Eris blinked, her heart still performing a frantic drum solo against her ribs. The world felt too quiet, too still, after the roaring chaos of the storm. Dáinn swung his leg over Skógr's and dismounted with a casual grace that suggested splitting supernatural weather phenomena was a Tuesday afternoon errand. He secured his sword back to its place on the saddle with a quiet finality, then turned and reached up for her.
Her movements were clumsy, her limbs feeling like over-cooked noodles. She turned, swinging her leg over, and his hands found her waist, his grip firm and sure. He controlled her descent, lowering her slowly until her feet touched the soft, damp earth. For a long, suspended moment, they didn't move. His hands remained on her waist, her body only centimeters from his. The air between them was charged, thick with the scent of his leather and the wild, cold night, and the clean, simple smell of her shampoo. She could feel the residual heat coming off him in waves, a furnace banked after a great exertion.
Skógr let out a soft, impatient nicker, breaking the spell.
Eris stumbled back a half-step, the words tumbling out. "We should probably—"
"Right," Dáinn said, his voice a low rumble. He dropped his hands, the absence of his touch feeling like a sudden chill. "Find the... ah... stone."
Eris instantly regretted the loss of contact, a foolish, aching wish she shoved down. She watched him turn and walk toward the dark, murmuring ribbon of the Tennessee River, his form a solid silhouette against the starlit water. Taking a steadying breath, she rushed to catch up, stopping at the water's edge to kick off her sneakers.
Dáinn glanced back. "What are you doing?"
"Only one way to find a river stone," she started to say, her grin faltering as her senses fully attuned to the space around them. The air, which had merely felt cool and quiet, now felt… crowded. Thick. She could hear it—not with her ears, but with that other part of her—a low, collective hum of anguish. Her eyes widened, seeing not just the peaceful riverbank, but the overlapping, translucent images of men in blue and grey, stumbling, falling, crying out in silent agony. "Whoa."
Dáinn was at her side in an instant. "What is it?"
"There are… a lot of spirits here," she whispered, her voice hushed with a reverent horror. "And… they're not just here. They're…" She jumped back as a figure in a tattered Confederate officer's coat materialized directly in front of her, his face a mask of pain and confusion. He wasn't looking at her; he was reliving his final moments, clawing at his chest, his mouth forming a silent name.
Dáinn's hand came down on her shoulder, a heavy, grounding weight. "Eris."
She trembled, her gaze sweeping the horrific panorama. "They're all reliving their last moments in the battle. The AI said there were 23,500 deaths here. It's like they're stuck. A record, playing over and over."
The officer-ghost—Captain Robert Templeton—suddenly staggered to his feet, his spectral eyes, sharp and furious, locking onto Eris. The reliving was over; he saw her. "Eleanor?" he rasped, his voice a dry, echoing rustle. He took a step toward her, his hand outstretched with a possessiveness that made her skin crawl. "My Eleanor!"
Dáinn gave her a slight shake. "Focus. We find the stone, and we go."
Eris nodded absently, her eyes still glued to the advancing captain as Dáinn gently guided her, barefoot, toward the cold, dark water. The silt squelched between her toes, a jarringly mundane sensation in the midst of a waking nightmare. The quest for a simple stone had led them into the heart of a wound that had never healed, and the past was reaching for them with cold, desperate hands.
The cold mud of the riverbank oozed between Eris's toes, a gritty, real sensation that fought for attention against the phantom screams echoing in her mind. All around them, the Battle of Stones River played out in silent, gruesome tableaus—soldiers clutching ghostly wounds, charging through trees that were no longer there, their mouths open in silent cries. Dáinn, seemingly immune to the spectral horror show, was already wading into the shallows, his gaze fixed on the riverbed, his hands skimming the dark water.
"How are we supposed to know when we've found the right one?" Eris asked, her voice unsteady as she reluctantly stepped into the shockingly cold water, her eyes darting toward a Union soldier who repeatedly vanished and reappeared as a cannonball of ectoplasm tore through him.
