by Travis Bughi
“Takeo,” she tried to call out through gasps. “Takeo, please come. Please.”
She tried to cry, but every flash of pain made her wheeze and shudder. Her entire lower body was drenched in blood now, both hers and Jabbar’s, and the world grew cold. Then she heard a metal door slam from up the stairs and summoned all her strength to cry out once more.
“Takeo!”
She heard a clatter of keys striking stone, and then hurried steps came rushing down the stairs. A moment later, Takeo appeared, katana drawn and held forward in both hands. His face was alight with fear and determination, right up until he saw Emily drowning in a sea of red and black.
The color drained from his face, and he dropped his katana, running to her, tears already streaming from his eyes when he scooped her up in both arms and pulled her close.
“Emily?” he begged. “Emily, no.”
“Careful,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “My blood has basilisk poison . . . in it.”
“Emily, Emily,” he repeated. “No, oh please no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Why did I leave?”
His words sputtered, and his lips stretched across his teeth as he heaved and sobbed. Emily felt tears trickle down her cheeks, too, but not from the pain—that was fading.
“It’s okay,” she cooed. “I saved you. I saved everyone. I . . . I love you.”
“No!” he gasped. “No! Emily, stay with me. Don’t leave me. Please, please stay. I’m sorry! I never should have left. I love you, too. I love you so much.”
“Takeo, listen to me,” she said, her voice somehow feeling stronger than before. “Don’t blame yourself. Jabbar would have killed us both and so many more. I saved you. Think of it that way. Don’t let this destroy you. I love you so much. You have done so much for me. We’ve been through worse, I swear.”
“Don’t go,” he managed through his tears. “Don’t leave me here. Please, I love you. Emily, I love you. Emily, Emily, oh please, Emily. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I love you, Emily. Emily?”
Her hands came away from her wound to touch Takeo’s arm. He was sobbing uncontrollably now, whispering her name over and over as he held her close. His breaths came in waves and gasps, hardly able to draw in air as he cried.
“Takeo, please,” she whispered, tears rolling from her cheeks. “Listen, it doesn’t even hurt anymore. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t hurt. I feel fine, even. I think I’m going to be okay. I don’t know how, but I’m okay.”
“Emily,” came a light voice, echoing softly through the dungeon.
Emily looked up from Takeo’s arms to see green eyes, blonde hair, and huge, white-feathered wings. The woman had appeared out of nowhere, surrounded and bathed in light, and when Emily looked again, she recognized Ingrid Ludinson.
“Emily,” the valkyrie whispered. “It’s so good to see you again.”
Emily gaped, shocked to see the valkyrie at first. She turned to Takeo, but he was still sobbing uncontrollably, holding Emily tight as he rocked her back and forth.
“No, Emily,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you. Please, please don’t go. Don’t go. I need you. I need you here.”
“Takeo,” she said back. “Look!”
He didn’t, just continued to rock and weep, and Emily blinked at him. Then she looked at Ingrid, and the valkyrie bowed her head as if in shame.
“No,” Emily said, turning back to Takeo. “No! Takeo!”
“He can’t hear you, dear,” Ingrid replied, voice soft as snow. “You’re not a part of this world anymore.”
“Takeo!” Emily cried, fresh tears pouring from her eyes. “Takeo, please! Hear me! I love you! I love you, too! I forgive you! Oh please, hear me!”
Ingrid stepped forward and touched Emily’s shoulder gently. The light around the valkyrie was nearly blinding now, yet Takeo did not notice. He was still shaking and weeping, holding Emily’s limp body in his arms.
“It’s time to go,” the valkyrie spoke. “Come on, my dear.”
Emily took Ingrid’s hand reluctantly, and when she stood up, she left her body behind in Takeo’s arms. Then as she was pulled back towards the light, she experienced the strange sight of seeing herself from another’s view. The samurai was drenched in her blood now, her deadly, basilisk-poisoned blood. Emily prayed that he had heard her, and she spoke once more in the fear that he had not.
