Category: Fantasy

The sage had tremendous magic. Many a man had compared him to a god. Hundreds had begged boons of him, pleading and screaming if he declined. He had stopped offering, then stopped showing his power altogether. An old man with good advice had power enough – especially when he had seen the same ten years repeat themselves over and over again.

That power had also lost its appeal over time. What was the point of fighting the inevitable? He still fought it sometimes though, struggled against the prison he had placed himself in. Most cycles though, he no longer bothered. The world would end just the same. Unlike the others around him – he had tried to warn them but they had called him crazy and laughed – unlike the others around him, he knew time was short. Just ten years to build a life, only to have it wiped away. Not much time.

It had taken him a few cycles but that was okay. Age only caught up to him slowly and back then, he had still been spry and handsome. So was the man who, five cycles in a row, became his husband. His name was Johan and his smile shone like the sun. The sage had never told him the world was ending, just reveled in the few years they had. Even their occasional fights and arguments were treasured, precious memories he hoarded and kept tightly in his mind.

Johan always died on the same day, the 12^th of May. Two weeks before the world would end. The first time, the sage had broken down, screamed for him to wake up. Now he just sat on the edge of their bed, holding his hand, watching him sleep with his sweet innocent smile until his heart stopped. He never suffered. The two weeks saved him from that, and the sage was grateful.

He buried his love under the cherry tree. It’s petals drifted down onto the cairn he built over the broken sod, rock by rock. His heart bled but none of the pain showed in his hands as they moved, steady, about their task. At the end he poured his magic into the rocks, begging. Stay next time. For me.

It never worked. Every cycle he first approached Johan’s house – one day to be their house – from the back. The rocks were gone, stuck in the future but also the past. He plucked a branch off the blooming cherry and brought it with him, offering it to the man opening the back door, confused and a little scared of this stranger standing on his stoop. The life they lived together would change every time, but the sage like to keep the beginning. His little ritual. He smiled and offered the flowers with a bow.

***

He wept again. The pain of losing him was great, even if he knew it would only be a month before they saw each other. It was not the same though. His Johan was dead, dead five times over. He could return to the house, start it all over, but the man he met would not know him. One day he wouldn’t even care for this slowly aging man. The sage did not think he could bear that day.

Still he returned to the house, always from the back. He paused. The cairn had stayed this time, old and mossy and half buried under years of fallen petals. It knew he must move on. The door clicked open behind him as he left. He could imagine the confusion on Johan’s face but he did not look back lest his will crumble. His lover would find someone new. And as for himself…

He wandered. For fifty years he had a path, a life waiting for him. For another fifty before he had a goal, a driving need to stop the end. And now… nothing. He tilted his head up to the sky, letting the cool breeze blow across his skin. In his first life, before the cycles started, he had been a court mage. Pinned under the weight of responsibility and duty from the time he was six, first at the academy and later in the halls of his king. He had never travelled beyond the borders of his home, never even seen the ocean. The unknown called to him, and he went.

***

He had long noticed that small things changed each cycle. The baker was wearing a green dress instead of blue when the butcher’s son proposed. There were six ravens on the church tower when the major died instead of five. Big events always followed the same course, but the small, the daily, the inconsequential: that shifted like quicksilver. He made a game of picking out changes, like the picture books of his youth but on the scale of a town.

The sea though.

The sea was something else.

A storm would blow in out of nowhere, even though last time he had travelled their passage had been smooth and calm. Waves smashed into their hull, but then the next time they were becalmed and had to wait a week for a breeze. Each time was new, and he loved it. After years of knowing what came next, at least approximately, he finally had not the slightest clue.

The passage took between a month and seven weeks, always different each of the six times he did it. Originally he had planned a different route, a different ship, each cycle. But he had fallen in love with the Adrestia, its captain, and its crew. The captain was a burly old seaman with a beard big enough to hide an armada in. He loved dancing. Each evening the deck would be cleared and lanterns put out, the first mate would play his fiddle and Petey his harmonica, and the whole crew would dance. The captain always said dancing was the best way to clear out the cobwebs of the past and the sage was inclined to agree.

At the end of each passage, the captain would pull him aside. Some professions bred people with perhaps not a mage’s full stare into the other side, but at very least a glimpse, a twitch aside of the curtain of reality. Smiths working late into the witching hour, gravekeepers watching over the dead, midwives seeing to the new life, and of course old sailors who had seen the face of death and the face of the sea – often the same – one too many times. Their conversation shifted subtly each time, but roughly went:

“I’ve seen you before.” It wasn’t a question when the captain said it, but rather a statement of fact. The first passage, the mage had been confused. Now he just nodded. The captain continued, “And I reckon I’ll see you again eh?” Another nod. The captain was considering, drumming his fingers on the rail they both leaned against. “Well, I don’t know what you’re running from but I hope it don’t catch you. And I hope you find something worth having out there.” He gestured to the thin line of darkness marking the distant shore.

The sage nodded and quietly agreed, “Me too.”

***

Of course, the sage did not rightly know what he was looking for in this new land. That did not particularly bother him though. There were new things to see, new people, and that was enough. Strange that it had taken the end of his world to push him out of the little shell he had forced himself to make home in. Each time his foot first tapped the dock he smiled. The ground seemed to move under him, body still trying to compensate for the motion of the ship he had left.

After a minute the dizziness faded and he stepped forward, threading his way among the sailors moving boxes and crates and barrels from here to there. The docks ended in a wide cobbled street that ran around the rim of the harbor. Traffic was thick. With no destination in mind, his method of picking was just to let himself be taken along with the crush of people until something interesting caught his eye. He had stopped to speak with an interesting old woman, ducked into a tavern thanks to the smell of its wine, eaten at an outlandish restaurant… Each time he started a new venture into the unknown.

This time it was a flash of red that grabbed his attention. Had he not noticed it any of the other cycles, or had it been a different, duller color? He did not know. The uncertainty, the newness, dragged his smile wider on his face. This would be a perfect start to the new cycle. He ducked into the alley.

It was a dirty town for sure, at least compared to his home. There, minor mages had swept the streets daily with water, pushing all the refuse of thousands of lives into the gutters and out of the city. Here it stank. Especially in the alleys. A dead rat lay against one wall, partially eaten and putrescent. He pulled up his shirt to cover his nose as he passed, forcing his eyes away before he saw more than he wanted to. A man lay a bit further. Here he paused, checked the man was still breathing, moved on. It had been years since he learned that magic wouldn’t let you save everyone. Still his heart twinged.

Red flashed in his peripheries again and he let it draw his mind away. It was high, higher than a person. A bird perhaps? A cardinal would be too small though, and he did not know of a bird so bright other than that. He continued.

The alleys bled into each other. In the bright light of day they were deserted expect for the occasional sleeper, but he knew they must come alive at night. Curiosity had driven him to once learn thieves symbols. He read them off the walls as he passed. Honest Fence Here. Prostitutes – Good and Cheap. Nice Man Sick Son Don’t Rob. There were no street signs here, no door numbers. All there were was the codes, a record scratched into the walls.