"It will feel different," Dáinn replied, not looking up, his focus absolute. "The sorrow will be concentrated. Like a weight." He bent over, feeling through the silt and pebbles.
Eris mimicked him, bending at the waist to peer into the murky water. Suddenly, the translucent form of Captain Robert Templeton materialized directly over her, his aristocratic face contorted with outrage.
"Eleanor! What in God's name are you doing?" his voice rasped, a dry leaf skittering across stone. "Wallowing in the muck like a common… field hand! Have you lost all sense of propriety?"
Eris snapped upright, stumbling back a step in the water. "I'm not Eleanor," she muttered, but the ghost advanced, his presence cold and oppressive.
"You will mind your tone, woman! And you will get out of this filth at once!" he commanded, taking another spectral step forward.
Eris, unnerved, took another step back, her eyes wide as she watched him continue his tirade. "Dáinn…" she said, her voice tight with a mixture of fear and frustration.
Dáinn looked up, his sharp eyes taking in her retreat and the aggressive specter. "Eris, watch your—"
His warning was cut short. As Eris glanced over her shoulder at him, something long, simian, and slick as wet leather erupted from the water. A powerful, hand-like appendage at the end of a muscular tail wrapped around her calf with a grip like iron.
Eris's scream was cut off as she was yanked backwards, disappearing beneath the dark, churning surface of the river with a violent splash.
"Eris!" Dáinn's roar was raw. He lunged, diving into the deep water after her. The world became a cold, dark chaos. He saw it then—a creature with a dog-like face, a monkey's body, and that terrifying, prehensile tail dragging a struggling Eris deeper into the abyss. Its hands ended in sharp claws, and it moved through the water with an unnatural, malevolent grace.
Dáinn drove himself forward, his powerful strokes closing the distance. The Ahuizotl turned, its beady eyes glowing with a faint, sickly yellow in the gloom. It swiped at him with its claws, but Dáinn was faster. He drove his hunting knife deep into the creature's shoulder. It thrashed, a bubbling screech lost in the water, its tail tightening around Eris, who was going limp. With a furious twist, Dáinn wrenched the blade free and plunged it into the base of the creature's skull. The Ahuizotl went rigid, then dissolved into a cloud of black, oily smoke that dissipated in the current.
He grabbed Eris, her body lifeless in his arms, and kicked hard for the surface. He burst into the air, gasping, and hauled her onto the bank, laying her on the grass. Her face was pale, her lips tinged with blue.
"Skógr!" Dáinn's call was sharp with a panic he rarely allowed himself. The great horse was there in an instant. Dáinn tore open a saddlebag, his hands searching frantically until they closed on a small, crystalline vial filled with a liquid that swirled with a faint, internal light. He uncorked it, pried Eris's mouth open, and poured the potion down her throat.
For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. Then, Eris convulsed, coughing up river water in a great, heaving gasp. She rolled onto her side, choking and sputtering, before pushing herself up to a sitting position, dripping and shivering violently.
"What… what happened?" she croaked, her teeth chattering.
"An Ahuizotl pulled you under," Dáinn said, his voice rough with relief. He was kneeling beside her, his own clothes soaked.
"A what-zotl?"
"A creature from the jungles and deep waters of my world. It drowns its prey to consume their souls. It should not be here."
Eris wrapped her arms around herself, her shivering intensifying as the shock set in. "So… it came through the gate?"
Dáinn's jaw tightened. He gave a short, reluctant nod. "Yes."
Eris absorbed this, the reality of the chaos she'd unleashed hitting her with the force of a physical blow. "Okay," she whispered, a simple word laden with a heavy burden.
Seeing her shiver uncontrollably, Dáinn stood and went to his saddle, retrieving a heavy, wool-lined cloak. He returned and wrapped it around her shoulders, its size swallowing her whole. It carried his scent—leather, cold air, and the wild.