“Don’t let that blood get into your wounds,” she said, “and don’t come looking for me yet. I’ll wait for you. I’ll see you soon, my love. Goodbye.”
Ingrid gave Emily’s translucent hand a tug, and Emily was swept up into the light.
The dungeon fell behind, swallowed into a bright, white nothingness that filled Emily’s vision. She felt herself being compelled forward, dragged through space and time, both of which threatened to pull her down. Ingrid’s grip was strong, though, and Emily was pulled through a veil that she could not see. She only knew she’d passed through it because the white light receded, and in its place sat a glorious, majestic hall atop a mountain floating in the sky.
Darkness stretched, sparkling with bright stars, yet the mountain itself was luminous. Rocky and massive, like the grandest peak in Khaz Mal, but fertile. Instead of snow, it was graced with trees, countless flowers, and fruit-bearing plants. There was even a waterfall.
At the peak of the floating mountain was the grandest mansion Emily had ever seen. Its size could only be compared to that of Lucifan as a whole: taller than the angels’ tower and wider than Lucifan’s bay. Draped in colors of white, green, gold, and ebony, the hall shined and sparkled against the clouds that floated beneath it, but Emily gasped when she realized why the hall was sparkling. Its roof was made of golden shields, their reflection bathing the mountain and its lush environment in yellow light. But as she drew near, Emily was distracted by yet another sight. In the open windows of the mansion, a crowd, both human and otherwise, gathered to watch Ingrid and her float towards the mountain.
One, a short old woman with grey, wavy hair, a thin frame, and a freckled face, parted from the crowd and came forward, stepping out to descend the mansion’s golden steps. As Emily came closer, the woman smiled, cheeks wrinkled and eyes warm, and held her arms open. Emily floated into them.
“Hello, daughter,” Chara whispered.
Epilogue
Lucifan’s streets were alive with trade and activity, but Takeo had never felt so numb.
His body felt separate from the world. When his feet moved, it wasn’t a conscious thought that drove them, but a basic reaction to avoid falling. His head was surely underground because the clamor of noise seemed deadened and distant, rather than riotous and real. His eyes saw movement, people, and objects, yet they wandered unnaturally. To him, everything seemed to take place in the past, and he responded too slowly to those few things he even noticed. Not for the first time, he bumped into another person, unable to muster the concern needed to avoid them.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” the man grumbled, glaring at Takeo. “Damn drunks.”
The samurai’s only reply was to trudge onward. It was easier to ignore than to speak.
It never ceased to amaze and dishearten him how quickly people could move on. Less than a week ago, this city had been equal parts pyre, battlefield, and graveyard. Now it was back to normal, or close to normal. Some of the streets were still barred by rubble, and hardly a single building had been brought back to full working order, but the streets were crowded with people trying to get on with their lives. They had work to do, whether that be trading and bartering or repairing and building—not even the death of thousands would get in their way.
And had it not been for one of those deaths, Takeo might have been right beside them.
Emily’s body had been taken to her parents, safe to carry across the plains because she had died in Lucifan and no banshee would rise. The thought of the journey didn’t stop Sir Mark and a squad of his personal guard from escorting the casket,
though. The vampire had ordered the construction of a personal carriage, one that looked more like a prison, to block out the sun for the trip. He’d said the war was over now, beyond a doubt. The rehabilitation of Lucifan could be left to others for a day or two, but he would not have another go in his place. He’d said he owed Emily far too much for that.
It wasn’t until Takeo had heard those words that he finally believed Emily had made the right decision in letting Sir Mark live.
Leaving Lucifan had been a trial in and of itself. Every knight, ogre, minotaur, and hastily recruited conscript had wanted to pay their respects to the Angels’ Vassal, but most had to settle for lining up and kneeling along the cobbled street as the casket was carried out of the city. Takeo felt like a traitor as he helped carry it, as though he had betrayed not just himself, but every person that owed her their lives.
He had wept silently throughout the walk, but his tears were nothing in comparison to the wailing of Emily’s mother.
