Henry opened his eyes. No—it took a moment to sink in; something was wrong about that. He opened one eye. The spot where the other was supposed to be throbbed with dull pain. His face . . . he blinked and stirred. It pressed into fur . . . crusted with his blood.

It was . . . Thanatos.

Henry twined to loosen the flier's rigid grip on him. Thanatos . . . was here. Was . . . Had he always been here? In a state of shock, Henry found himself completely unable to recollect the events of the past . . . what had it been? A day? Perhaps two? Since their departure from the boat. What had transpired during that time?

"Death?"

Despite the weakness of his voice, the flier's ears twitched. As soon as he understood that Henry was conscious, he released him and moved, but not so much that Henry could no longer hold onto him. "You live!"

Hadn't he felt so dazed, Henry may have snorted with laughter. "Obviously," he said. "Since when are you so openly concerned about my well-being?" Thanatos didn't reply, and Henry shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You're absolutely not fine."

"You must not joke right now," said Thanatos emphatically. "Not now, Henry."

Instinctively, Henry's hand jerked up to cup the right side of his face. He thought he could easily reject the memories of last night, but even as his stomach twisted in terror, his curiosity won.

Henry took a deep breath and gathered himself to rise, but immediately fell back with a cry. For a moment, he was convinced someone had thrust a spear through his eye and the entire length of his skull.

Thanatos caught him, and he clung to the flier, heaving and fighting back the rising panic. "Easy," Thanatos hissed. But Henry wanted not to stay easy. He twined in the flier's grip but couldn't break free.

"What—?"

He jerked his hand away from his bandage when something wet it—a translucent, pinkish liquid dripped from his fingertips.

Death, what is the matter with my . . . eye?

Despite the spear that instantly pierced his head again, Henry rose properly this time. A glance at Thanatos confirmed what seemed to have surfaced from the depths of his memory. "M-My—"

Thanatos didn't respond, but his look told him everything.

Henry couldn't swallow the panic this time. It was . . . it had . . . The quest. The serpent. He squinted as the memory flooded back. The memory of the battle, but also of why he had waged it without Thanatos.

"You came after me," he said, overflowing with relief.

The flier's expression hardened. "Not fast enough."

"Bullshit," he hissed. "I told you that our alliance should be over." Even repeating it felt wrong. The longer Thanatos didn't respond, the worse Henry felt about the words he had uttered in mindless anger. "I spoke without thinking," he said instead. "And I did not mean it. In particular, the part about nobody—about needing you and—!"

"Henry," Thanatos cut him off. "You already apologized . . ."

He stared at the flier, confused.

"Do you not remember?"

"Not that." Henry stabilized himself in an upright position and carefully stretched his stiff limbs. "I remember . . . jack shit." He thought the expression seemed familiar, like he had used it recently. "There was the argument, but after that, it is all indistinct and fractured."

"I see."

The flier said nothing else, and had Henry not had other worries, he may have caught onto the slight tremor in his voice and the way that he did not meet his gaze. But his mind was on himself—on his bandage and what he would inevitably discover underneath.

With Thanatos' help, he finally pulled himself to his feet but instantly stumbled on his unsteady legs, almost tripping into a wall.

"Careful!"

Henry groaned. When the spinning of his head became bearable, his gaze met the river. His hand darted up to the bandage, and a wave of unwillingness to ever remove it—deal with what was underneath—drowned him. But if he did not clean it, it would become infected. He could still die . . . and he would not die now. Hadn't he already won his challenge? Or was it unwinnable for as long as he was mortal?

Either way, Henry gritted his teeth. He had survived the serpent; to die now that there was not even any real danger would be beyond embarrassing.

"I am reinstating my "meaningless" challenge," he said with a side glance at the flier. "I will not succumb."

"Good," replied Thanatos. "Because I also spoke without thinking when I called it meaningless," he said more quietly. "I told you last night, but I suppose you have no memory of that either."

"I do not, but—" Henry paused, and then he said something perplexing. "Thank you."

Thanatos was so baffled that he did not intervene when Henry took a careful step toward the water.

"You know that I would never seriously deem anything that helps you survive as meaningless," the flier mumbled after a pause. "It is just hard to—"

"—have hope?" Henry finished his sentence, turning back. "That is what you have me for, dumbass." Without waiting for the flier's response, Henry took a deep breath and turned to face the river.

