"The mouses take a nap?"
Somewhere behind him, Gregor screamed for the lights to be killed. The shiner's backsides went dark, leaving only the Overlander's flashlight to illuminate their way. Just not what lay below.
Henry heard Luxa soothe Hazard. There had been nothing, she said over and over. Despite her efforts, her own horror still seeped through in her voice.
Henry needed no light to see; the sound of the fliers' wings was more than enough for him. He saw . . . and he had to hold back a gag, not just from the smell. They had been too late, he thought over and over. He had been too late. He was . . . He had failed. It was all he could still think and barely fight against the growing despair. No matter how hard he tried to remind himself that he couldn't give in—not if there was still hope for the others—at that moment, it felt like all of his belief had dissipated.
Henry could do nothing but cling to Thanatos' fur and battle his own trembling as his bond pressed on. He could not speak, not say anything to the children he had guided here. All he could see were the horrific pictures painted by his echolocation, merging with feverish impressions from his dreams and . . . the repressed memories from the bottom of another pit. Of wading through blood, of the stench of iron, death, and despair. And beneath it all lay the searing truth that he had been too late to save them. Them, and who knew how many more?
Thanatos told the party to land some half a mile from the pit with the corpses. After Howard finished making a bed for Hazard and Boots, Luxa tugged at his arm. "I must go back."
"I will go as well," said Henry. "We must look for survivors. Anyone we can still . . . still . . ." He took a deep breath. "Still save." He spat the words out, gritting his teeth against the pain of failure. The kind of failure that cost lives. Hundreds of lights, all snuffed out . . . because he hadn't been there fast enough.
"You must remain with the young ones," said Luxa, looking at Hazard and Boots; she had snuggled up to Temp, although the crawler was wide awake and trembling miserably. Only Thalia was not settled yet; she sobbed piteously, hiding within Thanatos' wing. Nike sat in front of them, speaking quietly.
Howard wiped his ashen face and looked back and forth between the two of them. "What of Gregor?" was all he asked.
"I'll come," said the Overlander; he was paler than Henry had ever seen him.
"You do not have to," said Ares.
"Worry not; we shall be back shortly." Henry placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to sound calming.
"I will come," was all Gregor replied, and there was no arguing with his words. He did not push his hand away, though, and so Henry left it right where it was while Howard prepared for them cloths drenched in antiseptic solution. They would provide some protection against the odor of decomposing flesh.
"Be careful about touching any of them," heeded Howard. "We know not if they are infectious."
"I will not allow anyone to be harmed," replied Henry in a stale voice, not knowing whether he was speaking about the children or the nibblers. "No more harm to anyone."
Howard held his gaze for a heartbeat, then gave a nod of acknowledgment. And so they left Howard, Nike, and Temp to watch over the kids, along with Photos Glow-Glow. Meanwhile, Zap escorted Henry, Gregor, Luxa, and their bonds back to the nibblers.
When Thanatos touched down amidst the mangled corpses and Henry slid off his back, he nearly toppled. He could see it before his inner eye, as if it had occurred just two days ago, not two years. The odor was made bearable by Howard's cloths, yet that was not what made the ground beneath him sway.
The entire area was bathed in Zap's light, yet it was the most lightless place Henry had ever seen. The tunnel had abruptly ended in a sheer drop of around forty feet, and it seemed that the mice had been driven straight over the edge. Some, from their flattened and damaged appearance, had evidently broken the fall for others. Several pups were completely crushed.
Henry intook the scape and fought back a retch. Fragments of memories shoved their way into the front of his mind . . . A pile of bodies, a pool of blood. He stared down into one that bore a striking resemblance to the very puddle Thanatos had pushed him into when they had first met.
"There are no gnawers among the dead here," said Thanatos, evidently attempting to sound soothing. Yet his voice betrayed his own despair.
Henry could not tell for how long he stood there, staring at the consequences of his failure, doing his best not to weep. Nothing would be gained if he wept, he told himself over and over. Zap continuously wailed that it was all a waste, and . . . it was. A waste of so many young, strong, irreplaceable lives. So much light that may have shone brightly for so much longer, extinguished for . . . what reason? None, thought Henry. None of this had any sense or reason.
When he had finally gathered enough composure to return to reality, he picked up on Luxa's and Gregor's conversation further ahead. This was all the gnawers' doing, they said. And . . . there was nothing they could do. This part ached the most.
Henry staggered almost randomly through the heaps of bodies, attempting to not succumb to the nightmarish images that . . . had attempted to warn him? Was his dream warning him? Was this it—what it warned him of? Or was it not enough yet?
His mouth opened, yet he could not scream. Why could he not do anything? He . . . did things. He solved problems. He tackled challenges. One after another, he had sworn to himself that he would tackle any challenge in his way. Yet here, he could do nothing. Not save, and not protect. He could not save anyone. With an anguished scream, Henry reeled into the wall, smashing his fist into it until his knuckles bled.
"Please don't." Thanatos appeared beside him, and Henry could no longer fight back the sob.
"I cannot save them," he whispered. "I cannot save anyone. Perhaps Tonguetwist was right, and I am no hero. I could not save them!" he yelled. Before his fist could connect with the wall again, a pair of arms wrapped around his torso and pulled him back.
