by Varsha Ravi
And then, sometime in the early morning, she thought of something. Part of her dismissed it as sleep deprivation-induced insanity, an illogical notion. But the more she considered it, the more she realized that perhaps it might work.
Kiran was not in the cottage, or in the garden, or in either of the temples—he had conspicuously avoided the city since Viro’s departure, as if he knew how it would end, and could not bear to be confronted with buildings he had seen crumble once before. So Suri had taken to checking every single room in the palace—earning her mild irritation under the guise of politeness from the officials and servants already in said rooms.
In hindsight, perhaps she should’ve suspected he would’ve gone to the war room. He had lived through the first war standing beside the captain and the boy king. Even if he was fated to die before it began, it was not truly surprising that he meant to stand beside them before the second.
Tarak’s head was bent over a stack of correspondence, his dark hair falling into his face. When he glanced up at the sound of her entrance, it cut his gaze into shards, obscuring the whole of his expression. His eyes were dark and bloodshot, and he looked strangely gaunt in the candlelight. He smiled at her, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes; there was an intense, strained fatigue in the lines of his face. “Your Highness.”
Kiran sat beside him at the expansive desk at the back of the room, studying the parchment with jagged focus. His eyes narrowed as they met hers, black eyes flashing with a pensive suspicion. Like he knew why she was here. He likely did.
“I need to speak with you,” she said, breathless. “Now.”
He shot Tarak a sharp, concerned glance, but the other boy waved him off. “You have been fussing over me all day and night. Go help the princess.”
Suri avoided his questioning gaze as he reluctantly followed her out past the corridor, into the sodden courtyard. The packed soil of the land surrounding the palace was damp and soft to the touch, from days of incessant, tumultuous storms. She frowned at the crowd and noise, a result of impending war. “Is it possible we could meet somewhere quieter?”
Kiran inclined his head. “The aviary?”
She shook her head. “Quieter than that. Somewhere no one would think to find you.”
He held her gaze, thoughtful. Then he led her out of the palace up to the cottage. Shutting the door behind him, he nodded toward the empty room. “Only a handful of people know of its existence, and they would not interrupt.” He folded his arms. “Suri, if you are here to persuade me to leave again, I told you the first time—”
Suri spread her hands in a placating gesture. “But what if you ask Avya?”
He drew back, as if struck. Warily, he said, “Ask him? For what?”
“You said your death will restore the balance in Athri,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. In reality, the memory of that night still held her tight with longing and dread. “That if you sacrifice yourself as the living proof of his wrath, Avya will bless the nation again.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “But what does that have to do with any of this?”
She leaned forward. Hope was a destructive, uncaring burn in her chest, a hollow warmth. “Can you not simply ask him to bless them without your death? If his blessing—his approval—is what the nation needs, then can it not be just as powerful as your blood?”
Kiran’s expression wavered faintly. “He would not agree.”
“How do you know?” she demanded. “Have you ever asked?”
His complexion was ashen, the color of dusted soil. “It is not just his blessing. My existence is imbalanced, unstable. Chaos begets chaos. And even if—even if you are right, and the nation could survive without my blood, there is no reason for him to agree. To save a single, mortal life—to extend it for a decade more. He gains nothing.”
Suri heard none of it. “So you have not asked. For seventeen years—you have not asked.”
There was a spark of true, lasting terror in his gaze. Perhaps, she thought, he had been too afraid of what the god would say. Perhaps it was easier to live in resignation than to die broken from hope.
Finally, he exhaled, looking away. “It could backfire, Suri. It could end up harming them instead of healing. And that is only if he agrees. I will die soon enough, anyway. There is no value in doing this.”
He was still leaned against the door, fingers crooked as if he meant to leave at any moment. She rose and crossed the room, tilted his face down forcibly to meet her gaze.
“Tell me you want to die,” she said, steely. “Tell me you care nothing for life. If you do, I will not force you into anything.”
Everything about his gaze spoke of mourning, of stained yearning. A desire for everything he could not have, a hundred wishes spoken without sound and discarded in the dark of night. Softly, he said, “I cannot.”
She made a frustrated, strangled sound. “Then ask him. Please.”
“I cannot,” he repeated, trying to look away. But Suri turned his head toward hers, his skin overwarm under her fingers. They were close enough that they could have kissed and no one would have known. Another meaningless secret they had kept close.
“You cannot?” she asked. “Or you will not?”
His expression hardened at the king’s words. But fury—fear, and hope, and something that resembled a faded, burnt-out suggestion of love—had blazed to life in her chest, and she would not let go of this simply because he was too afraid to face the possibility of wonders. She thought she had some understanding now, of the boy king’s contemptuous anger toward Kiran’s tendency toward overwork, his simple acceptance of his own death.
“You live as though you are already dead,” she whispered. Each word sunk into him, cut through his heart with clean, sharp blades. “You live as though your life is nothing but a prerequisite for death, for true purpose. Have you ever fought to stay alive? Have you ever allowed yourself to think of life as something to love?”
