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As Wilson entered his second hour of running away in a row, he began mentally reciting his guidelines for surviving in the Constant with the intent of adding another entry to the list.
1. Maxwell is a snake. Don't trust him.
2. The darkness isn't your friend.
3. Don't forget to eat, even when fleeing from angry spiders and giant chess pieces.
He slipped on a protruding rock and toppled over, only barely catching himself before he fell face-first into the dirt. He scrambled back up and kept running, his knee throbbing in tandem with his strides.
He darted a glance over his shoulder. His pursuer was nowhere in sight.
4. Trust that no threat is truly gone before you see it dead. Even then, poke it with a ten-foot pole first.
And so, he soldiered on. Thinking about his guidelines made him long for the ability to write things down permanently. For any kind of permanence, really. Each time he died — and that had already happened seven times in this waking nightmare — he found himself waking up again with nothing but the clothes on his back. What would happen if his memory began to fail, too?
At least reciting the list gave him something to focus on other than the acid in his limbs and his dread at what would happen if he stopped running.
5. Beware of bees.
6. Be careful about where you light fires.
7. Keep away from the swamp.
There was officially nothing but bile and steam in his lungs now. He would have to pause to catch his breath soon or else faint. To stall the inevitable, he added a spontaneous item to the list.
8. If you one day manage to invent a time machine and use it to go back in time, ignore any instructions coming from a strange voice on the radio, no matter how severe and crushing your dearth of ideas feels.
8.5. Also, take on physical exercise, particularly long-distance running. Just in case.
With that, he had reached both the end of his list and his ability to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He slowed down and just barely avoided falling to his knees. He gasped in deep gulps of air and added one final item to the list.
9. Not all trees take kindly to being axed down.
Nearly two hours ago, oblivious to the possibility that anything could go wrong, Wilson had set out to make some firewood. All had been well and good for the first two trees. When he had swung his axe into the third and largest of the trees, however, it had suddenly grown legs, straightened up with alarming agility, and swiped at Wilson hard enough to topple him over.
As he lay stunned amidst pine needles, his mind had inexplicably drifted to swans. Swans, which could kill a human with a single strike from their wings. And if a waterfowl could do that, then so could the tree monster about to stomp on his sternum.
He had rolled out of the way just in time. On his knees, his vision hazy, he had tried to free his spear from where it was strapped to his pack when another swipe from a branch-like arm had struck his head so hard it had nearly snapped his neck in half.
From there, Wilson's conscious thoughts had narrowed down to one word: escape.
Somehow, even with his ears ringing and his legs wobbling like jelly, he had managed to flee the clearing. The tree monster had given chase, but at a pace more akin to a leisurely stroll in the park rather than a heated pursuit. In fact, Wilson hadn't seen it since he had begun to run.
Perhaps he had shaken it off after all.
He sucked in another deep breath. His heart was still pounding against ribcage, but the ache in his chest was beginning to subside.
He took stock of his condition. While his neck in particular was horrendously sore, it seemed he had managed to avoid any serious injuries. Such good fortune rarely lasted for long. It was best to head back to camp and prepare for the next hurdle as soon as possible.
He looked around. Neither the stony field he stood on nor the sparse forest growing next to it looked even remotely familiar.
He added another item to the list.
10. Don't allow yourself to run away so frantically that you can no longer locate your camp.
He glanced at the sky. The day was already marching towards twilight. He could still look around for a moment longer in hopes of locating a familiar landmark, but his best bet was to find a quiet nook somewhere safe, light a fire, and hope the fuel he had in his pack would suffice to keep the flames burning through the night.
He headed to the forest and found an acceptable camping spot by some recently sprouted evergreens just before night fell. After hastily lighting a fire, he rummaged through his pack and grimaced. Fuel wouldn't be issue — apart from firewood, he also had plenty of grass and twigs — but his rations would have been meagre even for a songbird.
He stared at the handful of stale red berries on his palm, sighed, and dipped them into his mouth. Better in his stomach than in the bottom of his pack. He'd have to snack on seeds until he could scrounge up some actual food again.
