Every night, after coming home from the fields, he would either continue his study, or help those who came to see him.
Some nights he dragged bodies home, taking them out back behind the house. Carefully, meticulously, he would examine their insides. He would press here and poke there. He took notes on scrolls.
Other nights, he would lead home a pig. And they served as both a meal and research.
Dogs.
Chickens.
A bat.
A wolf.
It was not just their anatomy he studied, but what gave them their particular strength, their advantage.
No one understood life like Cyrus did.
No one helped him. No one taught him. He did it all on his own.
He worked tirelessly, his curiosity like an insatiable hunger.
He would never confess it to me, but he did turn to his roots. I would see him rub his hands with dirt and offer up a silent prayer before working on someone who needed his help. I would see him look up to the stars before he cut a deceased vagrant open.
Cyrus was a believer in science and magic. Even if he would never admit it, even to himself.
He worked so tirelessly. Long days that began before the sun rose and only ended hours after it had set.
But every night, he would crawl into bed beside me. Every night he would hold me and whisper about his day, make sure mine had been wonderful. Each night he pulled me in close and whispered promises of a wonderful life.
Every night was ours.
Every night was filled with whispers of love and commitment.
We lived in a hovel on the outskirts of a new town. Alone, with no family and no friends.
But we were building a life. Together.
And it was all I needed.
* * *
One year later, a brand new town. So far from where we had begun, no one knew anything about the man named Cyrus or his wife who walked away from a life of comfort.
We began anew.
Cyrus had learned so much. Had helped so many people. He understood the human body. Could seem to predict ailments, would try things no one else would think of.
After only a few weeks in our new city, Cyrus proved himself. Within a few more weeks, everyone came to see him when they fell ill.
We bought a real home. We had a real bed.
Cyrus bought me beautiful dresses. He could afford new shoes for himself.
More and more people trusted Cyrus to help them get better. But there was also a hint of fear in their eyes, and they whispered the name sorcerer.
But no matter their fear and awe, as long as he helped them live.
I couldn’t blame them for their whispers.
Cyrus’ practices were, at times, peculiar.
He continued to study animals. With the money people were now willing to pay him, he purchased dead animals.
Not just cows or chickens or dogs.
Exotic things.
An eagle.
A tiger.
A leopard.
These creatures were imported to him from far countries. They arrived in varying states of decay. Some fresh, some so far decomposed when they arrived that I had to turn and empty my stomach outside Cyrus’ shop.
But he studied them all. Memorized their organs. Extracted their teeth. Drew vial after vial of their blood.
“What is it you’re looking for?” I asked him one night as I sat next to the fire in his shop.
Cyrus stood hunched over a dead cheetah, the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. It had come all the way from a land called Africa. I’d never heard of it before.
“Hmm?” he said absentmindedly as he removed what I was fairly certain was the animal’s heart.
“You’ve never expressed an interest in treating animals,” I said, watching the black blood drip down his hands. “Why do you keep studying them? What is it you’re looking for?”
Cyrus set the heart on the stone table. Placing his hands on either side of it, he looked up at me. There it was, as always: that intensity. Like he’s searching for something, excited, exhilarated. But it’s the hunt that spoke to him as well.
“They’re all so different,” he said. His eyes rose to the wall where there were several long shelves. They all held glass jars, each containing the blood or heart of a different kind of creature. “They all have their different strengths and abilities. I just want to understand…” he trailed off. His eyes were unfocused, as if searching for the words. “I just need to know more. I want to understand it all.”
“All of what?” I asked.
His eyes came to mine, and in them, I saw such an excitement, such spark. “Life,” he said breathily as a smile began growing on his face.
Chapter 20
I stood at the edge of the well, looking at my reflection. My hands came to my stomach, and with tears rolling down my face, I held my hands to its flat surface.
Two years we had been married. Two years we had been with each other. Two years we had been a tiny family of just two.
I should have conceived long ago. I should have a baby in my arms now. I should be looking into the dark green eyes of my son or daughter.
But I was empty.
Another sob ripped from my throat. I turned away from the well. I couldn’t stand to look at myself any longer. I couldn’t stand the disappointment I felt for myself.
We had spoken very little about it. Cyrus always reassured me that when the time was right, it would happen. He was happy just to have this time with me, just the two of us.
He meant it. I know he did. He was happy with our life.
But an ache had long begun in me.
A hollowness.
I needed more.
But maybe it wasn’t in the stars.
Maybe it was my punishment for turning my back on my family. I’d found so much happiness with Cyrus. Surely I couldn’t get everything I wanted and have children as well.
I stepped into Cyrus’ shop, ready to help with whatever he needed me to do. I needed to forget myself.
He was just seeing a patient out the door. He coughed quietly as the woman hobbled out. He waved to her with a smile and closed the door behind her.
He turned, and coughed again, three times.
“Cyrus,” I said, my brows furrowing. I stepped forward when I saw the sheen of sweat on his brow, his upper lip. I placed a hand on the side of his face. “You’re burning up.”
He coughed again, bracing a hand on his workbench. “Just a minor illness,” he said, trying to brush me off. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
My eyes narrowed and I moved my hand to the back of his neck. It was just as hot. “You started coughing last night,” I say. “Stay here, let me make you some tea.”
He coughed again as I walked to the fire to boil the water. “Thank you, my love.”
* * *
Two days later, Cyrus could not rise from our bed.
He was sweating profusely. His body trembled as if he were freezing to death. He could not hold down any food or water.
Soon, he was delirious.
I’d watched Cyrus work for two years now. I had picked up on many of his simple practices. So I tried everything I’d seen him do.
But nothing broke the fever.
“Sevan,” he called out in the night. I’d been getting more water to try and cool him down, but darted to his side instantly.
I dropped to my knees beside him, taking his hand into mine and holding it to my chest. Tears welled in my eyes. His breathing was so ragged and labored. “I’m here.”
“Sevan,” he said again, his words slurred. “I don’t think…” he struggled to speak. “I think this might be the same illness that took my parents.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said as a few tears broke free. But I forced my voice to be even. “No, it isn’t. They tried to cure it with magic and earth. You know what you’re doing. You know the science. The fever will break come morning, and you’re going to be fine.”
It terrified me when his eyes cleared for just a little while and they focused, meeting my own. Weakly, he raised his hand to the side of my face, caressing it.
“I promised to take care of you for the rest of my life,” he said, his voice so regretful. “I keep my promises, my love. But I don’t know if the universe is going to cooperate.”