He turned a corner and finally got a clear view of the red. A small dragon, cat sized. Something was clutched in its paws. An orange maybe? It dove towards a raggedy looking girl. He cried out warning. The dragon pulled up to land on her shoulder peacefully. Both looked at him in confusion. His cheeks burned. A pet. Not a threat at all. Strange, but then again house cats were wild hunters as well.

The girl was talking to the dragon now. Perhaps it was more intelligent than a cat, or maybe she had just lacked a friend for so long that the animal made a passable substitute. He stepped forward slowly, hands held in gesture of peace. They continued staring as he drew closer. Then he heard it, quiet. The dragon was speaking back.

“-used to be a soldier. Still looks strong. It’s a bad idea.”

The sage paused. Were they discussing mugging him? It was a terrible idea, though not for the reason they thought at least. Well. Not entirely. He was still a good swordsman as well.

Her voice was quiet as she murmured back, “We need the money. Do you have any other ideas?”

The dragon was quiet but the sage took the opportunity to slide into the conversation. “You could just ask politely.”

She stared at him. Her eyes were blue, but a harsher blue than Johan’s had been. If his were the clear blue skies of fall, hers were the stormy tumultuous ones of winter. He smiled. Finally she addressed him, with surprising force and firmness after her huddled whispers to the dragon. “Would it work?”

He shrugged and hooked his thumbs into his pockets. “You won’t know until you try. And what is there to lose? I would advise explaining what you need the money for, though.”

She wanted to run, he could tell that based on the tension jittering up and down her legs. She stayed though, and thought before answering. “My mother is sick. I need to buy her medicine.”

A lie? Quite possibly. “Take me to her.” The dragon growled. She glared at him. He narrowed his eyes as he met hers. They were scared, not angry. Perhaps it was the truth. Still. “Quit giving me that look child. I was a healer back in the army. I may be able to help.”

She hid her feelings phenomenally poorly. He could see the debate raging in her before finally she nodded. “Fine. But if you try anything…”

He just nodded, not prideful enough to point out what they both knew. She would not stand a chance in a fight against him.

It was not a house she led him to but a corner of alley. A woman sat huddled under a threadbare cloak. Her breath whistled as it passed out her mouth, and her shoulders trembled from the cold. As they approached she looked up, eyes unseeing and milky. The sage forced his face to be still though inside he wanted to scream at the cruelty of the world. The girl crouched. Side by side they looked nothing alike. Adopted perhaps. She took the woman’s hands and started talking quietly, “Ma, I brought someone who might be able to help. He was a healer in the army. Isn’t that nice Ma?”

Again her voice had changed, soft but capable and calm. A chameleon voice. He crouched next to her. She cringed away sharply. He pretended not to notice as he spoke to the woman, “Good evening Ma’am. Is it okay if I try to help you? I am a mage so this won’t hurt, but it may feel a bit unpleasant. Some people say it is like insects crawling on them, others mice.”

She laughed, dry and raspy. “I’ve had both mage-boy. It won’t bother me none.”

He set a gentle hand on her head and closed his eyes. Her hair crackled under his touch, grime holding it in place more than any connection to her scalp. Unpleasant sensations were no stranger for him either though. He simply registered the feeling and moved on, letting his magic drop gently down into her body.

The first sign of trouble was her throat. Agitated and raw, lined with lumps. He drifted down further. Her lungs were tattered. Arinithe. It was common among those who worked too hard too long and needed something to make themselves keep going through the day. For most it did little harm, but some had stronger reactions. Like her. He could fix it. But unless she stopped smoking as well, it would do little good. For now he soothed the inflammation with his magic, giving her at very least comfort enough to listen as he talked.

When he opened his eyes again, the woman was smiling. The girl was still looking at him suspiciously, but he could see the relief peeking from the corner of her eyes as well. He sighed and sat on the ground. Telling people they had to change was always hard.

“Do you know why you are in pain?”

A glance over to the girl, guiltily. She knew then, but wasn’t going to tell. Instead she smiled and answered with convincing happiness, “No, I don’t. But I’m glad you fixed it doc!”

He fished a coin out of his pocket and held it out to the girl. She stared at it like it was gold which, to be fair, it was. “Go buy some honey, it will help her heal.” She would likely do so anyway, but to ease her conscience he added, “And use the extra to get some food. Be smart about it, low cost and nonperishable.” She looked at the old woman one last time, only scampering off when she nodded assent. A devoted child. He smiled, though his face fell as he looked back to the woman. Hers was stony as well.

He did not bother beat around the bush. “If you keep smoking that, it’ll kill you. I can hold back the pain, soothe the inflammation, but even if I treat it every day it’ll just come back worse the next.”

She nodded. “I know. But if I quit, I can’t work. And we have precious little money as it is.”

“She’ll be worse off it you are dead.”

“She’ll be even worse off if she is starved and dead.”

He sighed, twisted his seat to lean next to her against the wall as he thought.

“First time you’ve been confronted with something you can’t fix eh? Don’t worry, nobody’s a god.”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to be sympathetic or ribbing him but it didn’t matter. His teacher had always admonished him for not being able to see the forest for the trees. Yet it was a trap he fell in over and over again. He sighed again. Nothing but to do it.

Her face was twisted in a wry grin. The grin of someone who expected nothing and often received less. He smiled into it. “True, nobody is a god. But I’m the next best thing.” She laughed and his grin widened. He loved a challenge.

***

Each cycle, he started in the same place: a cave, close to the surface but tucked away where nobody could find him. Where nobody could stop his last-ditch effort, if anyone could be bothered to care in the midst of the fire and storm that raged through the sky. The echoes of thunder bounced against the walls, growing fainter and fainter as time sheared, tossing him into the past. Purple runes faded to darkness, the acrid smell of wild magic dispersed. He stood still.

Eventually he shook himself free of the peaceful quiet. Some cycles it was hunger, others his bladder; regardless, he never moved until he had to. Then he strode forth, confident in the dark warren of tunnels that he had loved running through as a boy. One hand traced the wall. Two lefts, a right, then careful of the hole in the floor. And then light.

It was noon, on a nippy day when spring was not quite fully awake yet. Birds sang. Even that first time, with the end still sharp in his mind, he had smiled.

The first thing he did was always walk north. Two miles from this cave lay another. This one was small, barely big enough for a grown man to slide his shoulders into. Luckily he had never been claustrophobic. Ten feet in, it grew into a small room, just big enough to turn around. Here he had his stash. Travelling clothes, coins, preserved fruits and dried meat, all left years before after a nightmare had woken him from his sleep. It had felt silly at the time, but every year he thanked whatever god had sent that vision.

The meat had gone off, but the fruit was still good. He ate, pocketed the money, felt along the hem of the coat to make sure the two sapphires were still sewn firmly into the seam.

It was one of these that he slit carefully from its fold of cloth, setting it reverently on the table in front of the appraiser. The two had once been earrings, given to him as a gift from a princess right before her execution. He thanked her as well each time he used them.