He swayed under her grasp, shaken visibly, but his dark eyes were inscrutable. After a moment, he raised his hands and pulled hers from his face, lowering them between them. Without meeting her gaze, he said, strangely bitter, “He has not spoken with me for the better part of two moons. But let us go, and see if he cares to keep me alive.”
Kiran turned, letting go of her hands, and held open the door for her. She shivered—somehow, in the time they had spent inside, the weather had become even worse; thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning limned the city below in intermittent flashes of bright white.
The braziers of the temple had been lit, but in the damp, electric morning, the fires burned low, sputtering and flickering. Kiran ran a hand through them, checking the temperature, and made a face before turning back. “I do not know how he will react to me…” he paused, looking for the words. “Bringing a friend. For your own safety, I suggest you stand a good distance away.”
Suri tilted her head in a question, but he didn’t elaborate. She backed away until she stood at the very entrance to the temple.
Kiran turned his back on her, but she could still see his hands trembling as he lit a match and dropped it into a golden bowl at the center of the altar, covering the carved icon. He reached into the bowl and lifted the fire out, slowly lowering himself so he was kneeling before the altar.
For a few moments, he was still; his hands, wreathed in the amber flames, hovered over the bowl, his head bowed over the stone. And then, too quickly for her to intervene, the fire fell from his fingers and his head tilted back at an unnatural angle, the muscles of his neck taut as he slumped against the altar.
Kiran was too shocked to feel pleased or afraid.
The world, at the very least, was familiar—he was in the cottage, perched on the edge of that old wicker chair the captain had made for him as a child. Avya was stretched out on the settee, his feet pressed against the opposite arm.
He looked as he always had—a broad, dark-haired young man with eyes like faded embers. But there was someth
ing strange, different, about him now, and after a moment, he realized the god was unsmiling.
He registered, distantly, that his mouth was hanging open, and made a formidable effort to shut it. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he needed to say. And yet, he found himself asking, “Why were you silent until now?”
Even he could not help a small, inward wince at the plaintiveness of his tone, as if he were still a child looking for guidance and validation. But Avya simply looked away, a certain sadness coloring his expression. “There are things even I cannot meddle in. These past few moons hinged on your decisions, independent of any advice I could have given you.”
Something about his timbre chilled Kiran. “What does that mean? Why is now any different?”
“It isn’t, not truly,” he said, pulling himself up against the arm of the settee. “But I know this decision is one you will not allow yourself to make without my counsel. So I am temporarily ignoring my responsibilities.”
“Your responsibilities to ignore me,” he said, mouth dry.
“Precisely,” he said, lips quirking in a half-smile. At Kiran’s clean lack of expression, he sighed, looking away. “I know what you mean to ask, even if you are too afraid to put it into words. You want to know if I will bless Athri without your death—if I will allow you to escape with that princess of yours.”
Though he spoke with a kind of teasing amusement, the phrasing of it embarrassed him, and he looked away, ears burning. Avya laughed warmly, but when he spoke, his voice had lost all trace of its previous humor. “How do you feel about humans?”
Kiran met his gaze, faintly shocked, but the other looked to be serious. “About humans?”
Avya nodded, leaning back against the upholstery. “There is this running joke among the gods, you see, about the cruelty of humanity. Their capacity for self-destruction. And you’re torn between both worlds, with enough god for them to see you as something to be set apart, and yet human enough to feel the constraints of your own existence. But you want to stay among them for a few years longer. Why is that?”
There was no easy way to respond, but Avya stared at him, fully expectant that he could and would. Kiran shifted on the chair, pulling up his knees. “I suppose… I would like to die on my own terms. I would like the freedom to live among them as something more than a bridge, a tool.”
“Are you not afraid?” he prompted, as if he could see Kiran’s deepest, darkest fears, and had no qualms with spreading them upon the table beside them like playing cards. “Perhaps I should not, but I fear for you. I do not deny you should be given the opportunity to die on your own terms, but I cannot understand why you would want to stay there longer than you truly must. Are you not afraid that, in the end, they will disappoint you?”
“A little, perhaps,” he said, frowning. “But I believe in their inherent good. I wouldn’t have survived as long as I have without the kindness of those around me.”
“After all you have lost at their hands?”
“I lost my parents at yours,” he returned. For a moment, he was afraid the words would anger the god, but the skin around his eyes only crinkled in consideration.
“True enough,” he conceded. “It may be simply that I worry too much for you. The other gods certainly think so.” He gazed over at him, thoughtful, then continued, “I do not think this is a good idea. I have known humanity for far longer than you have, and though I care for them, I can’t trust them. But I trust you, and if you truly think the chance to live out your remaining years beside them will free you, somehow, then I will allow it.”
Kiran’s chest tightened suddenly, and he realized it was the sharp pain of suffocation—he had forgotten to breathe. “Why?”
The god smiled, and there was a fond, rueful edge to it. “I can’t see the future like you, but I would like you to have the option of a happy ending, if fate will allow it. Even if it is hard-won.”