Takeo’s eyes watered again at the memory. Emily’s family, Adelpha and the amazons, all crying and holding each other tightly; Takeo had never seen such sorrow. In Juatwa, such a display of emotion was frowned upon, and before that, Okamoto had raised him to be harder than stone. Yet Emily had spent years wearing cracks into him, showing him what true love was, showing him how to do other things with his heart than pump blood. So when the funeral was held for Emily and the people spoke of her and the tears were shed, Takeo had felt himself shatter. He would leave a broken man.
The amazons left for Themiscyra, and Nicholas stayed with his family, as did Emily’s bow, knife, and clothes—but Takeo took the letters. Adelpha had argued with him at first, insisting she should take them to Belen and finish Emily’s last quest, but the look Takeo had given her must have been answer enough. The amazon queen never mentioned them again. She had, however, mentioned that Takeo should travel with the amazons to the Forest of Angor. That had seemed like a good idea, Takeo thought, until in a fit of despair, he’d opened the letters Sir Mark had written and read them.
Takeo had left for Lucifan the moment after, sneaking off without telling a soul. He’d arrived with a mass of returning refugees, who entered the city alongside the incoming travelers and merchants who had yet to hear the news that Lucifan had been invaded. That didn’t stop them from selling, though. Yes, life was returning to normal throughout the city.
Yet still Takeo felt numb. Of all the things he’d thought might happen after Emily’s death, this had never been one of them.
It took him nearly three days to find his target. Takeo had searched high and low through every tavern, alley, and gutter until he found what he’d been seeking in the burned out hollow of an old building by the sea. The ruins sat comfortably in the colossus’ shadow. Following Emily’s last command, the statue stood proud, overlooking the city with both feet planted firmly in the shallow bay, and there it would remain until the end of time. The man Takeo found in that shadow was the shriveled husk of a human—so filthy, ragged, and drunk, his yellow hair and beard nearly brown with grime and dried vomit, that Takeo barely recognized him. Takeo might have passed him over altogether if the man hadn’t spoken.
“Hey, samurai,” Gavin mumbled, speech slurring. “How’d you find me? It’s you, ain’t it? Hey listen, listen to me. You go to hell, straight to hell. You hear me? No wait, don’t. Suffer. Suffer like me. You’re a bastard. I hate you. You let her die, you filthy piece of shit. Go to hell. Go . . . go straight to hell.”
Barefoot, pants torn off at the knees, and shirt nothing but tatters, the only thing Gavin carried was a jug of ale, which he cradled in his arms and sipped while staring at Takeo through one open eye. He had to look up because he was laid out against a pile of broken bricks, his back against one of the few remaining walls. Takeo came forward until he was standing over Gavin and then grimaced at the smell.
It wasn’t just the stale alcohol; the ex-knight had been soiling his own clothes for days.
“What do you want, anyway?” Gavin mumbled. “Can’t you see I’m trying to die?”
Takeo’s only reply was to reach down, grab Gavin by the remains of his clothes, and haul him to his feet.
“Hey! Hey!” Gavin shouted, flailing his arms to no effect. “Let go of me! Get off! What you want, huh? Come to kill me, have you? Kill me, too, you sack of worthless spit, huh? Do it! Go on, do it!”
The knight was heavier than Takeo, and he fought and swung with drunken fists, dropping his jug—it shattered on the bricks and loosed ale across the stone. Gavin could barely stand, and when he broke free of Takeo’s grasp, he tripped on the rubble-strewn floor. But before he could fall, Takeo caught him and dragged him out of the building toward the sea.
“Can’t do it there, huh?” Gavin yelled, drool and spit flying from his cracked lips. “Huh? Got to kill me out here, huh? Go to hell, samurai! You let her die! I hate you! I hate you! You killed her, you bastard!”
Takeo dragged the knight into the sea in between two beached ships that had yet to be cleared and forced Gavin beneath the waves. He held the drunk there and scrubbed, drenching the knight and all his grime until he came up fighting for air.
“Is this how samurai kill, eh?” Gavin shouted before Takeo forced him down again.
“I hate you, too,” Takeo whispered.
