Kochin carried a sleeping Nhika into the cabin of the airship, parting bodies as he did. The last time he’d been able to hold her like this, he wasn’t all too sure she’d wake up. Now, it was a small miracle that she had, and he relished the way her slumbering breath feathered his clavicle.
Inside, he set her down on a plush bench, where she rolled over and murmured something he couldn’t make out. His finger grazed across her arm, thumb brushing the bleed under her skin with the thought to heal it. He decided against that—there would be time when she awoke, but now she needed undisturbed rest. Instead, he undid the cuffs around her wrists and let the skin breathe.
Kochin couldn’t take his eyes off her. So much had happened in so little time that he still didn’t know if this was real or another delusion, a dream—if he looked away, would he wake up back in that stateroom? Back on Yarong? But the warmth of her skin, the evenness of her breath in slumber, reminded him she was here, and she was real, and through all her tenacity she’d managed to save them both.
Someone entered the cabin behind him—it was Trin, who nodded him toward the deck of the airship with an expectant look. Kochin didn’t want to leave Nhika’s side, but he obeyed and followed Trin outside.
“Thank you for coming for us,” Kochin rushed out, knowing gratitude was long overdue. “And thank you for saving me, of all people.”
Trin hummed his quiet welcome. “I’ll admit I was hoping I wouldn’t see you again.”
Kochin met his eye. Trin had helped him far more than he deserved—and if ever Kochin knew how such favors worked, it came at a cost.
Trin continued, “I think, if we had only ever met as privates at Majora, we might’ve been good friends. As it is, I can’t get past what you’ve taken from us, from Andao and Mimi. All the same … I do respect you, so I’ll be candid: We’re planning to offer Nhika a permanent home with us. An education, a name, a future. Something like what Mr. Congmi did for me. This isn’t us trying to take her from you. It’s us giving her a choice.”
Trin’s tone wasn’t cold, but its impassivity made his words somehow worse—like being pulled out to sea by a strong surf and knowing he couldn’t bargain with the tide.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“So you can prepare for the choice she makes, whatever it might be.”
Kochin swallowed a stone in his throat. Once, Nhika had chosen to come home with him. But that was before the decision had killed her. That was before the war, where the Congmis would be able to provide so much more for her than he could. But if she chose them, the family that rightfully despised him, Kochin wasn’t sure he’d ever see her again.
“And if she chooses me?” For a moment, Kochin wanted to be cocky, to tell Trin that of course she’d choose him—had she not died for him?—but he was no longer sure.
“Well then, I should never find her imperiled again. Otherwise, I’d spare no expense to hunt you myself.”
Kochin might’ve feared his threat, but he saw the depth behind it—Trin, in his own way, was preparing to let her go. It only came down to her choice.
With a terse nod to end the conversation, Trin strode away, the mechanism of his leg brace whirring as he did. Kochin was left to his own thoughts, and his eyes drifted to the commissioner, standing at the front of the airship.
In the quiet, Kochin joined him. They both looked ahead, where the ship’s bow cut through the sky. The fog had cleared by now, revealing an image that seemed painted in three brushstrokes: the sky, the ocean, and the thin scraggle of land emerging between them. Somewhere, sitting on the edge of the water, was Theumas. Home.
Kochin and Commissioner Nem spent a long moment in silence. It felt strange to share such a calm space with a man he’d considered a threat for so long, but the man standing beside him—shock blanket over his shoulders, hair covered in soot—was not the commander in chief who had imprisoned him. This was a man undergoing revelation, like it was the first time he’d truly seen the sun.
At last, Commissioner Nem cleared his throat. “You asked me how you could prove that your gift could not create my army,” he said, voice hoarse from smoke. “I didn’t think you could.”
“And now?” Kochin asked. “What do you think?”
“I think … that you didn’t have to save me, but you did. So, I believe if you truly could turn this war, you would. But that’s not what your gift is meant for, is it?”
Wordlessly, Kochin shook his head.
Commissioner Nem’s eyes traced the horizon. “And what does it mean to you, Kochin?”
Kochin thought on it. For so long, he’d wielded heartsoothing with the Trickster Fox’s same shame, feeling like he’d somehow stolen it from the Mother. When working for Santo, his heartsoothing had been abused. In losing Nhika, it had been inadequate.
But, through bringing her back, his heartsoothing was love enduring. It was proof that something inviolable connected him to Nhika, and to his mother, and to anyone else he ever touched—even the commissioner.
“It just means that I’m not alone,” he said at last.
“Then, who am I to ask that it be anything more or less than that?” Commissioner Nem let out a low, tired laugh hidden in a sigh. “Perhaps my crime was being Theuman—I considered it a science, reproduceable and dispersible. Now, I see that it doesn’t need to produce anything, results or armies or progress. It just needs to … exist.”
Kochin nodded. “I’m sorry, Commissioner. I know the war is still real. I wish I could help, but—”
Commissioner Nem raised a slow hand. “It’s okay. I will keep fighting for Theumas. I’ll keep fighting for Yarong, too—because you’ve reminded me why we’re fighting: so that beautiful things can still exist on the other side of conflict. After all, what is this worth, all this fighting and bloodshed, if the very things we fight for are tarnished in the act of war?”