"Forget not that you have saved so many. And we will save the others," said Luxa, without releasing him. Despite her hopeful words, her voice was overflowing with dread. "Is that not what you said? That we must believe in our mission to succeed?"
Henry heaved. "We will save them," he repeated in the same moment as his last inhibitions drained and he embraced her back. "Save the others. We will save the others."
He could not tell for how long they stood there, holding each other. Eventually, Luxa released him and led the way back over to Gregor, who sat hunched over an uncovered part of the wall, his drawn sword in hand. Henry intook the scythe he had left there and thought there was hardly a more suitable place for it.
For one more moment, Luxa held her arm around him, inhaling as though to gather courage. "We will save the others," she said, then she let go . . . and in front of the mark, she dropped to one knee. She tore the cloth away from her mouth and nose, then reached for her crown.
Henry observed her kneeling there and discerned immediately what she meant to do. There was but one ritual that required someone of royal descent to take off their crown. Drawing closer, he gazed down at her wrists, crossed over the golden band, and felt an inexplicable rush of newfound strength.
Luxa inhaled one last time, and then she spoke: "Upon this crown, my pledge I give. To my last breath, I hold this choice. I will your unjust deaths avenge, all here who died without a voice."
Henry had moved his lips along with her words, and it took but a heartbeat for him to make his choice. Luxa's head jerked up when the refined rat-tooth blade hit the ground in the midst of her golden band. She opened her mouth, but Henry removed his own cloth and spoke first: "I will second your vow."
Upon his words, a murmur broke out. Gregor creased his brow in confusion, Ares and Aurora began to whisper with each other and with Zap, and Thanatos stared at him as though he were concerned and proud at the same time. But Henry cared about little else in that moment other than what he had to do. In fact, he hadn't seen his path so clearly in a long time. Once, he had told himself that sometimes a little bloodshed was needed to prevent more. This vow meant that there would be bloodshed—there would be war. And he knew with absolute certainty that he would stand by Luxa's side through it—for every injustice inflicted and every light extinguished needlessly.
Ever so slowly, Luxa rose to her feet. "You cannot," she declared, although she could not entirely conceal the tremor in her voice. "Only members of the royal family can speak the Vow to the Dead."
"To hell with that!" yelled Henry, and Luxa flinched. "I will second it, and you cannot stop me!"
"Do not misunderstand; I . . . am grateful for your offer, but . . ." She wrung her hands. "I cannot take such a pledge from an outcast. Not only are you not royalty, but Regalia is not your city. I am not your queen."
"You are not my queen, and so I will pledge allegiance to you and your entire wretched city in this way," exclaimed Henry, gripping her shoulders. "Do you not understand that I wish to pledge allegiance? To stand by your side for the purpose of avenging and of saving. To whatever end . . . Your Majesty."
Luxa's mouth remained slightly agape; she stared at him, utterly stunned. Yet Henry needed no reply. His eye flickered down to the crown and the dagger—his crown, he thought suddenly. It had even been fashioned from the same material. Then he stepped back and looked back at her, crossed his wrists, and offered his hands for her to take.
Luxa only hesitated for a heartbeat. Her eyes flew toward Aurora and Henry's toward Thanatos, yet neither flier looked like they had any objections. On the contrary, what Henry saw shining in both their faces was . . . pride.
Then Luxa's eyes met him again. Henry had no idea which part of his speech had convinced her, if any. But there she was, on the other side of their shared regalia. She crossed her wrists and placed her hands in his.
For a moment, Henry thought that nothing had happened between them, that they were still as they had always been—like brother and sister—because how could it be otherwise? Here they were, vowing to wage a war for the sake of their shared friends' lives. And then, for the first time since they had entered the pit, Henry smiled.
"Upon this blade, my pledge I give. To my last breath, I hold this choice. I will your unjust deaths avenge, all here who died without a voice." Henry spoke solemnly, modifying the words slightly to fit his own regalia.
"We will your unjust deaths avenge, all here who died without a voice," they finally said in unison, as though they had rehearsed it.
More whispers from beyond the pit followed their vow, but Henry paid them no mind. At this moment, the only thing that mattered was standing here, holding Luxa's hands, and binding their fates together for as long as this conflict endured.
The almost ceremonial atmosphere was abruptly shattered by a loud groan coming from somewhere ahead. Luxa immediately released his hands, and Henry quickly followed on her heel as she sprinted over to the source.
There, a tail tip shuddered. Luxa immediately crouched beside the live nibbler and ignored Howard's warning not to touch them to gently stroke his fur. Henry simply nodded as Gregor proposed bringing the nibbler to Howard.
Together, they lifted the nibbler onto Ares' back. Once Gregor was seated behind him, he looked back and asked if they were coming. "Right away." Luxa exchanged a look with Henry, then looked around. "There could be more who still have light."
"We meant to look for any we could still save," added Henry. "And we will." Straining his ears, Henry detected no sound. Then again, he hadn't heard this nibbler prior to his waking either. There might still be some alive. So, he forced himself to rekindle his hope as he watched Ares, Gregor, and the nibbler fade from sight.
Beside him, Zap mumbled something and Luxa inhaled audibly. He could feel her looking at him, and he reciprocated her gaze—they needn't words. They never had.