrels: huge things, smelted in the image of a dragon, and blew away hundreds of soldiers paid in either a sense of patriotism or gold alike. It was in the midst of that chaos that Cammo had told him to run. When he asked the emp what he meant, Cammo said, “What do you think I mean? We’ve lost. Now let’s get the hell out here!” Locine was with them, too. The three of them ran across the burned mud along with their allies, trying to get back into the forest that sat in between Mophia and Unigard, when a ballista bolt hit Locine right in her lower back. The Unigard army was right behind them, rounding up and slaughtering the troops of Mophia with efficiency and brutality, and it left Cammo with three choices: stay behind and distract them as Slogine carried Locine away; leave Locine and escape with Slogine; or have Slogine hold them off.


    Cammo made his choice. The emp drove his sword into Slogine’s tail, pinning him to the ground, and ran with Locine in his arms. But Slogine never blamed the man for what he did. He never harbored him any ill will. Cammo loved that woman.


    But now he’s taken everyone from me, he thought. Frey, Buta, Gult… All gone… He laid his sword across his waist and faced the forest they’d come from. He harbored ill will, then. I’ll wait months. And if I had time, I’d wait years. Come, Cammo. Come, Moon-man. I’ll be waiting. And with one strike, he squeezed its grip, I’ll destroy you.


    3


    “Wake up,” someone said. “Now.”


    Vincenzo sat up, pushing off a thick blanket of snow off his face and body. He was freezing, his teeth were chattering, and he couldn’t feel his fingers, toes, nose, and ears. His hand was a shade of purplish-blue and he guessed his face almost matched it. He was, possibly, just an hour away from turning to ice, but all he could think about was that voice. It was a woman’s voice, but not Frey’s. It wasn’t the rock-woman’s, either… And it was too old to be Plum’s.


    It was night, he realized. Midnight to be exact. But the two moons floating above lit the area just as well as the sun would’ve. This place, Vincenzo thought, scanning the plains, looks kind of eerie at night. The word “still” did well to describe his environment. He felt no wind, saw no snowflakes fall, and realized, for the first time, how dead it was. Cammo didn’t explain what lived there, and Vincenzo guessed it was because there was nothing to explain. All Winter was was miles and miles of featureless white snow, devoid of anything but itself. In the quiet of night, when nothing stirred, Vincenzo felt out of place; it was like he slipped into some other dimension without knowing.


    The only thing in sight that sparked any interest were the moons. They were both full and bright. One was big, grey, almost shining; the other small, red, and unnerving. What a pair they made. That’s my god, Vincenzo thought, resentful. The beautiful moon was like the one on Earth’s, a giant rock hanging in space. But the other was different. How much did he really know about the thing? How much did anyone know? I should’ve asked Cammo more about it, he thought. Nah, that wouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t sound like he knew much about it either. The knowledge that the moon was alive didn’t fill him with any joy. If anything, it disturbed him. The fact it had power disturbed him.


    He decided to focus on the voice again. “I’m not crazy,” he said, hugging himself. “I heard someone.” He bent his leg, breaking through the surface of snow that flattened on it, and bent his other one as well. He pushed the pile gather on his crotch from his chest and thighs off and started to push himself up, his muscles quivering from the cold and use. It felt like he’d been sleeping years, and his body seconded that opinion. He fell, got up, fell again, and got up again. And after about a minute of trying, he stood. He staggered in his steps, unable to feel his toes, but managed not to tumble back into the snow. “You hear me? I’m not crazy,” he repeated. “So what if I talked to myself? That doesn’t make me crazy. So what if I felt so guilty that a voice told me to lay down and die? If anything, that makes me sane. I died the day Alice did. I died in that fire. I’ve been dead for two whole fucking years! So why can’t I just fucking lie down already?! Huh?! You got anything to say to that?” He looked around the fields and saw nothing. For one terrible moment, he thought he was going crazy, that the voice that woke him was nothing but a figment of his dying brain. His head was pounding; it felt like it was dying. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I thought. Silence.”


    He stopped breathing. It wasn’t a conscious choice on his part, but an unconscious one. He started to sweat. His hands were purple, his skin blue, but he started to sweat. Someone’s behind me, he knew. Someone, about thirty feet off, is watching me. He was scared. Vincenzo was acutely aware of that fact because he never felt a fear as deep as he was feeling in that moment. Not even when the mantis rushed him in the dark. Not even when the spiders dogpiled him. Not even in that basement. And he had no idea why. Slowly—he was anxious that anything faster would result in something terrible happening—he turned his head, and saw it out of the corner of his eye:


    A woman stood atop the white, still as anything and everything, gazing at him. He turned back around and started to breathe again. She wasn’t Frey, or the rock-woman, or Plum, or Locine, or Alice, or any woman he’d ever seen. She didn’t even seem human. He decided immediately that “human” wasn’t the right word. Plum wasn’t human and neither was Frey, but they weren’t animals either—they were people. And that woman standing on the snow wasn’t. To him, she was a ghost.


    Like a ghost, she moved silently. He could feel her get closer, but he couldn’t hear the crunch of snow. Twenty feet now, he knew. Fifteen. Ten. Oh, God, five… He couldn’t bring himself to turn around. Then, he felt it: She’s just a foot behind me. He shoved his hands in his armpits and closed his eyes, shivering. He tried to recall what she looked like, but nothing came up. I should’ve looked longer, he thought. Why didn’t I look longer…?


