Word of the massacre had the tribe shaken. But when the doors opened again, when Savae stepped out, covered in crimson from head to tail, she admonished them.
The traitors had died to save their chief.
And no one questioned it.
They praised her, they praised Tunu and rejoiced when they learned he would recover. With their shaman still missing, and the apprentice that had come dead, they put all of their hopes on the kobel feeding.
With this the keep fell still. The last of the battles died down in the evening and routine, ever so slowly, set back in.
Tunu had been able to get up.
Every single motion was excruciating, but he could walk, he could talk, he could breathe. That wounded heart blindly gave him that strength while suffering.
And he was thinking, that was fear. Surely that was fear. Surely that monster in his chest, fearful of him in that moment of weakness, was trying to appease him. It was what any animal would do.
So he ordered to be brought to the basement, then demanded that they prepared a bath there for him. They brought a large basin, poured water and warmed it. They brought oils and perfumes.
Finally he ordered everyone out, and all fires extinguished.
Once all were out, he forced himself up and to the stool near that basin.
There he fell, heaving, his chest a furnace.
"I wished I could do anything for you." He lied to his own heart. "You have done so much... You are still doing so much for me."
And the warmth he felt, the ardor, seemed like an answer.
"It must hurt. You are so wounded. Don't push yourself so hard."
There was almost a protest in the way the heartbeat strengthened. He soothed it with one hand.
"There. There. Even you have your limits. And I can't stand the thought of losing you. You too deserve a rest, after all you have done."
Again that heart protested. A heart knew no pause. It would never stop beating, no matter what.
So he tried another approach.
"And you know, I've never seen my savior. Aren't we friends? Yet all I do is take from you, and we never met. Isn't that sad?"
At that his heart softened.
His heart could tell, exactly, that it was all lies. That he had nothing but hatred for it. And still, the monster it was softened. Listened to those kind words.
"Right? Why don't we rest together? There is a bath, you could enjoy it. We would discuss, there is so much I wish to hear!"
Maybe he believed his own lies.
Maybe the kobel had deceived even himself because he sounded so genuine. And there was reason to believe his words since he himself was grieving.
To others, learning that his dreams had been a lie sounded so petty. So insignificant. That the sole reason that kept kobels going was make belief, a self-delusion, hardly mattered now that they could get scales through their own means.
But truth was, his mind had gone blank.
"I'm all alone."
That was the truth. It was easy for him to forget, when so many surrounded him, adored him, befriended him but for the longest time, that had been the truth.
And his heartbeat softened even more, tightening for him. Mirroring the pain he felt when seeing the ravaged face of Elua rejecting him.
Why. Why, he wondered, because in his mind nothing had changed.
He was still the same.
"I've always been alone. Even before getting those scales... In a way, you've been the first company I ever had."
Yes, he believed his own lies. They mirrored his feelings so perfectly, so they had to be true. And the heart kept warming to his voice so surely, it was the truth.
"You too were alone?"
No monster would be so stupid as to fall for it though. Uokror had felt alone and he had chained it. His heart could not fall for it.
His wounded heart was opening to the idea.
Ever so slowly he felt it pushing, pushing to get out. But gently. Without disturbing his chest. Because blood still needed to pulse. That duty would not stop.
And so, so conveniently, they were in the basement. Where the rough black sphere had been stored.
"Wait." He offered. "If you leave I'll die. Let's use that fake heart for a while. But only until you feel better."
His heart agreed.
He pushed himself up, walked to the table to grab the sphere. The moment he brought it to his chest, tendrils appeared, flowing out of it.
Thin, light pink tendrils, looking sick.
They grabbed the sphere to hold it against his heavy scales. Then, they pressed further and the keratin seemed to melt. Because those were not his scales but the monster's body extended, mimicking what he wanted to become.
A lie, through and through.
It pulled the sphere in, further in pushing against the flesh until it nestled inside. The scales closed behind. A terrifying, unnatural sight that the kobel tried to deny.
He could feel the sphere starting to pulse in turn. A blind, cold, constant pulse. Nothing but what was needed, regardless of his state, to maintain life.
"There. You did it. Now, won't you spend time with me?"
His heart agreed.
It started to push out, to seep through the flesh, leaving that sphere behind beating in its stead. Slowly the pink tendrils emerged to spread.
Then a pink fluid enveloped them, seeping, struggling through the scales. Because even then, when pretending to believe the kobel, that heart was loath to disturb his dreams. It would not have left his body if not certain that the shape would last.
Tunu offered it a hand to flow on.
So a small, pink sphere emerged, all soft and squishy, within that pink, liquid membrane in which the tendrils floated freely.
The sphere, no bigger than an egg, feel into his palm to nest there.
It was wounded. He could see the open gash in it where the blade had hit, fluids flowing in and out like cream.
The mighty monster that had felled a wyvern like nothing seemed so puny now in his hand.
He gulped. His breath had become short, not just of fear but from the sudden weight now that the creature had left him. He finally felt just how much it took to wear scales denser than iron, to not have them crush the flesh.
Yes, without that heart he was nothing. That was exactly what drew his ire.
It squirmed in his hand, jolted by pain, and that was a signal. He dropped the act. His eyes filled with anger to squeeze the beast in his hand, to squeeze it in his sharp claws.
He had to kill it now or risk unleashing a mortal enemy.
And to his horror that small squishy fear resisted. The tendrils latched on his arm, but weakly. It squirmed, it struggled with all it had, unable to get free.
That gave him hope. The kobel fought back the strain, pressed harder and added his second hand. And when that still wasn't enough he started to smash the monster against the table, to hammer it and see the wood crack, the furniture break.
So he kept smashing it against the cold stone under.
There was despair, there was hatred, until he finally felt a crack. His fists found no more resistance. The tendrils went inert.
Still he kept smashing and when nothing was left to smash he started to claw at the puddle before him, to claw madly in the dark. Until it was gone. Until it was gone! Until nothing remained in him but that cold, hollow heart of his.
He was free.