He sidled the pack onto his back before crouching down by the fire. Time for another sleepless vigil filled with hunger pangs and twitching at every strange sound echoing from the dark. He had never truly understood what a luxury a night of restful sleep was before the Constant.
The heat from the flames licked his face like a friendly, fiery dog. Off-handedly, he wiped flecks of dried blood from around his nose, then allowed his eyelids to droop. At least he would live to see another day.
A tremendous crash sounded at the edge of the forest.
Wilson jerked into action so abruptly he very nearly dove straight into the flames. He scrambled to his feet, squinting into the night.
Slowly and with great deliberation, each of its ponderous footsteps echoing though the woods, the tree monster lumbered into view.
This was the first time Wilson was truly able to take in the creature. It towered over him, still half in shadow in a way that made it look even bulkier than he suspected it was. What really drew his attention, however, was the monster's face. Its mournful, downturned mouth remained unchanged as its void-like eyes honed in on Wilson's face.
Unable to wrench his gaze away, Wilson groped at his pack. He bypassed the spear: perhaps the monster could be defeated with conventional weaponry, but with Wilson's skill at arms being questionable at the best of times, engaging it in a fight there and then was most likely to result in a Wilson-shaped red smear on the ground. Instead, he searched until he found the spare torch he had crammed into one of the side pockets just in case he ever needed to run into the night.
Now, if only his blasted legs would obey him instead of shaking uselessly in place.
The monster's shadow encompassed him completely. A low, haunting howl burbled forth as it raised its arm to strike.
That finally did the trick. With a whirl, Wilson shoved the combustible end of the torch into the fire, leapt past the flames and scampered into the unknown.
For the next three days and nights, Wilson found himself stuck in a vicious cycle.
The one silver lining was that the monster was incredibly slow. A brisk walking pace was enough to keep ahead of it, and actual running was sure to create enough distance between it and him to allow for a brief respite.
What the monster lacked in speed, however, it made up for in perseverance. No matter how many biomes he crossed and how many obstacles he overcame, if Wilson paused for too long or accidentally doubled back, the shambling mass of the giant evergreen would be right there making a beeline for him. Forget sleep and searching for any resources other than food — he had to harvest wild carrots and berries while constantly keeping an eye out for his pursuer and eat them on the go. If he wanted to rest for longer than ten, it had to be preceded by some serious sprinting.
Even now, as he ran through yet another forest, he wondered how much longer he could keep going before his body broke down.
He had made it back to his camp the previous morning by pure chance. He had rapidly collected some supplies then dashed off again, already convinced the monster would trash his camp in revenge once it shambled over to it. Now, he was back in unknown territory, with no idea which direction to pick to return homewards.
He saw signs of swampland ahead and pivoted to the right. Anything but that, thank you very much. Perhaps the tentacles and mermonsters infesting the swamp might overpower the tree monster in time, but only after reducing Wilson to fish food.
Only... his mind turned back towards the swamp even as he ran towards grassland instead. Would it be worth the risk? The past days had made one thing abundantly clear: there was no getting rid of the tree monster until either it or he were dead. Perhaps he ought to finally stand his ground and accept one of those two outcomes? Yes, he would almost certainly lose, but it wouldn't be the first time he had died.
His already struggling heart jumped up another notch as unwanted images from his past flooded his mind. His very first death had been so sudden he hadn't understood what had happened until the second one, when he had been pummelled to death in utter darkness by an unknown assailant, unable to move and horribly aware of his body shutting down around him. Even now he could scarcely comprehend it — in fact, thinking about it had the side effect of unravelling the threads of his sanity — but he did know that each time he perished, he reawakened in a new iteration of this hellscape no worse for wear.
Rather, that was what had happened so far.
Aware that it would result in a headache at best and insanity at worst, Wilson's mind dwelled on his inexplicable resurrections while his body navigated between sheets of spiderweb on the ground. Just because he had returned to life a handful of times didn't mean he could rely on it being a permanent condition. The natural order of the universe would reassert itself sooner rather than later, and then what? No, it was better to treat each life he had as though it were his last.
