At dawn Al didn't rise.
With only so many possible places she could awaken, he dug with his hands, Peter standing behind him. The mad lad handed him water whenever he exhausted himself, and over the course of the day, he managed to dig up one lifeless body.
The poor bastard, whoever it was, probably gave up long before noon.
He dragged the body to the edge of the passage, then let the serpents drag it away.
Again, the following morning, he dug wherever he believed the one god fated him to do so. Were the lone deity so gracious, he'd let himself, Peter, and Al rot in the swamp together at least. Maybe if he played into the gods' hands they'd fate him to do the opposite. It only made sense as he'd been within a strike of securing much of what he needed, and it was all taken away.
She was fast, but still vulnerable.
Child of the gods his arse, and even if it took a hundred years, he'd march right back into Marryvia with an oversized stick and beat her over the head with it.
Halfway down the next corpse, another poor soulless wretch giving up before lunch, and still no Al.
In spite of his aching arms, he dug again.
Peter retrieved more water for him, though he refused. He clawed into the ground, thinking of her every move. Beneath his flail, against his shield. Such power and speed, and he very well could've won the fight had they brought William and Arthur.
Armless, the fucking oaf, had just needed to retreat and wait for their awakening, though the gargoyle was exactly who he was were he to be born one of their kind.
In a rage filled dig, he didn't realize he was ripping out skin from a shivering soulless man. The man, elder looking with short hair, looked up at him with teary eyes. He helped him to the fire where Peter fed them both cooked toads. At dusk the old man limped away to huddle amongst the others, silent and lost, awaiting a miracle.
"What if she won't bother?" Peter asked.
"Doesn't matter, I'll dig her up," he replied, flexing the bit of muscle he'd built.
"But, what if s-."
"I'll dig her up!" He shouted, then coughed up blood.
At dawn he dug, bare handed, ripping out his own fingernails.
His arms swelled like he'd just emptied his old flask. What little use it'd be, as it'd burn him from the inside out in his reborn state. Just as he'd been years ago, without a shred of memory, he was all skin, bone, a little muscle, and plenty of anger. Anger got him halfway out the swamp, though a massive club got him farther.
With not one, but two others, it could be done sooner.
Yet how much longer would the Embers remain in Marryvia? Assuming they were even alive, and as much faith as he had in Dany's strength, Nathan was a breath away from crumbling last he saw.
He dug faster, chewing on worms to ward off hunger.
Day after day, at least two weeks, maybe three, he dug up dozens of dead eyed or dead soulless with no avail.
While resting by the fire, Peter casting a line with worms, he listened to a tight groan.
He hurried to the darkness of the passage, and found Al sticking her head up. She stopped moving upon sight of him, then held a hand out. She was so frail he gave her light tugs rather than yanking her out, careful as she dragged the rest of herself up.
Tears in her eyes, she remained on her knees.
"Is this hell?" She muttered.
He lifted her up, Peter approaching them and taking to her other side.
"It's a shithole," he replied, helping her limp along, "and we're all getting out. Right away."
Easy to say with no weapons, no skill, not even half of his starting strength.
When he dragged himself out of the ground before, years ago in the same shithole, he didn't tire. It took time to build his strength, but he'd never been exhausted, and he believed the one god, or the gods, were punishing him after all.
Yet with a mad lad and the sharpest of the Embers, there was strength in numbers.
Even a dozen lanky armed soulless could bring down an ogre, he'd seen it before.
He sat Al beside the fire, wrapping her with a cold wet rag.
While Al ate for the first time in what must've felt like ages, he retrieved twigs, rocks, and anything good enough to use as a weapon. Peter could light his staff ablaze, using it as a flaming stick, and the wood would never burn. Courtesy of the swamps festering dung magic, he decided not to ponder where the mad lad acquired such a stick.
"From an ogre's dunghole," Peter snickered, lighting his staff. "Took it from him while he was sleep, the bastard might thank me for giving him painless shits for the first time in years."
He ignored dumb damn repulsive fuckery, and kept watch over Al.
She uttered nothing since crawling out of the ground, though he knew there were hundreds of thoughts running through her head. One of the wittiest he'd ever known, something was troubling her, enough to the point she couldn't muster a will to walk.
"Most think waking up here's terrible fate," he said, looking at a snoring Peter. "Staying here's what's torment."
Moans, weeps, and toothless wiry thin jaws gnawing on grubs.
They were from the same world, each one with a different tale. Some remembered, some didn't, but it mattered not within a land many believed was once part of the kingdoms. Only men awakened, as far as he knew, and men fought not with almighty power or gifts from the gods. Just one foot in front of the other, pain and repetition, and enough time would bring victory.
One step at a time.
After sharpening one last stick, twenty in all, he handed half to Al. He took five for himself, then clouted a drooling Peter awake, giving the mad lad the rest.
"I do-I don't think I can do this," Al wept, tucking herself within the dry towel.
"I don't either," he said, examining the water.
Some strength came to him, digging like a mad man, almost tearing apart his fingers.
Yet nothing compared to what he was.
Even if they did fight their way out the swamps, it'd take him years to gain back what he lost. There was only one way to tell whether it was truly worth the trouble.
He stepped out first, and serpents hissed in an instant.
SSSSSsssssSSSSSSsssssss!
Pins stabbed between his toes, swamp cacti and coral with teeth biting him every step.
Al couldn't get more than two steps from the shore. Peter whispered in her ear, took her hand, and ignited his staff.
Hisses turned to growls, and bright yellow eyes appeared round the trio. He lowered his stick, then swung it back and forth within the water. Peter waved the staff, yet the gators closed in on them.
Two took Peter and Al behind him. A single bite snapped them in to, then the beasts span ripping their flesh from bones.
What felt like a stone club slammed into his belly, knocking him off his feet. Within dung ridden waters he kicked and cursed. Eyes shines before him, and he thrusted. Into its snout, a rotted sharp stick spear bled the gator. It roared, lashing away from him.
Though on either side jaws crushed his arms, ripping them from his sockets. Water filled his lungs, shit and blood just the way he remembered, and he kicked for as long as he could.
A long walk awaited them.