Parrying death to ensure life for others: this is benere.
-Genesifin
Dawn came into the little room without promise of warmth. The sky streaked with the tangerine of new light, but within the hour, clouds concealed all color, and the sun was hidden behind dark pillows. Brenol broke the ice in the wash bowl to scour his face and neck, but then thought better of the enterprise and simply dressed with quivering limbs. Arman did not even approach the basin.
Breakfast was brief but hot, and the two pushed out into the town to resupply in haste.
“I suppose you shall have to smell me a bit longer,” Brenol said, gazing wistfully at the steam billowing up from the laundress’s home. He ached for a bath, but the hunt would not wait. “Perhaps in Selet?”
Arman issued a non-committal grunt. The noise did not evoke great confidence in his companion.
There were few rations from which to choose, but Arman was decisive and succinct, and they were en route before the morning had yawned awake.
Brenol kept the juile’s pace, pattering his fingers nervously at his side. The brief flash of joviality had drained entirely from him, and his face was now tight and serious. Ahead was the first real chance to again face malitas. He trembled inside, wordlessly renewing the questions that haunted him: Am I enough? Will I fail yet again?
He voiced nothing, but the circling turned his insides raw while bubbles of grief for Darse rose up, threatening to pop.
He forced himself to steady his breath, intoning as Deniel had in memories now his own: Benere is far more than emotion. Strangely, a cool calm fell over him, and he gripped it gratefully before it dissipated with the wind.
For Colette, he said to himself. For Massada.
For Darse.
~
Plune did not take long to cross. They circumvented the mountains as much as possible and moved along the rolling hills of the terrisdan’s center. The land’s eye observed them quietly as they traveled. The wordless tracking of the terrisdan reminded Brenol of a gentle old cat whose orbits had smoothed inquisitiveness to lethargy, curiosity to tranquil repose. As they approached the lugazzi, Brenol bent down and whispered genuine gratitude. He regretted having to exchange Plune for the harshness of Selet.
The lugazzi drew Arman’s appearance into vision, and Brenol peered up to see tight lines on the juile’s face. He did not comment. He knew the same creases of anxiety were etched upon his own.
After another hour, the pair spied Selet. Arman slowed his steps, and cocked his head slightly, trying to discern what his eyes were taking in.
“What is it, Ar?” Brenol asked.
“I cannot tell,” the juile replied softly. “I just don’t know.”
Soon Brenol himself sought to make sense of what lay in the distance. The rocky heights before them were singed with patches of black. As they neared, it appeared that ice was melting upon the ground, and steam billowed up in a grating sibilance.
“I don’t understand,” Arman said, puzzled. Brenol shook his head, bewildered himself, and the two crossed into rocky Selet.
Instead of bending in greeting, Brenol froze. Arman did too, but more in persisting confusion, for his form did not visually solidify.
Brenol brimmed with such terror that he could barely move. The eye of the land was upon him, yet the eye was certainly not Selet. It was a maddening sensation that pressed at his temples with searing agony.
Brenol reached out to the juile for balance and whispered hoarsely, “Arman! It’s in the terrisdan!”
Arman glanced around, understanding seeping in. Grief wrung the juile’s heart; Selet was his home, and his friend.
Brenol swept the blade from his back and deftly tugged aside its bindings in less time than it took to inhale. He raised the sword to thrust a blow into the ground, but halted in mid-movement as the voice of the land reached his ears. He nearly toppled as he righted his feet from the lurching stop.
The earth rumbled, again speaking to him.
Brenol’s green eyes flashed in hesitation.
Arman stared at him, then all about, uncomprehending.
The land groaned out still more. It reached Brenol’s ears in a soft hiss. “If you do it, you will destroy all of Massada. All life will die because of you. You. You will be the cause of the world’s end.”
“You don’t know anything,” Brenol said, yet his face blanched in doubt.
“The maralane were just the beginning. You will be the cause of the rest.”
Arman watched Brenol’s reactions with sinking heart. He saw enough to know their peril. “What lies does it speak?” he yelled. “Do not heed them! Quickly, strike, before it flees!”
The groan that came from the ground merely echoed the thoughts in his own head. “You are too weak. You cannot save this world. You are only capable of failure…”
The grief and regret Brenol had barely staved off now throttled him. He felt his marrow thin to water. All my fears… it knows them…
“Slay the juile,” snaked the unrelenting voice. “Slay him now. And I will take pity on your world.”
