Interitum

by M. K. Matsuda

  “Is this really the time to question my intentions?” Bastian demands sternly. “I know field wounds. I’m trying to save her.” Rhuso’s hand shakes for a moment, clearly at war with himself. He’s grabbing Bastian so tightly his knuckles are stark white. Under normal circumstances, Erim would have wanted to punch Bastian too, but they need to save her.

  “Rhuso,” Erim pleads. Rhuso looks down at his hand and releases Bastian gruffly.

  When Sloane’s shirt is off, it’s clear how destructive Esht’s strike was. Erim inhales sharply at the sight of her mutilated abdomen. Esht’s blade slid right under her armor and up through the softest parts of her.

  As his gaze trails along her body towards her face, his eyes linger just a moment too long on her bra, and he drops his head down. Bastian packs Sloane’s injury as Ifede hands him the remedium. Rhuso stands in the back watching with his arms crossed over his chest, face dark and unreadable. Bastian moves quickly and precisely, focused on applying what medical training he has.

  Erim should have been closer, moved faster; he should have protected her better. As soon as Esht was free, Erim ran towards her. But by the time he got to the stone, they were lost somewhere in the darkness. He fumbled around, calling for her. Esht’s voice eventually betrayed their location, and when Erim finally found them, Sloane had run him through. Erim’s relief was brief as he saw Esht draw his arm back. Erim was close but still too far. Horror tore through him as the sword did Sloane. She took it silently, but a terrible screeching erupted in Erim’s head that didn’t stop until her weight landed in his hands.

  On the table, Sloane’s auburn hair forms a halo around her head, each piece like a curled octopus tendril reaching out. The pink of her skin is drained by essentia loss, enhancing the clay color of her lips. Her chin is smeared with black, running from her mouth and her crooked, broken nose. Long eyelashes rest upon her apricot-freckled cheeks. “Sloane,” he whispers. “Sloane?” She doesn’t stir. “Please don’t go. We won.”

  Erim barely notices when Somboon begins treating his shoulder. It’s out of joint, but Erim couldn’t care less. Ifede tends to Sloane’s dormant expression, cleaning it gently and inspecting her busted nose. Averting his gaze from both Sloane’s face and the rest of her body doesn’t give Erim many places to put his eyes, so he just looks down at where her hand is. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches forward and slides his hand under hers, clasping his fingers closed. He hopes that’s okay, that she would allow it. When he feels an odd sensation, he retracts his hand gently. His fingers are wet from the cuts on her palms. That is his breaking point. He can’t even hold her hand; she’s so hurt. His chest shakes with soundless sobs. He feels a small hand on his back, and Ifede presses a remedium bandage into Sloane’s palm.

  Erim’s mind retreats back to the grotto when Sloane was wrapped in his arms, safe and smiling up at him. He had one hand curved around her waist, the other fanned just below her shoulder blades. The rules of propriety compelled him to release her, but he could only bear to let go if she moved to break from him first, and she didn’t.

  Her eyebrows lifted a little like she was wondering what he saw. He saw wet copper hair curled around her cheeks. A couple of rogue strands covered her eyes a little, which he thought should be a crime. He saw a smile that put Stellarum to shame. He saw how the blue glow of the cave reacted with her irises, turning the green one a rich jade and the gray one azure blue; colors so unique they shouldn’t exist.

  And when she told him to wait, his breath stopped, uncertainty ripping horribly down his sternum. He waited for a movement, any twitch of muscle that she wanted to be free of him, but she stayed steady as a rock, clasping his shoulders. Then an odd smile pulled her gaze down, and she whispered that she wasn’t sure she could pretend to be brave. Erim had to keep from chuckling at her, this fearless girl who knew nothing of pretending, standing in the embrace of an imposter.

  There was such trust in her eyes, confidence in him, and what he wanted to say. That’s why he didn’t care that she delayed him. He decided to reflect her faith and trust that she’d ask him when the battle was over. Anything short of her screaming in disgust and running away was a win in his book. His nerves melted away.

