Paragon

by Rowan Rook

  "Thank you." Anson forced a smile.

  Shakaya herself wouldn't remember the request after the ritual, but it wasn't a topic he wished to discuss with anyone else. She understood that, it seemed.

  Their bond was as strange as always. Still, it was the warm, comfortable strangeness they had shared at the Academy...or at least something like it.

  Anson smiled, more genuinely. There was still a distance between them and a lingering unease in Shakaya's eyes, but it seemed to fade by the hour. The morning of Blaker's burial was only the second they'd spent together, and it was almost as if all their secrets had never been spilled on that damned ship.

  He was 'Ama' again, and despite how little sense that made, a little spark of joy lit up the hollows inside of him each time she said the name.

  A silence fell over them as they stared at the grave. The sun slowly went to sleep—they would soon need to head inside and make dinner on the dead man's stove.

  "I've killed so many of them."

  Anson blinked, looking back at Shakaya.

  Her gaze never left the grave. "Most of which never had anything like this."

  Anson tensed, silently trying to tease the right words to his tongue.

  If she had accepted that Lyrum weren't so different from Humans—if she had accepted that they weren't monsters but people—then her entire world was gone. And he was the one who'd destroyed it. He had heard her sobbing the night before, out on the porch, when she had thought he was asleep.

  "It was your job," he finally said. "I've killed, too."

  Hell, he couldn't even claim ignorance. Between the two of them, he was the worst.

  Shakaya stayed silent. As one of the Academy's soldiers, it had been her job. Perhaps it wasn't so much the violence itself, but her hunger for it, her joy of it, that haunted her.

  Anson's fingers gently found hers. "You'll be happy again. I'll make sure of it."

  Shakaya looked at him. "Not if Rickard has anything to do with it."

  Anson blinked. "Rickard?" It had been a relief not to hear that name for a while.

  Shakaya hesitated, drawing in a deep breath. "I saw it in her lab. She's serious, this time."

  Dread sunk into the cracks the last few months had carved inside of him. "It?"

  "She's...making a machine she calls the Medium. She says it can overwrite your control and command the Author and the Inkwells during the ritual. She has her own ideas about how Auratessa should be rewritten." Shakaya swallowed. "She promised me that erasing Lyrum from both existence and memory would be one of the things she did."

  Anson was quiet, grinding mental gears. The Author, overpowered by a machine? A part of him was still a scientist—he was supposed to believe that thorough research and mechanical marvels would always prevail above the divine—but even he didn't quite accept such an idea. "How is that—"

  "I don't know." Shakaya shook her head. "It mimics the Author's power, which is similar to a much stronger form of Translation, it seems. I believe she actually used some of your notes on the Not to develop it. I don't think anyone else knows what she plans to do."

  Anson swallowed his anger—Rickard had even dared to use his own research notes against him—and waited for his confused mind to calm. Was such a thing really possible? He internally searched through everything he'd learned in his years at the Academy, everything Rickard herself had taught him, but the idea was so foreign he couldn't force it to settle in his head. Or perhaps its oddness wasn't the only reason the concept wasn't sitting well... The Author was silent, but Anson prickled with an unease that wasn't quite his.

  ...At the very least, he believed Rickard was indeed going to try.

  "I won't let that happen," Anson assured. "I won't start the Draft unless the Butterfly takes care of Rickard first."

  Shakaya breathed a bitter chuckle. "I was supposed to be her bodyguard."

  Anson smirked. "Then it seems we've already won."

  Shakaya smiled, and for a while, the silence returned.

  Anson found his fragile happiness slowly seeping away as the sun disappeared. Another day was gone. "When do you believe the Butterflies will be here?"

  "They'll likely arrive by boat—they'll need one to get us to Rinvale." Shakaya's voice was as solemn as his, "They're desperate. They'll take us straight to the Source. Once we've boarded, we'll be there in a few hours. And then..."

  Anson's fingers tightened around hers. "I see..." He painted a smile. "We still have a couple of days, then."

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  Those couple of days passed by faster than any period of time ever should.

  Anson sat at a cliff overlooking the port below the woods, his legs dangling precariously off the ledge. The sun was just beginning to fall beneath the distant horizon of Havventhale and paint the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink. The warm colors reflected off the smooth surface of the sea and illuminated an otherwise dark evening. It was quiet save for a few lingering birds offering their final songs before tucking themselves away for the night. A quarter moon was already visible in the graying sky. The air was crisp, and the chilled breeze heralded the coming arrival of a winter he'd never see.

  Anson soaked in every detail, locking it away in some part of himself that he felt would always remain, even when his body didn't.

  He startled when a hand touched his shoulder.

  "Found you."

  Swallowing hard, he turned to face Shakaya.

  A wry, sad smile was sketched on her lips. "You never are quite where you're supposed to be, but still, I always find you."

  The tears he'd held back nearly escaped. Even in the Academy, he'd never quite been one to cooperate with the crowd, and yet Shakaya had always remained beside him. His shadow, his friend. ...Sometimes those days felt like years ago, sometimes they felt like yesterday.

  She sat down next to him, so close that they touched. His body heated lightly, but it was pleasant. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, wanting to appear stronger than he felt.

  Anson's gaze returned to the ocean. Scarce lights stood out on the seemingly endless sheet of water...and perhaps one of them was the boat coming to take him to the Source. "Do you really think they'll be here tomorrow?"

  Shakaya nodded solemnly. Three nights had passed since Blaker's burial—the Butterflies were already a day late.

  Anson watched the slowly blackening sky. So...this really was his last sunset.

  Shakaya swallowed, her throat rising and falling like her breath. "Are you ready?"

  "Am I ready to die?" He couldn't help but laugh. "Of course not."

  Shakaya didn't say anything for a while. She leaned in closer, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Her chin rested on his shoulder. "We could have them wait a few more days."

  Anson shook his head. "That would only make it harder." He needed to do this while he still had the resolve, before the dread drove him away from his dreams and to the unremarkable end of his lifespan. "To be truthful...if I didn't already know my life was ending, I wouldn't go through with it." He looked up at the first few stars. "I'd keep on living."

  "It isn't fair." Shakaya offered him another bittersweet smile. Only tear stains belied her composure. "We would be able to leave all of this behind and begin again somewhere, the two of us."

  He smiled, too, struggling to keep his own eyes dry. "We could go to Havventhale and hide away in one of the remote villages there, where no one would think to look."

  "We could find new jobs," Shakaya added. "I could be a game hunter. I bet you could be a gardener, if you put your mind to it. Perhaps you could even write academic books."

  "Eventually, we could buy our own house," Anson continued, letting his imagination sweep him away. "Somewhere rustic and roomy, away from the main roads of the village."

  Shakaya caught his eyes. "We could have children. It would be the perfect place to raise them."

  Anson's cheeks reddened, but he smiled wider. "How many?"

  Shakaya's serious expressi
on never shifted. "Two."

  Anson laughed, something about the simple way she'd said it inspiring a melancholy chuckle. She must have thought about it before. He blinked back tears. "It sounds wonderful."

  He let the images linger a moment longer, savoring the life they had lived though a few short sentences. Of course, even if he'd had more years left, their story would have remained fiction. No matter where he fled, the soldiers looking for the queen's assassin would eventually find him.

  Like everything else...it was nothing but a beautiful dream.

  His eyes sunk toward the sea. "I would give anything, if..."

  Shakaya's grip around him strengthened. "I know you don't feel the same way, but..." Her heartbeat quickened against his ribs. "I've loved you, for a long time."

  Anson closed his eyes to stop the tears from escaping. "I know." He bit his lip as his own heart raced. It had taken him a long while to realize it, but... "What makes you think I don't feel the same way?"

  Shakaya looked at him. "Do you?"

  He nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

  Fresh tears welled in her eyes. "Ama." she buried her face in his shoulder. "Don't go." She clung to his shirt, as if she could keep him from leaving—as if death was another enemy she could defeat—if only she held on tight enough. "Stay here, with me."