The old woman seemed to make the appraiser nervous. Or perhaps it was the girl and her dragon, glaring through the window after he had banned pets from entering. The gem drew his focus though. The sage stared out at the street as he inspected it through his glass. It was his third cycle selling the gem to this particular appraiser. He knew what he would get for it, how he would haggle, where they would land. The only question was how exactly he would spend the money this time.

The girl – Miriam, as the old woman had introduced her while giving her name as Agatha – the girl Miriam clearly did not like being left out. She did not like talking either, at least to him. Her face closed as tightly as her mouth. Perhaps she would open up over time. He hoped so.

The appraiser gave his number. Agatha’s face twisted in suspicious delight and he smiled as well as he settled the final sum. She took his arm as they left the store. No chance of her white knight slipping out of her grasp. He was not trying though. He had made up his mind.

***

The building they started with was small. They divided the attic in half with a sheet for their sleeping quarters, tucked a small sofa in the corner of the kitchen, and devoted the rest to what Agatha quickly began calling the Mage’s Hospital. At first they made little money. Their clients drew from the same streets Agatha and Miriam had lived on. Few had money enough for supper, let alone a doctor. He didn’t care. He treated them for free.

For the first month he worked mostly alone. Agatha drifted in and out of withdrawals, helping when she could but mostly laying in her bed resting. Miriam barely left her side, reading aloud to her when she was awake and quietly stroking her hand when not. The pair slowly grew healthier. Food likely did more for them than his careful attentions, but he still made sure to start each day with a check if they needed anything before he gave his magic to the people.

Word spread quickly. Soon wealthier people began to come, those who could pay for the services of a mage in a land where there were few. He made them wait until anyone who could not pay was finished. Sometimes he had no magic left and they went home empty handed. There were few complaints however. Enough were seen that the rumor spread further, of a miracle worker, a mage who could fix the dead. Exaggerated of course, but as long as they were still on the right side of the doorstep…

A year in they had enough to buy a bigger house. Three stories this time, with bedrooms for each of them as well as two spares for patients who needed to stay overnight. There even was a small garden with a narrow porch looking out over it. Despite the step up in accommodations, they stayed in the poorest section of town. The people who needed him most were there, and he took secret enjoyment from the discomfort on nobles’ faces as they exited their polished carriages onto the filthy street.

Miriam seemed to take the bare soil of their new yard as a challenge. At first everything she planted stubbornly refused to live, withering and dying within days, dead leaves dropping to the ground. Slowly though, she started colonizing the torn ground – thanks in no small part to the gardener’s boy, who had taken to hanging out with her after the sage healed him once. He knew from Agatha’s smile that she saw it too. When a year later they started stepping out together, no one was surprised.

***

The years flew. Some days – always treasured in retrospect – he did not think of the end. Would those precious days become more? Would there be a time when he was like the others, with no idea of what was coming? Perhaps. But for now he knew. The world would end tomorrow.

He knew the date by heart but even without a calendar he could tell. The sun always seemed different as it sunk beneath the rooftops for the last time. Fuller, redder. As if it was preparing for what was to come.

The porch creaked as Agatha sat next to him. She tucked her skirts tightly around her legs with a shiver. “You look… lost.” He shrugged, then took off his jacket and draped it over her frail shoulders. She was far healthier than when they had met, but age was catching up to her. At least it would not have a chance to truly ravage her in the end.

“Is it true what they say about mages?”

He shook himself from his thoughts and smiled. “What specifically?”

“That they can see death coming as they age.”

The smile slid from his face and he sighed. “No, not commonly.”

“You look like you’re staring in his face right now, you know.”

He forced a smile. She was always an observant one. “I just need some sleep is all.”

Her eyes told him she didn’t believe him. She did not call him out though, just leaned against his shoulder and shifted her gaze out to the last shards of red spraying above the rooftops. “Pretty isn’t it?”

He hated this sunset. Every time, it was a reminder of another end. Another time he had failed to stop it, another time everything he had built would be ripped away from his grasp. It was the color of fire and blood, a reminder of death waiting on the morning.

He did not realize his hand had clenched the edge of the porch until hers slid gently atop. Her eyes were wet and dark and for a moment she looked unspeakably old. “I don’t know what’s eating you. I can’t promise it will be okay. But I believe you will figure it out. You’re clever, mage-boy. You got this.”

Finally he smiled for real. Satisfied, she gathered herself to her feet. “Now then, I will go to bed. Us old people need our rest. Remember to get some sleep yourself.”

Darkness drew close around him. Stars flickered overhead, lightning bugs down below. In the distance an owl called. Hunting? Looking for a mate? Its song rang hollow and plaintive, never finding an answer. He never took her advice, instead simply waiting. The stars fled, and flecks of fire began to spread across the sky from behind him. They grew brighter and fiercer, writhing and snapping as it became clear this was no normal sunrise. The roar began, winds howling through the stratosphere with enough speed to make the ears ache even on the ground. The spell he had put on their house held. They would sleep peacefully, feel nothing. No fear. No loss. He closed his eyes.

***

He sat by the entrance to his cave, back against the stone. He hadn’t moved to get his stash yet, still too paralyzed by the thought of those he had loved. Again they were lost, yet not. He could go back. Should he? Things never unfolded the same, he knew that from Johan. He himself was a wild card, never consistent in his actions. But they would be similar, the same song played in a different key. He would help a city, save two women off the streets. He had little doubt that if he did not go, Agatha would die, and so would Miriam most likely.

But they would anyway.

Everyone would.

That was the nature of the end. No matter what suffering he alleviated in the world, what good he did, it would make no difference. In a short time, all his work would be erased. The pain would flood back.

And so he sat, slowly growing hungrier.

Should he try stopping it again? He had tried five times already, six if you counted the original. He could change the details, but never the outcome. If he stopped one mage from casting the world-ending spell, another would do it instead. It was like the world came prepackaged with an expiration date and nothing he did could make it last longer.

He got up and paced. He was trapped as much as anyone else. Unless…

He broke off in a run, heading towards his stash. Quickly he retrieved it before sitting on the ground outside the cave. How would he react? Hopefully well, but if not, at least he would be free. He called to his magic, coiling it tight around his head. One pull and… he forgot.

He was lost, alone in the woods. He had supplies. A traveler then? He frowned, wondering why he could not remember. A head injury perhaps. He felt the back of his skull. It was not sore, but bruises could take a while to form. No matter, he had nowhere to be. That much he knew. He stood and slung the pack over his shoulder. A smile split his lips. Time to go explore.

***

He did not know how many times he had made the choice. The expanding chasm between his remembered age and apparent told him it had been many years. Five cycles? Six? He remembered nothing of those lives when he came to himself in the cave. Had they been happy or sad? Who had he met? Part of him felt a twinge of melancholy at the missed memories, but it was overridden time and time again by the fear. He did not want to lose again. And so he made the same choice, over and over. Forget, start anew. Live.

***

He had not been lying those many years ago when he told Agatha that mages had no notion of their end. Men did though, and his creaking bones told him this would be his last cycle. For the first time in many years, he let his memories be. It was time to say goodbye to the world. He did not know what it would do without him. Cycle forever, oblivious and alone? Probably. But at least no one would know. No one would suffer.