“I’m sorry it couldn’t be the weapon you hoped for,” Kochin said. “But heartsoothing still lives—barely, but it has a pulse. I need to make sure it continues.”
“I understand. And I’ll forget all that transpired on Yarong, your gift and your crimes.” He gave Kochin a look that held tired humor. “I can’t very well lock you up in good conscience now, can I?”
Kochin returned a smile. “I’m glad you could see reason, Commissioner.” He swallowed, gathered his thoughts. “What happens next?”
“The fight continues on Yarong. I know now what’s at stake on that island—I promise you, I’ll do whatever it takes to return it to Yarongese rule. As for you, go home. You’ve fought for long enough.”
Kochin gave him a grateful look. “If you need my talents, you know where to find me.”
“And if you ever return to Central, know that it will be waiting for you with open arms.”
“Thank you, Commissioner, but I think I’m going to be making up for lost time at home.”
Commissioner Nem barked out a laugh. “Well then, know that you’ll be missed.”
A silence fell between them again, but it was a hopeful one. Together they stood at the bow, watching Theumas sparkle into view as the airship forged its way forward.
The airship touched down on an airdrome in Western Theumas. Passengers flooded down the ramps, exclaiming their relief at solid land. Kochin knelt by Nhika’s side, rousing her with a light shake of her shoulder.
“We’re here,” he whispered as she stirred.
“Am I dead?” she slurred.
“No,” he said through a light laugh. “You’re in Theumas.”
Blinking awake, Nhika gazed groggily around the ship. “We made it?”
“We made it.”
Together, they headed for the exit when Mimi’s voice stopped them. “Nhika,” she called, emerging from the cockpit. Andao and Trin emerged at her side. “We’ll be flying back west.”
Nhika paused, turned, and Kochin knew what the Congmis would tell her. They would give her a choice.
“If you want,” Mimi began softly, “you can come live with us, as you have been. Now that all this is over and Kochin is safe, we can help you start an honest life in Theumas.”
Though Nhika didn’t speak, she gave Kochin a thoughtful look.
“Or you can go with him,” Mimi said. “I understand either way, whatever you choose.”
“Kochin, a moment?” Nhika requested, and he acquiesced. Though his heart fell to the pit of his stomach, he exited the ship and gave her space for her decision.
From the airfield, he watched as Nhika spoke with the Congmis. They exchanged hugs, unbridled familiarity, and Kochin had never seen such a sentimental look on Nhika. When Kochin had first found her at the wake, a ward of the Congmi family, he’d thought it nefarious—he knew they’d bought her from the Butchers’ Row. To use her, he’d figured. Now, he saw how good they were for her. Kochin had fought for and spurned his chance to live in Central Theumas, to assimilate to Theuman ideals of progress before all else, but Nhika still had a fresh opportunity. Unlike him, she had a chance to truly thrive there.
Yet, he wanted her to choose him. Kochin wasn’t sure he could stand to part with her. It took every ounce of will to keep from running up that ramp, falling to his knees, begging her to come with him. Would he regret it if he didn’t?
Mother, let her choose him. If She could grant him just this one wish, he’d never ask for anything else.
To quell his nervousness, he paced an anxious path along the airfield. He knew it had to be her choice, but every muscle in his body told him to run to her.
“You got what you wanted, didn’t you? I thought you’d be happier,” Lanalay said, sidling up to him.
Kochin stopped his pacing, though his lip quirked with an anxious twitch. He eyed her, finding a crinkled stack of papers in her hand. “Seems as though you got what you wanted, too.”
“I did.”
And yet, she didn’t look happy, either. “Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” He pressed his lips together, feeling remorse for a crime he didn’t commit. “What now?”
Lanalay scrounged a lighter from her pocket. She lit it, held the flame to the corner of the papers, and they both watched as the fire licked its way up the sheets until they were nothing more than ashes.
With it, that hateful choice Kochin had once had to make—his last shackle, his near-sin—was gone.
“I’m going home,” Lanalay said, smudging the last of the ash beneath her boot. “If you ever see me again, Private Ven, it’ll be because Yarong is truly free.”
“Well then, I hope to see you again.”
With a sly smile, she dipped her head in farewell and rejoined the company outside the airship. Without the distraction of a conversation, all that racking anxiety returned.
He might’ve succumbed to it, but Nhika appeared at the entrance of the ramp.
“Kochin,” she called, and his chest squeezed with nervousness. He tried to discern if that was a “Kochin, goodbye” or a “Kochin, let’s go home.”
“Yes?” he said, his voice small.
Noticing his agitation, Nhika laughed. “Kochin, can you pay for my train ticket back to Chengton?”
Despite himself, he made an exclamation of relief and opened his arms. She rushed down the ramp and leaped into his embrace, letting him twirl her around—all their sore bones, frayed muscles, singed hair. He held her close, and for the first time, it came with no sense of urgency—for the first time, he knew there would always be another chance to hold her.
Through the window of the cockpit, Kochin saw a stoic Trin, arms crossed as he watched him. Mimi and Andao joined his side, and Kochin raised a hand—a thank-you, an apology, and a goodbye, all rolled into one. Nhika turned to wave her own farewell and the ramp retracted up the airship as it prepared for another flight.
There, hand in hand and hair buffeted by stirring engines, he and Nhika headed home.