"I suppose it depends on your translation. G.o.d Killer, G.o.d Slayer, Killer of G.o.ds, it could be any of those."

Gwynn held the blade close to his face. Xanthe spoke to him-filled him with knowledge of how to fight. It contained an intelligence-no, a personality-separate from his own. This blade remained silent, like it was just another digit on his hand.

"G.o.d Slayer..." he said. "Xanthe meant Wrath. Why do all our weapons carry such horrible names? Is this my heart? It killed Mimir without me even giving the instruction. It was like...instinct."

"I didn't say that was its name. I just translated what Mimir said. But...he's not wrong if we're speaking strictly about what it's capable of."

"Just for once, I wish it was something nice."

Sophia laughed.

"What would you like? Pink Hoodie? Or maybe, Fluffy Bunny?"

"Don't underestimate fluffy bunnies," Gwynn said. "They can be killers."

Gwynn focused on the blade, telling it with his mind to go away. It remained stubbornly in place.

"It's nothing like Xanthe," he said. "It's not speaking to me or listening either. It just feels...dead."

"I doubt that. You just don't want to admit it feels like it's a part of you. Everything is connected, right Gwynn? Or have you forgotten so quickly? Instead of connecting to everything outside of yourself, how about connecting a little within yourself?"

He stretched out his right arm, angling the blade downward, and reached across himself with his left to lay his hand on the newly attached limb. The bleached skin felt like it had been exposed to winter's cold for hours. Still, with slight movements, he could feel muscles moving beneath the surface. Despite years apart from his body, it moved naturally and without any stiffness or aches. But this was all superficial. What mattered was deeper. He spread the fingers of his left hand, trying to cover as much of the surface of this limb that was his and yet felt so alien.

Dive. Connect. Find its secrets.

Eyes closed, all his thoughts focused toward the arm, he lost sense of where, or when, he was. Falling, but not into darkness. Beneath him, blue seas, stretching beyond sight. He was falling through a morning sky, the sunrise peeking over the horizon in front, painting the clouds a mix of gold and red. The sun's warmth caressed his cheek and a breeze whispered indiscernible phrases. His muscles loosened and his mind abandoned all thoughts beyond this single moment.

Is this peace?

A shroud fell over the sun. Each beat of his heart increased in tempo and strength. His face grew cold, robbed of the sun and from the chill wind blowing against the sweat breaking on his brow.

How far away was the surface?

The fall came to an abrupt end, landing not in water, but on soft earth. From the height he'd fallen, he should've burst. He remained in one piece, but his breaths came short and shallow. Anything fuller sent stabs of pain through his chest.

He kept telling himself, I'm still in the Veil. I didn't really fall anywhere.

The mantra did nothing to alleviate the pain. A slow draw on the Veil's healing energies made steady improvements. He fought against the greedy instinct to take it in gulps.

"I honestly didn't think I'd be seeing you again," a familiar voice said from behind him.

Gwynn opened his eyes.

I don't remember ever shutting them.

He found himself in the same forest clearing he'd awakened in after being swallowed by his soul.

Gwynn rose to his knees.

"h.e.l.lo, Xanthe. I didn't think I would see you again, either."

The sound of snapping twigs drew Gwynn's attention to his left. Xanthe stepped from the shadows cast by several clumped together trees. When they'd first met, Gwynn mistook him for Cain, his appearance being so similar. Now, even though his shape remained the same, there was no mistaking this thing for Cain-perhaps not even as person. A mottled gray replaced the pinkish white of flesh and he regarded Gwynn through black eyes.

"I see you have a new toy," Xanthe said.

Gwynn followed Xanthe's gaze to his right arm. The white blade still protruded from his hand.

Idle chatter would only distract him-and distraction would get him killed. He reached out, touched the earth beneath him. Stalagmites erupted from the ground where Xanthe stood.

The personification of Gwynn's heart somersaulted backward, landing several feet away.

His face was a picture of bemus.e.m.e.nt.

"Ohhh. A new toy and a new trick. You might just be able to entertain me." Xanthe licked the fingers of his right hand. "Are you ready? Because here I come."

Xanthe plunged toward Gwynn, the familiar dark blade forming in his hand.

Parry, strike, counter, conditioning kept Gwynn from dying, but there was no denying he missed the boost Xanthe gave his fighting abilities. His parries were painful, strikes pitiful and poorly timed, and his counters had yet to reach their target.

But he wasn't dead.

Ebony sword struck against white blade. But the dark sword bent, twisted, and elongated, aiming to strike his unprotected back.

From the side of Gwynn's right forearm, a second blade surged forth, snapping at the a.s.sault like a viper.

I'm not dead. But I can't keep up like this. I'm getting lucky, my arm seems to have some instincts. Too bad it's leaving the rest of me so stupid.

Xanthe pushed back, landing more than ten feet away. Despite their series of blows, his body remained loose and if he was breathing, it was barely perceptible.

For his part, Gwynn's breaths were coming in heaves. If not for the continued line to the Veil he'd left open, he would drop. But even inside the Veil itself, the amount of energy he could absorb into his body at a single time had limits. His limbs were starting to tremble and while his reclaimed arm wasn't changing, the skin above had begun to scale over.

Xanthe jumped into the air, familiar wings bursting from his back, and came at Gwynn from above.

"I hate you," Xanthe howled. "Just die. Die. Just f.u.c.king die!"

No skill accompanied the strikes-just random, frenzied slashing. But they were strong, every one filled with the strength of an Anunnaki, and hate only a heart could summon.

Gwynn rolled with one of the downward strikes, glancing it aside with his own blade. Xanthe carried through, sending a storm of earth and stone into the air.