The trip to the sea took longer than normal on his tired legs. He sailed across and after a bit of searching found two exhausted women in the street. The dragon growled at him. He ignored it as he dropped a sack of coins at their feet. They called after him but he kept walking. Hopefully they put the sapphires to good use. The last few coins he had kept were enough for a passage home, and for the last time he boarded the ship he had learned to love.

The captain raised an eyebrow as he stepped on. “Found what you were looking for already?”

The sage smiled and shook his head. “Sometimes you need to travel to remember that it lies back home.”

***

The sage walked stiffly up the dirt path to the house which was was once his. It was May and the cherry stood in full bloom. He was grateful to it, grateful that even now in the end he could have his ritual one last time. His cane wobbled as he shifted his weight, reaching a hand to the sky and breaking off a branch. He brought the flowers to his nose. Beautiful.

He turned towards the house but already the door was opening. It was the wrong year, the fourth not the first. Johan was not reading, waiting for his knock, but cooking instead, spying this old man through the lace curtains. The sage waited instead. Johan came across the lawn. For once there was no fear in his eyes at their first meeting – but of course, the sage was old now. The intimidating warrior he had once been was gone, gone except for the short cut of his hair.

Johan was still young, beautiful. The sage stood stunned for a moment before remembering himself and giving the best bow his creaking bones would allow. The cane wobbled. Running footsteps. He did not slip but it did not matter, Johan caught him anyway. Concern in his strange blue eyes, light and out of place against the ebony face.

“Are you alright sir?” The sage smiled and nodded. It was good to hear his voice, deep and melodic. He closed his eyes.

“Sir?”

The voice – Johan’s voice – was concerned. The sage pulled together the fragments of his tired mind. Blue eyes met his own as he dragged his lids back open. So soft, so gentle. He smiled again, answered, “Let’s sit. My bones are old, I could use a rest.”

Together they hobbled to the wooden bench under the cherry. The sage sat, Johan crouched in front of him. The end was near for him, he could feel the blackness ready to swallow up his meager life. He took a deep breath. “I wish to ask a favor, Johan.”

Confusion twisted his face at this old man who knew his name but he said nothing, merely nodded for him to continue.

“Years ago, I buried my husband there, in the cairn. My own death is near. Would you please grant an old man’s last wish and place me next to him?”

Johan nodded. The sage smiled. Still kind. Still good. He patted the seat next to him and Johan shifted out of his crouch obediently. Should he tell him? But no, time was too short and the knowledge would only hurt him. Best let him live happily. He closed his eyes and leaned to the side, letting himself fall into the embrace that opened for him. Here in the end, he was home.

***

The years passed. Lives came and went, the cycle continued.

The world ended.

And yet, it did not. The sage’s magic broken, the cycle shattered.

The world went on.

Many died, but the survivors continued, rebuilt. Children were born, farms sowed. Life went on.

The cairns stood, slowly regrowing the weeds and moss that Johan had diligently kept at bay from the day an old man died in his arms to the day of his own death. Soon the rocks would be buried, nothing but a memory of the past.

The pain would be buried as well, the suffering, the death. The world would rebound.

In a way, he had won.

The rhythm of the rain was different from that of the sea. The sea beat out a commanding monotone, a declaration of power and supremacy. Rain instead grew from a symphony of small sounds. Drops tapping glossy magnolia leaves before sliding off and splashing onto the boulevard they shaded. Metallic tinkles as bounced off the small tin roofs covering the gas lamp posts. And, unusually for a city, the soft patter of water on bone.

It was intermittent, only coming when the leaves grew too heavy and shed their load in a sudden rush. The skeleton waiting beneath them had a cloak but did not put up the oiled hood, instead letting the rain soak its skull like the streets around. After three days of summer downpour, the gutters were full. They added their own notes to the rain-song, a low gurgle underpinning the lighter sounds. In the tree above, wind shook the branches. Broken limbs and ruined blossoms lined the street along with countless leaves torn down. The storm had been unkind. Another gust came, stronger this time. A tiny scream cut the air as a nest, no bigger than a birds, was tipped off its perch.

Nest and contents tumbled into the gutter by the skeleton’s feet. The gurgle stopped, held back by the accidental dam. The skeleton peered through the rain at a distant clock tower. Just two minutes longer. Water had reached the top of the dam and was spilling over now. It should be left, death allowed to take its course. Yet something about the sodden form hidden under the waves tugged at the skeleton’s conscience when it thought it had no pity left to give. Thin fingers sliced through the water as it crouched and pulled out the small body. Doing so was a breach of protocol, but in a minute it wouldn’t matter anymore.

Fey lived short, harsh lives and she had clearly been no exception to the rule. Scars twisted her thin brown skin and a crooked leg betrayed a past fracture. Black hair was matted and uneven and clothes nothing more than a scrap of cloth. Her heart was still beating, for now, though her eyes were closed. After one break of the rules what was another? The skeleton ran a bony fingertip along her back, easing the pain. She would have peace in her last thirty seconds.

She did not seem to want it. The instant his magic took hold, her eyes shot open. The skeleton saw a desperate flash of blue before she leaped for its chest. Resigned, it let her. Peace could only be offered; it was her choice how she spent the last sliver of her life. Her feet raced up its ribs and it nodded to itself. Neck was a common choice, an obvious weak point. Unfortunately also a useless one. Skulls worked equally well attached or not. At the last second she surprised it though, ignoring the neck and vaulting over its sternum to drop into the cavern below. Her heart slowed as she fell. Hopefully she would continue through after dying and it would not have to fish her out.

The sudden impact drove the skeleton to its knees. It gasped for air to feed nonexistent lungs. Its ribs vibrated with a deep bass thump, echoed a moment later by a quieter boom. Fireworks exploding in its chest. Moments passed before the sensations resolved into sense. Its own heart, dry and stiff from years motionless, started again by the hit. And her own, guided by his, fed life once more.

Her fingers were digging into the sides. With each beat they shifted, maintaining their grip as dead cells sloughed off the newly living surface. The skeleton stood shakily, feeling the weight of the unwanted passenger less on its body and more on its mind. She had succeeded. She had cheated it, made it fail at its only job. It could not speak but it pulled a notebook from a cloak pocket with trembling hands. The letters were legible, barely. Let go. 

Her voice was weak but determined. “Shan’t. I don’t want to die.”

The skeleton put the notebook away. Her tone made it clear she would not listen to argument. Even with use of its heart, she would die eventually. There were many other bits of a living body that could fail, and it had long since given those away. The heart had been sentimental idiocy really, and now it paid the price both for keeping it and for betraying the rules. No one must know. Business as usual, and she would soon leave. Resolved, it pulled the cloak closer and slipped into the night.

****

A week passed in silence. She clung to her perch but said not a word. Despite the skeleton’s fervent hopes, both hearts beat stronger. It began to fear others hearing it as it passed on the street. Surely this sound must be audible to all as it banged inside the cage of ribs. The days passed as normal though. None but its prey noted its passing.