    “Listen,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but when all else was silent, quiet was loud. But her volume wasn’t the only disconcerting factor her voice held—it sounded alien. It sounded like she knew what the words meant but never spoke them. It sounded like she held an accent from a place no one had been. “And listen well.” Her Italian, even though perfect, also sounded wrong. Vincenzo thought it sounded tainted. She spoke in Italian again: “You will not die here. I forbid it. If death is so appealing to you, find an executioner.”


    He had a thousand questions and no courage to ask them.


    As if she sensed his apprehension, she said, “Speak.”


    Vincenzo opened his eyes to the endless rolling hills of white in front of him. “Who are you?”


    “No questions,” she said. Her voice had no hints of… anything. Neither happy, mad, sad—she seemed to feel nothing. Or at least, it sounded that way. “Do you understand?”


    “No,” he said, “I don’t understand.” It felt good to speak his own language, but the circumstances stopped him from fully enjoying it. “Y-you can’t just show up and order me around you—!”


    “Silence.”


    He was silent.


    “You’re scared for good reason. You’re right to be terrified,” the ghost stated.


    Warm and soft hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing his pale, blue throat the way someone would lightly choke a lover. There was power in her grip, though. Terrible power. He could feel it from her skin to his. He shivered, not from the cold.


    “You interest me, Vincenzo Guerriero. To the point it would upset me if you died in such an anticlimactic fashion. Don’t upset me,” she commanded. “I forbid it.”


    It took a moment to reply, too fixated on how her fingers were about to crush his throat. “Okay, okay, fine! I won’t stay…” He ran the conversation again in his mind. “I can get an ‘executioner’. But what’s that mean?”


    “Tell the emp your story. Tell Cammo of your past,” she explained. “Then ask for judgement. I will abide by his decision. This discussion is over.”


    “W-what?”


    But she was gone. Like the ghost he thought she was, the sensation of her hands around his neck disappeared, leaving him quivering. Eventually, after a short period of mustering his strength, he turned around. She was really gone.


    “Wha…” he said. “Who? Who the hell was that?”


    Since there was no one around to give him an answer, he just pawed around the snow and found his gun and his pack. What he was going to do next was clear: I gotta see Cammo. The emp hated him. He’d kill him once he asked him to. Vincenzo was sure of it. And he didn’t want to see that woman again—ever.


    He looked up at his god, ready to express his distaste, but couldn’t. Something about it scared him.


    He was more scared than he’d ever been. He was more confused too. What did she mean? he asked himself.


    Again, there was no answer.


    4


    Cammo drank his last bottle. It was a classy spirit, brewed in Mophia and aged for half a decade. Mophia knew how to brew, Cammo knew, and he knew they made great wine too, though he could never bring himself to fully enjoy a glass. Slaves made this, he bet, eyeing the label. Whipped and broken slaves. He threw the bottle at the rising sun.


    They needed to be moving soon. He’d given Plum two days of waiting, but no more. By midday, if the moon-man failed to show, he’d force her along no matter how she felt.


    “I love this place,” Plum said.


    He turned from his watch without a smile. His daughter’s hair was wet, and her lavender skin turned dark from the heat. Behind her were three pools of steaming water, pure and clean and refreshing. White smoke towered from it, filling the air with warmth. It was an oasis in the cold. Even the caves underneath were always comfortable, the water running in the rock warming them like blood in a body. Cammo felt a bit of nostalgia and smiled, but didn’t let his daughter in on the secret: that he and Locine fucked in the third and highest pool that she claimed to be her favorite. If he did, it wouldn’t be her favorite anymore.


    He dropped the grin when he thought of the present. “Aren’t you clean already?”


    “I’m clean,” she said. “I used soap, but spring cleaned itself.”


    “That’s what it does,” Cammo replied.


    “Well, it’s nice.”


    “If you’re clean then stop going in,” Cammo said.


    “Why not?”


    “You’ll get wrinkly. Too much hot water and you’ll soak. It’s not good for the skin.”


    “Please? Just a little longer?”


    “No, you’ve been in there every day. Go dry yourself and head underground… And when’s the last time you’ve slept?”


    “Uhm… I slept yesterday, I’m fine. We need to look out for him,” she said.


    Cammo grunted and looked away. “Go get some sleep. I’ll watch.”


    She thanked him and left, drying her hair as she hopped from bare stone to bare stone, disappearing from sight. He was glad that she was glad, but he wasn’t too sure why she was. For some reason, the girl had absolute faith in the moon-man, in Vincenzo. It was why she was able to smile so quickly, and it was why she didn’t disown Cammo as a father. If she did, Cammo thought, then she’d have to disown him as a brother. I don’t even care at this point, he decided. I’m fine with that.


    But whether or not he was coming… that was a different story. He had to be dead. You didn’t just fall in Fall and make it out to tell the tale; Vincenzo especially. Cammo hadn’t trained him in the art of Glows at all… and without that crucial knowledge, he’d be powerless.