And then Avya waved his hand abruptly and the scene dissipated, the cottage turning to smoke around them.
Suri was shaking him, her mouth caught in the middle of his name. When she saw that he had regained consciousness, she leaned back, mouth set in a grim line. She inclined her head in astonishment. “What was that?”
He swallowed hard and looked away, unable to meet her gaze. Are you not afraid that, in the end, they will disappoint you? He took a moment to steady his voice, and then said, “An audience.”
There was a beat of silence, and then she asked, “What did he say?”
“He said—” his voice broke and he cleared his throat. It had been so warm, so comfortable in that strange, dream-like land of divinity. But here—there was no playing at softness, at the notion of peace. The rain splashed against the temple floor in fat, heavy drops and dripped from his skin, chilling him. Kiran forced himself to look up at Suri, to hold her concerned, faintly hopeful gaze. “He said I may go. That I… I may live.”
Beside him, the enduring fire in the brazier flickered once, twice, and then gave out.
Viro knew something was wrong even before the messenger arrived.
It was the same rolling, consuming nausea, the same barbed sense of wrongness he had felt nine years ago. As if his blood had turned to broken glass in his veins.
Yet, as much as it was intuition, it was also a logical sense of discomfort. They had arrived in Karur the previous night, and yet none of the villagers had reported any signs of a Najan invasion, not yet. Apart from occasional attacks by bandits, they had spent the past few moons relatively untouched. None of which fit at all with the message they had been given days before, from a chief Viro knew well—that he trusted, but couldn’t find in the encampment.
What if the message had not come from the chief at all? a small, insidious voice in his head whispered. What if this was all an elaborate trick, hinging on your bullish impudence?
The idea was not without merit; he was not known for his patience, for his ability to coldly, savagely execute his own plans. He had always acted with his heart, even when it scarred him. But something about this felt different, crueler than a trick. It felt, he thought, like a death; a supernova held in the hollows of a heart.
And so, when the messenger did burst into the encampment, eyes fearful and shocked, Viro did not feel surprise as much as he did a sharp, bitter kind of amusement.
Of course Kiran was right, he thought. Of course there is an attack on some other part of the kingdom and I cannot help, stuck here in the borderlands.
Then the messenger spoke, and reality fractured into meaningless shards.
The words did not set in the first time, nor the second. They could’ve repeated them a hundred times, shouted them from the rooftops, written them into the fabric of the earth itself, and Viro knew he would not have understood them.
Distantly, he knew the messenger was still speaking—people were asking him for orders, for a plan of action. A plan of retribution. Something.
But there was nothing he had to say, nothing he could give. The words—the sharp, hollowing truth of them—had emptied him completely. He had not felt anything similar to this in nine years, had sworn never to allow himself to feel like this again. Had founded his entire life on ensuring that. And yet here he was, on the edge of the fucking nation, his heart cracked and swollen.
“Your Majesty?” someone was saying, an edge of unease to their voice. “Should we return?”
Return? To where? To his body?
“No,” he said, his voice unrecognizable to his own ears. It was something rough and emotionless, sandpaper against skin. “I will return alone. The rest of you continue watching the border.”
And then another clamor began as they argued over who would accompany him to the palace, because there was no chance he could possibly return completely alone, and then who would stay? Where would they go? How would they divide up the troops?
Viro heard all of it and none of it. On the edge of this endless plain of nothingness, this sea of smooth, pale apa
thy, there was an imperceptible spark of emotion.
Time slowed to a crawl; the journey back was nearly unbearable, every second stretched into entire years, entire lifetimes. It fell short of being excruciating only because he felt none of it—there was absolute coldness in him, an odd, consuming frost. As though he watched from the eyes of another, still hidden in a cocoon of dyed cotton and stardust. Metamorphosis in reverse.
The city was silent when they returned; vaguely, he knew this was due to the fact that it was too late to be night, too early to be morning. But there was something sinister about it, a soft, whispering knowledge. The sound of shared grief, of old pity, the city’s familiar rites of mourning.
Kiran met him beside the gates. His shoulders were bare, but he wasn’t shivering. As if he had known when Viro would arrive—as if he had waited.
There was nothing warm in his gaze. No semblance of pity, no sign of kindness. It was anguish turned to steel and turned inward—the simple, clean break of bone into the soft flesh of a heart. Viro knew it, because he knew he looked the same way.
“Tell me they are wrong,” he said, the words nothing but a thin, high rasp in the airless night. There was still some small, piteous part of him that held out hope—against all odds, it wished. With such raging, terrifying intensity, it wished.
Kiran’s expression cracked visibly. He did not have to speak—there was nothing he could’ve said that would have conveyed the truth more effectively than that inability to continue.
“Where…” he could not finish the sentence. Kiran held out a hand toward the palace, and silently they returned. His pace was brisk but uneven, as if he had been on his feet for the greater part of the day. He paused in front of the room, glancing over at Viro with a reluctance, a pensive concern. And then he opened the door, and the world washed out into strange, arid silence.