Sometimes it could feel a pinching tug. Her nimble fingers were sewing rips together, patching holes with a needle so small it could not even see it. It wondered at the lengths to which creatures would go to preserve their lives. To so desperately fight against the inevitable… it was like a raindrop determined to defy gravity and return to the clouds. There would be no success.

On the seventh day she spoke. “The next one. I need some parts.” The skeleton tilted its skull down to regard her. She glared defiantly up from her prison. “I’ll grab them. You just have to let me. If you don’t, I’ll stab you.”

It looked down the street. A dog this time. He had lived well past his prime. A happy life, even though it played out entirely on the street. Food had been scraps from the trash, companionship had been barefoot children happy to play with a mongrel. The skeleton approached. Dogs never showed fear at the end, just acceptance that their time had come. This one even wagged his tail, a pair of quiet taps against the cobbles. The skeleton crouched to massage his ears gently as life slipped out of his body. For a brief moment the ghost of a dog hovered in the air. The silver form was young again and chased his tail in delight before fading into mist.

Hooded skull tilted down from the last silver flickers to a weight on the skeleton’s arm. She was hanging from its hand, hacking at the fur with a small knife. As it watched, she cut a small slit into the skin and vanished inside. It debated leaving her there but something stayed its motion. Not the threats; despite her residence on its heart it still had no fear of her. Curiosity perhaps? The dog’s sides heaved as she moved inside it. The skeleton marveled at her ability to hold her breath. Finally her head popped out, slick with red blood. She braced her feet against either side of the hole and pulled forth a mess of tangled and unidentifiable gore. Appearing satisfied, she drug it onto the skeleton’s hand. It hastily lifted her back to its ribcage, hoping to avoid more of the blood spilling onto its arm. Instead it leaked down its spine and onto its hips. It pulled the cloak tighter and looked up to the sunny blue sky, wishing for rain. Perhaps luck would be on its side and one of the next tasks would take it by a river. It continued on its duty.

She hummed as she worked. The rhythm threaded in and out of the steady background of their hearts, sometimes trilling above and others diving down into the bass. Her prize was sorted, muscles and tubes and cords all tied in neat bunches like herbs hung up to dry. Feet pattered along the ladder of ribs as she climbed up and down. Strand by strand she was stringing things into its neck, beneath its field of view. Vocal chords? It wondered to what end. Did she not realize how much else was required to work them? Like an organ with no bellows or a piano with no hammer, they would do nothing at all. It debated getting out its notebook to tell her this but elected not to. This life was hers to spend as she would. When she failed, she would learn.

Her song reminded it of something, long ago. Maybe someone. It was not in the habit of dwelling on the past yet still felt its thoughts tugged back. A house on a hill, grass dropping down into the valley and the sea. Waves far below, beating out their notes against the rocks while someone sang in tune.

It shook its head. Jawbone rattling brought its mind to the present. Suddenly it found her presence grating, repulsive even. With a snap as the wrist bones clicked together, it brought its hand down towards her. She shot into its ribcage but the bony fingers slid through easily, grasping, straining as she yelled, “Hey! Stop that!” Rage swelled in it at the idea that such a small creature would dare command it. It refused to obey.

A tug and a prick and then shooting pain. It fell to its knees. “I said quit! I don’t want to hurt you, but I ain’t leaving yet either! I’m not ready! So get your grubby fingers out of my house!”

Her knife must be in its heart. She couldn’t kill it; the heart did nothing at all. The head said one thing but emotions another. It was going to die. Fingers slid from the ribs and dropped to the ground. They splayed onto the cobbles, arm locking to help hold it up. The pain eased. A dull ache radiated from its heart, weighing down its bones. A gentle plucking. She was sewing it up.

It slowly raised to its feet. The heart must go, and her with it. It would give it away to the next person who could use it. Broken as it was, perhaps it would give them another few years. The skeleton reached into its cloak pocket and withdrew the book. She paused suspiciously but then kept going after its hand was full. It flicked through the pages. There. Only a few days from now. The fey was already back to clambering around its neck. It let her. Soon she would be gone and it would have peace once more.

****

She was done working. Her reserves of materials were gone, the last of them tied and sewn into place. Her feet raced up its ribs one last time as she maneuvered up onto the skeleton’s shoulder blade. “Finished! So, what is your name?”

It tilted its skull in disappointment. Her knowledge of anatomy was indeed lacking then. Surprisingly so given as far as it could tell, she had put everything together correctly. She was simply missing parts.

 Her eyes were bright and expectant. It sighed. Then jumped. Sound? It tried a hum. Vocal chords vibrated on a non-existent breeze. Her shining eyes met its confused sockets. It tried words. “How…” Its voice startled it. Deep, mellow tones, warm and gentle like honey. A voice built for singing and laughter.

She bounced to her feet, face splitting in a wide grin. “It worked! I knew it would work! Come on, try it try it!”

The skeleton hesitated, scared of using up this precious gift with the wrong words. They should be meaningful, only the best and most necessary. It paused. Any words would be meaningful to her. Hesitation was set to the side and it returned her question with it’s own, “What is yours?”

She danced with delight. “Mika! I’m Mika! Who are you?”

It answered quickly, unexpected eagerness filling it at the sight of her joy, “I have none. We give our names away first.”

She frowned and tossed herself to sitting. “Well that is stupid. How are you supposed to wander around your whole life… death? Whatever. How are you supposed to not have a name?” Its shrug bounced her into the air. “Well if you gave it away, then I guess I just have to give you a new one. Hmm…”

The skeleton found it could not look away from her eyes. Their blue was deeper than any human’s, almost sapphire. They sparkled like gems when she thought, as if the electrical firing of the neurons was lighting striking through a midnight sky. She shot to her feet and threw a hand out to point at it. “I am going to call you Oliver. Your name is Oliver now. Do you like it?”

He – for it felt strange to think of himself as an ‘it’ with a name like Oliver – tilted his head. A moment ago he would have felt no particular attachment to the name, seen it as no other than the hundreds and thousands held by people around the world. Now though… he nodded, and then remembered her joy and said, “Yes.”

Her smile could bleach out the sun with its light. He looked away.

“Good! Then I picked well. Now then. I need a nap. Wake me for the next big one okay? I am going to need some more parts.” She dropped into his ribs again, impacting with his heart with a gentle thud. He could feel her hands as she curled like a cat on top of it before falling still. Perhaps one day she would make him a face so he could smile.

****

The ninth day had no souls to free. It never did. It was counting day.

Oliver hated it on the best of days. Seeing the many lives reduced to numbers and quotas wore on his patience. With Mika’s existence, counting day presented additional issues. If anyone saw the new voice she had woven him, difficult questions would be asked – ones he was not sure of the right answer to, or even his answer. If it got out he had a name now, it would be even worse. Not going was of course not an option. That would be the most suspicious of all.