He had seen all sorts of gore; he had sliced through flesh and waded through blood. He had once been elbow-deep in a rat corpse. Henry swallowed. How bad could one . . . eye be? Pictures of corpses with popped eyeballs flashed in his mind, of the gaping sockets in their place. Was that what he would see in his own face now?

Henry dropped by the riverbank and suddenly stopped in his tracks, overcome with astonishment. "Death?" he asked without looking back. "Is this not the place where—"

"Where we first spoke to each other," confirmed the flier, coming up beside him. "It is apparently closer to the Labyrinth than we realized."

Henry didn't respond. It should not mean anything, but . . . he couldn't help but see himself lying there, as he had been half a year ago. Bloodied, bruised, and desperate, driven by a naked resolve . . . to survive. Was this not where his challenge had been born? He had come so far since then . . . and yet here he was again, wasn't he?

Then a thought wormed its way into his mind: he was stalling. It sent a shiver down his spine, and Henry took a deep breath, forcing himself to peek into the river. The bandage was disgusting; he didn't want it off, nor did he want it on anymore.

"Are you . . . Will you be fine?"

"When have I ever not been?" Henry scoffed. At least he wanted it to be a scoff, but, to his horror, it came out as more of a sob. "This is no more daunting than ripping off a band-aid."

He clutched the bandage to steady his hand and prevent it from trembling in fear. It didn't help that when he attempted to loosen it, the bandage clung to his hair and skin; it took Henry a while to get it off without hurting himself. When he had unwrapped the last layer, he hesitated to lean over the streaming water.

He swallowed repeatedly, his heart hammered, and his good eye watered. How pathetic am I? Henry thought, gritting his teeth. To be afraid now. Now, of all times. But he was afraid of looking . . . and yet he did it anyway.

What he saw froze the blood in his veins; his own reflection terrified him now for the second time. But this wasn't like last time.

The face in the waterfall flashed in his mind—the face he hadn't recognized as his own. Right then, he wished nothing more than to see that face. To see anything, be it haggard and neglected, if only it were . . . fixable. Because he had fixed it. He had fixed himself until he had liked what he saw in the mirror again.

But this time, he could not fix it.

Trembling miserably, Henry slowly turned. Thanatos had upturned his backpack and fetched the waterproof container, but he raised his head at the movement. For a split second, an expression darted over his face—the kind of visceral reaction upon seeing an aberration, a deformity—something that could terrify even the bravest soul in a dark cave.

Henry flinched. The expression passed by so quickly that he couldn't be certain it had even happened, yet it still felt like a sharp spear plunging into his heart. When he looked at him now, the flier only looked concerned, but . . .

"It . . . it really is that bad." Henry blew out a desperate breath. "What?!" he yelled. "What is it? Am I scaring you? Disgusting you? Say it to my face if it is so!"

He angrily swallowed the unshed tears, along with the desire to curl up and never show his face to anyone ever again, not even look at it himself.

It was such an irrational thing to mourn, with everything else this kind of injury entailed and with how he was in exile, far from any other human, but his thoughts were on the face in the waterfall. On the lengths he had gone to back then to feel attractive again. Now, not even the least superficial girl imaginable could ever find what he had become anything close to attractive.

"If the circumstances were less severe, I'd be offended that you could ever think so little of me," said Thanatos in a mellow voice.

All Henry did was shoot him a defiant glare.

"It will heal."

Henry held his stare for a moment longer, then yanked up his waterproof container and fetched a fresh bandage.

"Well, the eye will not," amended Thanatos, "but the skin. It won't look half as bad in a month or so."

Henry put the container down, resisting the urge to touch his face, and gathered strength to look again. The sight had him wince; there was a familiar violet eye—and a dark, empty socket. All surrounding flesh was exposed, furiously red; angry marks tore his forehead and reached into his scalp in an arch, forming the pattern of a jaw.

"You were lucky to have worn that mask," said Thanatos. "It likely saved your life."

Henry extended a shaking hand to the water, like touching the reflection would make any difference. "I . . . guess."

But instead of retrieving water to drink and clean his . . . well, what remained of his face, Henry cried and fell forward; he had expected the water much closer.

