Gortei is a fearful promise; to give to the end is formidable indeed.
-Genesifin
The perideta snapped at Brenol, and the blue sea pressed upon his vision and mind. He wore additional clothing gifted by Arman—and was grateful for as much—but nothing could fully stave off the perideta’s extreme temperatures. Regardless, he was resolved to not allow any discomfort to deter him, and he turned his mind to focusing on Colette’s memory. His swift stride carried him across the land for many days without falter. He merely pushed his way through the monochrome freeze with a determined chin and stubborn face.
It had been the same face that had forbidden Arman to join him. Why? Even Brenol could not say entirely, but the thought of any person sharing in the moment when he first saw Colette again seemed a breach of privacy.
Arman had warned him grimly before he had left. As always, the juile’s words were few and the full meaning obscure. They had resounded in his mind as his feet crunched across terrisdan and through snow. “Bren, it has been long. Remember you both have changed.”
The words had rubbed him raw—what exactly did he mean?—but acceptance had finally encased him as he stepped out upon the blue.
I still choose her. I choose love.
In the end, it would be as simple as that. If she chose him or if she denied him, he would remain faithful. And that truth wrapped him in greater peace than any blanket. It did not stop the anticipation, though, and how that whip drove him!
His feet ached, unaccustomed to such hard travel, and he rubbed them nightly with Arman’s ointment when he pitched his tent in the shadows of snowdrifts. The wind would howl and beat on the structure as if hungry for his blood, often preventing him from sleep or even startling him awake. But his mind was ever locked upon Colette.
My soumme, he thought again and again. My soumme.
~
By the seventh day within the blue, Brenol was spent. He stopped for a brief rest, but when he pondered rising and continuing his trek, his body refused to stir. Sighing, he knew he had only one answer: fire. He was loath to use the lumber he had loaded upon his back in Veronia, however encumbering, but he knew his sorry body needed relief. He heeded Arman’s words—the peri would get worse—but felt his mind growing sluggish and his limbs falling numb and knew there could be no alternative.
Brenol clumsily built a small fire and hunched over it hungrily. Inevitably, his mind filled with the thoughts that had nipped his heels every step of the journey.
Will her hair be dark again?
Why’d she never return?
Did she find a place there?
How did our child die?
The last question tore at his heart with particular bitterness. Brenol had not permitted Arman to speak of the babe, bitterly demanding his silence on the matter from the offset. While it was pointless to delay the news of the tragedy, Brenol could not help but insist upon it. Yes, he had lived with the pain for orbits, but learning that there was possible hope for Colette’s life somehow made the infant’s end utterly crushing. He wanted to forestall that grief as long as possible.
It was our miracle. The miracle we thought could never be.
He sucked the frigid air into his chest and pressed his lips together. His eyes flashed with obstinacy.
I will not let this end my joy. Colette is alive.
He found the pain within and locked it away, closing off the darkness to where it was only a dull ache he could not see. It was for another day. This day was for Colette.
The fire lifted before him, and he drew courage as he focused his tired mind upon his soumme. There was still hope. There was still life. And he would find it.
The following morning broke upon Brenol like a giant clay jar crashing forcefully over his head. There was no hint of anything save the perideta, and his body felt fragile and useless. The fire from the night was now a sodden heap of rubble. It had been snuffed out by the snow shortly after he had collapsed in exhaustion. He gazed at the remains with a sickening sourness in his gut. While he no longer had to lug the painful load, he was now entirely at the mercy of the perideta. And that was not a comfortable place to be.
Brenol winced as he drew his body to a stand. His limbs were icy, and pain seared down every nerve.
“Aren’t you used to it by now?” Brenol asked his body stubbornly. It did not reply, save in aches.
The man pressed his cracked lips together, closed his eyes, and breathed. He opened them to kiss the small object in his hand: the summejere. Arman had tucked the tiny whistle in his palm when he had spoken those words of grace: She is alive. The whistle, that for so long had been both an eerie comfort and a nagging curse, now lay in his grasp as a piece of hope. There was still a future. There was still a union. There was still much…if he could ever reach her.
He stamped his feet, willing life in them, and began again.
The days and nights blended together, and his sorry frame plodded ever onward toward his soumme.
~
By the next septspan, Brenol found himself in a perilous state. The air choked the breath in his lungs, the slick ground sent him reeling on its rock-hard surface, and the wind iced the damp clothes that clung to his body. Even he could see the end was nearing. There was little left in him, despite every ounce of his being stubbornly resolving to go forward. The body could not endure, even if his soul might.
I shouldn’t have refused Arman’s help to cross. I was a fool.
I barely let him tell me the news before running to the blue.
I’d just wanted…
He sank beside a drift and closed his eyes softly. When he opened them again, he saw the snow blowing across his vision. He felt as though he were in a painting, and the artist was brushing a sweep of coruscating white-azure across the canvas. It moved without time, in the slowness that had stilled his mind and insides, and he smiled. It was exquisite.
“I love you, Col,” he whispered. He wished he could say the words to her himself, but perhaps she would know anyway. He could hope.
He lifted up the tiny summejere to his lips and kissed it wistfully. She had touched it so recently. She had run her lovely fingertips across its edges and slopes. She had given it to Arman. She must know. Of course she knew he loved her.
He stripped his gloves from his hands and grasped the silver instrument with awkward digits. I cannot hold her hand, so I will hold what she held.
But stiffened from the cold, his numb fingers fumbled and dropped the small piece into the snow. Brenol sighed heavily. It would be too much effort to dig, even though he saw the small hole it had left as trail.
He sat, staring at the circle with glazed eyes, but after some time he realized he could not stand to pass from the world without it. He leaned forward and dug with slow, strange movements until the whistle came up into his lap along with a scoop of powder.
Brenol smiled, though it appeared more as grimace. He hugged the whistle closely and then rested it against his cheek. His face lacked sensation, and he exhaled deeply in surrender.
“I’ve got a secret,” Colette whispered.
The cherished memory flitted before him like a butterfly on a summer’s day. Her hair had been blonde, and it was only after she told him of the child quickening in her womb that he had finally understood.
My Colette, he ached.
Without willing it, he suddenly found the piece within his mouth.
I never did play it, he thought wonderingly. It was cold from the snow, but warmth was of little import any longer. I’ll blow her a song of love, he decided. His mind felt dizzy, but still he breathed and let the instrument sound.
The summejere grew hot on his tongue, and it fell from his mouth as his jaw gaped open in wonder.
Pearl stood before him, gazing down with a smile.