    Cammo watched for him anyway. If you’re not here by midday, Cammo thought, we’ll leave moon-man. So hurry up. He had to squint, the sun bright on the horizon. It made the white yellow and shimmering, glittery as far as the eye could see. That was Winter, he thought. Endless blizzards and freezing cold one moment, shining gold the next. Cammo wasn’t one to be caught up in the beauty of a scene, but even he couldn’t ignore this one. He debated on waking Plum to share the view but decided against it. She needs her sleep. By midday, they’d be gone, after all.


    Which is when he noticed a speck of black in the distance… A small dot—a mole, he thought it looked like—in the middle of the sun’s face. He held one hand over his eyes and squinted at the shape, muttering questions under his breath. Nothing lived in Winter. Cammo was sure of that. He crossed the plains years ago, yes, but he never forgot that fact. “Vincenzo?” he whispered. The shape bobbed from side to side in a rhythmic shamble, growing more defined as it neared. Cammo almost couldn’t believe it. The shape raised his left arm, the metal in his hand glinting in the sun… and then he stopped. The shape—who Cammo was now absolutely sure was Vincenzo, no matter how improbable—grew no closer. Instead, the speck in the distance waved him over.


    Strange, Cammo thought. Why wouldn’t he approach? Had something happened? And… where was the avilop, Frey? He glanced back at the trail of flat stones leading into the cave below, debating on waking his daughter. He decided against it.


    Cammo put on heavy clothes that the steamy air made redundant and started down the hill, out of the spring’s control and into the cold, where snow layered itself over dead grass and loose stones. The figure started away and down the hill he surfaced on, waving his fetish for Cammo to follow. He did. His eyes had spotted Vincenzo from miles away and it seemed that Vincenzo spotted him right back, but it meant that there was ground to cover. Picturesque, beautiful, wonderful land, yes, but land nonetheless. It took ten minutes to cross. The springs were nothing but a tower of smoke bleeding into the sky by the time he reached the hill, and he began to wonder just how far the moon-man intended to lead him on. Not far, was the answer. The moment he reached the peak, he saw Vincenzo sitting at the lowest point between the hills on, his back to him, with his gun laid out across his lap.


    “You look like shit,” Cammo said. Vincenzo was blue, his fingers purple, his hair colored in white—Cammo had told the truth.


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    The giant turned only his head, nodded, and went back to staring at the metal and wood that made his weapon.


    “Where’s the girl?”


    Vincenzo shook his head. “I couldn’t save her.”


    “Well,” Cammo said, “that’s a shame.”


    “You don’t really care,” he replied, his voice dead. “You would’ve killed her if I hadn’t argued against it.” He sighed. “Sit down. I need to talk to you.”


    Cammo raised an eyebrow. “Talk?”


    “Yeah. It’ll take a while. That’s why I said you should sit. There’s some shit I got to say and I’m not leaving until I say it.”


    “There are springs right behind us. You don’t want to warm up there while you talk? You look half-frozen. I’m sure, if you were a normal man, you’d have died by now.”


    “I look half-frozen because I am half-frozen. And I’m sure you’re right. It feels like you’re right.” He brought a frostbitten hand to his face. “It burns just like fire… Like a thousand knives stabbing in all at once… But that’s not important right now.”


    “You’re in pain, idiot,” Cammo said, carefully descending down the slope. “Not being in pain should be important to you.”


    “We talk here or not at all.”


    Cammo knew something was wrong. “And if I don’t sit down? If I were to just go back to the steam?”


    Vincenzo said, “That isn’t an option.” The moon-man rested Heavy Metal against his shoulder, a finger on the trigger. “You have two options here: stay and hear me out; or we try to kill each other.” The moon-man stared at Cammo out of the corner of his eye, completely still. “Do what you want to do.”


    Cammo had enough experience to know that he was serious. To know that the moment he tried to climb back up, Vincenzo would take aim. But why? Cammo thought. He had his doubts concerning the moon-man’s loyalties, especially at the beginning, but he didn’t think there’d truly be treachery… What happened down there? “Fine,” Cammo said, breaking the tension. “I’ll sit.” He sat. “Say what you need to say.”


    Vincenzo looked almost surprised. “I thought you’d try to kill me.”


    “And I didn’t think you’d try to kill me,” he said.


    The moon-man looked away, and for a split-second, Cammo thought he saw guilt. Stranger by the second. Blood on the sand, he looks like he’s seen a ghost. He’d find out why he looked so ghoulish soon enough. For now, he needed to talk to him. The emp looked back at the sun and all its effects. Even there, at the very bottom, it shared its splendor. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”


    Vincenzo looked up, the golden light hitting his face full on, to the point he needed to squint. “It is.”


    They sat in silence before the moon-man started.


    5


    Vincenzo let it all out. Every secret, every sin, and even every thought as he committed them: he told Cammo about his time in the basement, and how spiders crawled over his naked skin; how he met Alice, and how he betrayed her; how he died; how he ogled Frey in the abyss, and what he thought he did to her. The only thing he kept to himself was the woman. He’d take her to his grave.


    The sun had risen by the time he finished but it was still low enough to make the snow glitter. He let quiet rule. He knows who I talked to, what I did, and why I did it, Vincenzo thought in the calm. He knows who I am now. The wind started to pick up, carrying the top layer of dusty snow over his head and into the slope in front of him. It glittered in the yellow light too. I feel good. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, just like when he told Frey. Cammo and Frey. They were the only two people in the world he told. Geno, every other boss, and Marco knew what happened, but he never told them. Telling was different—it felt different.


