Distant Horizons
Vantaiga awoke in a grove of her paradise valley to the sound of a familiar crack. She had sent the two priestesses home, but their scent and warmth still lingered across her body. Musingly, she stretched her lithe frame and rolled over on the forest floor. Through a clearing, she could see the Syffox she had always known and loved, a sturdy, redheaded archer, launching arrows into the distance. A sudden unfamiliar pang of repulsion seeped into her mind as the feeling of cold organs crept through her fingers.
She tried to force the feeling away, but it refused to leave. With the warm exhilaration of her passion faded, she could not keep out the image of Syffox as he truly was, a withered, ancient being barely able to move by his own strength. She was used to seeing him as the vibrant, charming man and leader. It was easy to forget that he was still a mortal—a mortal who used magic to maintain an unnaturally long life.
Her eyes began to water. She could restore his life, but she could not restore his beauty and spirit. She could never restore his smile or his sparkling eyes. She sniffed. She could never restore his calm patience or his soft reassurances. Only he could do that, and for that, he needed magic—a lot of magic.
She studied him while he rejuvenated himself. It was a process she estimated equal to one quarter of his entire capacity. He was the most powerful man in the world, yet it required a quarter of all his strength just so he could breathe in and out. And over time, he would only require more power.
The tear ran down her cheek. One quarter for three hundred years, one thousand years more for the remainder. Perhaps with study and exercise he could expand that to two thousand. But then what? She would have to sustain him by feeding him her power. How much would that consume of her? They estimated she was now three to four times as powerful as he was. So at most, she could extend his life to ten thousand years?
Festor was the youngest of the gods before her. He had risen at the end of the last epoch from the corpses of the great battle where the gods had defeated Hubris and Avarice. That was fifteen aeons ago. Could she sustain Syffox for fifteen thousand years? If the number of her followers grew? But who would follow her if she devoted all her power to one man? Would the gods still allow her at the World Table to only serve one man? Could she turn her back on her people and dominion for one man? And even if she could, then what?
Another tear escaped her eye. Then . Then she would be powerless. Then he would die. He would grow old, he would wither, and he would fade away forever. All that she ever really wanted in the world would eventually turn to dust. And there was nothing that all the power, of all her people, of all her forests, could do to stop it.
She watched Syffox as he launched his arrows into the unseen distance. This wasn’t anything new to her. She knew Syffox was right. She knew Hydar was right. She knew one day she would have to join with him. She knew, one day, no matter what, she would have to live in a world without him.
Syffox released another arrow with that annoying but familiar crack. It was a sound that reminded her of home. A home where he had helped her plant a forest, convinced the first settlers to join them, fought off invaders and marauders, taught people to believe in her and follow her. A home where he was always at her side, encouraging a slave girl to create a domain of peace and tranquillity in a hostile world.
A warm flush washed over her, and a smile broke through her tears. Their final day would not be today. She drew in a stuttering breath. Today, she was home, and she would love him and enjoy the time they had together. The future would not be today.
***
Syffox scowled as he looked over his cluster of arrows in the distance. He ground his teeth; it wasn’t a cluster but a scattering. He summoned up another arrow, nocked it into the string, raised, and pulled it back. He reached halfway through his draw before a numbing pain vibrated in his back and ran down his leg. A piece of Festor’s rotting poison still remained embedded in him.
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His hand quivered, and he released the arrow, lest the muscles of his back seize. The arrow landed short and wide of its mark: a tree stump a mere three hundred yards away. Not only could he not hit his target, but he was weakening and falling shorter each time.
From the one stump led a trail of stumps that vanished into the distance, each with an arrow embedded in them. Four hundred yards, six hundred yards, one thousand yards, two thousand yards, on the mountain peak at the end of Vantaiga’s valley two leagues away.
With magic, there was no target he could see that he could not hit. But without his magic, he could barely even pull his own bow. He was no longer an archer, only a mage with an archaic second-hand weapon. He dropped his bow and slumped to the ground. He ached too much to stand anymore.
