“Shizuka,” I said. “Shizuka, the blood—”
You touched my cheek. I do not know if you could think of anything else to do; your other hand hovered over the wound. Over your shoulder, I saw the statue of the Daughter shining bright as emeralds.
“You will be fine!” you shouted. “Shefali, you will be fine, but I need you to stand. We are going to your horse. We are going to your horse and you will see a healer and you will be fine—”
I tried to stand. I managed it, barely, and vomited when I did. The burning spread out from my wound. Soon I could feel it: the blackblood, the corruption. The Traitor’s evil flowing through my veins and multiplying. Anger, hatred, greed, jealousy—all these emotions swirled within me.
“Look at me!” you said. “Whatever is going on in that thick skull of yours—look at me!”
You kept shouting at me as you led me to my horse.
Except it was not my horse waiting outside. The guard captain and his men were there.
“O-Shizuka-shon!” he shouted. “Your clothes—”
Blood got on you, too, but Leng had not hurt you. “I am all right!” you said. “You insolent fool, you see her struggling and ask after me? Get us a healer!”
But there were no healers for four li in every direction. You knew this. You knew no one was going to be able to help me.
I knew it, too.
My thoughts raced like wild horses. Demon blood. Demon blood in my wound. I was going to die. This was it. In three days, if not sooner, you’d be standing in front of my funeral pyre. I thought of the man your mother killed. I thought of him lying in bed, I thought of the fear on his face, I thought of the panic.
I was going to die.
And suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
Suddenly my lungs closed up on me; suddenly I felt as if I were not in my own body anymore. Like a bird looking down on this strange scene. “Die.” That word, over and over. I was going to die at sixteen before I got my second braid. I was going to die without marrying you. I was going to die without seeing my brother ever again. I was going to leave you alone and …
Yes, I heard you calling.
But as the dark took me, I could not answer.
IT WAS NOT FOR THIS I PRAYED
Imagine you are underwater. Not something I like to imagine, of course, but I am not the one imagining it. You are.
Imagine you are floating in the water, completely submerged. Light filters down onto your face. The water’s cold, horribly cold. Shadows play upon your eyelids; strange shapes and colors come into existence. You want to name them, but your mouth is frozen shut. You want to breathe, but you realize your lungs are heavy, realize your chest is full of water. The longer you float, the paler the light on your eyelids.
Imagine that, Shizuka. A peaceful way to die. I wish I could tell you it was like that.
But it was not.
Instead, I floated in a sea of flames. Instead, constant cackling, constant growling filled my ears. Rot and death and burning threatened to empty my stomach. Smoke made my eyes water and my lungs burn. Whenever I coughed, the foulest taste coated my tongue. Like swallowing funeral ashes, Shizuka. Like a ripe plum suddenly gone rotten.
I threw up often. I threw up more than I thought I could. Instead of food, thick, oily black filled the buckets you held out for me.
Worst of all, I could see, and sometimes hear—but I could never speak.
Yes, Shizuka, I saw everything. Through the suffering, I clung to the fuzzy sight of your face. As terrible as I felt—and “terrible” does not begin to cover the anguish I suffered in that bed—you looked worse.
I did not need to sleep, for instance. The fever kept me awake. Or the screaming did; it is hard to tell. But though I felt exhausted, I never felt tired.
I think you wanted to keep me company—to be there when I fell asleep and when I awoke. Insomnia disagreed with your plan. The first time you helped me vomit, you were yourself; the second time, your cheeks sank in a bit; the third time, I thought I must’ve been sick for five years—how else would you look so different? No, I did not see you sleep in the three days I lay in bed. Nor did I see you eat.
I saw your altercation with the guards. I will say I saw it, at any rate; I saw blurs more than anything. Did they try to take you away from me? For I saw the flash of your blade, and I saw crimson spraying out. Later, I saw flecks of brown-red on your cheeks.
“Come back to me,” you said.
You held my hand. Did you wash me before you touched me? I hope you did. I hope you did not touch my marbled blood; I hope you kept yourself safe.
You hung your head. You still wore the butterfly ornaments from the day we went to the temple; their wings fluttered as you moved. In my haze, I swear I saw them fly right off your hair. They landed on my cheeks, turned black, and died.
“Come back to me,” you said, and your honey-sweet voice cracked. “Shefali. Please, if you have ever loved me, come back.”
I tried to open my mouth, Shizuka, I did. I tried to summon the strength to touch you, but even that was beyond me.
The demons laughed at me. “Look at Steel-Eye, laid so low!” they said. “Are you happy to join the family?”
The voices. The gravel, the rusty knife, the high squeal of a pig in heat. I heard them as if they were in the room with us. As you spoke, I saw them flickering in and out of existence. Shadows in full armor. A woman in robes with tentacles for arms and two mouths lined with needlepoint teeth. A man with a half-bare skull, the tendons and ligaments of his jaw holding on to bone. Laughing.
I forced myself to look away from them. You. Focus on you.
“Shefali,” you said. You cupped my cheek. I coughed; you did not draw your hand back. Instead, you sat me up and held a rag to my mouth. You kissed the tips of my ears. I was limp in your arms; you turned me toward you, and my head lolled backwards. With one hand you held up my head just so you could speak to me properly. “You cannot leave me.”
Again, I coughed; again, you reached for the rag.
“Listen to me,” you said, halfway between angry and afraid. “I…”
So exhausted. So hot. So much pain. My blood burned, Shizuka; with every pump of my heart, it seared my veins. A scream welled up in my throat; I writhed because I could not free it.
You wrapped your arms around me and squeezed. “I’m here,” you said. “I don’t know what’s going on behind those eyes of yours, but I’m here.”
But I could not stop squirming like a dying serpent. Wet gurgles left me; black spilled from my mouth and trickled down my chin. Shaking. I was shaking, I think.
“Shefali, please,” you said. You sniffed. I tried to look at your face, but my eyes did not listen to me; I couldn’t focus on anything at all. “This is my fault. Oh, my love, this is my fault.…
“Come back,” you whispered again, soft and desperate. “You are all I have left.”
Fingers going through my hair.
“My mother is dead. My father … I hope he is dead, it is better that way.”