Brenol longed to cover his ears and flee. He looked about desperately.
“Give me the sword then! Now!” Arman demanded, robes flying under the force of his gesticulations.
Brenol was still, listening. His face turned ashen and haunted.
“What does it say?” Arman demanded. Brenol did not respond, and the juile bellowed in his face, “WHAT DOES IT SAY?”
A voice as small as a child’s came from the man’s trembling mouth. “If I give you the sword, it will flee and find Colette. And take our child.” His hands quivered. “How…how does it know her name? How?”
Arman felt a booming premonition in his gut—soon, all would be lost—but he knew what must be done. There was no other choice. None.
Would that I had known the kiss of a juile, he thought, smiling weakly. I saved my life for greater things.
“Bren. Brenol!” he shouted, trying to draw the man’s attention.
The red head looked up with eyes lost in despondency. Arman towered before him, full of purpose and resolve. His face was no longer creased in fear, but open and proud.
“Do not wait. Slay it quickly. It is the only way. It has been bountiful, my friend.” He smiled with his now-evened features, and his eyes glittered. He had never before looked so handsome, so alive.
“Wh—” began Brenol.
“Chaul!” Arman barked, ignoring Brenol. “Come to me. And do not leave.”
Comprehension dawned upon the man, and fear shook him awake with forceful fingers. He could not lose Arman. Not after Darse. His blood burned in new determination.
Chaul immediately felt the ease of submission sink into its person. It was so simple, so compelling, to heed the voice that used its name. It did not feel regret, just compulsion. Of course it would go to Arman. Of course it would not leave. Of course.
“Chaul, no!” Brenol’s voice boomed. It carried an authority that gave pause. “Chaul, stop. You shall not go. You shall stay in Selet. You shall not move.”
The spirit lingered, unsure as to which order drove him most. The conflicting commands slowly awakened it, pulling it from mindless stupor. Its emotions began to thaw, and rage and loathing bubbled up anew. It made to—
Brenol did not tarry any longer. He buried the blade in the earth with more force than he thought he harbored, yelling in effort, until half of the shining white lay sheathed in rock. The ground let out a piercing scream that flooded the entire terrisdan. The awful wail pounded upon his ears and mind until Brenol could bear it no more.
“Come what may,” he said with crazed fervor. He stepped forward again, and using his sturdy frame and force of body, he heaved the hilt down into the soil with a twisting thrust. The screech died in the air, and an eerie tomb-like quiet throttled the land.
Brenol collapsed to the earth.
Arman rushed to the man and peered with awe upon the scene. The sword had been forced into near-solid rock. No part of the white blade could be seen—only the rubied shaft remained. He regarded the feat with astonishment.
Brenol’s body was a sunken heap in the damp frost. His face bent forward, and his coppery plaits draped him like a hood.
“Ar-Arman,” whispered the man.
The tone sent a chill through him. It was a voice that heard death calling.
“Bren,” he breathed, turning the man supine. Brenol groaned under the movement but smiled weakly at the juile.
“Where? Where are you hurt?”
Brenol shook his head, but in his frailty, it was a fractional movement.
“What is it?” the juile demanded again.
“The whistle. I… I just…” The man’s eyes lost focus and rolled back into his head as he sank into unconsciousness.
Arman lifted Brenol as though he were no more than a child and rose as if to flee, but stopped before even counting three steps. He glanced at the sword’s hilt still glittering atop the rocky earth. I cannot leave it. It is too dangerous…
He paused, deliberating. Brenol’s words continued to echo in his ears.
What whistle?
The juile settled the man to the ground with great care. He cautiously, but speedily, examined his belongings and person. Brenol carried little, but he did discover the Genesifin and an old love letter from Colette. The juile curled his lip up in cold revulsion. He wanted nothing more than to hurl the book from the scene but knew it would never stop the fate that Brenol had chosen. Arman pressed his fingers through the remaining clothing. He nearly missed it, but in the breast pocket lay a tiny silver whistle. His long fingers smoothed across the shiny surface as if they comprehended meaning that was still lost upon his mind.
Arman narrowed his brow in consideration. No, he had never seen it before, but he refused to waste invaluable time. He drew it to lips and blew through the small reed. A single, high-pitched note rang out into the air. It was sweet, and his heart clung to it with the hope of summer, yet nothing happened.
No time. I must move.
Arman pocketed the whistle, approached the sword, widened his stance, and pulled with his great frame. His thighs quivered and arms shook like jelly, yet the sword would not budge. Face dripping with exertion, he threw his hands to the side in the juile manner of frustration. It was only then that he saw her.
She stood no taller than his waist, small framed and as mottled as an old owl. Her face was lovely—even more attractive and human than Arista’s—and youthful, and her wings were soft and downy. A pair of strigiform gray eyes considered him and the situation.
“You are Arman,” she said. Her voice was light, but only because it issued from her tiny body. Arman sensed she was far from an insignificant creature.
“Yes.”
“You’ve pledged gortei.”
“Again, yes.”
“You bear Brenol’s summejere.” Her thin fingers pointed to his left inner chest pocket where the whistle lay. Wordlessly, his hand met the small whistle and drew it to the light. Before he could speak, he found that the frawnite had whisked the silver piece away and hidden it from sight. Arman gaped incredulously.
Her wings twitched as her eyes settled upon the man heaped atop the terrisdan soil. Already, the ground was beginning to blacken in the sear of the black fever’s passing. Likely, the entire countryside would soon be nothing but a singed dark.
Seeing his friend worked as a slap back to reality, and the drive for haste again raced through his veins. “I must move and get him help,” Arman said impatiently. “Who are you?”
“Pearl. I also am under gortei. Arman, let me.”
Arman eyed her speculatively. “Where would you take him?”
Pearl shook her head and pointed to the jeweled hilt. “No. Not Brenol. I shall take the sword.”
Relief loosened the juile’s drawn face. “Yes. You shall take it to the peri?”
She offered nothing, holding her lips primly together while her face narrowed in avian intensity.
Arman did not appreciate her reticence. “How do I know your intentions?”
Pearl’s head lifted proudly. Her svelte body seemed to grow as she spoke, and her mottled wings opened as if in flight. “I am no longer living. My gortei is more pure than in life,” she replied fiercely.
Arman peered at her, troubled. “You’re not concerned about Bren?”
Pearl smiled. Her lovely brown features opened. “He fulfilled his oath. There is nothing more.”
“To me, there is still a friend in need, frawnite.”
Pearl raised her eyes in amused surprise. She opened her hand in conciliation. “Brenol Tilted-Ash is in shock. He destroyed the malitas, and with it he likely destroyed himself.” Her owl eyes glinted with some indistinguishable emotion. “He was bound to the land and it to him with a rare cord.”
“But the cure?”
Her face grew severe. “The Three.”
Arman sighed. It was rarely so easy. A new thought occurred to him. “Do you go to unite the worlds?” Perhaps it is Pearl… Could she be the Lady of Purpose?
Pearl sliced her hand through the air to halt the incessant queries. “Arman! Do not keep me! I don’t know how long I have here. I must press my way before it’s too late. And you must see to Brenol. We must both move.”
The juile nodded and bowed hesitantly. “It has been bountiful,” he said, but he felt strangled by the hundreds of questions weighing on his tongue. Feeling a rush of air, he raised up his head and found that Pearl had vanished. The mysterious blade of their redemption was gone as well, leaving only a clean slice in the now-black rock.
~
Pearl laid a small hand upon the slumbering figure. The woman stirred, giving a low moan as she rose into consciousness. The warmth of her repose wrapped her, and sleep beckoned her to return. Just as she was lowering back into unconsciousness, Pearl again touched the lovely creature, calling her, “Colette. Colette, you must wake.”
Hearing her name, the lunitata pushed back the curtains of drowsiness, blinked with heavy lids, and lumbered up to a seated position. Her belly bulged with life, and her cheeks were pink from sleep.
Colette’s emerald eyes suddenly dropped their grogginess and fissured with fear. The lines circling her eyes creased sharply as she took in the frawnite. “What happened to him? Where’s Bren?”
The frawnite shook her head. “No. Brenol is with Arman. Rise. There’s still much to be done.” She yanked the heavy tapestry lining the window, and it fell in a dusty heap to the ground. Daylight streamed in, and the frawnite’s silver crop glistened.
Colette, hearing the words, sighed, and relief loosened her figure. “I’ve not slept without dreams in so long. I slept so well…” Her voice was wistful, but nevertheless she thrust the bedclothes from her legs and wiggled to the side of the pallet.
“What is it that you need? Who are you?” she asked patiently. Despite her cordiality, the unspoken question lingered in the air: Why are you in my home?
“Pearl, my name is Pearl. I’ve been chosen by Brenol. And while he didn’t know it at the time, he chose me for you. I’m here to help you.”
I slept without dreams…
The lunitata gazed at the frawnite. The slender face was angular like a bird’s but contained an endearing beauty. She was lovely and natural.
Colette turned her head as a flicker of curiosity flared up. There was a familiar quality to Pearl, as if she had seen her once in a dream. But she could not place the recognition.
“Help me?” Colette asked, suddenly hearing Pearl’s words. Her hands curled around her waist. The child, as if in response, kicked lightly.
“Yes. You must make haste. We travel as soon as you’re ready. To the Tindel.”
“Travel?” Colette shook her head, and her tousled blonde locks swished. “You must be mistaken. I cannot. I’m not more than a septspan from the lifing. The baby’ll come, and I must be here. I have a seal promising my nurse-maid’s arrival soon.”
Pearl lifted her small hand in disagreement, and her wings followed with an instinctual flex. “No. We must move. I know you are scared…” Her face softened in encouragement. “I’ve been a health maid to frawnites before, if that helps ease your worries.”
“But why?” asked Colette. Her mind felt muddled from the unexplainable slumber coupled with the heavy exhaustion of so many sleepless nights.
“The world is ending, Colette. You must save it. You must save the remnant. It is your cartess.”
Something struck a chord within the lunitata, something that had never before been placed in her heart. “My cartess?” she whispered to herself. “Can it really be?”
Pearl smiled gently at her. “Yes, we all have one.”
The tree? Can it really be? Even after all this time? While no answers surfaced, her intuit felt the thrum of truth that flowed in with the frawnite’s words. A trickle of hope sparked. Something was here for her, she just had no idea what that something was.
“But my child’s lifing?”
“Why could that not be part of this?” Pearl replied.
The lunitata gazed up at the silvery head, round eyes, and thin and angular face. Pearl peered back with an expression of assurance and faith. This creature believed in her. She truly believed in her.
Colette felt the power of resolve rise in her as easily as the waters in the early thaw. It hummed within her, awakening and fortifying. This was her purpose. She knew it, as one knows how to breathe and laugh and love.
“What do I need?”
“Let’s pack,” Pearl replied.
~
Pearl’s disappearance, however abrupt, did not leave Arman gaping long. He could not tarry in knotted angst, so he breathed out a prayer—May Pearl be who she says—and logically considered his options.
There were no healing facilities of renown in this section of Massada, and even had it not been days and days of travel away, Limbartina was no more. The closest town was likely Trilau, for to reach his home in Graft he would have to cross the Songra. He did not know its current state and did not want to retrace his steps should it prove unfordable. Trilau was easily a half day’s journey unencumbered, but lugging an unconscious man could make it three.
Trilau it is.
An odd taste filled his mouth—like bitter soap. He straightened, smoothed his robes, and swallowed the rising panic.
May she be who she says.
He composed himself after a breath and set to work in constructing a stretcher. It was crude, but within an hour he had secured Brenol’s form to the makeshift carrier and wrapped a heavy blanket around him to keep his heat steady. The stretcher proved too short, and the heels of Brenol’s boots dragged limply as Arman lifted the two boughs crafted as handgrips, but he refused to begin anew.
The sky was clear and the sun bright, but the juile’s face was grim. Soon, his back ached and his arms burned. Every step forward seemed an impossibility, an agony to endure. Arman had abandoned most of his possessions along the trail with a perfunctory upending of his pack, but the weight and angle of the stretcher rent his muscles and tore at his skin. He wrapped his hands too late and grimaced at the painful blisters that formed and eventually burst across palms and thumbs.
Every break, he forced water down the inert man’s throat and sucked in heavy gulps of air for himself. He did not permit much time for rest and returned to his labor with tight lips and clenched heart. His previous prayer was rarely far from his lips.
Nightfall came, and Arman poured another swallow of water down Brenol’s throat before allowing his own body to collapse in front of the enormous bonfire he had constructed. The heat was tremendous, but he harbored concern about keeping Brenol warm and was unsure if he would wake in the dead of night to tend to the fire after such exertion. He had intended to concoct a poultice for his hands, but he barely closed his lids before his body succumbed to unconsciousness.
~
Trilau would have been a beautiful sight had the land itself not been black and devoid of life. The pebble-dash gray and tan buildings were the same, but they contrasted with the onyx earth like dollops of cream on burned hotcakes. The air reeked of decay and death, and vegetation across the land had shriveled and turned a russet hue. A fire could have blazed for a septspan and still not have left such destruction.
Juile assisted Arman as soon as he encountered them outside of town, surrounding the two in transparent robes of gray, black, white. They hauled Brenol with somber faces while Arman plodded his way slowly beside them. He did not even take note as to who carried his friend and who offered him suspicious glances. The exhaustion upon mind and body was too severe.
The medical center lay in the northern section of town and was a simple edifice of usual juile construction. The dark scarlet portiere—marking it as a healing facility—had been replaced with a heavy tapestry to prevent the icy breezes from entering, but otherwise it was as Arman had remembered. Many hands led him, and he allowed the familiar juile movements to whisk them both through the building.
I must speak to the healer, he thought, but collapsed into sleep before he could utter a word.
~
It was only a few hours before Arman impelled himself to consciousness.
Arman pressed hard against the heavy weakness that soaked his chest and limbs and opened his eyes. The room was familiar, at least in its juile fashion, with cleanly swept wooden floors, high ceilings to suit the needs of tall bodies, white-washed walls, and a mosaic-tiled image upon the main wall. The teritra traditionally expressed the mantra of the house or some piece of significance as to the purpose of the edifice. The picture here was of a storm, focused upon the golden flash of lightning razing down to slice a tree through its center before crashing into the black earth.
Interesting choice, he mused; its meaning eluded him.
“You should rest longer,” a soft voice issued.
He craned his head sideways to spy a lovely figure. Her skin was a dark olive, and she peered at him with pressed lips and curious eyes. Her black hair was smoothed back into a braid wound into a circular bun at the back of her head. It accentuated her slender neck and round eyes. His heart clenched—her transparency reminded him of Selet’s end.
She would be fair fully visible, his mind mused, but he stopped himself abruptly.
“Tell me of the man I came with. Is he well?”
The juile woman laced her fingertips together briefly before she spoke. “He hasn’t woken, but he appears to be facing shock more than physical malady.” Her lips parted as if to continue but then closed quickly.
Arman raised his body to a sit with elbows and forearms. “Please,” he pleaded, “Do not hold back. What is it?”
The woman glanced to the floor in consideration. Slowly, her rich alto issued out. “His shock is severe. And his hands…” Her eyebrows raised in question as her dark eyes met Arman’s.
Arman’s brow furrowed. “His hands?”
She stared back incredulously. “You did not see it?”
A fear shot through him. He felt like the teritra mosaic tree razed awake with electricity. “What?”
“His hands…” She lifted her own to demonstrate, extending out her palms. “They’re as black as coal on the palms. Like he handled a fire.”
Arman remained silent, knowing all too well the source of the injury.
“I…I would not press…”
“But the land itself is screaming our guilt?”
She glanced down, blushing slightly. “There are many worried juile.”
He nodded. “I would be too, in your position. I am Arman.” He looked to her expectantly.
“Sara,” she replied.
“Sara, I don’t think I’ve the energy or ability to explain right now. Just know we are connected with the death of Selet, but we were not the cause. My friend, Bren, destroyed an evil that would have undone our entire world.”
She stared back, expression unreadable.
“Please help him,” he pleaded.
“I would regardless.”
Uneasiness tickled his neck. “But do you believe me?”
Her face remained impassive.
“Sara?” Why do I care so deeply what she thinks?
“I don’t know. But I’ll do what I can to heal him. The polina can decide the rest.”
Arman nodded. He understood her suspicions. Had he been investigating himself, he would have been far more severe. “Thank you.” He lowered himself back down upon his pallet and allowed his heavy lids to fall. He could feel the darkness closing down deliciously as the peace of sleep stole upon him.
“Selet is dead?” he heard her ask. It sounded so far away, but he rose again from exhaustion to open his eyes.
“Yes.”
“And all who live here?”
He reached out and touched her hand. The motion cost him dearly, but he did not regret it. Her fingers were surprisingly soft. Her eyes met his. They were tight with emotion.
“I do not know. But this is not the end.”
She dipped her head in a tiny nod and swept from the room. His fingers tingling with the memory of her hand, he sank into sleep.
~
Colette tugged the outer cape closer around her front, but it was a futile effort against the wind screaming across the barren plain. She was clothed in more than she had ever before worn, but it still was insufficient to block the ice creeping into her blood. Housing her legs were two warm skirts that covered heavy woolen trousers atop thick, soft travel pants and tights, and her upper body was laden with sweaters, a heavy coat of her own, one of Brenol’s, a double-layered cloak, and the blue cape upon which Pearl had insisted. She wore heavy boots that warmed but weighed her down with every step. Her head poked out of the bulge of clothing like a mole peering out at the suspicious world above. Yet even still, the cold in her bones was deeper than any she had ever experienced. It was a chill that terrified her.
My baby’ll turn to ice soon.
The thought of her child drove her above all else. Massada could pass, Pearl could plead, but in the end her love for the babe within steeled her resolve.
I will not stop.
Her muscles protested with every movement. She was unused to such activity, and her body lumbered forth awkwardly between the heavy burden of her child and the atrophied state of her limbs. Colette paused and bent forward, her face tight with pain. A strand of blonde escaped her meticulously wound scarf. Her belly was taut and as hard as a stone. The pressure both surprised her and lunged at her with a jolting bite—enough so that she was forced to pause and breathe before continuing.
Where is Pearl? I cannot go much longer.
The two had pressed hastily through Veronia. There had been moments of tightness across her gut, but she had always been able to step onward. The frawnite had stopped to examine her but had certainly held her tongue if there had been any concern. Her gray eyes revealed nothing; she hid all behind avian features.
Am I to die here? I’ve been walking for days…
Nights had been bitter and cold, but the frawnite had shown her how to seek refuge behind snow drifts and to pitch her cloak as a tent. It was miserable, but she had survived this far.
“The Tindel are a hard people,” Pearl had told her as softly as a secret, as though the wind might carry her words to unwanted ears. “They live a hard life. And see outsiders as weak, soft. ‘Greenlanders’ they call Massadans, but to be fair, it is understandable. We’ve lived in decadence compared to the icy blue they’ve known.”
“But why do they choose to live there?”
“There was much that went into the initial decision. You’ll have to speak to them about it. But they did it more out of honor and love than out of pride and revulsion.”
Colette had pondered her words, finally asking, “What kind of people are they?”
“If you mean species, they’re human, although different now after surviving in the desert for generations. They live in clans, clustered across the western expanse, but as to numbers I cannot even begin to guess. They’re a pale people, but more robust than one would expect.”
“And temperament?”
“Unforgiving. Ritualistic. Honorable,” she had replied without hesitation.
“Do they know the Three?”
Pearl glanced sideways at her, startled. “All know the Three…” She considered and added, “But yes, they heed Their voices.”
Colette mused at her reaction and then asked, “Do the Three talk to you?”
“On occasion.” The frawnite shook her wings, freeing them of snow. “My life now is not one of time. I simply am, and I await the moment when I am needed. Eventually, I will not be needed, and then I shall pass to the paths every other creature takes when they die.”
“Which are?”
“We’ll see when it is time.”
The growing urgency to understand these foreigners pushed aside Colette’s usual curiosity. Instead, she focused anew on the Tindel. “What am I to do with them? Why do we even go?”
Pearl’s owl eyes had regarded her with shock. “Has Brenol never spoken to you about the Genesifin?”
“Not in great detail. I could tell it was a burden for him to think about. I didn’t press.”
“He was a fool to not prepare you.” Pearl’s mottled gray and white locks had moved only slightly in the growing wind, but the chill had nearly choked Colette in her steps. “Massadans shall not survive if they don’t unite with the Tindel. The icing of the terrisdans is only the beginning. This is the Change that has been foretold from the beginning of creation. It will not be many orbits before the freeze destroys all unprotected life.”
“And why would they help us?”
“They would not. But you’re to convince them otherwise.”
It was a truth that had chilled more than the keening wind.
“Why me?” Colette had asked weakly.
“I’m not a soul who can deem the reasons for another’s cartess…but I imagine it’s because in doing so, you will become more Colette.”
To become more me…
The frawnite had procured a map and seen her to the borders of Veronia, but after another day, her dappled feathers and silver eyes had simply disappeared. There were no parting words and no consoling promises for future encounters—not that those could have eased the sharp sting of loneliness that had crept upon her as she had stolen across the perilous blue.
Colette whimpered involuntarily as another contraction curled her spine forward in agony. She waited a minute—attempting to relax, for rigid cringes merely intensified it—and soon was rewarded with an easy breath. She straightened her frame and, pushing aside her pack and Heart Render with numb hands, sought to massage her lower back through the many layers of fabric. It ached as never before, with a pain disabling all clear thinking. Oh, how she longed for a hot bath, to feel her fingers and toes again, a steaming meal, warm Umburquin cinnamon tea, Brenol’s hand within hers…
Are you going to dream about comfort all day? You’re more than this, remember? You’ve a cartess. So move, Colette! Move!
Again, she plodded forward, until the sharp twist of pain yanked the very breath from her. This one continued far longer than the others, and she was left with a frantic hopelessness. She gazed back in the direction from which she had come. She had barely covered thirty strides in the last ten minutes. Soon she would be reduced to crawling.
I cannot do this much longer. I cannot…
Colette extracted the whistle and sounded it without hesitation. Nothing happened. It was then she recalled where she had seen the frawnite before: the brief flicker of an image orbits ago when she had stolen the hos. It had jolted her awake and reminded her of Brenol. The realization was merely a drop in the sea of mystery in which she stood.
“Pearl,” she yelled into the howl of the wind. “Pearl! Please, oh please. Help! Hel—” The words were lost as a contraction shrouded her again in searing pain. Colette’s green eyes scanned the icy azure expanse. Blue everywhere. Blue, blue, blue. Nothing but blue.
She’s not coming.
The realization bit sharply but simultaneously steadied her. She would have to do this alone, but she would do it. She knocked aside her fear as though sweeping the surface of a table clear of its items and determinedly set to work.
You will not die, Colette. You will not.
She glanced around and, spying two large snow drifts, scooted slowly toward them. She sighed when, between them, she met a semblance of shelter from the terrible wind, but the breath died on her lips as another contraction took her. Once the pain subsided, she wiped a tear from her face and slowly pitched her cloak as Pearl had taught her, opening up the cleverly designed folds and pinning the pieces with the sharp, silver shafts in her pack. It offered her a little more protection, and she climbed into the small space.
It felt an eternity as she removed the trousers, leaving only her thick skirts to fight the elements. She shook with the cold, but perceived little aside from the intense pressure bearing down on her pelvis. It was an uncontrollable torment. She could have screamed and writhed under its hand, but in her exhaustion she only let out a tiny whimper. Every impulse within her shouted push! but she had to force herself to hold back while completing the preparations.
She lay down her belongings, and her numb hands fumbled through the pack Pearl had organized. There were tightly rolled towels that shook under her trembling hands as she laid them out: one underneath her, the other beside her. It was only then that she allowed herself to bear down.
The gush of warm fluid surprised her as it rushed down her legs and soaked the towel beneath and her inner skirt. For a moment, it was a pleasant relief of pressure, but then the contractions only intensified. Colette lost track of time, feeling, and energy. Her legs ached from squatting, but she was loathe to move or do anything that required additional effort. All carried on through a blur of pain and purpose. And still the blue raged.
Finally, she knew it was upon her. Her hands reached down to feel the warm, sticky head emerging. She was blinded by burning pain, but her wits were somehow present, and she gingerly followed the babe’s progress with fingertips as she bore down, grasping the child greedily when the shoulders appeared. She tenderly collected the squirming figure with a final, strained push and drew the slimy creature up in her hands, with her own legs collapsing to the ground in relief and exhaustion.
The little thing wailed with fervor, rhythmically drawing up and down as it took its first breaths in the bitter climate. Colette kissed the damp head, and fumbled quickly for a dry towel in which to wipe and wrap the squirming frame. She gently rubbed and massaged the purple-gray body clean, trying to warm and invigorate at the same time. She—yes, a girl—was lovely, absolutely lovely.
And angry.
Colette stripped the bulky sweater off hastily and pushed up the other garments so as to draw the babe close to her body where she could nestle in to breast and rest in her core warmth. She wrapped her coat around them both and sighed as the child attempted to smack out its first meal. It was something, if not entirely successful, and Colette found herself staring in awe at the tiny soul wrapped within her arms.
