THE BURIED GOD
Epilogue: The Next Grave
Twenty years passed.
Damon grew old. His hair turned white, his skin turned thin, his hands turned gnarled. He walked with a cane now, his legs weak, his back bent. But he still climbed the watchtower every evening, still sat on the edge with his legs dangling over the side, still watched the mountain with eyes that had seen too much and hoped too much and feared too much.
The mountain had not changed.
Black. Silent. Waiting.
But Damon had changed.
He had buried more bodies. More sacrifices. More forgotten souls. He had dug graves for the old and the young, the kind and the cruel, the loved and the hated. He had learned to live with the hunger, to live with the memory, to live with the scar on his chest that still glowed silver on moonless nights.
He had learned to hope.
Vespera had not aged.
Her silver eyes were still bright. Her pale skin was still smooth. Her cold hands were still cold. She had been dead for a thousand years before Damon pulled her from the grave, and death did not release its claim easily.
She sat beside him on the watchtower.
Her bare feet dangled over the side.
Her silver eyes were fixed on the mountain.
“He’s still there,” she said.
“The god?”
“The hunger.”
“Waiting?”
“Always.”
Lyssa had returned.
She was older now, her red hair streaked with gray, her green eyes softer, her hands steady from years of healing. She had traveled to the sea, to the other kingdoms, to the rest of the world. She had seen wonders and horrors, had saved lives and lost them, had loved and been loved.
But she had come back.
“The world is healing,” she said. “The people are forgetting. The hunger is fading.”
“Fading?”
“Not dying. Just sleeping. Like the god.”
Rook had died.
Damon had buried him at the edge of the forest, beneath an old oak tree, facing the mountain. The old soldier had asked for no marker, no prayer, no tears. He had simply said, “Put me in the ground. Let me feed the roots. Let me become something else.”
Damon had done as he asked.
He had dug the grave himself, his shovel moving slowly, his back aching, his breath shallow. He had lowered Rook into the darkness. He had covered him with soil.
He had not wept.
Rook would not have wanted tears.
He had wanted watchfulness.
“The next gravedigger will come,” Vespera said.
They were sitting on the watchtower, watching the sun set behind the mountain. The sky was orange and pink and purple, the colors bleeding into each other like watercolors on wet paper.
Damon looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“Because the hunger needs a gravedigger. Someone to bury the sacrifices. Someone to feed the god. Someone to hold the line.”
“Will it be someone from the village?”
“Someone from somewhere. Someone who hears the call. Someone who cannot refuse.”
“Like me?”
Vespera looked at him.
Her silver eyes were wet.
“Like you.”
The sun set.
The stars appeared.
The mountain glowed — not with silver light, not with hunger, but with memory. The memory of the god who had slept for a thousand years. The memory of the priestesses who had buried him. The memory of the gravedigger who had cut out the seed.
Damon closed his eyes.
He listened.
The silence was absolute.
“The god is quiet,” he said.
“The god is sleeping,” Vespera said.
“Will he ever wake?”
She was silent for a long moment.
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll be ready.”
Vespera took his hand.
Her fingers were cold.
“We’ll be ready.”
They watched the mountain.
The mountain watched back.
And the hunger waited.
THE END
The Buried God
For those who dig. For those who watch. For those who hope.
The hunger never dies. It only sleeps.