Thanatos barely caught him. "What are you doing?"

"It . . . it wasn't as close as I thought. The water, I mean", he mumbled, then held a hand in front of his face. He squinted and fixated on a pebble at the bank before stretching to grasp it.

His arm did not even remotely reach.

Of course. Henry swallowed. He had often worn fake eyepatches during roleplay as a child, and he knew that one could not judge depth or distance with only one eye.

". . . This is a problem." Thanatos seemed to have understood.

"How am I supposed to live like this?" Henry cried, sitting up. "How am I supposed to wield a sword? To shoot a slingshot? To catch a fish for myself to eat?" This time, he could do nothing to swallow or suppress the surge of raw panic. "How am I supposed to fight?!"

"Henry. . . you will live well enough." Despite his words, Thanatos looked shaken. "You are not the only one who has faced a problem such as this. We may worry about that when you feel well enough to attempt to fight again. Tend to it, let it heal, and . . ." He shook his head. "Don't overthink it already."

For a moment, Henry found it utterly impossible not to overthink this. He clenched his miserably trembling hands and forcefully steadied his breathing. Worry only about what you can control, he repeated to himself. Worry about the here and now. And yet he still found it incredibly difficult not to break into tears.

Crossly, he turned away and inched back to the river, telling himself to finally stop stalling. This wouldn't handle itself—neither the immediate nor the long-term problems.

***

Some ten minutes later, Henry had finally cleaned the wound and the socket of remaining residue and properly disinfected it. It had started bleeding again and oozed more of the translucent liquid. He bandaged it as tightly as he could, hoping no dirt had found its way in.

But the task had drained him of all energy; he soon lay down, attempting to ignore the wound's dull throbbing. His head had begun aching, and what remained of his vision blurred; focusing on anything was unusually difficult.

He barely mustered the energy to physically lower his hand into the river and drink. After his thirst was quenched, Henry tentatively unsheathed Mys and stabbed at a passing fish, but missed by a mile.

Of course. Fishing without depth perception was about as possible as fishing without his eyes altogether. The crushing feeling that he was useless once more drowned him; he struck the water with the blade. Had he not lain here in this exact position half a year ago? Had he not pitied himself in almost the exact same manner? See how far you've fallen, he thought once more. You said you wouldn't fall, and look at you now.

Hot, red anger boiled in the pit of Henry's stomach. He had dedicated himself fully to avoiding feeling this way ever again. To become stronger and more competent. To conquer any challenge that exile might throw his way. To be successful! And now? He had been—for a fleeting, sweet moment, he had been successful. And now he was back, right where he had started.

"It's not fair!" he yelled despite the pain that immediately shot through his head, hauling Mys at the opposing wall. The dagger collided with the stone melodiously and remained lying there as Henry death-glared at it. It was useless, too.

Hey! Hey!" Thanatos perked up. "If you lose it, you will not have a replacement."

"Who cares?" Henry hissed back. "It was all for nothing! Why did I waste my time trying to become stronger if my fate was to end up useless again?" He dropped down. "Weak and useless . . ."

"Henry . . ."

Frustrated tears rose in his remaining eye, and in another wave of anger, Henry banged his head on the floor where he lay. He instantly regretted it, groaning as his world spun; the eye began oozing liquid again. Well, should it.

"Hey! Hey!" Thanatos was beside him all of a sudden, lifting him to sit. "What do you think you are doing?"

"You were right," Henry said tonelessly. "It was meaningless. All of it. I wish I had listened to you. I wish I had . . ." He took a shaking breath. "You told me that I was risking everything," whispered Henry. "When I announced that I would chase after the quest. You—"

"And you told me that your accomplishments would not vanish no matter what else happened," replied the flier. "Not a single one of your accomplishments has vanished. On the contrary, have you not in fact gained another?"

"And what is that?"

"Have you not saved the lives of Luxa and Aurora?"

Henry stilled.

"I have not witnessed the scene in great detail, but I believe, had you not jumped, the serpent would have taken their light."

Henry cast his eye down. With a pang of guilt, he realized that he hadn't considered that. "Fine," he said after a pause. "Maybe that was useful. That serpent should have slain me instead," he said ruefully. "You should have left me to die there. At least I would have died—" Henry cut himself off before he could have said "a hero". "At least my death would have had meaning, then," he said instead. "As opposed to any life I still have left now."