    Vincenzo spoke: “I could die like this. For the first time in my life, I feel kind of free…” He scratched the back of his head. “And I want to die like this.”


    Cammo hadn’t interrupted him for the entirety of the tale, and Vincenzo never looked back to see how he reacted to any of it. Even then, Vincenzo kept staring straight ahead. The only hint that Cammo was still there was when he asked, “What do you mean by that?”


    “I mean what I mean, Cammo,” he said. “I thought you’d appreciate straightforwardness.” He breathed in deep, the cold air coating his lungs. “I’m tired.” It was the truth. “I’m so tired, Cammo. I was tired, then, and I’m tired now.” He felt some warmth come to his eyes, wetting them. “And all I’m good for is no good.” He sniffled, taking a moment to swallow his spit. He didn’t want Cammo to hear him. “I’ve fucked everyone over… Alice, Marco, Frey…” He wiped his eyes in a casual way. “And I’m so tired of it!” He took a moment to breathe in, and out, eyes forward and back straight. The sound of wind made good cover. “So, I’m done. I’m just done. I’m done deluding myself into thinking I won’t just end up failing someone again…” He swallowed again. “Plum will be fine without me. And I doubt you even care. Actually, you know what? You’d probably be glad to do it…”


    “Do what?”


    “Kill me, Cammo,” Vincenzo said. “I’m done. Whether or not you kill me here doesn’t matter. I’ll just lay here and die if you don’t.” There was the lie. If he didn’t do it, Vincenzo would make him.


    “And Plum?”


    “Like I said, she’ll be fine without me,” he said. “If anything, it’d probably be better in the long run. Somewhere down the line, I’d fail her… Haven’t you been listening to a fucking word I said?”


    “I have.”


    “Then you understand. I guarantee you, Cammo, that if I told anyone in Italy about what I’ve done, they’d call me a monster. And they’re right, Cammo. I am one. I’m a failure as a human being, but a success at being less than human. The best thing for everyone would be if I disappeared…”


    “But you came to me.”


    Vincenzo scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. Why do you think blue and purple all over? You think I did this by accident?” He shook his head. “I tried.”


    “Then why are you here?”


    He’d never tell him about her. “Because ‘here’ is where my legs carried me. You seem like a sure death. And I don’t think I can die by just laying out here.”


    “And what do you want me to do?”


    “I don’t care. Chop me up into bits or set me on fire? As long as it’s a sure thing, I don’t care,” Vincenzo answered.


    “And why—?”


    “Shut up!” he cut in. “I didn’t come here to fucking argue! I’ve made my choice, now make yours!” He pushed himself off the side of the hill, no feeling in his legs and toes, swaying from the lack of sensation. “Do it or don’t!”


    Cammo was silent, but Vincenzo could imagine him perfectly: he was probably frowning, his brow was tight, and there was no love in his stare. His tone had been impersonal.


    “Well?”


    The emp stayed quiet.


    “Well?!” he asked again, trying to clench his dead fists. He could barely grasp his gun’s handle, let alone ball up his hand. “I give up, Cammo. With everything.”


    Vincenzo could hear the sound of snow crunching behind him. “Is that right?”


    “It is.”


    Cammo grunted. “I don’t believe it.”


    Vincenzo wiped his eyes and turned. “And—!” he started, but the look on Cammo’s face stopped him. It wasn’t anything like he thought it’d be—it was full of pity. Pity, and something else Vincenzo didn’t understand… Guilt? He wasn’t sure. “W-what’s there not to believe?”


    “That you are what you think you are,” Cammo said. He was still higher on the hill, to the point he had to look down. “The worst appraiser of one self’s worth is the self… A philosopher from the east said that once.” He lowered himself down the hill until he could look Vincenzo straight on. “Can you do me a favor?”


    “What?”


    “Let me save you,” Cammo said.


    Vincenzo blinked at him.


    “Well, you really don’t have a choice.”


    He felt his blood start to rise. “Listen—!”


    “No, YOU listen to ME!” the emp exploded, grabbing Vincenzo by the front of his shirt. Dark-green light followed his attack. “You listen to me!” He pulled Vincenzo closer. “My daughter loves you! A pure, innocent love, and you’re not going to throw that away because you THINK you don’t deserve it!”


    “W-wha—!”


    Cammo slapped him hard, shutting him up. “Listen to me you little shit! You don’t know anything about anything! You’re a kid! I’m the adult here! And what I say GOES!” He pushed him down hard. “You’re confused, Vincenzo. You’re unsure about the future. You’re unsure about your place in it. And you’re unsure about what you are now. But there is one thing you do know…”


    Vincenzo couldn’t think, one hand still on the spot he’d been slapped, staring in wonder and confusion.


    “You know right from wrong. You have faults, I know. And you’ve made mistakes…” Cammo explained, walking over. “I’ve made some too.” The emp dropped to one knee by his side. “I’ve gotten people killed… I’ve betrayed people… And I’ve done the wrong thing more times than I could count…” And then he gave Vincenzo his hand, offering to help him up. “But I know people like us can be good, trust me. If you don’t know, then assume that I do. Assume I know the answer and trust in that.”


