Page 55 of Immortal Longings
There’s nothing. There has always been nothing, from the moment she fell sick to this very second as the clock on the wall ticks past six. Anton picks up her hand and holds it, but the action is done out of reflex, not warmth. Seven years have passed, and by this point, he remembers the Otta in front of him more thanthe Otta who was alive, who pushed him to climb the palace turrets and throw eggs at their classroom windows.
In truth, he hadn’t known Otta for long before they were caught trying to run. If asked what their favorite memory together is, he wouldn’t know what to point at. Evenings spent hiding in various palace rooms, maybe, trying to keep quiet with the guards patrolling the hallways outside. But even that was always tinged with a franticness, with him wondering if Otta was going to get bored and wander off if he wasn’t interesting enough.
“Why do you always do that?” he had asked once.
Otta jolted in that private sitting room, her black eyes snapping to him. It was always a little strange looking at her directly, the Avia eyes so similar to Anton’s own. They certainly weren’t related. The elite bloodlines were well-documented, every bastard child logged no matter how quietly they slipped in.
“What do you mean?” Otta returned innocently.
“You’re always peering around. See—you’re doing it right now. It’s like you’re expecting someone to pop out from behind and scare you.”
In truth, that was the generous interpretation. No matter if they were in a room alone or surrounded by the palace crowd, Otta’s attention was flitting about eagerly. Anton had chosen his phrasing with care so that Otta wouldn’t take it as an attack, but it wasn’t only that she would peer around—she wanted to be watched, as if every word she delivered to him was also conducted for a hidden audience just on the other side of the curtain.
Otta leaned forward, her chin propped in her palm.
“I’m only cautious,” she whispered, like the two of them were engaged in conspiracy. “How else would we survive a place like this?”
Sometimes Anton got the feeling that palace nobles made themselves out to be more important than they really were. That every conflict was contrived and artificial, only a matter of who upset who and who said the wrong thing to who,and no one living within these gilded walls knew a single thing about what real danger was.
But he couldn’t say that to Otta. She made a blood sport out of surviving the palace, and she claimed to do it for their sake. While she reached for him and whispered,You’re the only thing that makes it worth it, promise me we’ll stay together, promise me, promise me—there was nothing he could say exceptI promise. I promise.
Whether he knew the true Otta Avia or not, they belonged to each other. He has spent these years in exile desperately aware that she is all he has left, every waking moment spent chasing the next method of covering a hospital bill from months prior. The end of the line is approaching. The debt piles too high to touch. Anton knows that either he wins the king’s games and takes the prize, or he loses himself and Otta at once. He won’t accept any other alternative. A promise is a promise, and he won’t ever abandon her.
Anton sets Otta’s hand down, then stops short. Her fingertips are tinged purple.
“I need a doctor,” he demands immediately, surging to his feet and smacking the plastic curtain aside. A nurse stands by the table, pouring from a large metal thermos.
“Did you say something?” the nurse asks absently, his eyes flicking over.
“Yes,” Anton replies. Impatience rises in his throat. All the hospitals in San-Er are like this. Overworked and overpacked, underpaid and understaffed. The people who run shifts are either short-tempered or entirely apathetic. He supposes it is self-preservation more than anything. Each day, they must throw out more lives than they save, not by any will of their own, but because there are not enough resources or operation spaces.
But still, in that moment, the only person around to blame is the nurse.
“This patient needs tending to.”
The nurse walks close, frowning. “I don’t see anything wrong.”
“So fetch a doctor—hey, where are you going?”
Something in the hallway has started screeching. Without any sympathy, the nurse is already hurrying away, holding a hand up. “Press the call button if there’s an emergency,” he calls over his shoulder. As soon as he exits the room, it plunges deeper into noise, the conversation two beds over turning heated, and Anton resists the urge to punch through the curtain, hitting whatever he can just to feel better.
When Anton looks at Otta again, there’s a thin layer of sweat on her top lip. He takes the washcloth and gingerly pats it off. Something is going on. The doctors say that as long as Otta has her vitals observed, as long as she is cared for, she won’t deteriorate. The yaisu can be continually combatted. She cannot improve, but she cannot die either.
So why does she look like she is weakening?
There’s a sudden rustle at the curtain, and Anton looks up with a start. The shadow of a child moves across the other unit, but it’s gone just as fast. Anton waits another second. Nothing. He sighs.
There are no nurses or doctors around to remind him of his bills when he draws the curtain back and exits the room. He turns into the corridor outside. An itch at his chin irritates him, and when he touches it, he feels grit and dried blood and the prickle of facial hair trying to grow in. He’s exhausted; when was the last time he took a shower? There’s still so much red stained at his collar, perhaps day old, perhaps even older. Any time not spent in the games is spent around the fringes of the casinos and cybercafes, either moving money around or figuring out his accounts.
“Watch out, watch out!”
A gurney comes rushing down the corridor, pushed by a woman dressed like a regular civilian. Anton steps out of the way, pressing up against the chipping green wall paint. The cool-toned lightbulb flickers overhead. He wonders if a civilian has merely taken matters into her own hands or if she’s a doctor who hasn’tchanged yet. The front desk can hardly keep track of its own patients, never mind its personnel. The only thing they can seem to keep track of is payment.
With a loud clatter of its wheels, the gurney disappears around the corner. Anton continues walking, hands in his pockets, eyeing the people he passes. The time has come for a swap. He can feel a discomfort in his chest—a reaction that always comes when familiarity sets in for a particular body, when a face grows too comfortable and the limbs become too easy to move. He has to stay on his toes. It’s the only way San-Er won’t bowl him over when he’s not watching.
By the corner, there’s a young man waiting with a cellular phone pressed to his ear. The device is a peculiar sight, rare around San because such technology is limited to the bankers and accountants in the financial districts. He must be rich. Either the son of a councilmember or someone capable enough to have made it out on his own after graduating from one of the three major academies in San-Er. It usually isn’t worth getting people like them caught in the games.
Anton does it anyway. He trips in front of the man, knives and pager and coins clattering out from his jacket, wristband loosening from his arm. And when the young man kindly crouches down to help Anton pick up his belongings, Anton jumps.