Besides, he loathed to give up. Perhaps it was due to the same streak of stubbornness that had once resulted in his expulsion from university and later solidified his decision to set up his workshop far away from all society with the vow to keep to himself until he could prove everyone wrong. In hindsight he could see the damage his rigidity had wrought upon his life, but here in the Constant, those very traits that had isolated him from others now served to keep him alive.
He was brought back to the present by flames congesting his lungs. He had accelerated to get away from the spiders, and by low there was so little oxygen in his bloodstream that his vision was dotted with white. He would either stop to catch his breath or faint.
He looked over his shoulder. No monsters nearby.
He located the nearest safe spot, a rock positively bedazzled with veins of gold ore, and limped over to it. He all but collapsed in its shadow.
After several long minutes of simply breathing after which he began to feel a little like himself again, he sat down and opened his pack to see how much food he had left from his hasty foraging attempts. He unearthed a total of two carrots and a handful of berries. His stomach kept growling even as he had stuffed them in his mouth.
He leaned against the rock and sighed. The jagged surface was uncomfortable enough to keep him from falling asleep at once, which meant he could relax just for a moment. The fact that was now a luxury attested to just how narrow the scope of his existence had become during the chase.
That was when he heard snarling in the vicinity.
He unclasped the spear from his pack, his heart leaping to his throat. He had successfully killed a pack of Hounds before in pure desperation, but the encounter had left him torn and bleeding and easy prey to angry bees which had stung him to death a mere hour later. Now he was already in bad shape. Did he even stand a chance?
Spear in mind, he made himself as small as possible, ready to bounce into action like a coiled spring. Not that hiding would help: canines had sharp noses, and that presumably applied even to canines spun from nightmares.
By the time the growls were so loud the Hounds had to be only a yard away, he could stand the tension no longer.
He leapt away from the rock's shadow just in time to avoid a set of fangs about to sink into his shoulder.
He backed away, spear at the ready, eyes darting around as he assessed the situation. Last time there had been three Hounds, and they had nearly been the end of him. Now there were five.
He turned his tail and ran.
The Hounds were after him in a flash, nipping at his heels and growling with such ferocity Wilson couldn't help but wonder what he had done to be the target of such mindless hatred. He sped up, well aware that while the Hounds would pause occasionally to bark at him, they would be right on him again an instant later.
After several of mindless running, sweat began trickling down Wilson's face. Fine. Desperate times called for desperate measures. It was time to brave the swamp.
He swerved to the left, avoiding a Hound making an attempt at his thigh in the process. The swamp a risky decision, certainly, but going from certain death to only very likely death was still—
He nearly stuttered to a halt from pure shock. The tree monster was right ahead of him, lumbering towards him with the same steady pace as always.
Fortunately, this time his legs acted without waiting for input from his brain. They snapped violently to the right and kept moving at top speed.
Both the tree monster and the Hounds followed.
Wilson bit his lip to keep the bile rising up from spewing out. The plan remained the same. He just needed to find a more circuitous route to the swamp and hope the tentacles were vicious enough to take out the tree monster as well. If not, well, at least they would likely buy him some time.
For now, he just had to keep running. And running. And running. And running...
His stomach dropped.
He had to be imagining what he saw ahead. He had to.
But no. The closer he came, the less he could deny the truth. He had boxed himself into a peninsula.
He kept running ahead out of sheer momentum even as his body grew rigid with despair. He stopped only a moment before he would have careened into the ocean.
He grabbed onto a lone scraggly tree growing by the cliffside and stared down at the frothy waves. For a heartbeat, he had to resist the impulse to throw himself in to deny the monsters the satisfaction of killing him. He couldn't risk it: for all he knew, suicide would breach the unknowable covenant which resulted in his resurrections.
He looked over his shoulder. The Hounds were still at some distance, but they were rapidly closing the gap. Behind them, the tree monster shambled steadfastly onwards. It was almost funny to think that after such a tenacious pursuit, it wouldn't even reach Wilson before he had been torn to shreds.
He breathed in. It was time to make his final stand.
He pushed himself away from the tree and exhaled. He meant to adjust his grip on his spear, only to discover he no longer had it at all.