"Henry."

His head jerked up at Thanatos' downright appalled tone. "I do not want to hear you speak like this. Do not ever speak like this," he insisted, and a shiver slithered down Henry's spine from the urgency in his voice. "The fact that I have carried you out of there is not meaningless. And neither is your life."

"But I—"

"Think of all that Teslas and I taught you," Thanatos cut him off. "Think of all that you have made yourself known for through your relentless efforts and perseverance. It is all still yours, Henry," the flier urged. "Even fighting may be re-learned . . . with time and will. A will that you possess. The same will that pushed you to climb back up when you fell for the first time can push you again. You'll be fine." He said it with so much conviction that Henry almost believed it. "Your life will never be meaningless," he repeated. "Not for as long as you and I—"

Henry frowned. "You and I . . . what?"

The flier did not look at him. "Can . . . give each other meaning," he said after a long pause. "Is that not why we have stayed together, despite everything?"

Henry gritted his teeth. Thanatos was right; he realized it then and there. Maybe that was the true nature of their mutual need. But . . . Squinting his eye, he struggled to piece together the events of the previous night. Yet, as he tried to recall, his mind was flooded with fragmented images resembling a surreal nightmare—a jumble of abstract scenes and overwhelming sensations. The excruciating, searing pain, the overwhelming fear of losing his sight, and the bitter taste of seawater and vomit.

But amidst all the terrifying, agonizing chaos, there was also—Henry's frown deepened and his eye flung open to find Thanatos. His right fist clenched like he thought he remembered having done last night, around—

His eye locked on Thanatos' claw, and he paused momentarily, then almost scoffed. As if! He would sooner believe he had bonded with a rock.

"So, you really don't recall . . . anything from last night?"

"I recall the fight," said Henry. "Ours and . . . the one against the serpents. I recall jumping and . . . awaking. Then throwing up and panicking and . . . pain." He gritted his teeth. "Then waking up here."

Thanatos said nothing for a few moments. "Well, then you recall all that matters anyway."

"Fine," said Henry, trying not to feel irritated. Maybe it had been just another feverish dream after all. And maybe that was for the best. "In that case, can we get out of here? This place is only making me more miserable."

He stood to retrieve Mys and nearly fell into the river as he attempted to jump it. He took off his boots and waded through instead, collapsing beside the dagger. The pounding pain in his head made him dizzy, and all he desired was to shut his eye and drift into sleep, escaping from the burdens of reality. Maybe he could do that on the fly.

"Death?" he asked when the flier still didn't respond. When he turned to look back and found him staring at the floor, he was struck with sickening dread. "What's the matter?" Henry asked, pulling himself up again. When he waded back, he tripped, soaking the hem of his coat. Henry cursed, but Thanatos didn't even look up.

"Please, Death," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Let us just—" He heaved, shutting his eye; his vision sparked, and he felt as though a blade was being driven into his eye time and time again. "I cannot—"

"No . . . I cannot."

Despite the pain, Henry's eye flew open. The last of his spirits dwindled when he found Thanatos hunched over, trembling miserably.

"What do you—"

Help me . . . realign and splint the broken wing, and we can get out of here.

Henry broke off when the words surfaced from the murky depths of his mind. "Your wing . . ." He suddenly felt a surge of shame. "It's still broken. Must we re-splint it?"

But Thanatos still didn't look at him.

"But you flew us out, no?" Henry cried. "It cannot be so bad if you flew us out!"

Thanatos still said nothing, and Henry found it increasingly difficult not to break into a full-blown panic.

"Show me," said Henry, despite the fear. "Show me, so that I can do something . . . that is not "uselessly lying on the floor". It cannot possibly be so bad," he said more to convince himself.

Another silent moment passed. Then, Thanatos extended his left wing out wordlessly, and when Henry inspected it, he froze in horror. "Death . . ."

"I cannot," said Thanatos with so much sorrow that Henry thought he may be moments from breaking into tears. "I cannot . . . fly. Not anymore."

Henry's jaw dropped, and he didn't bother closing it. He leaned on the flier, unsure whether to support himself or for the sake of comfort. "What happened?"

"In the flood," mumbled Thanatos. "I was smashed into a rock."