When Takeo dragged Gavin back to the shore, both the knight and the samurai were significantly cleaner, extremely exhausted, and somewhat sober.
“What was that for?” Gavin asked, lying sprawled on his back and panting.
“The smell,” Takeo replied, sitting up but panting just as hard. “I’ve met privy holes that smelled better than you did.”
“You know what I meant. Don’t toy with me. What do you want?”
“I want you to help,” Takeo paused, “well, not me, necessarily. I want you to help Emily.”
“How can I help her? You let her die already.”
Takeo took in a deep breath, held it for several seconds, closed his eyes, and then let it out slowly.
Don’t kill him, Takeo thought. Do not kill him.
“To summarize,” the samurai answered, “I want you to help me deliver three letters to one person. Years ago, an amazon named Belen was ostracized and abandoned to become a werewolf, but she was pregnant and has since given birth to a werewolf boy. The father is Sir Mark.”
Gavin rose up on his elbows, suddenly attentive.
“Emily blames . . . blamed herself for what happened to Belen,” Takeo went on. “She promised to return to Belen with a response from Mark on whether or not he would help their child. He’s written two letters now, and neither have been delivered. I’m going to do it now, and you’re coming with me.”
“Like hell,” Gavin snorted. “Give me the letters, and I’ll deliver them because there’s not a chance in the world I’d travel with you.”
“You think I want this either?” Takeo whirled on Gavin, eyes alight with fury. “You think I hate you any more or less than you hate me, or I hate myself? You don’t think I’d rather just switch places with you and dive into the bottom of whatever barrel you’ve been sleeping in? What’s that saying you knights have? By the angels! I thought you were brighter than this.”
“Don’t you speak of the angels.” Gavin sat up further, teeth gritted. “Emily might have forgiven you, but not me. I still remember which side you were on when they died. Their blood is on your hands, and I can see it glistening.”
“I don’t know what Emily ever saw in you. I’d rather take a gnome than your worthless hide. I should have killed you when I had the chance. That would have saved Emily the embarrassment of seeing what a spineless nobody you turned out to be.”
“You shut your mouth,” Gavin growled.
“It’s a good thing she fell for me rather than your pathetic shell. If you’d left Lucifan with her, you’d have gotten her killed halfway through Savara. You’re the worst kind of coward.”
“I said shut up!” Gavin roared.<
br />
He lurched for Takeo, tackling the samurai to the ground and straddling him. With one hand around Takeo’s throat, he began laying into the samurai with closed fists, striking Takeo’s face over and over while grunting with effort. He paused only when he noticed that Takeo’s body had gone limp.
Gavin swallowed, holding his fist at the ready with knuckles bloody. His other hand was still around Takeo’s throat, and he loosened the grip. For a fraction of a second, he thought he’d killed the samurai, but then Takeo opened the eye that wasn’t swollen shut and smirked.
Gavin looked left and right, seeing Takeo’s arms held wide open against the sand.
“You bastard,” Gavin swore. “You wanted me to do that. You . . . you son of a . . . where is Belen?”
“The Forest of Angor,” Takeo replied, turning his head to spit blood.
“We leave now, before I change my mind.”
They were out of Lucifan by nightfall, and Takeo was still numb.
Neither of them had much money or supplies, so they were forced to compromise their egos and ask for help. From the armory of the Knights’ Order, Gavin was granted a shoddy longsword—one of those from an overflowing pile of weapons that had neither owners nor purpose—and after a brief visit to Madam Sweeney’s, he was given new clothes. For food, Takeo swallowed his pain, and they made a stop at the Stout farm.
Emily’s grave had already killed all the grass within a pace of it, a lingering curse of her basilisk-tainted blood. Takeo knew little of the substance, but he had a feeling that nothing would ever grow there again. If he had been a poetic man, he might have compared it to his heart. Instead, he tried his best not to linger. The pain was too great.
Compliments of the older brother, Abraham, they were given salted behemoth meat and bread for their journey. He asked no questions and seemed relieved when they said they couldn’t stay long. Few words were exchanged.