Blood thundered in his ear. When had he dropped it? He looked desperately around in hopes it was within sprinting distance, to no avail. What was his next best option? His axe? Did he still have one in his pack? Why couldn't he remember all of a sudden? Why was this happening to him?
"That's quite the predicament you find yourself in, pal."
Wilson spun so violently on his heels that he slammed his elbow into a branch.
Maxwell stood smirking on the edge the precipice, his hands behind his back, his outfit as spotless as ever.
Wilson clutched at his elbow and glowered at Maxwell even as the baying of the Hounds grew louder and louder. He had only seen the man a handful of times — his voice was far more familiar to Wilson than his lean, unpleasant face — but he only ever seemed to show up to taunt Wilson after he had perished. This was the first time since Wilson's first awakening in the Constant that he had appeared before Wilson's death.
Wilson didn't stop to consider the significance of the anomaly. He was already on the move.
The air around him turned strangely viscous as he leapt forward. He fought through it regardless and had plenty of time to register the wide-eyed surprise blooming on Maxwell's countenance before they collided.
Wilson's head struck Maxwell's collarbone. Maxwell wavered, but neither staggered nor lost his footing on the cliff. In fact, he seemed to barely react to the sudden impact in spite of his reediness.
Wilson didn't pause to wonder. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Maxwell's torso and stuck to him like a limpet.
"What..." There was an audible note of shock in Maxwell's tone which rapidly morphed into irritation. "Get off me."
"No."
Talon-like fingers pressed into Wilson's arm hard enough to bruise. "I said get off me, you miserable worm!"
"No!"
Maxwell's grip tightened. Despite the protective barrier of the shirtsleeve, Wilson felt his skin break and Maxwell's fingernails dig into his flesh. The pain only convinced him to tighten his hold on Maxwell in turn.
It was a plan borne of desperation. The notion he might not come back the next time he perished still played at the forefront of his mind, and the fact Maxwell had showed up before schedule only served to confirm his suspicions. If he remained physically attached to Maxwell, he just might survive due to Maxwell's need to save himself and his uncanny ability to seemingly appear and vanish out of thin air.
And if not, perhaps I can at least take him down with me.
The entire thing was a gamble, of course. Maxwell might simply disappear directly from Wilson's grasp how matter how hard he squeezed. Still. What did he have left to lose?
He squeezed his eyes shut. He focused every last ounce of strength he had left into holding on for as long as his arms remained attached to his body.
Meanwhile, Maxwell was apparently so scandalised by the situation he couldn't even find the words with which to insult Wilson. His claws dug deeper into his flesh like a set of pen knifes intent on slashing Wilson's skin open like an envelope, but even that seemed like an afterthought.
By then, the Hounds were so close Wilson could hear the lowest notes of their growling.
The very instant he felt a fang graze his elbow, he was overcome by an odd sense of weightlessness. In a snap decision that was either the result of unquenchable scientific curiosity or pure lunacy, he opened his eyes.
A swirling kaleidoscope of madness all around him immediately stuttered his mind to a halt.
"Now will you get off?"
Wilson didn't move, and not simply because irritating Maxwell was a source of petty pleasure to him. The truth was that he had no idea where his limbs even were.
He did, however, locate his tongue. "Are we alive?"
"Evidently."
"I can't see the evidence."
"If only you had been blessed by the miraculous sense known as sight."
Wilson decided it was a good time to figure out where the rest of his body was, if only so he could glare at Maxwell.
There, his heart beating wildly in his chest. His aching neck. His nose. And yes, there were his eyes, still firmly shut.
He opened them to discover Maxwell's frowning face right in front of him. "Eugh."
Maxwell rolled his eyes. "As if you're a sight for sore eyes yourself."
Wilson ignored him and instead focused on orienting himself. Past Maxwell's shoulder were deciduous trees and bushes ripe with berries, and more crucially no sign of the monsters. "Where are we?"
"Elsewhere." Maxwell sounded bored. "The Hounds we left behind will not bother you unless you go close enough for them to smell you again, but the Treeguard is already making its way in this direction."
