BLUE : WITHOUT
October 8, 2009
Opening and closing lyrics from "On the Radio" by Regina Spektor
Everything else is © Fred Dumpling. Redistribution is prohibited.
This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
Syama didn't think he'd ever undertaken a more painful task than watching Viole die.
His sister's death had nearly destroyed him, but she had been alive, and then she hadn't been. He hadn't had to kneel by her bedside, watching her life ebb away as he was now doing with Viole, memorizing closed eyes that were more sunken than they ought to have been, lips that were more purple.
The boy had been asleep for six days now. They had brought in human doctors who hadn't known what to do with him, tried to re-open the gateway to Anja, contacted the daemons only to have them say, "He will die," followed by apologies that meant nothing.
Shani had not given up easily; she had stayed by Viole's side with Syama through all of the first day, administering her healing arts until her hands shook and her nose bled. She refused to leave even then and had to be dragged away by Zafaran with blood and tears running down her face. It was the first time Syama had seen her cry.
They all cycled through every now and then. Xeyne told him Shani was punishing herself, curled up on the couch and refusing to eat because she blamed herself for being too weak to help. But it wasn't her fault. They were all too weak.
There was
no one
to blame.
If he had given it more thought, Syama might have realized someone was culpable, might have joined his comrades in planning their revenge, might have gleaned strength from his pain.
But Syama could not think
of anything
but
Viole.
The boy still had a childish face, cheeks round and chin narrow, though he looked much older now that he was still and unsmiling. Syama tried to imagine Viole's eyes as they usually were, wide with wonder or his harmless take on ferocity, but memories were indefinite. Memories were not enough.
He bent his face close to Viole's ear. "Wake up," he said. His hand found Viole's, small, soft, and cold. "Wake up."
Viole continued to sleep.
It did not seem right that Syama could feel so disheartened when he had not expected it to work in the first place. He laid his head down on the bed. He could hear the careful conversation of his teammates in the next room, the clatter of plates in the kitchen, the whisper of the spirit world. He closed his eyes.
And without even meaning to, his soul left his body.
He passed swiftly out of the mortal realm and into the area between it and the spirit world. He found a familiar soul quickly enough; the spirit with whom he had spoken the first time appeared to have been waiting for him. It conjured the facade of the Gray Room around them.
"I thought you might come," it said.
"I didn't." Syama was too weary to say anything else.
"Someone close to you is dying. Those with your ability tend to visit when that happens. They come for reassurances." The spirit paused. "I can provide none."
Disheartened again. Syama muttered, "What else is new?"
"Go back, mortal. Go be with your friend. There is nothing for you here."
Syama only watched as the spirit turned away, but as it neared the door to the spirit world, he remembered something the spirit had said the first time they had met. It was a long shot, but Syama was too desperate not to feel bold. "You said you could push people back from the brink of death."
The spirit stopped in its tracks and released a sigh of exasperation. Syama had the feeling the spirit had been waiting for this. "There is so little you understand, mortal. All things must end. All people must leave their realms into the next, and the next, and it is our job to guide them. We cannot arbitrarily push a life back to the moral realm and return to ours empty-handed."
Syama took a moment to process this. "Then all you need is a life?"
"I had hoped to be more elusive than that, but yes. A comparable one," the spirit affirmed. "It would not do, for example, for you to offer the life of the one you call Sable, as I expect was your intent, for he is not of the same world as you."
"I'm not offering Sable's. I'm offering mine." The words left Syama's mouth before he could consider them, but he knew immediately that he meant them wholeheartedly. Syama felt a hint of triumph when the spirit appeared taken aback, and he took it as a sign to continue. "I don't know how long it will be until we can stop Sable," he admitted. "And if we do stop him, I don't know if we will be able to kill him. But I'm here." He spread his arms, more symbolically than anything else. "I'm willing."
An incorporeal heart beat painfully in an incorporeal chest as Syama awaited the spirit's reply. He felt a mix of pity and contempt from the spirit, who clearly thought of him as an inferior who understood little. Syama bridled. "I'm serious about this!"
"Oh, I have no question about that," the spirit said, "but would your companion be happy, knowing that you died in his place?"
"Probably not, but he'll be alive."
The spirit suddenly surged close to him so that Syama felt a thickness of the air, as on a hot day but devoid of temperature of any kind. "And that is what you want, is it?" the spirit asked. "For his heart to pump and his blood to flow, for him to simply breathe as he ekes out a meaningless existence, devoid of happiness or purpose or the one person for whom he has lived his life?" The spirit seemed to laugh in his face. "You are a selfish man, mortal."
Anger warred with desperation in Syama's mind. He wanted to throttle the spirit, to force it at the point of his katars to save Viole, but he knew he could do nothing to the spirit. And he knew it was right. He was selfish. If he died, that would be it, and he would not have to live the rest of his life hating himself for letting Viole die and wondering if there was something he might have done, long after it no longer made a difference. He was selfish, and he hated it, and he hated that he could say nothing to the spirit save for a whispered, "Please."
Syama was not accustomed to feeling powerless.
The spirit retreated from him, lifting the thickness from Syama's throat and lungs, though the stifling constriction in his chest remained. It stood at the other end of the room, not looking at Syama but instead toward the door that led to the spirit world. Syama feared it might leave, but it was impossible to tell what it was thinking.
"You love him," the spirit said.
With difficulty, Syama answered, "Yes."
"You would give your life for him."
"I thought we'd already established that!" he snapped.
"But you understand, he would do the same for you."
I don't care.
"That is why I cannot grant your wish."
I don't care, I don't care. "I don't care!" Syama rushed at the spirit. "Just&151;"
But he was back in the room he shared with Viole, one hand acting as a pillow and the other laid over Viole's smaller one. His eyes lingered on their hands for a moment before he heard a stirring near him. He looked upŠŠtoo eagerly; Viole was still asleep.
"Syama." Heather was beside him. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and he wished she would stop. This kinder, gentler Heather could do nothing for him and made him want to share his feelings. Feelings like,
"He's going to die."
and
"I can't stop it."
and
"I can't stop it," this time with the words half-drowned by the sobs that were choking him, threatening to erupt from his mouth and from his eyes. He forced them back but could not stop his trembling, and she put her arms around him and whispered apologies and condolences that meant nothing, could do nothing, would save nothing.
His heart beat, and Heather's heart beat, and Viole's heart beat in their private chambers.
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath