Page 123 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Desdemona’s eyes gloss over, glazed. Her will, gone. A blank slate for the taking.
“I will answer, and I won’t care.”
I look at Leiholan, fully aware that he could bleed out while I get my answers.
But one man’s life isn’t worth a universe. If this is how I can save us all, I would let him die. I would let anyone die.
“That isn’t true,”the boy interrupts.
Immediately, I think he’s right. My eyes drift down to Leiholan’s missing leg. It’s too similar to Ma.
It’s too similar.
“What did the kapha want?” I ask Desdemona quickly.
Her mouth opens and from it comes a string of words, similar to the prophecy. “‘For you, pain awaits. Free me and accept. Your fire draws you closer to my home.’That’s what it told me, but what it wants, I didn’t understand.”
“Toldyou?”
“Yes, it spoke to me,” she answers.
“But you are not its controller?” I clarify.
“No.”
“Who is?”
“I don’t know.”
Something else ties them together. But as Leiholan groans, Iknowthe boy was right. I won’t be the death of him. Though, I hardly have the energy to hold my body, let alone save a life.
I twist to Desdemona. “Give me your energy.”
Desdemona closes her eyes, doing as I ask.
She channels her power to me, moving through my body like a line of fire. I nearly cry out in pain as my blood heats, sure that there are boils forming on my skin.
Desdemona’s hands fall from my grasp, and in the blink of an eye, she regains control of her consciousness. Without a word, we pick up Leiholan, carrying him to the infirmary. His blood splashes down my ankle, but I hardly recognize the feeling.
My mind is occupied with the monsters, the prophecy, everything but the blood smearing on my hands.
We hand Leiholan off to the healers—each Eunoia looking at my blood stained clothes in shock, then acceptance.
They think all I did was save Leiholan.
They do not know I killed a monster.
Why is the first more acceptable than the latter, whenkillingthe monster ishowI saved him?
The second I can, I leave, weakly stumbling through the halls.
“Come to me,”the boy says. If the circumstances were only slightly different, I would ignore him.
But he took too much from me today.
I crash against the marble walls, my back cracking against the pressure. I slide down, closing my eyes. The boy is in front of me in the hallway, but the walls are muddy. Instead of beige marble, they’re dark brown blobs, nearly black.
Like a child painted the landscape.