There was also the logistical challenge. Living were under no circumstances to enter the counting chambers. Doing so was an instant death. The marble hounds guarding the door would spring to from their podiums, ripping the offending being to shreds. He had seen it happen once. Even years later the blood still lingered in the cracks between the flagstones, darker stains on the mortar that here and there indicated some unwise soul had met its end.

Mika was still asleep. He was loath to wake her but the sun was rising quickly and he did not know how easy she would be to convince. Ribs clattered as he knocked on them with bony knuckles. Her voice was sleepy and irritated as she looked up to snap, “Would you quit that ruckus? I was sleeping!”

Words still came hard to him. He plonked them down with the deliberate air of a scrabble player, “We need to talk.”

She groaned and pushed herself to sitting, muttering under her breath. The past week had given him familiarity with the reluctant slowness with which she rejoined the conscious. He gave her time, lowering his hand as he walked aimlessly along the street.

Finally she spoke again, “So, you want to talk? I knew giving you a voice was a smart first step! What are we talking about?”

Oliver tried to decide how to explain but quickly gave up and instead simply said, “It’s counting day. You cannot come.”

She scampered up onto his shoulder before asking, “What is counting day? Why can’t I come?

He looked down at her small form. Her wings vibrated with all the excitement in her voice, gossamer flickering through the air like a caged rainbow. This was serious, but she did not realize. “They will kill you if you come. You have to wait outside. Okay?”

She frowned but the energy trilling through her body did not calm. Where had it come from? So much life to be in one who so recently was at death’s door. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously and she set her hands on her hip, “Is this a ploy to get rid of me? If so I refuse. And I’ll stab you. Again.”

He shook his head. The thought had not crossed his mind. Not that it mattered, she would die soon anyway. No point in plotting. Considering her death made him perplexingly sad. He paused for a moment to stare at the emotion and then set it aside. Emotions were silly things, best ignored. Like names? muttered a treacherous corner of his mind. He ignored it as well.

She was staring at him. Her long hair fell to one side as she tilted her head in consideration. “You promise?” He nodded. She crossed her arms stubbornly, “I want you to say it.”

He did not bother protest, simply said, “I promise.”

She stayed on his shoulder for the rest of the walk to the Door. It looked like any other government building, except that nobody went in or out. The living did not register its existence. The dead could, but his city was small. He was the only skeleton to walk through this one of the Hall’s many Doors.

At the top of the marble stairs he held out his hand. Mika jumped onto it. Nervousness creased her forehead. Without thinking, he reached out a finger and smoothed the wrinkles. She stared at him. Embarrassment was just another emotion, but a powerful one. He hastily set her down beside one of the fluted pillars and rushed to the Door. It was overlarge, made of heavy oak bound with iron belts. A lack of muscles meant his strength was limitless though, and he pulled it open easily.

His footsteps slowed as he entered. The Hall beyond was far larger than the building in the city, a huge tower that stretched into the sky above and the earth below. Each level was a ring of Doors leading out onto a circular balcony bordered by an elaborate golden rail. Spiral staircases of the same golden metal connected the floors. Every tenth was a counting room. His usual was three up.

Marble floors echoed as his heels slid reluctantly towards the stairs. Skeletons bustled about him. Most were completely bare of flesh and skin, but here and there a newer one walked nervously through the mix. A patch of skin or the edge of an organ were briefly visible as their cloaks billowed about them. He pulled his own cloak closer, glad he had not discarded it as many did once they lost the trappings of their former lives.

The nearest staircase was packed so he went one further before ascending. Here and there a skeleton nodded politely to him, and he back. They had never spoken, or even written to each other, but after sharing a floor for years they were at least a friendly face to acknowledge. More familiar faces crowded the two-story cathedral of the counting room. He peered over the sea of heads, glad for the edge his few extra inches of height lent him. The lines were moving quickly. Soon he would be in the room. Nervously he glanced at the hounds flanking the entrance archway. Their white heads drifted as burning eyes roamed the crowd. He had nothing to worry about; she was not here and he was hardly any more alive than the new ones. Still, he could not suppress a shiver that sent his bones rattling.

Time crawled by, each second stretched to an eternity by his nerves. One of the hound’s eyes settled on him. He tensed. It drifted onward. The press of people pulled him further and further in. Finally he reached a clerk. The skeletons staffing the desks along either side of the room were ancient. They were the few who had continued long enough to retire from the world. Instead of streets and life, they passed their days among mahogany and green leather, sitting on cushioned chairs unnecessarily soft for their bony bottoms, writing away lives in endless ledgers. This one was particularly old, bones brittle and yellow. The accountants always gave him the feeling of being a schoolboy pulled up in front of the class by the teacher. This time, when he knew he had done something wrong, was far worse.

Oliver held out his hand. The clerk tapped a pen to the bone, drawing forth a curl of silver which wrapped around the shaft. It began to write. Words flowed onto the page. Names. As each appeared, the clerk consulted a second ledger, placing red ‘x’ marks as it cross-referenced.

The flow of words stopped. It looked between the ledgers. It looked up at him. Back down. A finger tapped a name, no red x next to it. His heart thumped in his chest. The clerk spun the book for him to read but he had already guessed at the name written in neat black cursive. Mikalana Nasu Tobishi. It was watching him. He hastily pulled out his own book, making a show of checking through the pages and then nodding. It nodded back and waved for him to go.

As he left, he cursed his stupidity. Of all his worries, he did not even consider she would be noticed in counting? Idiotic. Nine days to do something about it then or… what? He did not know. Never had he failed before, even when he was new. Would he be punished? Would they send someone else? His thoughts swirled. The return trip barely registered in his mind. It was not until the bright sunlight warmed his face that he came back to himself.

She was running across the flagstones. He wondered why she did not fly. Were her wings broken? Guilt filled him as he realized he had never thought to check, to care. He shoved the feeling away, irritation replacing it and then rage as he registered the irritation. Calm was a fleeting deer hidden in the woods but he hunted it the same. Hands grasped at his fibula as she began to climb. He bent and offered a hand. She took it with a smile and let him raise her to his shoulder.

“You know, I didn’t think you would come back. I was getting ready to leave.” Her voice was shaky and he could feel her tremble vibrating through his bones. He did not want those wet eyes to overflow, could not handle it right now. With a simple shrug he looked away and let himself vanish into the crowds.

****

The next day was busy. The backlog from the previous day needed cleared, as well as the new day’s tasks. Mika was busy as well, sliding up and down his arm as he worked. She was choosy, only plucking one or two items from each corpse they visited. Here an eyeball, there a patch of scalp. Her collection hung heavily in his chest.

At midday, it was a cat. He recognized this one, a stray with as many names as patches in its calico coat. A few of its past lives had lodged in his memory as well, visits where he shaved off just a fraction of its soul before returning the rest to its battered body. This had been the ninth, lost to a speeding cart. The ghost was as miffish as all cats, glaring at him irritably while twitching its tail. When he left it be instead of shearing off the customary slice, it tilted its head in confusion. Its nose poked its body hopefully but to no avail. It would not be returning again.