  After, as the two sat on the sand, for a brief second Erim wondered what would happen if they never left. If they just stayed in the grotto, in that moment, forever. No one would ever find them; no one in the universe knows of that place but the two of them. Esht would have gone on a rampage, dissipated everyone in The Midst, created a whole new level of Hell. But he wouldn’t have been able to find them either; they could’ve stayed for eternity. Erim had shut out the fantasy quickly, knowing such selfish thoughts would never cross Sloane’s mind.

  But if they’d stayed, she wouldn’t be on this table now, dying… again.

  As the seconds tick by, Sloane’s essentia floods up through the remedium leaves. Bastian curses under his breath as her skin grows gray and cracked like dirty porcelain. “She’s gone,” he says, stepping back from the table.

  Erim’s head snaps up so fast it makes him dizzy. Everyone is frozen, mute, defeated. “No,” he wheezes. “No, she’s not. Don’t stop Bastian. She’s not gone.” With a roar, Rhuso slams his fist into the wall behind him, fracturing the stone. “She’s not gone!” Erim yells.

  All of a sudden, Sloane launches up, gasping dryly. Everyone in the room jumps like startled rabbits. Her slate and grass eyes are wide and shocked, and her fingers dig mechanically at her wound. Her skin has regained its color. She is only alert for a few seconds before her eyelids flutter and her torso begins to fall back to the table. Erim slows her descent and tries to wake her again, but she clings to sleep.

  Bastian peels back the remedium bandage from her stomach, and his mouth falls open. “She’s healing,” he whispers.

  Erim checks her hand, where the slit is gradually beginning to zip itself closed. His body is so tense, the strain escapes with a rasp. With each shuddering breath, weight slips from his chest until he feels light enough to float. His heart hammers so hard he might explode from the pressure. He presses Sloane’s warming hand against his cheek.

  QUADRAGINTA QUATTUOR

  When Sloane’s sight is gone, she can still feel things through a small fragment in the dark. The rush of air… firmness under her back… shirt torn away… refreshing leaves on her skin… hair tucked behind her ear… a steady hand in hers. But soon, that last small window is blotted out, and all feeling retreats. She is left completely alone, consumed in the vacancy of oblivion.

  A white glow erupts around her, illuminating her vision, the emptiness of it. There is nothing above or below, no separation of horizon, but she is whole—well, maybe not quite. She looks down at the hole Esht left in her torso. It’s an empty pit, void of flesh and plasma. When she runs her fingertips along the frayed edge of her skin, no pain registers.

  Soundlessly, someone steps up to her, a smiling woman. She’s middle-aged but carries herself with wisdom that tells Sloane she is much older. Her hair is white, a gentle, silver frost nothing like Esht’s unnatural bleach. The big waves are pinned to the side and woven into a bun at the back of her head. Her eyes are a bluish-gray, and there are faint wrinkles around the edges, carved there by past smiles. Her cheekbones are beautifully rounded, and her coral lips are curved, beaming at Sloane. If this is how she has aged, Sloane can only imagine how beautiful she was in her youth.

  There’s something so familiar about her, but Sloane doesn’t recognize her face. The woman glides forward, radiating such calmness that Sloane doesn’t even notice until they are face to face. She scans Sloane’s features, mapping each characteristic carefully, and then raises one hand to rest it upon Sloane’s cheek. Her palm is warm, smooth like glass, and her gaze is hypnotic, almost sedative.

  “I’m Seti.” She sighs fondly. Just as Sloane is about to speak, the woman’s other hand slides over Sloane’s mangled spot. A tingle of sensation sparks in her wound, and then an explosion of
energy blows through her. Sloane’s body hums with power, and the woman begins to fade, but Sloane doesn’t want her to go. Sloane reaches out to grab her, but the light dims, and she can’t see her anymore. The woman is gone.

  Sloane is alone.

  Waves. Sloane can hear them. It shouldn’t be possible, but she can identify the rasp of the sand as the water shuffles each grain. A gentle weight fills her palm, a hand whose finger traces small tingling circles on the inside of her wrist so tenderly.

  “Sloane?” There’s that voice she missed. A horizontal slit of light stretches across the dark of her vision. It’s thin and blurry, but it’s something. The hand slides away as Hubble licks her face frantically. “She’s awake!” Erim calls, his voice breaking like it had been tight and unused.