    “Why?” was the only thing he could think to say. He didn’t get why Cammo would even care…


    The emp closed his eyes in thought, before opening them with a wan grin. “Because I fucking said so.” He shoved his hand closer. “Now take my fucking hand.”


    Vincenzo looked at it with a dull expression. “I’m so confused…”


    “I know,” Cammo said. “You’re trying to kill yourself, after all.”


    Something in his mind opened. He laughed and fell backwards as Cammo did the same, until their joy devolved into sparse giggles, and those giggles turned to silence. He looked up at the snow flying over his head before closing his eyes. How much of his life had been wanting to end it? And how would living be without that goal? There was always an end, he thought. And there was freedom there. His want for death kept him going, ironically enough. It was a shield, and it was a damn fine one at that… Who could scare a man with nothing left to lose? When even his life wasn’t anything of value to himself? How many times did that same attitude save him? How many times did it fuck shit up? That brought on the worst of his realizations.


    Days before his death, Marco had wanted to talk to him about something he said was important, but he blew his adoptive father off. Marco tried again to talk to his son only to be ignored every time, and not only ignored, but insulted. His final attempt, earlier in the night he died, got him a punch in the face. If Vincenzo hadn’t been so focused on hating him…


    And Alice, his first love. He could’ve stayed away initially, continued on with his life, but what did he do? He fucked her in an attempt to get close to her father, and it worked all too well. How would his life end up if he just stayed under her sheets that night? He wouldn’t have stayed forever, just long enough to give her a kiss goodbye before disappearing from her life forever. She’d be sad and confused, but alive. But he didn’t do that in the end…


    Frey too. Even though he couldn’t think of a way to save her, her death was still on his hands—literally…


    But would having something to lose really be any better? Do I even deserve that?


    “Hey,” Cammo said, “are you sleeping on me?”


    Vincenzo shook his head and opened his eyes, staring at the sparkling snow flitting from one peak to another. “No.”


    “Then don’t think about it too hard,” Cammo said. “You’ve done enough thinking. I mean, look where it’s gotten you.”


    He laughed again. “Is that it?” he chuckled, covering his eyes with one hand. “Am I really overthinking this?”


    “I’d say so.”


    He laughed harder. “I don’t know if I believe that…”


    “I would,” Cammo replied. “I’m sure, in your mind, you’re a real piece of filth. Someone with no redeeming qualities.” He slapped Vincenzo’s thigh. “But filth wouldn’t have saved my daughter, or me, or even attempted the other girl. You’re wrong. And you’re confused.”


    Vincenzo craned his neck to look at him. “Okay, Cammo. I’m coming.”


    Cammo held out his hand, and Vincenzo took it. “Your hand’s cold,” Cammo complained as he pulled him to stand. The light he was emitting dissipated. “Let’s get you warmed up.”


    “I’m all for that,” he said. He took the first step up and looked towards the summit, and stopped. “Oh.”


    Plum was watching. The little girl stood at the top, her red scarf reaching out in the wind, like some tentacle as she leaned into the cold, careful not to let it push her off her balance.


    “Hey.”


    Her eyes, glistening from tears, shut, and she turned away, walking back to the springs without a word.


    Vincenzo turned to her father. “What was up with that?”


    “Hm…” Cammo grunted, moving up ahead of him. “Maybe it’s the fact you betrayed her trust. Maybe it’s because you intended to leave her without saying goodbye. Maybe it’s because you valued her happiness less than your sadness.” He looked back and shrugged. “Take your pick.”


    Vincenzo felt a pang of guilt as he continued on. “Or maybe all of the above…”


    “Come on,” Cammo said. “I’m freezing, and you’re frozen.”


    “Yeah, yeah,” Vincenzo muttered, following. “I’m coming…”


    6


    Vincenzo watched Plum disappear within a cave but didn’t pursue, his dead fingers and toes screaming for warmth. The steamy air began to heat up his lungs and bring a lack of color to his skin, from blue to a white almost as pure as the snow surrounding the hill on every side. And the moment he spied the pristine waters in each pool, he threw off his dirty cumbersome clothes and eased in, the hot water almost boiling. The pool reached the mid-point of his thigh, but he wanted more than that. “Oh,” he said as he lowered himself, hands gripping the edge of the pool, “that’s good. Yeah, fuck yeah…” He was in, and in just moments, his skin went from white to red. He flexed and unflexed his hand, the frostbite wearing off in seconds. He closed his eyes and let it set in. “God, this place is heaven…”


    “It is, isn’t it?” Cammo said.


    The Italian opened one eye before popping both of them… the emp was naked!


    “What?” Cammo asked, settling in the water as well. There was more than enough space for both of them, each on either side. “I’m just here to soak a moment… The chill got to my bones.”


    Vincenzo knew he wouldn’t forget the sight for as long as he lived, the image seared into his memory like a brand. He recoiled and kept his vision up, resisting the urge to look. It’s like a car crash, he thought. Or some gore video… “W-why’s it got so many holes?”


    “Hm?”


    “Y-your cock, Cammo! Your cock!”


    The emp chuckled and laid his back against the smooth stony walls of the pool. “I suppose it’d look strange to you…”


    “It looks rancid. It looks diseased.”


    “Hey!” Cammo said. “Mine’s actually pretty when compared to most. My holes are symmetrical and sized similarly.” He waved an arm over the hot water as if it were a showcase. “I committed the ‘act’ with my wife in this very pool. It works fine.”