So that was what the tree monster was called. Wilson might have guessed. "How long will it take for it reach me?"
"A day. Perhaps more."
Wilson squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. So, he had been transported elsewhere beyond the limits of all known physics. Although it was hardly the first time, he could feel layers of his sanity shedding off him like bits of dead skin.
Still. He was alive and in one piece, and if Maxwell was telling the truth, he had an entire day's head start on the Treeguard. Plenty of time to tend to his wounds and craft a new spear after stuffing himself full with whatever food he could find. It seemed too good to be true.
His internal musings were interrupted by Maxwell. "If you unhand me, I will let you know how to pacify the Treeguard."
Wilson frowned. Something about the testiness in Maxwell's tone bothered him. "You could just shove me aside."
"Not without strangling myself."
Wilson's eyes shot open. He had been vaguely aware that he was still clinging to Maxwell, but it hadn't seemed terribly important. Now he saw that his arms were firmly around Maxwell's neck in a near chokehold. Similarly, his legs were locked around Maxwell's hips. While he was on the slender side, especially after his recent forced fast, it seemed ludicrous Maxwell's spindly frame hadn't collapsed under the strain of bearing his entire weight.
Wilson was so confused he forgot to let go. He was certain he hadn't been holding Maxwell by the neck on the cliffside. He couldn't have: Maxwell had always towered over him like a giant. Had that been an illusion created by the fact he was always flat on his back when Maxwell showed up all along? Because while Maxwell still seemed taller than him, it was in the simple fashion that any tall man stood taller than someone of average height.
Very slowly, he unfurled his legs and lowered them onto the ground. He kept his arms where they were. Who was to say Maxwell wouldn't exact revenge the moment he was unhanded?
Maxwell frowned at him again. He looked different from usual in a way that couldn't be fully accounted for by Wilson's rare and all too intimate proximity to him. His features, while still sharp, didn't have the inhumane hawkishness Wilson had come to associate of him, and his eyes were simply dark rather than pitiless voids devoid of all humanity. He was still Maxwell, of course, but somehow he almost seemed... human.
Unnerved by the thought, Wilson relinquished his grip. "Fine."
Maxwell neither attacked him nor immediately disappeared. Instead, he moved away to lean against nearby rock. He folded his arms over his chest and said nothing.
If Wilson hadn't known better, he would have assumed he was exhausted.
Wilson ignored Maxwell in turn and took the opportunity to check his pack. No food and no medical supplies had spontaneously appeared in his kit, but at least he still had his axe and a collection of raw supplies. He had started with less. With luck, there would be enough rocks and perhaps even Beefalo nearby to allow him to—
"Pine cones," Maxwell said suddenly.
Wilson snapped his head up. "Ah?"
"The Treeguard is chasing you because you chopped down trees under its guardianship. To make amends, you need to bury pine cones to replace them. It will only work if it sees you doing it, mind."
Wilson stared. There was a logic to Maxwell's suggestion. That didn't mean it was true, necessarily, but it was at least eminently plausible. That almost made it more bizarre. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Didn't I say I would?"
"I didn't take you for the type to keep your word."
"Perhaps I am simply tired of watching your endless game of hide and seek with a sentient spruce."
"...Well. I suppose I'll try that."
Maxwell shrugged as though he couldn't care less whether Wilson actually pacified the Treeguard or not. He leaned more of his weight into the rock.
Wilson felt an acute urge to find something to lean against himself. A weakness unrelated to hunger pangs spread through him — the boneless relief that followed high tension. Above everything, he longed to finally sleep.
Still, while Maxwell was here, it was better to keep asking questions. "Could you have warped away without taking me with you?"
"I'll leave that to your imagination."
That was roughly the answer Wilson had been expecting. Still, it was good news. Either Maxwell wasn't nearly as powerful as he liked to be perceived as, something his current tiredness likewise seemed to attest to, or he had been fully capable of leaving Wilson to die and had instead saved him. He had even given Wilson a solution to his most pressing problem, one which Wilson now suspected was indeed entirely truthful.