  Sloane hears a buzz of response from downstairs. Her eyes slowly acclimate to the light and the familiar surroundings of her room. She stretches her lids open a little further as Erim’s relieved face comes into focus. It startles her, how terrible he looks. His under eyes are darker and drooping, his hair unkempt, and his beard is days long. But he’s smiling down at Sloane like she’s something so magnificent.

  “You’re okay,” she whispers.

  “Me?” he asks softly, a chuckle on the edge of his voice.

  “You were hurt,” she mumbles.

  He pulls down the shoulder of his shirt, revealing a dark gray scar on his shoulder. “All healed up.”

  “How long have I been out?” she asks, trying not to be transparent about how rough he looks.

  “Couple of days,” he whispers, smiling.

  Ben peeks her head up the stairs. “Ready for your welcoming party?” she barks.

  “Give her a sec, Ben,” Erim says. She completely disregards him and leaps onto the bed roughly, making Sloane grunt a little. “Careful!” Erim orders sternly.

  Ifede follows just behind Ben, more graceful than Sloane remembered. “It’s so good to see you awake, Sloane.”

  Charlotte and Dmitri quarrel in hushed voices as she helps him up the stairs. She insists that he sit back down; he asks her not to fuss, and she shushes him angrily. They finally reach the top. He’s on a wooden crutch; Sloane flinches as her gaze trails down to his stump. There’s a black line where his leg was severed, but it’s grown back past his knee since then. The amputation is now just above the ankle.

  “How’s the valiant hero?” Sloane croaks.

  “You tell me.” He grins.

  “It’s on its way to growing back good as new.” Charlotte beams at him proudly, as if Dmitri willed his leg to grow back on his own.

  “Couldn’t get those kinds of results on Earth,” Dmitri agrees, draping his arm around her shoulders.

  “Disappointing.” Ben frowns. “You would’ve looked cool as a pirate.”

  “Well, you’d sound cool as a mime,” Charlotte snaps. But it makes Dmitri chuckle, so she can’t keep a straight face.

  “The boys wanted to be here too,” Ifede tells Sloane. “But someone has to be an Arc around here.”

  “And Sofia’s been worried sick about you,” Erim adds.

  “She didn’t say that,” Sloane says as a statement, not a question. She knows her cousin better.

  “In her own way.” Erim shrugs. “She mostly just yelled and called you a moron.” Sloane’s impressed that he can translate Sofia that well. She resists a smile at the thought of Sofia tearing into Erim.

  “Alright, alright.” Dmitri waves everyone back downstairs. “Let’s let her rest.” Everyone but Erim files out of Sloane’s quarters.

  Erim doesn’t touch her bedside, sitting back in his chair, like he’s not sure how close she wants him. She cuts out the uncertainty and holds out her hand. He breaks into a smile and takes it.

  Sloane can feel irregular skin on the insides of her hands; a dark scar runs the width of her free palm. She assumes the other is the same, but it’s not worth letting go of Erim to check. The shock of the pain when she pulled the sword out of her is still vivid. Her nerves rage just thinking about it. Her gaze trails up her arm to a sleeve that isn’t hers. She shoots him the best grin she can.

  “Why is it that every time I blackout, I end up in your bed or your clothes?” She teases him.

  His eyes scold her for trying to make him laugh at a time like this, but she gets him anyway. “Wasn’t me,” he defends himself. “Bastian did all the removing of clothes.”

  “That’s so much worse.” Sloane laughs.

  He shrugs dismissively. “We’re talking about Bastian here. You’re lucky he left your bra on.” Laughing hurts, but Sloane doesn’t mind.

  She sees Erim’s face drift into thought as his smile dulls. “You’re so incredibly impossible to protect.” His voice wavers a little.

  “Well, that’s the most interesting compliment I’ve ever received.” Sloane’s grin fades when his subsequent silence is a little longer.

  “Remember that night we argued? You told me I didn’t know what it felt like, what you were going through.” Sloane frowns at the taste that those wrathful words left in her mouth. She shifts uneasily as Erim suddenly recognizes her guilt. “No, no, you were right,” he says, pulling his chair closer, so their faces are just a head’s width apart. “I’ve always been spared from the fear of death. I never worried about losing the people I loved, never wondered if they would be okay if I just disappeared one day, forever.” His brows meet. “Death is my world, my entire existence, but I had no idea what it meant until you were on that table.” His black eyes are full and exquisitely shiny.