    Vincenzo started to leave.


    “Hey! Hey!” Cammo said. “That was more than a decade ago! The water’s clean.”


    He eased back in. “You know what? I don’t care. I don’t want to know a thing about emp mating patterns, or practices, or pregnancies, or anything!”


    “And I won’t tell you.”


    “Good,” Vincenzo replied. “Let’s just sit here in silence.”


    “Okay.”


    They did, the rejuvenating waters heating up their weather-beaten forms. In time, he didn’t even feel disgusted by his companion’s strange anatomy… The snow started falling only to melt the moment they hit the steam. Cammo reminded him of Plum, and that reminded him he’d needed to apologize.


    “I think I’m done,” the Italian said.


    He tried to get up, but Cammo waved him down. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I have something to tell you.”


    Well…” Vincenzo said, “tell me.”


    “Do you know why Plum loves you?” the emp asked, his face and voice stern. “Do you?”


    The Italian thought about it and the answer came quick: “I saved her, obviously.”


    “That’s part of it,” he said. “But she loves you more than any knight. She loves you like a brother. Now, how’d that happen?”


    Vincenzo grunted. “It sounds like you already have an idea.”


    “I do, and it’s very simple,” Cammo claimed. “She filled the gap in her heart that her mother used to fill with you.”


    It took a second for that to sink in, and when it did, he didn’t believe it. He smirked at him. “Oh, yeah?”


    But Cammo was as serious as he’d ever been. With a stony face, he replied, “Yes. You and her have many similarities.”


    He found that even more ridiculous. What did he have in common with a not-even-human mother living in a world that wasn’t his own? The answer in his mind: nothing. “Like what?” he asked, making no attempt to hide his disbelief. He chuckled in anticipation of his next joke: “Am I purple? Have I been colorblind this entire time?”


    “Do you trust my judgment, moon-man?” Cammo asked seriously.


    That stopped him laughing. That stare demanded a similar attitude, so Vincenzo cleared his throat, replaced his smile with a frown, and looked serious back. “Yes, sir.”


    “Then take this as a fact. You’re a very motherly man. A very compassionate and patient man. At least to Plum.”


    “I see…” the muscled Italian man, six feet and five inches in height, replied.


    “And it’s that aspect that she’s latched onto. Now go apologize.”


    “Yes, sir,” he said, and got up.


    “Oh! And she knows everything. About her situation, I mean. And what we’ve been doing.”


    “Everything?”


    “Everything.”


    He walked out of the pool and found his clothes clean, a nearby pool red from the blood scrubbed off. All of his clothes were pristine, partway wet in water and then steamed. Steam cleaned, he thought with a grin. He put a light, slightly damp set on, the air too hot for anything thicker, and walked across the warm stones with bare feet until he made it down to the cave.


    7


    The walls and floor were smooth grey stone, and he was too large for it, the ceiling, dome-vaulted, came down at six feet, forcing him to slouch. Other than that, it was as cozy as any other room he’d stepped foot in—even more so considering his sleeping arrangements during the journey, all cold ground and no umbrella. It was more like a small apartment than a cave, and in his mind, it didn’t even register as the natural mouths to the underworld he’d seen in TV. And enough sunlight crept in to make studying it possible. It felt like a room. In the end laid Plum. She was facing the curve of the wall and she slept on her side, completely still. She wore the same cute little nightgown he found her in the first night he arrived, her sleeping back closed and under her as a cushion. Vincenzo, thinking he ought to let her sleep, began to step back.


    “I’m awake,” Plum said. “I’m just staring at this wall.”


    Vincenzo walked back in and sat behind her with his legs crossed. “And why are you doing that?”


    She sighed. “I’ve been having nightmares again…”


    “Yeah?” he said. “So, you haven’t been sleeping?”


    “Pretty much.” She said nothing else. Her voice, like she said, was tired and mopey, and it showed no hint of getting any happier.


    “Do you want to talk about it?” her brother offered.


    “Eh…”


    “It’s fine if you don’t.”


    She didn’t say anymore.


    “The springs are nice, aren’t they? They’re refreshing,” he said, more to make conversation than anything else. “They felt even better to me, I bet. I’m used to showering every day, so its been… uncomfortable walking around sweaty and dirty. You wouldn’t have that problem, I don’t think. You don’t even seem to sweat that much.” He leaned forward. “This place is a godsend. It really is…”


    She didn’t make an attempt to reply, her attention on the wall, and he didn’t think she would. He thought she’d just drift off into sleep, still mad at him and the world.


    He took the hint. “I’ll leave you alone…”


    “I was home,” she started. “It was mid-morning, and I was picking fruits in the garden. My mama was there. We were picking them together.” She stopped, and just when he thought she was done, she started back up again. “And I made Cammo leave that morning to get food—meat. I hadn’t had any for a while, and I wanted some. Mama was sick, but I thought it’d be fine. He’d only be gone a couple of hours is all…” She breathed in and out slowly. “That’s where it either gets to be a dream or a nightmare.


    “It’s a dream if we pick up the food and he comes home with a jer on his back,” she explained. “And you’re there, too.”


    “I’m there?” Vincenzo asked.


    “Mhmm, you’re there,” she said. “And then we had a feast, and ate and ate and ate… It was good.”


