by Rowan Rook
"But I..." He needed to dress the wounds.
Even if... Even if it wouldn't do much good. Blood gushed from the twin wounds on her chest and back, provoked by her efforts to move. More dripped from the edges of her lips. She'd already lost too much. Slowly, Anson's hope curdled into a creeping sense of horror. She was still alive...but she wouldn't be for long. A fresh pang of grief tightened his throat.
No matter what he did, he'd only delay the inevitable.
"Don't kill me!" Shakaya pleaded. "Don't kill me! I don't want it to be you! You've made a fool of me. Isn't that enough? I'm going to die anyway! At least...let me die with honor. "Please...don't kill me..."
Anson gaped when he understood.
She was afraid of him. She thought he'd come to finish her off.
Even after not taking the bait when she'd threatened him outside Velvire, even after stopping Aydel himself, Shakaya was just as afraid of him as she would have been of any other Lyrum. Perhaps even more so. That she earnestly believed he'd finish her off for a sense of sick satisfaction tied what was left of him in knots.
Unable to speak, Anson only shook his head. He reached out once more, slowly.
Shakaya's teeth sunk into his palm when it neared her face. He yelped, but she held on tight, only letting go when coughs rocked through her.
Anson stared down at her, clutching his bleeding hand. He wanted her to know that she was wrong. He wanted her to recognize him. He wanted...forgiveness.
How selfish. He flushed with shame. To her, this had to seem terribly cruel—to her, she was being mocked in her final moments by the Lyrum who had maliciously deceived her for the last ten years of her life. Even still...he couldn't leave her.
Anson exhaled a shaky sigh and pulled off the shirt he was wearing. He carefully reached over again, this time to tie it over her wounds.
Shakaya tried in vain to pull away, but she had no strength left to struggle. Even while she tensed, Anson wrapped the makeshift bandage around the places where that horrible spear had entered and exited. She seemed to relax—just a bit—when she realized what he was doing. She watched him helplessly through scared, confused eyes.
Anson forced the warmest smile he could manage over his quivering lips and placed the blanket he'd brought with him over her shoulders. "I'll be right back."
A brief silence passed before he got to his feet and hurried toward the cabin.
The shirt was hardly a fix. He needed to get his lab supplies.
Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ
By the time he returned, Shakaya was nearly unconscious. Her eyes were closed and her chest heaved unevenly.
He opened the storage box and stared down at her, debating on what to do. The decision was made nearly impossible by the fact that he already knew it was all useless.
She can't be saved. You can't do anything more for her than you could for Blaker. She's dying. The kindest thing to do is put her out of her misery. You don't need her anymore, anyway.
Ignoring the thing in his head, Anson pulled out disinfectant, surgical thread, and proper bandages. Even if it was futile, he couldn't just sit there and watch her die. He lifted up the blanket, untied his makeshift bandage, and cut through her stained coat to locate the wounds. Her armor was torn—it hadn't been enough to save her from the sharp tooth of the spear, not when Rita had used the force of the fall to overcome his own weakness. Anson fought to keep his fingers steady as he went to work.
Aside from the occasional pained wince, Shakaya no longer resisted. Whether she had calmed or her failing body simply wouldn't allow her to fight, he didn't know.
You're only causing her more pain. If you want to be kind but are too weak to end her pain, the best thing you can do is lie beside her and hold her hand. Stop.
But he couldn't stop. His head knew there was no hope, but his heart couldn't accept it. He had to keep fighting for a solution, even when there wasn't one. It...was all he knew how to do.
"The difference between the possible and the impossible is often only a matter of perception," he'd once said.
He wiped his tears with his arm to clear his vision.
After stitching up the wound on her back as best as he could, he put both hands on her shoulders and tried to gently turn her over. Unfortunately, with the amount of effort it took him to accomplish such a feat, it wasn't very gentle at all.
Her eyes cracked open, studying him hazily.
"I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for much more than just the sting of his needles.
Shakaya reached out a shaky hand when he leaned in closer.