He felt a surge of fondness that he could only rationalise as the result of exhaustion bordering on delirium. Before he had a chance to second-guess himself, he walked over to Maxwell.
Maxwell frowned. "What now?"
Wilson ignored him. While Maxwell stared at him with the same stunned look as if he had stabbed him, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Maxwell.
He leaned his head against Maxwell's shoulder, its boniness startlingly obvious even through layers of cloth. "Thank you."
"...Have you taken full leave of your senses?"
"I may have." Wilson barely felt sane, in truth. At best, he was giddy with days of terror and deprivation and at worst, he was inches away from being attacked by his own hallucinations. Which meant it hardly mattered if he tightened his embrace around Maxwell.
It was the most intimate contact he had had with another human being — or at least an abomination resembling a human — in years. It ought to have been terribly depressing, considering Maxwell was his nemesis, but in the moment it felt like discovering some long-lost treasure at the back of a dusty drawer. Maxwell's body was neither warm nor soft, but it was curiously solid, and with Wilson's ear practically pressed against Maxwell's neck, he could make out a distinct bird-like pulse much faster than his own.
So, Maxwell does in fact have a heart. Who would have guessed?
As soon as Wilson thought that, Maxwell gave him a violent shove. Wilson's grip slackened from the shock of the impact and he landed on the ground, practically seeing stars.
While he was still busy blinking, Maxwell straightened up his full height and adjusted his clothing with a sneer, as if Wilson inadvertently rumpling his suit was a mortal insult. As paper-white as his complexion was at the best of times, it was now positively ghastly.
"Watch yourself," he snarled. "Have you forgotten why you're here?"
Too stunned to move just yet, Wilson opted instead to glare back at Maxwell. "All the more reason why I shouldn't give a moment's thought to your opinions."
Maxwell's look of distaste turned into disgust so theatrical that under other circumstances Wilson would have laughed at it. "I suggest you keep your hands to yourself unless you want them severed from your wrists."
"Gladly."
It was only then that Wilson noticed Maxwell was standing at a peculiar angle. Rather than facing Wilson head-on as he had before, he had instead twisted his lower body so that his legs pointed directly to the side. It was a highly unnatural stance, certainly not one anyone would take by accident.
Frowning, Wilson studied Maxwell more carefully. His gaze paused just below Maxwell's hips at something the leg he had turned towards Wilson couldn't quite conceal.
He stared at it for several moment without comprehension. Then, the penny dropped.
His face lit on fire. "What..."
Maxwell grew even paler as he took in Wilson's reaction. He opened his mouth to speak, but before any words came out, he turned away.
He was gone by the time Wilson blinked again.
Slowly, Wilson pushed himself off the forest floor. He half expected the silence to fill with birdsong. Instead, there was only the creaking of the trees in the wind.
He stared at where Maxwell had been for several more moments as he continued to digest precisely what had happened.
Well. I suppose I'm not the only lonely person here.
The sudden stab of pity he felt towards Maxwell was as baffling as it was unwelcome. It was Maxwell, for crying out loud. He needed to focus on survival. Not sympathy for the devil.
Still, even as he gorged himself on berries and carrots and scouted the forest for a suitable camping spot, his mind kept returning the look on Maxwell's face just as he had turned away. He had looked betrayed, almost. By Wilson? Surely not. They were enemies, after all, and it wasn't as though Wilson had set out to intentionally embarrass him. By his own physiology? That seemed more likely.
It didn't matter, of course. It was safe to say they were both going to pretend today's interlude had never happened.
In the end, Wilson found himself a very nice spot in a clearing near the edge of the forest. The more he looked around, the more he considered simply starting over in this place with its rich resources and convenient access to both a stony field and grasslands. He even heard the lowing of Beefalo in the distance. Purposefully or not — and it was almost certainly the latter — Maxwell just might have done him a favour.
That night, he stoked the flames until they were blazing and curled up in a sleeping bag for the first time in nearly a week. He was asleep before his head hit the forest floor.
And if his dreams featured Maxwell in configurations wholly different from his usual nightmares, that was simply another matter he would never speak of to anyone.