"But you flew out!"

The flier twitched. "Do not ask me how." He took a shaky breath. "But . . . for as much as I want to, I cannot fly you any further."

Henry stared at him wordlessly. "You didn't say anything." Hot, searing shame speared him. He had whined and wailed in his misery like a child, all while the flier had not even brought up his own injury.

"It would not have made a difference, had I said something," stated Thanatos dryly. "But, between the two of us, you are not the one who is truly useless."

"You're not useless," hissed Henry. His mind reeled; how was this happening? How had they both been mutilated irreparably in a single night? Henry blew out a breath. He could not regrow eyes, and Thanatos could not regrow wing tissue. The flier's injury was equally as permanent if not surgically attended to. And where, in this no man's land, could they possibly find—

Henry froze. "Halt!" he almost screamed. "No! Death, do not yet give up on yourself."

By the look in Thanatos' eyes, the flier had done exactly that. For some reason, the sight made Henry's guts coil in anger. He untangled himself from Thanatos and fished for his backpack, adamantly ignoring the surges of pain that speared him every time he moved abruptly. "Do not—give up!" he heaved. "I have an idea."

***

"Henry, you are a madman!" After one final loop, Thanatos dropped in front of where Henry lay against the wall, panting but also smiling so joyously that Henry found himself smiling along. "An ingenious, incredible madman," he repeated, spreading and beating his wings.

"Obviously," said Henry, shrugging. "I am no surgeon, but I can sew up a rip in your wing. So I figured I could also sew on a bit of fabric. I am so good at sewing at this point that I may as well add it to my "exile-induced skills" list. What is left of it, anyway."

"I will praise you as the best sewer in the Underland if you fancy it. Have you any idea what you just did for me?"

Henry laughed. "I am not the best sewer in the Underland." He stared at the patch of fabric he had provisionally used to replace Thanatos' missing wing tissue. It had not been an easy feat to stretch and measure it properly, and Henry saw at first glance that it was not perfect. "Perhaps the spinners can help replace it with something more permanent," he pondered. "They make fabrics . . . and they sew clothes. If they can sew clothes, they may also be able to fix your wing."

"That is worth a try," said the flier.

"You will look like a patchwork rug, but if it works . . . ?"

Thanatos laughed and Henry joined in. Then, with a groan, he lifted himself away from the wall. "Can we finally get out of here, then?" he asked. "Now that all . . . fixable injuries have been taken care of?"

"How is your eye?" The flier ceased laughing at once.

Henry pondered, then shrugged. "It's seen better."

It took Thanatos a second to get it, but then he rolled his eyes and groaned. "This is only the beginning, isn't it? Of your eye pun era?"

"You could have seen that one coming."

"Henry." His amber eyes sparked as he glared.

Henry would be shaking with laughter if it didn't hurt so much.

"Well, if you're joking around, you must be feeling better."

"Kind of." Henry closed his eye. "Still tired. Can't keep the eye open for too long. But hey, how much better could I even be doing? I'll never be as stunningly handsome as I was before!" And I'll never fight like before, he thought, or catch my own food, or judge how far I need to reach my hand to retrieve water from a river. He laughed and blinked away tears. Why was making bad jokes his coping mechanism for everything?

"Perhaps you should have a little more faith that you may look handsome enough with an eye patch."

Henry made a face at the contentedly smiling flier. "Perhaps," he shot back. "Once my head stops feeling like someone is repeatedly stabbing into it with a knife. Ugh, how long will this last?" he groaned, shutting his eye and curling up tighter.

"Joking's over already? Shame."

"Stop making fun of me."

"What else am I to do?" Thanatos exclaimed. "I don't have the answers to your questions. If I don't do that, all I can do is be aware of how little I can do to help you."

"Fine!" Henry groaned. "Make fun of me. Just . . . don't leave."

Only when Thanatos did not reply did Henry properly process what he had said. He jerked up. "I mean—it is the least you owe me after I so expertly fixed up your wing."

Thanatos turned, rolling his eyes. "Teenagers," Henry could have sworn he muttered under his breath.

"Shut up!"

Thanatos sighed. "Change your bandage and disinfect it again," he said. "Then we leave. You can sleep on the fly."

For the lack of better options, Henry obliged.