Vantaiga approached her crestfallen lover. She wore only patches of green tree moss on her slender body. “That does not look like the posture of a man happy to be alive.”
An invigorating tingle crept over Syffox. Her beauty always exhilarated him. He hoped never to get used to the feeling. But it was not enough to cheer his mood today. He tried to feign a smile, but the clenching pain in his back made it waver. “I can’t draw my bow.” He tossed the bow to Vantaiga’s feet. “Festor has given me a permanent wound. It hurts too much to pull the string.”
Vantaiga picked up the bow and examined the unblemished, polished grain of its wood and layers, marvelling at its elegant and deceptively complex design. Perfectly balanced, it sat effortlessly in her hand. She took a long moment to appreciate the bow that was as unique as its owner, savouring its magical warmth and pulsing heartbeat.
As she fondly contemplated the bow and its handler, an irritating prickle came over her hands. “All these years, and it still doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, it likes . It just doesn’t like you holding it.”
“That’s because you’ve never let it get used to me. I’m a Goddess now. What if I do this?” Vantaiga lifted the bow and pulled on the string. A sharp pain dug into her hand. She let go with a laughing cry. She looked at her cut hand. A slash shimmered across her palm. “It bit me.”
Syffox awkwardly stood with a groan of pain. “Of course it did. Goddess or not, you know only my blood can hold it. Now stop teasing it, or it’ll get grouchy.”
She handed the bow back to him. “I wouldn’t want that to happen.”
Syffox took the bow with a sigh. “No, I already have enough trouble aiming.”
She drew in close to him. “Draw another arrow. A long one this time.”
Syffox was too sore to fire another arrow, but he could never say no to her. He summoned a flight arrow and nocked it with a sceptical look. Vantaiga only smiled and stepped behind him. She reached down and touched the throbbing muscle in his back. Syffox could feel her invigorating touch and magic sink into the aching scar, washing away the pain. She whispered softly in his ear, “Fire your arrow.”
A shudder crept over Syffox as her breath traced over his ear. He drew in a breath of his own and pulled back the string. There was no more pain in his back and his arm held steady. He drew in a second breath, overextended the pull, and released the arrow with a piercing crack. It sailed a high arc into the sky. He watched the arrow as it rounded its curve and lanced into the stump a thousand yards away. Syffox tried to suppress a laugh of surprise and satisfaction. It was a shot from his glory days of long ago.
Vantaiga nudged him. “You see? Together, nobody can stop us.”
Syffox tried not to beam and to keep his humility. “Yes, Goddess, with you, everything is perfect.” Secretly, he buried the thought that it would be more perfect if they joined, and he was healed. But how could he bring up such a thought when it felt so good to be next to her glory when she was happy?
He wished he could be angry at her. It was something he’d always struggled with, but now as a Goddess, how could he possibly manage to confront a being so divine?
She brushed his cheek with hers. “Go rest by the trees. I’ll come join you in a second.”
His contentious thoughts melted away at her touch and were replaced by a rush of emotion that made his head spin. “Yes, my Goddess.”
Vantaiga watched him leave. Once he was a distance away, her smile twisted into a grimace of pain. She tried to take a step with her right leg, but it sent shooting pains up and down her back. It pulsed in agony at her efforts to move, and all she could manage was to drag the leg limply over the ground.
With a wince, she gave a quick hop and tried dragging the quivering leg forward again. The leg responded slowly and painfully. She hopped and dragged the leg some more to work out the stiffness. It required several shuffling steps before she could hesitantly walk freely.
The pain in Syffox’s back wasn’t from a wound or poison. It was from a curse: a reminder to the two of them of whose grace it really was that Syffox had his life back. She growled at the thought of Festor and his madness. A divine curse could only be removed by the god who bestowed it. She was powerless to cure it.
All she had done for Syffox’s proud shot was momentarily take the pain onto herself. She doubted she could hide such pain often or for long. A hot rage flushed her face. Without his magic, Syffox was no longer the archer that had defined him for so long. Festor had gone too far.