  Anson returned the embrace, wishing he could sink into her strong arms forever. "I can't." Auratessa would never be quite that merciful. "If there was a way that I could, I would." He tried to find her gaze. "You'll still have a chance to start fresh. You'll have your family again. You won't even remember me."

  Shakaya shook her head. "I don't want to forget you."

  Anson looked back at the ocean. "You don't need me to haunt you. You'll find someone else, a new life."

  "I won't," she insisted. "All this love and loss will take up space in my heart, and I'll always wonder who it belongs to."

  Anson couldn't quite hold her gaze, struggling to breathe through his tight throat without letting the tears take him. "A heart isn't finite. It can grow. It can hold as much as you want it to."

  "If no one remembers you, it will be like you never existed." Shakaya defiantly tightened her hold on him, as if worried he might suddenly fade away within her arms.

  "I'll make a difference. That's enough for me." Anson finally looked at her again, giving up on hiding the tears. "My life is over... No matter where I end up, I'll always remember you."

  Shakaya sobbed, kissing the back of his neck. She pressed into him as closely as their shaking bodies would allow. Her desperate fingers crawled across his skin.

  "Shakaya..." Anson tensed, hot and cold competing at the tingle of her touch. "This...was never anything more than a dream. It wasn't meant to be."

  She smiled sadly. "But if I won't even remember, then why does it matter, now?"

  He choked back a sob before pressing his lips against hers.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe it didn't matter.

  After all...it was only a dream.

  Chapter Thirty-Three: A Last Great Experiment

  Anson stared blankly at the cabin's walls, any sense of time stripped away. All he knew was that it was passing far too quickly. Slumber had reached out to Shakaya hours ago, but it had never come for him. Even in sleep, her arms wrapped protectively around his chest while her chin and bare breasts nuzzled into his back. Her breath was hot on his skin.

  His eyes yearned to close, to dismiss the sorrow and surrender to the warmth of the moment. But the intrusive light creeping in through the curtains announced that it was already late morning.

  If the Butterflies were truly arriving today, they would be there soon.

  Careful not to wake Shakaya, Anson brushed her arms onto the pillow. She resisted, gripping him tighter. When he turned to face her, her blue eyes were waiting for him. The sunlight caught tears on her cheeks. She hadn't been so asleep, after all...

  His own vision misted, submerging him inside the impossible sadness that passed between them. He waited, for just a few seconds longer. Once he stood up, everything would be over. They would never lie side by side again.

  As his throat tightened, he leaned in and kissed her damp cheek, then he pushed himself out of bed. The longer he lingered, the heavier the regret grew. If he didn't get up now, he might not be able to get up, at all.

  "Sleep awhile longer," he glanced back just once. "I'm going to prepare."

  Shakaya said nothing, letting her head rest listlessly against the pillow.

  Anson snatched a fresh outfit from Blaker's closet and quietly headed into the bathroom for a final shower. The hot, clean water didn't do anything to wash the haze from his head. His mind refused to focus on the present, switching idly between a past that was long since gone and the future he'd never have.

  Afterward, his feet carried him to the kitchen. He needed to eat something, but the thought of food clenched his stomach. Which of the dried goods on Blaker's shelves would due for his last breakfast? After staring dully at the cupboards for a while, he abandoned the facade of a normal routine and stepped outside.

  It was a bright autumn morning, the crisp air clearing out his mind only slightly better than the shower. He exhaled a slow, shaky sigh, once more losing track of time while he leaned against the cabin. He stayed like that until the crunching of boots on dead leaves startled him away from his reverie.

  He whirled to find a familiar figure walking toward him. His breath caught in his throat. "Delly..."

  Aydel smirked. "Looks like I got you one last time, Anny."

  Anson's chest closed in on him, but the moment didn't last long. More Butterflies emerged from the woods. He looked away when he saw Jeriko among them; he couldn't bring himself to meet his familiar gaze after the way they had parted.

  "Hello again, Anson." Jeriko held out a hand, as if oblivious to the tension. "I'm glad to see you waited for us, after all."

  Anson made a point of tucking both of his own hands into his pockets. He hadn't forgiven the Butterflies. He never would. He wasn't doing this for them.