Taking advantage of the delay in Xanthe's attacks, Gwynn spread his own wings, launching into the air.

They became twin blurs, leaving spiraling white and black trails streaking through the sky. The sparks and noise from their swords clashing scarred the sky like lightning and thunder.

"Why did you come back?" Xanthe said. "Why didn't you just lock me up and run away?"

I'm wondering why I came here too. I didn't plan it.

Something warm and wet fell on Gwynn's cheek.

Blood? Rain?

There was no time to reach a hand to check. But a rain would cover all of him, and there was no way he'd caused Xanthe to bleed.

His opponent's mouth was contorted into a sneer, but his eyes glistened.

He's crying? Why would he...?

Wait. Just wait until the next rotation...Now!

Gwynn pushed every last reserve he had into his attack, not just parrying, but pushing Xanthe down to the ground.

Their impact blasted a crater into the forest floor.

Throwing caution aside, Gwynn tore into the Veil, letting its energies flood into him. His arms shook, his left fingers elongated into claws, and his flesh burned and itched as it dried into hardened scales. It didn't matter. All that mattered was keeping Xanthe pinned.

"Who are you?" Gwynn asked. "Because there's no way you're the Xanthe I used to summon. I never felt remorse or doubt, or even hatred."

Held in place beneath Gwynn's blade, the man claiming to be Xanthe struggled, using his second hand to press in vain against his own blade.

"You know the answer. It's just too difficult for you to face. So you're trying to lock me down, selecting what you want and what you don't."

Gwynn let the Veil's energies slide away and took several cautious steps away, keeping his sword ready.

"Xanthe responded to my call because of the anger and fear in my heart. But it was Cain's weapon. That's why it never felt right-why it scared me."

"You're heart is your own, whether you share a soul or not."

Gwynn's voice fell to a whisper. "Then why was it the same?"

"Does that frighten you? Did losing your arm to Cain's version scare you so much you left your own Xanthe behind? If anything, that seems to be your special Anunnaki ability, to lose your powers out of fear. You did it as a child and you did it again in Valhalla."

"And you hate me because I abandoned you? I left you behind because that's not my life anymore. I don't need to be so angry anymore, or feel abandoned. I have love and happiness. This blade," Gwynn nodded toward the white blade, "is more fitting for who I am now."

Xanthe's laughter mocked him.

"But it won't speak to you, will it? The hands act. Only the heart whispers."

"You didn't answer my question," Gwynn said. "Why would my heart's blade take the same shape as Cain's?"

Xanthe inched toward his feet.

"Because you hid from your heart for years. When you needed it, it a.s.sumed the shape your soul knew best. If you'd lived, allowed yourself to love and be hurt, truly wept till you broke, and not been so afraid you locked your powers away, you would've found your own shape."

"And you know because you are my heart, not Cain's."

Xanthe nodded.

"Are you ready to live?" he asked. "Can you accept fear, anger, and pain? Will you accept the burden of your true power?"

It's why I came.

Nodding his agreement, Gwynn lowered his sword.

Xanthe flew forward, his blade driving into Gwynn's chest.

A gasp escaped Gwynn's lips, but he swallowed down anything else. He put his left hand over Xanthe's where he held the blade. Gwynn pulled Xanthe forward. The sword, instead of pushing through his back, seemed to coil inside him.

Gwynn's words came in gasps. "I accept you."

Xanthe smiled. "You finally accept yourself. I won't answer to Xanthe anymore."

"So what do I call you?" Gwynn asked.

The former Xanthe gave a small laugh.

"Do you need to name your heart to make it beat?"

"But all Anunnaki...?"

"Do the unnecessary. I've aided you in the past without you calling a name, haven't I? If you have need, there will be an answer."

"Thank you," Gwynn said.

But there was no longer anyone else to hear.

The white blade no longer protruded from his hand, A fully formed sword clenched in his fist took its place. His left hand held the ebony blade he once called Xanthe.

He stood and swung the swords, their movements intuitive and feeling like extensions of his own arms. There was no probing, discomforting, sentience like Xanthe. Each movement felt natural, his body twisting, the twin blades pa.s.sing within a hair's breadth of each other, but never clashing. He flipped the blades in a circle on either hand and let them return to the Veil.

Screeching tires and tearing metal drew his attention to a spot in the distance.

Gwynn started running toward the sound. Others soon filled the night-growls, screams, and flashes of light. Then a nova's intensity burst, forcing Gwynn to shield his eyes to keep from being blinded.

When he reached the road, the Curse was obliterated, his father lay dead, and his younger self was unconscious.

He pa.s.sed them and made his way to the car wreck. His mother still sat in the pa.s.senger's seat. A small nudge against the Veil told him she was dead-probably from the time of impact. Still, she looked peaceful.

Sobs tore through his chest and tears followed soon after. He thought he should say something, but no words came. What could he say now that he hadn't thought over the years?

He was sorry. If he hadn't hid in his room when Dad called, they might have missed the Curse. Or sorry he lived and she didn't.

Gwynn shook his head. No, these were his thoughts as a child. He was a parent now-he realized his mother wouldn't have him be sorry for these things. If there was anything to be sorry about, it was he waited so long to make the most of his life. She would have wanted that more than anything. He knew, because he loved his daughter as much as his mom loved him. And he wanted his daughter to live-to be happy and make the most of every day. He was sorry he took so long to figure it out. Her memory deserved better.

He couldn't tell how long the tears ran, or when his body finally succ.u.mbed to exhaustion. The pa.s.sage from sorrow to sleep happened seamlessly.

A gentle tapping on his shoulder roused him.

"Time to wake up, sleepy head."