Forked

It felt as though he had been walking for eons a lone traveller when a woman appeared, the dirt path that she had been traversing now falling upon his own.

The woman, her long flowing dress edged with mud, her bare feet cut and calloused from the journey, smiled in recognition. He smiled back, politely, feeling as though he knew her from somewhere but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

They walked on in silence for a while, the path ahead winding and rocky, but never forking.

The silence soon grew deafening, aside from the occasional waves of sobs from the woman.

He finally stopped and turned to her.

“What is your name?” he asked.

She stopped and turned to him.

“I am Victory,” she said. “Victory of the people.”

He gasped and recoiled when she spoke.

“Y-y-your tongue!” he cried out.

“Yes?”

“I-i-it’s f-forked!” he stammered.

She seemed unfazed.

“It’s my snake.”

“W-what?”

“The snake. In my mouth.”

“You have a snake in your mouth? Is this a dream?”

“It’s in my DNA. And yes, this is a dream. A real dream. Every dream is real. I know dreams well,” said Victory.

She watched silently and patiently as he grappled with the confusion of what was.

“This is a dream. But it’s real? And you have a snake… in your mouth.”

“You have it too,” said Victory.

He touched his lips unconsciously. “I don’t!”

“Here,” said Victory, kindly, “let my eyes be your mirror.”

He drew his face close to hers and stuck out his tongue. She widened her eyes so that he could see better, the pupils eclipsing her brown irises. He saw in the blackness his own forked tongue.

Astonished, he then became aware that he could taste her essence in the air. She tasted like sadness and bravery.

He stepped back and let his serpentine tongue slither back into his mouth.

“You never told me your name,” said Victory.

He shook his head as if shaking himself out of a trance.

“I am The Conqueror,” he said. “I am He Who Conquers the World.”

Victory smiled knowingly and turned to continue walking.

“What a coincidence,” she said softly.

The Conqueror looked at Victory’s tired, wretched feet, and then at his own dust-ridden shoes. He thought momentarily of giving the woman his shoes to walk in. But he knew they wouldn’t fit, and that she would refuse anyway.

As they walked, they talked, and as they talked, they grew. When the road bisected, they seemed still to be heading to the same destination.

But soon the road forked such that there were many ways to go, and these roads were unmarked and unfamiliar to both weary travellers.

They stopped and looked at one another for a moment, each hoping for a sign of certainty from the other.

“Well,” said Victory, “It’s time.”

“I’m afraid,” he said.

“Everyone is.”

The Conqueror closed his eyes. A tear rolled down to one corner of his lips, and the reptilian tongue unconsciously darted out to taste the pain.

“If you’re heading that way,” said Victory, pointing West, “I’m afraid my road leads me well away, to the East, I believe.”

The Conqueror took a deep breath and turned back to his fellow traveller. “Where will you go?”

“Where I have to,” she answered.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Victory stepped toward the Northernmost path and said, “Courage is not the absence of fear.”

She did not turn to look back.

As Victory’s own tears began to well up in her eyes, she hadn’t walked three paces when a warm hand appeared in hers, gripping tightly in a silent vow to never let go.