Anson startled when her fingers touched his cheek.
"Ama...?"
A sob seized Anson's throat. He wasn't sure if she was even aware of what was going on anymore, or if her hazy mind was simply looking for any comfort it could find, but fragile joy coursed through him and made his grief all the worse. His own hand touched her cheek. "That's right. I'm here." He met her gaze. "I won't leave you again."
Shakaya placed her palm near his eyes, as if trying to decide whether the tears spilling there were genuine.
"I'll save you!" Anson's voice shook as much as his hands. "Even if..." He briefly looked away, unable to say those words aloud. "I'll bring you back! I've even got four Inkwells now. I've decided to finish what we started. What you wanted me to do." He forced another smile. "So, it will all be okay."
Shakaya's lips moved soundlessly—as if there was something she wanted to say but either couldn't or wouldn't—before her hand fell away and her body went limp.
For a breathless moment, Anson thought she'd slipped away, but she'd only fallen unconscious.
It...wouldn't be long now, though. There was no way she could keep hanging on. She would likely never wake up again. Anson managed a slow, shaky breath as he withdrew his own palm from her clammy skin.
A strange and desperate thought suddenly flickered through his head. His gaze drifted toward his storage box.
...If Anson couldn't save her, perhaps Amaranth still could.
Before doubts could creep in, he pulled out the extra copy of the Not he'd packed inside long ago. He stared at it for a few seconds.
The Not wasn't functional—only a prototype—and yet he'd found a small glimmer of success when trying to emulate healing Translation using his own Lyrum body. He'd taken several injured specimens from their cells and had tried to use a type of Translation that he hadn't been born with. For most specimens, the Not had done nothing. A couple had died when their wounds worsened. Others...had been repaired, and with great potency.
Anson hesitated for one more moment as his gaze returned to the dying soldier.
It was a huge risk...but there was nothing to lose. If he didn't try, Shakaya would still die.
Anson clumsily connected the device's wires to his wrist, not offering himself the luxury of acknowledging the pain. He held his newly cuffed arm over Shakaya's fatal wounds and focused with everything he had, imagining her healed.
A warm, foreign force ripped through him, wild in his confused body, before spreading into hers through his fingertips. The wound he'd only partially stitched suddenly faded on its own, and his heart lurched forward. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, desperately holding on to that transient sensation of sunlight for as long as he could.
A few seconds later, it stopped. As suddenly as it had manifested, the sensation was gone, shattering like glass.
Anson gagged. He clutched his stomach as every muscle in his body clenched. He nearly retched, but managed to swallow the bile and steady his spinning vision well enough to look at Shakaya.
Her wounds—even a few scrapes and bruises—had closed up, almost as if they had never been there.
Impossible...
A cautious wonder tingled inside of him. While her external injuries had been healed, that didn't necessarily mean that the internal damage was gone, or that she had regained enough blood to survive. He couldn't let himself celebrate, not yet.
Anson took the tip of her blanket and wiped a
way the crimson leaking over her lips. He stared for several anxious minutes, waiting to see if it would well up again. It didn't. Her breathing slowly evened out, calming into a more natural rhythm. It almost sounded...normal.
It had worked. It had worked better than he'd dared expect it to.
New tears wet Anson's cheeks, his everything quivering with disbelief.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Final Days
Shakaya's eyes opened stiffly. Whatever she was lying on, it wasn't comfortable. She blinked in confusion at the bare blue sky above her. So, she was outside. The grass was wet with dew, chilling her in defiance of the blanket draped around her. Her mind swam with scraps and segments that didn't quite fit together. How in Auratessa had...?
Her gaze widened when her memories lurched into focus.
Shakaya jolted up, gasping in anticipation of agony that never came. Nothing hurt. She froze, bewildered by the absence of pain.
...How was she even still alive?
She drew a deep breath and placed a hand over her beating heart to assure herself that she was still inside of her body. Had the night before been nothing but a nightmare?
