Page 122 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
To make the kill easier.
Conversely, that very peace fills me. Offers a break from these aching bones. My bloody thorns. For the first time in this entire fight, I take a deep breath—I finally have the mind to.
I rise from the ground.
It’s the kapha’s own magic that will be the reason for its death.
And I feel a sick sweetness in being the one who gets to dole it.
My feet press into the world like roots. My arms extend, and trees shoot up from the ground beside me. As if I am the wielder of life itself. The thorns push out from every inch of skin; they coat my arms, my legs and hands, down my spine. The blood trickles, from neck to shoulder, but the pain is nothing against this peace.
My trees pull on the kapha’s arms, forcing them apart. Desdemona falls first. Then, the sword tumbles beside an unconscious Leiholan.
My heart races as if I’m running from the monster itself, all while I pull it apart. Two trees hold onto the kapha, keeping it down.
Quickly, I pick up the sword.
I lift it over my head.
And as I sink the blade into the kapha’s chest, I understand Ma for the first time.
There is something glorious about the kill.
I am more than a mender.
I am stronger than a murder.
I am the very giving and taking of life.
I carve the blade down the kapha’s body. Blood sprays on my face. Organs spill on my feet. The sight, the feeling, it’s too powerful. I don’t know what I do next, only that when I’m done, the sword is buried to the hilt. The blade sticks through the other end of the monster.
But the kapha isn’t dead. In its last moments, that dark swirling gaze meets mine. It sees through me, understands me. It knows what I am.
Because it does to me what I do to others.
With a final, twisted flourish, the kapha reaches out, and it controls its prey.
The agony of the monster’s last moments are transmitted into me, a thousand times over. The dread of death, sharp and suffocating, pulses through my veins. It’s as if I’m drowning in it, the weight of its terror crushing me from the inside out.
I fall to the floor, trying to catch my guts before they spill.
Trying to stop my mind from calling out:Desdemona.
The kapha wants her help—hersaving.
Slowly, oh so slowly, the kapha takes its last breath, and with it, it finally releases me. My head crashes to the floor. Have I cracked my skull open against the packed soil?
My vision swims, the world blurring as I sink into it—unable to escape, unable to breathe.
Desdemona’s cries fill the air around me, singing me to sleep. I can’t do anything more. I have nothing more to give. She shouts, cries. I look at her holding a very near dead Leiholan, and I wonder:Who are you, Desdemona?
I realize, too late, that she’s looking at me, asking for something. Her hands are in front of me for the taking. For a moment, I stay silent, staring at her flesh.
Then I peel off my glove and, while wondering what she is expecting me to do with her hands, I hold them. An idea blossoms in my mind.
I meet her gaze, her pliant pupils.
“You will answer my questions, but they do not mean anything to you,” I say. “You will not wish to recall these questions. Do you understand?”