Mika was already by its head, unaware of the ghost hovering above. It turned to watch as she carefully carved out a second eye for her stash. Cats often hunted fey. Most had lost a life or two when they discovered these birds were a bit different and had the tools to fight back. Oliver could not remember if one of this cat’s nine had gone that way, but it at least had the sense not to try pouncing on her. Instead it looked away angrily and jumped onto Oliver’s shoulders.

He turned to look at it. To his surprise, she did too, hands on her hips, oblivious or uncaring of the blood dripping down her thigh. “Hey! Furball! That is my spot!”

It peered down at her to hiss disapproval. Oliver ignored it and asked curiously, “You can see it?”

She nodded angrily. “Course. Get it off my spot.”

He gently lifted the cat into his arms instead. Spectral fur stood on end and its tail snapped side to side, but it stayed in place. “How long have you been able to see them?”

She shrugged and began clambering up his legs, “I dunno. Since you tried to kill me? Seems about right.”

If Oliver had believed in a higher power, he would have thanked them now. A perfect solution had presented itself. He waited until Mika reached his shoulder and then asked carefully, “What do you think of what I do?”

She busied herself untangling the nerve endings of the eye as she answered, “Eh? Someone has to do it right? And it ain’t like you are the one who kills them. Even though I was just yelling about myself. Sorry. That was unfair.”

His words danced through his mind like a ballerina through a minefield before he strung them together into his offer, “You could join if you wanted. It would keep you safe from dying, and let you keep doing what you do. It would even make it easier since you wouldn’t be stuck going at my pace.”

It had been too much to hope that she would pounce on the offer, but he had wished for more than an indifferent twitch of the shoulders. “I’m already safe. Got the only one of you who works here under my thumb. Metaphorically. You don’t share territory, right?”

Oliver hesitated, trying to decide what to tell her. No, they didn’t. In big cities they would keep separate areas, roads and rivers as the dividing lines. But that did not necessarily mean she was safe. If they realized he was failing his duty, intentionally or not, surely they would send someone else to… fix it. To fix her.

Doubt crept into his mind. Or would they? Perhaps he was worrying about nothing. After all, in his many years here, never had anyone else crossed through the door. Not when there was plague and bodies piled high in the streets and he forgot counting day in the daze of working too hard and seeing too much. Not when he had given his second eye to a child hunting scraps, her little hands pattering the ground desperately for the crumb right in front of her, rendering him unable to navigate until he learned the trick of seeing without eyes. Of course, every time he had fallen behind, he had caught up once more. But it had taken time, sometimes months.

She was watching him, waiting for his answer with uncharacteristic patience. He was glad he had no face to read for it would surely betray the debate whirlwinding through his thoughts. They had time. No sense worrying her yet. Oliver smiled in his mind to force it into his voice and answered her finally, “No, you are right, we do not. Come on, let’s get to the next.”

Mika smiled at him and then looked down to scowl contemptuously at the cat. “What are we doing with the stupid furball? I’m not sharing.”

Instead of answering, Oliver gently set the cat on the ground, running his hand thrice along its back before beginning to walk. Mika stared behind them and growled a tag nervously, “Oliver, it’s following us.”

He glanced back. Its tail swung back and forth like a pendulum as it traced his footsteps. He looked back forward. “Cats are stubborn and a bit entitled. It will leave once it realizes I have nothing more to give it. You can just ignore it; it won’t hurt you.” He carefully did not mention the ways in which she reminded him of a cat. It would only make her mad.

****

During her increasingly infrequent breaks, Mika had continued sitting on his shoulder instead of hiding by his heart. He wondered if it was because she had less fear of him trying to remove her these days. Alternately, it could just be that things were getting crowded in his chest. As she rested less and less, her work sped and his body developed quickly. Each day she added something new. Lungs that could feel the cool of the night air. Eyes to once again pick out the tall buildings and low bushes in far brighter color and contrast than his mental vision could. A stomach that gurgled for he had no way to feed it. And mixed through everything, strand upon strand of muscle and ligament and vein.

Two things were becoming clear. Firstly, wherever she had come from, she had worked extensively with bodies. A doctor maybe, or even a taxidermist. Once he tried to ask but she merely fixed him with a blank stare before continuing to stitch together veins like she had never heard his question. He got the message. Besides, the second was far more pressing and took up most of his thinking time: they would definitely notice next counting day.

Hounds would likely be no problem. Mismatched parts, missing parts, and all, he certainly was not alive or even physically capable of becoming alive. But the others would see that he had changed. That he had gone backwards. Skeletons never went backwards, at least none that he knew of. Whether it was explicitly banned, he did not know. He was unsure he wanted to find out.

Of course, he could just skip. How long until they came? There was no emergency. No excuse.

He looked down at the small figure threading ligaments along his arm. Her body was stained brown from blood and gore, but she did not seem to notice. On his trek through the city, he stopped frequently at fountains to splash clean the tracks she left on the ever dwindling number of exposed bones he had. Mika never joined, or even paused most times. Despite his silence, she acted like she knew time was short.

A pang of worry cut through him and he reached his other hand over to scoop her up. She spun, furious, hands instantly snapping to her hips. “Oliver! You made me drop it! Now I have to start all over!” Her fury burned brighter in the face of his hesitant silence. “What do you want! Stop just staring at me!”

Words fell from his mind, shot down by the daggers in her eyes. Try as he might, the only thing he could scrape together was a lame, “You need a bath.”

Rage puffed into smoke and she started laughing. Tears cut sparkling paths through the grime as she moved her hands from her hips to clutching her sides. Oliver brought his other hand to hover nervously nearby, watching her footing as she shuddered. He wasn’t sure anymore if she was laughing or crying. A bit of both it seemed. There was work to do but he stopped, sat in the middle of the street. People split to flow around him without realizing they were doing so, avoiding an invisible rock in the river of traffic.

Mika crumpled to her knees, still spasming as she choked out strangled noises. Pain closed his new throat. He slowly ran a finger along her crackly hair, flakes of blood chipping off and speckling the bone. It seemed to help. Sobs grew quieter, her thin frame grew still. Had she fallen asleep? He hoped so, for in her focus on working she had been sleeping seldom and little.

Sleep was just a dream though, quickly dispelled as she pushed herself to sitting. Her face was mostly washed clean now, though it still burned red. Blue eyes stared into his own, drawing him in deeper and deeper, drowning him in the sea. A smile cracked her lips. She nodded. “Fine, if you insist. But just a quick one.” Waves pleaded him to stay as he tore his gaze away. The roar of the ocean retreated, tall rocky cliffs faded to the ruined facade of an old townhouse. He blinked to clear his vision, for he could do that now. His city, surrounding him with its reassuring weight. And her, waiting expectantly.

Feet swung into motion without his true attention. Longing still tugged at his heart. A sense of needing to be somewhere, though he knew not where. Blue-streaked marble loomed before him. Ah. The city bathhouse. He looked to his feet and gave quick thanks before pushing open the door. If she was to only have a quick bath, it would be the best money could buy or death could steal.