She forced herself to drag off the quilt and look down. No. It hadn't. Dried blood clung to the grass beneath her and stuck to the bottom of her blanket. Her white coat was torn and painted shades of pink and black. She was anything but squeamish, but she shuddered, in spite of herself.
So...why then...?
She hesitantly lifted up her ruined clothes and searched for her wounds. There was nothing left on her chest but a fresh, ragged scar. She ran her fingers along its edges, feeling for torn flesh and finding nothing. It was sealed up, barely sore.
Shakaya gaped in disbelief. She'd been in the process of death the night before. She'd known and accepted that. So how could the wounds have possibly...?
A cough made her glance to her right.
He was there, lying nearby beneath a blanket of his own and wearing one of Blaker's too-big shirts. His eyes were closed and his chest rhythmically rose and fell. He was asleep.
Shakaya stared for a while, before tiredly lowering herself back down to the grass. She was stiff and exhausted, yet nothing suggested that she'd nearly bled to death just hours before. The bloodstains on her coat seemed oddly out of place.
He'd done something—and that was an understatement—but what, she had no idea.
Her chest tightened.
As Rickard had ordered, she'd spent a great deal of time watching the Editor. On his travels toward Velvire, as he'd practiced his Translation, when he and the Butterflies had tried their hand at regicide, as he'd fled afterward. Through all of it, she'd followed him. It wasn't until his sister's...interruption, that she'd lost track of him. As far as she knew, he'd never noticed her presence when she'd wanted to stay hidden.
Shakaya forced herself to look at him, at his achingly familiar face.
Throughout his time with Jeriko and his sister—people who clearly recognized him for the Lyrum he was—and even when he'd thought he was alone, even when she'd pushed him to the edge, he hadn't shown her anything that contradicted the person she'd once thought he was. He'd never broken character. She'd actively searched for proof that Amaranth wasn't real—she'd wanted to find it—and yet, she hadn't.
The Editor's stubbornness and his sudden changes of heart...it was all so like her fickle, fanciful friend that uncertainty sometimes tangled in her throat. It didn't make any sense. That personality had been a facade. But then, why would a monster that lived on instinct maintain an act that now harmed instead of served it?
When she looked at him, she still saw the person she'd grown up with. But the thing beside her was a Lyrum. He couldn't be both. It wasn't possible.
...Was it?
Nausea ached through her as images of violence stirred at the edges of her mind. Her own words from a certain night echoed in a memory: "You killed a Lyrum. If that makes you a murderer, then I suppose I'm a serial killer."
If the Editor was both the person she'd thought he was and one of them...if Lyrum were capable of such a thing...then...
Her eyes misted as a wave of doubt washed through her.
Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ
Something brushed against Anson's cheek. He stirred, his eyes blearily fluttering open.
It was Shakaya. She was awake. Her fingertips touched his face and grazed his clammy skin. This time, her hands didn't quiver.
Anson pushed himself up on his palms. Shakaya jerked away, as if she hadn't realized he'd woken. Tear stains glistened like dew on her cheeks.
For a while, they stared at each other, blue eyes meeting brown. A strange, uncomfortable hush dragged on between them. Neither of them breathed. They only experienced each other's presence, uncertainty bristling between them like electricity.
Anson forced himself to break the silence with a smile. "How are you feeling?"
Shakaya didn't answer. Her fingernails dug into the dirt below her. "What did you do?" She spoke in her usual monotone, but he could hear the tightness in her throat.
Anson straightened and simply held out his cuffed wrist, lighting up with pride.
Shakaya narrowed her eyes at the Not. Confusion lingered on her face before recognition suddenly replaced it. She gasped.
Anson couldn't keep from grinning. "It was a miracle, really."
Another silence passed over them.
Anson scratched the back of his head. "I...would have taken you inside the cabin, but..."
Shakaya seemed to understand. "Pathetic Lyrum," she scoffed, her voice absent of any real animosity. She cautiously pushed herself up.
Anson instinctively offered a hand. "Can you walk?"