  "I assume Ms. Johanne's told you about our plans." Jeriko tucked his hands into his pockets, too. "We're out of time. We're going to head to Rinvale and see what you can do with three Inkwells. It's not a lot, but hopefully, it'll be enough for you to make a difference." He sighed. "With full-blown war brewing, things can't be worse than they are now."

  "I have four," Anson announced, his lips set in a stubborn frown. "Rita is dead."

  "Really?" Jeriko's eyes stretched with surprise. "Well, that's the best news I've heard this month."

  "Rita attacked us and lost," Anson explained curtly, not wanting to relieve those terrible moments.

  "Nicely done, brother." Aydel grinned with what might have been pride. "I can't say I'm all that surprised."

  Anson shrugged. "Where's Rickard?"

  Surely, the Human Overseer would be present for the Draft ritual. And surely, if Rickard really planned on executing schemes with that mysterious device of hers, she would be there, still pretending to be one of her Butterflies. Where was she? Unease pricked through Anson's already tense nerves.

  "She had some business at the Academy. I suppose it makes sense, what with the fire and all." Jeriko rocked on his heels. "We'd best be on our way if we're going to make it to Rinvale while the sun's still shining."

  Anson narrowed his eyes, searching Jeriko's for the first time. How much did Rickard's Vice Overseer know? Was Shakaya really the only one aware of Rickard's machine? When he saw that familiar, hopeful sort of sadness in Jeriko's eyes, he found it hard to believe that Jeriko knew much of anything about his boss. Rickard was playing him, too, and he didn't even suspect it. All of the Butterflies were fools, puppets dancing on Rickard's strings. Anson's stomach panged with hollow pity. It wasn't just him and Shakaya. Rickard used everyone.

  Anson opened his mouth to speak, searching for the right words, before the cabin door behind him swung open. He could practically see the hair bri
stle on Shakaya's neck when she stepped outside and saw the Butterflies. Her gaze lingered on Aydel for a second too long, before she dragged it away and swallowed her anger. "I need to talk to you about Rickard."

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  Anson stared out at the sea in front of him. The sail toward the Source stretched on for hours, suspending him between a blue sky and a blue ocean. Stark white sunlight glittered on the waves. At least his last day was a beautiful one.

  Shakaya spent her time berating Jeriko and Aydel for not noticing the intentions of Sylan Rita and Rickard. When she wasn't restlessly pacing about the ship or taking out her anger on the rest of the Butterflies, she sat beside Anson...yet she hardly said a word to him. What was there that could be said?

  Jeriko was the most taken aback by Shakaya's warnings about Rickard. Rickard's insistence that she wouldn't be present for the Draft, he surmised, was likely another lie. Perhaps she intended to interfere from the shadows. Still, Rickard was just one person, and without Shakaya to protect her, she would be easy enough to deal with if she showed up.

  Instead, the Butterflies' minds buzzed with different fears. The primary topic of discussion was what The Editor would do once the Draft began. Anson reiterated his own desires—of spreading the same strengths to Humans and Lyrum alike, including access to Translation and long lifespans, to ease the societal divisions that lead to war and prevent society from defining people based on their bodies. This included transforming those people currently alive, of course. He would also erase both himself and all of these events from memory. No one would remember that Auratessa had once been different, nor would anyone remember him. He sensed Shakaya's stare burning into him, but avoided meeting her eyes.

  Jeriko asked him to bring back his daughter Hanetta, his late wife, and, of course, Tayla. The other Butterflies—including many Humans and Lyrum he didn't recognize—pleaded for other requests. Most involved rewriting the dead back into the world. Despite all of the Butterfly's grand ideals, it seemed many of its members had harbored much simpler motivations. He added the names of far too many lost loved ones to his notebook. Finally, he glanced over the pages one last time, where Blaker's name was written in fresh ink. He'd spent hours reading through it again and again, trying to convince himself that he hadn't forgotten anyone. ...Some old research notes were inside, too. Nostalgia bloomed in his chest when the words blew dust off old memories. He smiled gratefully at Shakaya, and despite her irritation, she softened.