    “That sounds nice.”


    “And it wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t one because you were there,” she claimed. “But it’s… it’s bad when you’re not; like yesterday, and the day before that… When we were waiting…” She sniffled, a slight crack in her voice. “The sun goes down… and the Blood Moon comes up… and it opens its eye…” Plum whined, unable to hold it back any longer. “A-a-a-and I-I-I saw her g-g-get—!”


    Vincenzo pulled her to his chest and stroked the back of her head. “Shhh… It’s okay.”


    “And y-you weren’t there!” she cried. “You left us!”


    “I’m not going to leave you,” he said calmly. He felt like a fool. “Hey, look at me.”


    She blew her nose into his shirt.


    “Oh, come on…” he whispered. “Look at me.”


    She did. Her eyes were streaming, her cheeks were wet, pink hair clung to the tears, and snot hung out of her nose and crawled down her mouth and chin. He wiped her nose and mouth with his bare hand, before wiping what stuck off on his shirt.


    “I’m not going to leave,” he said. “I’m not going to leave you.”


    A booger hung low from her left nostril before she tried to sniffle it in, and when that didn’t work, she blew her nose in another patch of clean cloth. When she was done, she looked up and said, “But you were gonna.” She glared at him and slapped him on the shoulder. “You were gonna leave me!” She slapped him again. “And you didn’t care about me at all!”


    He nodded. “Yeah… I guess I am pretty stupid. I always have been… Plum, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.”


    “Promise me you won’t do that again…”


    “I promise.”


    “Say it all! Say, ‘I promise I won’t leave you.’ ”


    He smiled and stroked her cheek. “I promise I won’t leave you. Here, I’ll even say it in Italian. Prometto che non ti lascerò.”


    “That sounds nice,” she said with a little smile. “I don’t forgive you, though.”


    “Is that right?”


    “Mhmm…” She sniffled. “I’m still mad at you. In fact, I might be mad forever.”


    “That’s a fact?” he asked, feigning hurt.


    She shut her big eyes and wiped them with the back of her hand. “I feel like it is… but it’s just a little lie. I’ll forgive you later. Not now. I’m still too mad… Can I use your lap as a pillow?”


    “You can,” he allowed.


    She hopped off his lap and dragged her sleeping bag close, setting her small head down on his thigh… “And… a lullaby?”


    “A lullaby?” he scoffed. “Me?”


    “I like your voice,” she said. “Please? I might forgive you sooner.”


    “I don’t know any.”


    “Just say stuff in Italian, then. It’s a pretty language…”


    He smiled and stroked her hair. “Then I’ll do just that.”


    8


    Cammo watched the sun fall and the moons replace it. He stuck a thin white cigarette in between his teeth and lit it, blowing smoke into the calm, cold air. The emp coughed twice and took another drag, savoring the flavor. It’s cheap, he thought. But good. It’d been too many years for it to be anything but. He quit for Locine, to end her endless complaints of the taste of his mouth, but that didn’t matter anymore. He did suppose, however, that Plum and Vincenzo would complain about his breath. He inhaled deeply, letting its texture coat his lungs, and blew it out. Yes, he was feeling calmer. Nothing like a little tobacco to clear the head, he thought, the nostalgia of it filling him with joy as smoke filled his lungs. He tapped its end, knocking the ashes to the ground. The moon-man’s story made him think too much about all of things, and as Cammo learned early in his life, thinking too much led to no good. His long and curved ears twitched when the sound of snow crunching behind him grew, signaling Vincenzo’s—judging by the volume—arrival. He didn’t turn around to greet him. Instead, he kept his gaze on the endless desolation up ahead that would be their road for miles to come.


    “What are you doing out here?” Vincenzo asked.


    The emp had moved far from the springs, to the point none of its warmth could be felt. “It can get hot in there,” he explained. He took a drag. “Too hot for me sometimes… You want a cigarette?”


    The moon-man stood by his side, looking down at him as he always would. His hands were deep in his pockets. “Where’d you get those?”


    “I looted them. They’re from before… I’ve been saving them. And I got in a mood,” he said. The emp tapped his tobacco again, kicking off the ash. “You want one?”


    “I don’t smoke,” Vincenzo replied. “I don’t even drink. I don’t do drugs of any kind.”


    The emp chuckled, his stony exterior falling as the silliness of it hit him.


    “What?” Vincenzo asked, confused. “What’s wrong with that? Alcohol messes with brain development, cigarettes cause cancer, and drugs in general are just bad. Last but not least, they’re addictive as hell. Cigarettes too. The nicotine in those is why people have such a hard time quitting. They’re bad in your system, and it’s hard to get them out. You should quit. You’ll gunk up your lungs like that.”


    The emp smiled and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You might be right, but I’m not going to listen,” he said, pulling the stick away from his lips. “You’re probably fine anyways. You’re practically immortal.”


    “I…”


    Cammo pulled another from his pocket and handed it to him. “My gift. Take it.”


    Vincenzo looked at the stick, then at him, then at the stick, and then took it with apprehension. He held it at an arm’s length and studied it nervously, obviously uncomfortable with the whole idea. “I don’t know, Cammo. I’ve always made it a point to stay away from this kind of stuff…”


    “Because of your father?” Cammo asked, tapping the cig’.