Shakaya didn't answer until she was already on her feet. Her body trembled while her weary limbs reoriented, but she kept her balance. "I feel fine."
She strode off toward the cabin without another word.
Anson padded after her. "Are you hungry? I'm sure there's plenty of food left in Blaker's kitchen." She didn't answer, which he took as a yes. "I'll scrounge up something for breakfast." He hurried into the kitchen as soon as they reached the cabin. "There are clean clothes in the closet if you want to change."
Shakaya, however, stopped at the doorway.
Anson glanced backward to find her staring at the ominous, blanketed shape on the floor. The quiet joy drained from his face. "It's Blaker... Rita...he..." He swallowed, before finding her eyes. "Will you help me bury him?"
Shakaya nodded silently.
Anson smiled a bit, admittedly surprised that she would help a Lyrum honor an Otherling. He returned to the kitchen. Now that she was awake and all right, he already felt more like himself, as if the horrors of the night before had happened a long time ago. He was also keenly aware of the hunger that had been hidden by the anxiety in his stomach. He had to eat before he could face what had happened to Blaker.
...He also needed to come up with some pleasant words to say at the burial.
While he hadn't known Blaker for long, he'd formed a bond with the person he'd shared the worst weeks of his life with. It was only Blaker's company that had kept him sane through those endless days.
And in the end...his new friend had found freedom only to have it robbed away. Blaker never should have been involved with any of the madness that had killed him—with Councilors or Inkwells or Butterflies. If Blaker had left Anson behind in those cells, then he would almost certainly still be alive.
Anson bit his lip, a band of grief tightening around his chest and closing in on his lungs. He looked again at Shakaya. "I...thought I'd lost you, too."
Shakaya stared out the broken window, evading his eyes. "Why did you save me?"
He blinked. What kind of question was that?
"I don't understand," her voice was unusually hushed. "With Rita dead and the Academy busy with more pressing matters, your threats are gone. You could have waited alone for the other Butterflies to arrive, if that was what you chose to do. You didn't have anything to gai
n by saving me. You don't need me, so..."
Anson smiled. "I saved you because you're my most precious friend."
Shakaya turned to face him. She'd tried to put on her usual mask, but light spilled in through the broken window and caught tears on her cheeks. "Who are you?"
"I don't know," Anson admitted. "With that thing playing around in my head, sometimes I wonder..."
Shakaya said nothing, still waiting expectantly.
"I truly am sorry, Shakaya," Anson breathed. "But I never meant..." His voice tangled up in his throat. What was the best way to say this? "I never pretended to have a heart that I don't. I'm just me...whoever that is."
Shakaya's lips held firm, but he saw her shoulders tremble.
After a last moment of hesitation, Anson stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her.
Shakaya stiffened, but didn't resist. A few heavy heartbeats ticked by before she returned the embrace, her strong arms holding him tightly. Her shaking fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt. She sobbed, burying her face into his neck as her breaths heaved and shuddered.
Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ
Anson and Shakaya buried Blaker behind his cabin. A few measly autumn flowers decorated the freshly disturbed soil of the grave—there hadn't been much to choose from at this time of the year. Winter would soon arrive.
Anson wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his dead friend's shirt, struggling to keep them from watering. They'd done quite enough of that lately. "After..." his voice trailed off, and he forced himself to breathe. "After the Draft, I'd like it if my ashes were taken to Riksharre...to Lyn's old garden."
In truth, he wasn't fond of the idea of cremation—it rang too closely to his family's fate—but at least it was more reasonable than asking to be buried there. It was unlikely that anyone would be able to walk into Riksharre easily for such a trivial thing. A long time might pass before anyone returned to the colony.
Anson sighed. What an odd thought. After writing them back into the world, his family would likely still be there, in that house. Alive. And without any memory of a son or a brother. This was the closest he could come to being with them.
"Ama..." Shakaya's eyes met his, her stern lips forming a frown. A moment ticked by before she answered, "I'll tell the others."
