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It has been ten years since the Hunger found the Light. They are gaunt. They are tired. Their malevolence has risen to a fever pitch. John spreads his scouts as thin as he can, casting for the Light in all directions. Each of them come back with the same answer: Not here, not here, not here.
He tries to calm it, to keep it focused on the mission, but it’s useless; the Hunger isn’t just angry anymore—it’s afraid, and growing frantic.
Against the clamor of a billion hungry voices, one hisses: What is the use of keeping a helmsman around if he can’t do his job?
The rest of the voices take this up, and soon criticisms are echoing across the whole Hunger.
Useless.
Failure.
Weak.
One thin opal crevice opens up on his skin, and then another, and another. They grow, slowly, and he knows without being told that he is being held hostage now. The Light or your life. If we can’t devour anything else, we’ll devour you.
*
When they reach Toril the Hunger turns its attention away from him in favor of wrecking the world below.
John closes his eyes and thinks of Merle. The Hunger senses a hollow being created in its interior, and its attention is back on him in an instant.
What are you doing?
“I just want to say goodbye to him.”
Foolish.
Whimsical.
Soft.
He continues channeling the spell.
Fine. Make it quick.
*
Years of experience with public speaking have taught John how to keep his hands from shaking even in the midst of the most severe performance anxiety. He places his sentient chess pieces with calm precision, and neither the Hunger nor Merle sense his terror.
What is this strategy?
We have absorbed thousands of chess masters and none of them played like this.
What is your purpose?
John ignores them and pretends to be concentrating too hard to hear.
*
Screaming.
Did you think that we would not notice?
Hands grabbing, pulling, plunging him into the floor.
Did you really think that you would make it out of this alive?
The floor, sucking him in, disintegrating him, memorizing his form and abilities and anything that it might need to know to conjure him up later. A process that he knows only too well because he had overseen it for millennia.
And then, Merle’s arms. It’s useless, of course, but the fact that he would even bother to try says more than John can comprehend. More than he deserves.
John gives Merle the only parting gift that he can give: the way to kill him.
*
When Magnus runs him through with the sword he feels a sudden surge of clarity as for a moment the multitude releases his mind, and he thinks, Thank God that’s over.
But he doesn’t die.
He hears laughter.
He panics and scrabbles away from the assembled fighters, away from Merle, and clutches the sword in his chest.
In his head, a chorus of voices says, You didn’t actually think that we would let you go that easily, did you?
He feels himself growing, changing. Claws extend, wings burst forth, and the mockery of a crown falls heavily on his head. His mouth closes over but that awful laughter doesn’t stop.
Let’s see what you can really do.
*
As John dies at last memories rise up in his mind, all from the past century, memories made during those short bursts of time when he was human again. He becomes fixated on a small moment, on some offhand comment that Merle made about a world that was all beach. There was a certain wistfulness in his voice that stuck out to him at the time, though he didn’t know why.
He knew why now. Sometimes you find something good, something healthy and whole, something that seems to fill your whole spirit with light, but you know that you can only have it for so long. You know that you’ll have to let go too soon.
With the last vestiges of his power he summons Merle to a beach.
They sit. Everything about it is beautiful—the warm sand between his toes, the sea breeze, the gentle crashing of the waves. Merle’s silent and solemn company. Their shared understanding that this is something they need to savor. He wants to hold onto it forever.
But it’s far too late for that.
John lets go.