The girl had lush-green eyes with specks of gold near the pupils and narrowed eyebrows as though she were inspecting the world with caution. The babe’s hair was thin, but its exquisite red would make her father beam. As she held the infant close, Colette’s lips arched up in a small smile. Already, the faint glow of the lunitata shone out from the tiny creature. She was be a beauty, indeed.
A love Colette had never known rushed upon her, drowning and yet enlivening her. It was intoxicating. It was a high that pushed aside every other sensation and emotion. All that hummed within was love.
With it, deep in her soul, she suddenly awakened to a new realization: She was truly past the insatiable greed for the nuresti connection. Brenol had tamed it within her, but miraculously, by the birthing of this squirming little child, she knew she would never again sweat and pant and hunger for it. Her soul was alive in a manner she had never thought possible. Colette breathed in the sensation with awe.
The child watched her mother, with eyes wide and pupils as green as Veronian meadows in summer. She wiggled her soft limbs and without preamble belted out another furious scream as the wind beat upon the makeshift tent with terrible force.
Now’s no time to lose yourself, Colette.
Her entire body quivered and shook, but not from the icy world surrounding her. She snuggled the babe and wrapped them both anew, slightly unsure what would result from this next step. She bore down again, and breathed in thanksgiving as the afterlifing slid down to the blue ground in all its ugliness. It was complete. She finally felt empty. Colette drew a blade from her pack, slicing through the cord that had held them together, and trimmed it to about three digits from the child’s belly.
Colette, in the awkward fumbling of fingers attempting a new task, diapered the babe in some of the rags provided by Pearl. She then lay the thick cape upon the ice with awkward fingers, blue upon blue, and lovingly set the child in its center, wrapping her carefully in the soft fabric. The babe screamed for a moment—as if to remind her mother that it was still unbearably cold—before she closed her pasture-green eyes to the world and fell quickly into the deep slumbers of the new. It was strange: wrapped tightly in her cape, the girl blended into the blue of the ice world, all save the tiny face. The babe had already become one with her surroundings.
Not I, thought Colette.
Leaving the soiled under-skirt upon the cobalt crust, Colette endeavored to cleanse herself and don the trousers and second skirt again. She worked a long cloth from the pack into a sling of sorts, plastering the child against her chest before wrapping them both into the sweaters and warm coats. She unpitched her tent and donned her cloak, then wearily lifted the pack to her back and secured Heart Render too. The infant slept soundly, a lovely warmth against her chest.
A dark grief bubbled up—a would-be image of Darse cradling his grand-daughter, smiling behind his salted beard—but Colette throttled the emotion swiftly; there was no time for grief in this bitter climate. None at all.
Instead, she whispered softly into the wind, “This is for you Darse: Mari.” Colette smiled faintly as she peered down to her chest. The name fit perfectly. “So you can be free of the shame of death in your line. May this Mari be a blessing, a sign of life instead of curse.”
And then, somehow, Colette moved on. She pushed herself forward and kept walking. Her mind was dulled by the monochrome vista, but her heart thrummed alive with love for her little girl. It did not seem peculiar that she continue on; she merely knew it was what must be done. It was her cartess.
“My little Mari,” she said, reaching her lips down again and again to kiss into the azure wrappings where the little one slumbered. “I wish your da could see you.”
She stopped only to diaper or position the babe to suckle. She knew she must move for the sake of them both.
~
Twilight soon covered the perideta. It turned the bright, deep cobalt of the land to a dark and sparkling navy. Colette paused to take a mouthful of water but suddenly felt her heart pounding. Her eyes widened in shock.
How’d I not see it before?
There, probably fifteen steps from her, was an enormous, foreboding sphere. It was a deep silver-black and reflective like a body of dark water, but certainly denser. It rested upon a simple, raised triangular dais about an arm’s length long and towered above her by at least the height of another man. It was an ominous object to witness on the blue crust, and Colette experienced her vulnerability with acute discomfort.
She tentatively shuffled toward it, gazing at the stranger reflected in its surface. Her face was taut and drawn, determined and fierce, and already strangely weathered by the harsh elements.
Enough, she said to herself with a sigh. I must keep moving. Perhaps this thing is a sign I’m drawing near. Perhaps…
Yet the thought brought little comfort to her. Whatever its purpose, the black metallic monstrosity was certainly not there to welcome wanderers.