Page 92 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

But the fae, may all the gods damn them, remained on their knees, or rather, their roots. In the brief span of time he’d looked away, the dryad’s transformation was astonishing. Their lower body did not resemble anything human now. Instead, there was a network of roots stretching across the clearing, a woody spiderweb with the dryad a spider at its centre. Their arms were thick as jungle vines, their fingers tangling through the wall of forest, surrounding a space brightened not just by the halo’s glow but by the myriad of creatures within it. The sight was really quite glorious, but all the work being done to stave off the angels amounted to little.

Robin raised their head, though their shoulders remained slumped with duress. ‘They are so very strong, daemon.’ Their voice was the hush of a pile of dry autumn leaves. ‘I fear I cannot hold them back much longer.’

The pain filling their features made Pitch flinch. ‘Then don’t,’ he said. ‘Let go. Run. Find the ankou, help him instead.’ Because it wasnottoo late for such things. ‘Take your protection to him.’

Behind the dryad, the halo’s scar widened. Great hefts of foliage came away, the forest racing to replace the dead and dying limbs with new green shoots. A pointless struggle that was going to destroy this forest, and all who lived in her. Because these imbeciles called him friend.

The thought struck hard, left him breathless and filled with the strangest sorrow. Thank the gods he’d never felt like this leading his legion. If loss had so bothered him then, the Berserker Prince would have been done with centuries before now.

‘Run, you fool!’ he shouted. ‘Damn you, go. Find the ankou, you cannot fight the angels.’

‘Nor can you.’ Robin was defiant, a glint in their daisy-yellow eyes, the beautiful scalloping at their edges seeming to sharpen.

The glare from the halo brightened, and the woven barrier shuddered. The splintering of wood was terrible, the crack and snap and anguish of bones breaking as the halo’s power carved its path, umaking the fortress even as it sought to reassemble. A melodic hue and cry ran through the snarled limbs and rose up from the creatures who offered their strength to the dryad’s trees.

Pitch fought to steer his mind clear of Silas, of his absence in this hour of great need. Of the few things that would keep the ankou from his side at such a time.

‘Robin, we cannot hold them back,’ the leshy cried, and the Major Oak trembled as though struck by the axe of a giant.

Pitch shifted about in his confines, a rat trapped. His pulse was so quickened that there was no beat, just a hum in his chest. Scarlet buzzed about him, tiny fists balled, mouthing off who-knew-what in its strange language towards the growing chaos outside.

‘I am begging you, Major’– and Pitch loathed begging– ‘release me.’

There was not enough air in the godsdamned trunk. Pitch opened up Silas’s coat, desiring the coolness of the air, but not prepared to remove the Inverness entirely.

Scarlet squealed, stabbing a pointed violet finger towards the ground. The wisp dove downwards, letting its rainbow hues highlight what it was indicating.

Sections of the Major’s oak had turned an insipid grey, the sickly shade of the unwell.

‘What is that?’ Pitch crouched down, Silas’s coat spilling around him. He tugged at it so it would not touch where the oak was tainted and peered closer at the discolouring. This was the ghostly grey of a long-dead tree, one turned white with time and weather. Pitch touched a finger to the damage and recoiled at the tingling against his skin. ‘Magick,’ he whispered.

What fouled the Major Oak was not so pure a thing as death. This was the work of angels. Of divine magick.

‘I’m not done for yet,’ the Major declared, though he did not manage the lie very well.

‘Bullshit. They are killing you.’ Pitch shot to his feet, pressing up to the peephole. ‘Robin, for the gods’ sake, just go!’

The dryad lifted their head to find him. Pitch hissed through pressed teeth. One side of their face already suffered as the oak did, gone ghastly grey with petrification. Some of the brownies were already turned to stone, trapped at an active moment, one with an arm raised as though to ward off the evil encompassing them. Several of the gnomes’ heads were turned to ashen peaks where they stood sentinel around the border of the clearing, and the toadstools had not escaped unscathed, most of the illumination now coming solely from the glare of the halo. The incoming assault had widened its girth. The circle of dead and dying foliage would be wide enough now to accommodate Lalassu and Sanu walking side by side. Thought of the horses only served to deepen Pitch’s agitation. Where the bloody, blazing hell were those infernal animals?

‘We can withstand this a while longer.’ The dryad’s efforts to speak were awful to witness, with one cheek jagged and hard as a cliff face.

‘You are dying. Don’t try to be a fucking hero, you fool.’ But Robin lowered their head, sending more new growth to race towards the halo’s mark. Pitch’s ire rose. ‘You’re too pathetic for this, look at your tree.’ He punched at the mix of stone and wood for good measure. What was a bruised knuckle amongst all else? ‘Your oak is dying too, stupid, idiot fae. You are outmatched.’ The dryad’s gold-wheat hair hung limp, its vibrancy being stolen along with much else. Pitch swallowed. ‘Do not sacrifice yourself for someone who does not wish to be saved.’

He sagged with the release of saying it aloud. Gods, he wished this over with. Let them come, let the angels destroy what Seraphiel had made of him. What did he fucking care if this world had Azazel for a master, if the Severance War finally took a turn one way or the other? What did he truly fucking care? He was no longer a part of any world, not this one, nor Arcadia. Pitch was…well, he had no idea what he fucking was, apart from the reason everyone who came near him was endangered.

The reason Silas was nowhere to be seen.

Pitch turned from the sight of Robin and their feeble mission to protect him. He shoved his fingers through his hair, pulling at the roots until it stung. ‘I’d feel it…would I not? If he fell?’

Scarlet chirruped, dangling by one hand from his shirt button, patting at his breast with the other. Trying to soothe him.

Could all that mattered be lost so simply? Without a sound. Without so much as a whisper. Or a whistled note?

Of course it fucking could.

The stony creep of petrification rose higher up the inside of the Major’s trunk. The oak could not suppress his groans. His timbers were splitting, light was seeping in through the hairline cracks in the wood.

A crack large enough for Scarlet to dart through. Pitch was barely quick enough to stop them.