  “I’m okay now.” Sloane squeezes his hand, finding it innately familiar. Her skin remembers the ghost of his from the last two days. “Everything is fine.”

  He nods as if trying to convince himself. She can see that the memories are painful, too vivid, and fresh. “Just… please don’t ever do that again,” Erim whispers, his severe eyes pleading with her.

  She shakes her head. “I’m home,” she murmurs.

  “Cross your heart?”

  “Hope to die.” Sloane nods. Erim frowns. “That’s the rest of the saying,” she says with a smirk.

  On Sloane’s abdomen, a rubbery new circle of obsidian skin sits in place of the wound. There’s another, smaller than the first, where the blade poked through on her back. She feels her nose, back in its proper place, likely set by Somboon’s delicate hands. All other minor scrapes and bruises have already healed except the ones from Esht’s blade.

  “Scars are badass,” Erim reminds her as she surveys her new body. “Not that you need help with that.” He leans forward with a grin. “We all saw the artwork on your back while you were out.”

  Sloane slows to a chuckle. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t get me wrong—it’s cool. I’ve never seen a tattoo like it.”

  Sloane stares at him blankly. “Erim, the only tattoo I have is the one The Midst gave me.” She half laughs.

  Erim narrows his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  Sloane snorts at the question. “Yeah, I think I would know.” She leans forward, making her stale abdominal muscles groan. Reaching back, she pulls the shirt up and over her head. Even though her weakened muscles slow the action, it visibly startles Erim, and he lowers his face. Sloane traces the edge of her shoulder blade, gasping at the pattern of raised skin. “What is it?”

  “Hold on.” Erim goes downstairs and returns with a sheet of paper and pencil. He sketches it roughly and gives her the image. The symbol is like a cross with a looped top. There are rune-like designs within each of the branches, curling against one another, holding small symbols.

  “It’s from Seti,” Sloane breathes, studying the shape. Erim looks up at her, eyes questioning. She nods slowly. “A woman I’d never seen before. I think she saved me, healed me somehow.” She lets her shirt fall back down, allowing Erim to finally exhale. Memories start flooding back to her. “And Esht said something at the end… something weird.”

  “Weirder than everything else?” Erim
challenges doubtfully.

  “He said… my father released him.” Erim sits back, his face wiped blank. Sloane’s sure that outdid anything he thought she could say.

  “Sisiro?” Erim grazes his jaw with his fist, thinking it through.

  “I know he was crazy, and it makes no sense.” Sloane’s hand passes absentmindedly over her stomach. She can feel the lifted tissue of her scar through the shirt.

  “Rhuso carried you to the green packs after Esht stabbed you. He saved you from the explosion and from Esht in Harenarum.” An odd smile shadows across Erim’s face with a realization. “All this time, everything he’s done has been to protect you… because you’re his sister?”

  “But it’s not even possible,” Sloane says. “Is it?”

  Erim refocuses on her, dropping the grin. “I don’t know.” The lines deepen between his brows. Sloane crosses her arms, weighing the thought. Erim sees her tension. “You know,” he says, “Somboon said something to me when you first got here. He said that nothing’s really normal. This world is full of things that we can’t understand or don’t understand yet. You taught me that.” Sloane’s face melts into a smile. “What we’re dealing with, it’s weird and new,” Erim admits. “But we’re going to figure everything out.”

  “What if I don’t want to?” Sloane knows how childish it sounds, but she’s just so tired of it already.

  “Well then,” he says with a sigh, “maybe we just don’t leave this room for, you know, a couple of years.”

  Sloane smirks. “I’m sure people won’t notice.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Erim scoffs. “I’m ridiculously popular.” His thumb caresses the inside of her wrist so slowly and gently. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it, his soft eyes fixed on her. There’s a knock at the door.

  “I think there’s someone at the door,” Sloane whispers.

  “They’ll go away.” Erim shrugs like he didn’t hear a thing. Sloane points to the door. His eyes roll back, and he drags himself to his feet.