****

The cat was still following them. Mika pretended to ignore it, but he could tell by her frequent sidelong glances that it secretly bothered her. Then again, so did much these days. The closer counting day got, the more on edge she was. Pieces flew into place, stitch after stitch holding them together. When he tried to talk, she simply muttered, “Shut up, I’m busy,” and refused to answer further. No longer did she rest, or hardly even pause for breath. Unsure what else to do, Oliver worried.

She was working on his face. A patchwork of pieces tacked in place with threads. Anger in the crinkles by her eyes. Frustration. Small hands ripped down the delicate structure and tossed it to the ground. Again. Again. Quiet mutters under her breath, audible only due to her proximity to his ears. Why isn’t it right. Why can’t I make you look right. It’s all wrong. Why can’t I do this.

Why can’t I save you.

The newest face was strewn on the cobbles. He crouched to pick it up before the cat started playing with it. She did not notice. The neat stack in his hand was growing but he was unsure what else to do with them. Maybe she would need them. Maybe it would help her when he did not know how to do so himself.

****

It was the day before counting. He was almost whole again, in a way. Like a vase shattered and glued together. Except the pieces accidentally came from many vases, and the result looked a bit like something a child had attempted after breaking its mother’s favorite decoration. Still, he loved it. The wind tickled fine hairs on his arms. Everything he touched had a texture to be rediscovered. Sounds were crisp and vivid. He felt almost alive again. Of course he was not, it was all just an illusion. Oliver did not care. He felt joy, and let himself feel it.

She was still working, patching a piece of his leg. He had no face yet, but the muscles that would one day control it were enough to smile. He smiled at her. “Mika. Mika, do you hear the birds?” She did not. Did not hear him either. Her mind was dark except for the narrow light of her task. “Mika, look, the flowers are blooming! How pink they are!” His excitement fell on deaf ears. The cat twitched its tail, ostensibly wondering why the skeleton that was no longer a skeleton had gone crazy. “Mika. Please. Listen to me.” She did not, could not. All that reached her mind was the litany of things which still needed done, and the constant mantra fighting against doubt. I can do it. I just have to try hard enough. I can save you. Just wait. Wait for me.

****

She was working on his face again. Evening had fallen but he stood patiently under a streetlamp to give her light. Not because she had asked; she never did. The first night she worked, she had fumbled in the dark and continued by feel until he finally paused under the gas flame. Now it was habit. The pause did him well. He only wished she would join.

The ocean eyes were hovering just inside his field of vision. They reminded him of a memory, buried so deep as to be almost lost if not for this x on the treasure map of his mind. A color of blue, matching the sea. From the top of the cliffs it stretched forever. The sky swung down to meet it, light and dark melding in a hazy gradient on the horizon. His legs had swung in the open air, far too high to feel the spray but plenty high to feel a faint trill of excitement at the thought of nothing beneath them except the wind and the waves. Heather had plucked at his pants, plain cotton like the shirt he wore, dyed blue to mimic the ocean but never quite matching the shade. He had been happy. Belonged.

Her eyes dipped from sight as she moved down his cheek. A frown pulled his muscles. Then it had all changed. She had laid on their bed, still, cold. The sun had shone, he had screamed at it to go dark, hide behind the clouds, anything. Life couldn’t go on. How could the rest of the world have stayed the same when his corner of it had changed so irreversibly. Waves pounded the cliff. The rhythm she had loved had become a taunt. I am forever. I will outlive all. I will never change. Your pain is nothing. His voice had gone hoarse, fallen silent. Sea’s song battered his heart for it was right. The world cared not for his grief.

The sea had risen up to meet him like an old friend opening its arms. There must have been pain, but all he remembered was the cool embrace. Color swirled around him as the currents dragged him down, down. He was part of it, drifting with the waves. It whispered its secrets, giggling like a girl telling of her first love. Ears filled with the bubbling; he couldn’t make out the words. It was important though, a way to stay a part of this ocean. To be forever. He dissolved.

A voice snapped him back to the present. The wrong one. Mika. “Are you okay?” He blinked. It was the first willing words she had uttered for almost a week. “You’re crying.” She was leaning back, peering into his left eye with her own. He held out a hand and she dropped into it obediently. Again her arms were crossed. The muscles weren’t bunched as tightly as usual though. Looser, less defensive. Worried. “Oliver?” Finally he found it in himself to nod. She did not look convinced. Probed further. “What are you thinking about?”

Answers swirled through his mind. Explanations that would make sense. Excuses that he didn’t want to talk about it. Options upon options through which he dug until he finally found the truth.

“I want to go home.”

She was confused, that much was obvious. “Isn’t this your home?”

He shook his head. Since his death it was his city, but he had never lived here. Never been more than a shadow slipping unseen through its streets. It belong to him, yes, but not he to it.

“Alright then. Where are we going?”

Feet started walking. Mika settled cross-legged in his hand, bright eyes still watching. He couldn’t help but smile at how quickly the weight of worry had flipped from his heart into her own. His smile confused her further, and he laughed. “What! Why are you laughing?”

He shook his head. It was too hard to explain. For a few blocks she was silent before asking, clearly nervous to bring it up, “What about tomorrow? Is home close?” Calico tufts of hair bobbed as he shook his head again. She tiptoed further, “But… don’t we need to. You need to go to the building?”

Oliver smiled and answered, carefree, “No. They’ll come for us eventually. But we can deal with it then. Right?”

She stared at him and cast helplessly for words. “Your face is half done.”

His grin widened and he lifted her up. “Then finish it. I like where you are going with this one. It’ll be perfect.”

****

The sun circled across the sky many times. Truly the world is large. Forests bled into savanna before she tugged the last stitch into place. “Finished.”

He checked his face in a pool of water, crouching across from a drinking antelope. It was nothing like the face he once had, the one he only vaguely remembered in bits and pieces. By many standards it was hideous, a jagged patchwork of skin tones with two different eyes, one from a cat, peering out of it. Mika was watching nervously. The cat lapped uselessly at the water, tongue passing through the surface without rippling it at all.

His heart beat, his blood flowed. Warmth rose deep from his bones. On the other side of the muddy oasis, the antelope suddenly started and took flight. He laughed as he gave her the praise she desired, “It is perfect.”

She smiled, tension uncoiling as she slumped into his hand. “I did it.”

He nodded. “Yes, you did.”

Her eyes drifted slowly shut, smile still playing across her lips as she finally, finally, let go.

****

Waves pounded far below. The cat sat at his heels. Still following even now. He should be unable to see it with life flowing through his veins, but perhaps they were bound by its eye that he now carried. Its company was welcome.

Sea sang its song. I am forever, I am eternal. Endless pounding as it slowly wore down even the hard stone of the cliffs, year after year, far into the future. Now another voice trilled above, triumphant. An plea not meant for him, but which had ended in his life regardless. Stay, wait for me. I will save you. If it takes my own life, I will save you. You will live.

The sea called to him, whispering its secret that no man could hear even at the hour of his death. It demanded he return, yield to its unending presence. He turned. The house on the hill waited for him. Twin cherry trees sat over the graves where they lay. The sea took but the sky gave, spinning new life out of the worn threads of the dead. Years later, they bloomed.