    The moon-man nodded. “He got clean, but it was trouble…”


    “Whatever he took,” Cammo said, “it wasn’t this. It relaxes me. It decompresses me. And it’s heaven after sex or any kind of big accomplishment. Smoke.” He pulled out of a match. “I wouldn’t ask you to if I didn’t think it’d be good for you.” He lit it and held it towards the Italian’s face. “Trust me.”


    Vincenzo looked at him and the cigarette in one final display of apprehension, before lighting his and taking a puff. He had a little coughing fit, which Cammo patted him on the back during, and straightened out, taking small drags that he didn’t give the chance to get deep. Cammo took the next five minutes to show him how to smoke properly, and by the end, the moon-man was puffing like a professional.


    “Good,” the emp said with a grin. “You’ll be able to smoke without the downsides. The downsides being what you said before…” He tossed the nub of his own to the snow. “Did my daughter forgive you?”


    Vincenzo shook his head. “But she will. She just needs time.”


    “That’s good… And you? Do I have to worry about you running off now?”


    Vincenzo went quiet, taking longer than Cammo would’ve liked to think about it… Finally, he gave his answer: “No, you don’t.”


    Cammo could hear half the lie in his voice. The emp didn’t think he needed to worry about his suicide any longer, but he did think that the moon-man would still be contemplating it for a long while. “Are you really eighteen?”


    “Oh, yeah. Why do you ask?”


    “I took one look at you and guessed you were older…”


    “I said I was young, didn’t I?”


    “And I didn’t believe. For one reason or another, I guessed you were lying. You’re big for your age.”


    Vincenzo nodded. “I get that a lot…”


    To Cammo, that seemingly innocuous piece of information made everything make sense. “And when do you… humans finish growing?”


    “Not for a couple years.”


    “And brain development?”


    “Not for a couple years,” Vincenzo repeated.


    Cammo giggled. “Of course,” he said. “No wonder you’re half a fool… Walk with me. I need to educate you on something.” They walked further out into the field in silence for a moment before Cammo began again. “Emps are small creatures, Vincenzo. And we aren’t strong. Am I handsome?”


    “What? Are you handsome?” Vincenzo asked.


    “Don’t make me repeat myself,” Cammo ordered, turning. “Am I?”


    The Italian watched him with an upraised brow. “I… guess? I’m not a good judge of that kind of thing… Your nose throws me off, honestly. But… I guess you aren’t ugly. No, actually, you’re above average.”


    “Trust me, kid, I’m not the best judge, either.” He turned away. “Emps have three things that interest the other species of this world: we’re beautiful more often than not, most of our average men and women match the above average members of other species; we have a knack for fortunes; and we’re a delicacy.”


    Vincenzo stopped. “A delicacy?”


    “It’s illegal in most countries; the consumption of intelligent creatures. If it can speak and learn, then odds are you aren’t allowed to eat it,” Cammo explained. “But, like all laws, there are people who want to break it… That’s how my father and village went. Poachers came in, butchered us like livestock, and left… I hid during it, and that night, the Blood Moon came. I saw Slogine, and after some… tension… we went and killed them all. That’s just one of the threats waiting for us out on the mainland. Then we have kidnappers, cultists, knights, monsters, wars, wizards, and thirty other threats that I couldn’t even imagine… And Plum would be the target, as all children are… But before we worry about that, before I teach you about what we’re heading into, we have one more obstacle in our way: Slogine and his minions.” He pointed towards the steamy hill. “Behind us, they approach. They won’t sleep until they reach us… and they will.”


    “And can we win?” Vincenzo asked. “I don’t just mean Slogine… I mean everything.”


    Cammo didn’t know. A bit of secrecy and most of the dangers could be avoided, but the immediate threat was a different story. Slogine was stronger, even if his body was wracked with the same illness that weakened his wife. But just how much more powerful, he didn’t know. He could see, though, that Vincenzo wanted to hear something more optimistic than that. “I’m not a liar,” he said. “So, I won’t lie. I have no idea.”


    “No idea?” Vincenzo asked, just as unhappy as Cammo thought he’d be. “Really?”


    “No idea,” Cammo repeated. “But I sure as hell am gonna try.”


    The pale moon-man looked away, thinking to himself, with a cigarette in between his lips. Cammo took the chance to appraise him, and found him different. Was the moon-man the one who changed? Or was it him? Cammo guessed both. Because in the quiet moment, under the moons and in the wastes of Winter, he could see the child—for that was what he truly was, size be damned—for who he was. He was beautiful. Cammo would never say that to his face, but he did admit it to himself. His skin was beyond fair, his jaw strong but not barbaric, his eyes, though black, were shaped like a hunter, the bones in his cheeks high, his straight nose fit perfectly on his face, and his lips were both delicate and rugged. Cammo had never seen him shave, but that was to his benefit. The hair that could’ve grown would’ve only his some of those excellent features. If he weren’t a Guerriero, woman would fall in love with him at a glance. And for some strange reason, Cammo felt proud of him; proud and hopeful.


    He watched the kid smoke his cigarette to the butt, and tossed his own away. Then he said to him, when the kid looked his way, “You can do it.”


    The kid, unsure of what to say, just stared at him as if he were crazy and nodded.


    Cammo smiled at him, hoping he could tell it was genuine. “Let’s head back.”