"Stay here," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Get dry. Get warm. I will find the stone."
He turned and marched back toward the river, his soaked clothes clinging to him, his posture rigid with a renewed, furious purpose. The hunt was no longer just for his hounds; it was a race against the spreading infection from the wound she had opened.
The Tennessee River flowed on, its dark water whispering secrets of old sorrows. Dáinn stood waist-deep, his soaked shirt plastered to his back, his movements methodical as he sifted through the riverbed. Each stone he picked up was felt, weighed in his palm, and discarded with a soft plunk. The water swirled around his legs, cold and insistent.
Wrapped in the heavy cloak that smelled of horse and wilderness, Eris watched from the bank, her shivering gradually subsiding. The near-drowning had left a hollow feeling in her chest, but her mind was churning, trying to piece together the chaos.
"Do you think the storm was a spell?" she called out, her voice cutting through the gentle rush of the river.
Dáinn didn't pause his search, but his shoulders tightened slightly. He looked up, water dripping from his dark hair. "Most likely."
"But why?" Eris pressed, pulling the cloak tighter. "Why would someone go to all that trouble? What's the advantage of keeping your hounds here?"
Dáinn's expression was flat, his frustration evident. "I am not entirely sure. I do not know what benefit another would gain from my hounds being loose in this world. Their purpose is tied to the Hunt, not to the schemes of witches with agendas."
Eris leaned back, looking up at the vast, star-dusted sky, wiping a damp strand of hair from her cheek. The silence stretched, filled only by the river and the distant, silent screams of the past. Then a thought, random and unbidden, popped into her head.
"What if it isn't about the hounds?" she blurted out.
Dáinn stilled, his hands hovering over the water. He turned his head, his blue eyes sharp in the gloom. "What else would it be about, then?"
Eris shrugged, the gesture lost in the voluminous cloak. "I don't know. But that Camilla woman… she knew a lot. And I keep thinking about Sarah. She was with me for weeks before any of this happened, and I…" She shook her head, sighing in frustration. "I don't know. This is just a lot."
Dáinn held her gaze for a long moment, the unspoken questions hanging between them. Then, with a grunt, he returned to his work, the set of his shoulders more rigid than before.
Eris settled back to watch him. As her body warmed, her attention shifted from the spectral horror around them to the very physical, very compelling sight of Dáinn working. The flex of the muscles in his back and shoulders as he moved stones, the way his wet clothing clung to his frame—it was a distracting, and frankly enjoyable, show. She was so absorbed in admiring the view that she almost missed it.
A faint glint, a mere suggestion of reflected starlight, caught the corner of her eye from a shallow, quieter eddy near the bank. A strange compulsion tugged at her. Without conscious thought, she stood, letting the heavy cloak fall in a heap behind her. Her bare feet carried her into the cold water, her gaze locked on that single, shimmering point.
She reached down, her fingers closing around a river stone. It was perfectly smooth, almost egg-shaped, and fit in her palm as if made for it. It was heavier than it looked, a dense, solid weight, and its surface was cool and impossibly smooth, like polished glass worn down by centuries of grief. A deep, resonant melancholy seemed to pulse from it, a silent echo of the anguish that saturated this ground.
She couldn't look away from it. "Dáinn," she called, her voice distant, mesmerized.
He stood, water streaming from him, and looked at her.
"I think I found it," she said, her eyes still fixed on the stone in her hand.
He waded quickly to her side. She didn't hand it to him so much as let it drop into his waiting palm. The moment it left her fingers, the compulsion faded, and she blinked, looking up at him.
He closed his fingers around it, his brow furrowed in concentration. He felt the same weight, the same concentrated sorrow, the same rightness. A slow, rare smile touched his lips, a genuine one that reached his eyes. "I think you did."
For a moment, standing together in the cold river, with the ghosts of a forgotten war as their witnesses, they just smiled at each other, a shared, hard-won victory in the palm of his hand.