23. Evangeline

23

EVANGELINE

" N o!"

I hear my voice call out before I see his body hit the ground.

Just as the last spear protrudes through the breastbone of one of the beasts, its humanoid skull face no more dead-looking than when it was alive, Xeros lies in the wreckage, another corpse on the pile.

There is no drama. He does not cry out when he falls to the ground. I'm surprised to see that he bleeds like I do—it's even the same color.

And I realize how difficult breathing has become.

I feel cold.

He can't be dead, can he?

I relive the event in slow motion.

The best way to describe it would be that Xeros got cocky. As he ripped through flesh and bone, a godlike being among monsters, he forgot where he ended and they began. It was a well-choreographed dance, his body dipping and diving under their skeletal, mangled forms, swooping and leaping over them with perfect timing.

Until he slipped.

The bright blue glint of his eyes as realization hits his face remains fresh in my mind. It still haunts me. I didn't think he could make a mistake, much less one so costly. He always seemed invulnerable.

And I don't know why I haven't moved yet. Why I can't bring my legs rushing over to him.

But you have to check.

No.

I think I'm preparing for the worst still, pondering where my life starts and Xeros's ends.

Seconds feel like minutes. The cries of beasts and the clashing of metal on metal comes to a halt, as people I've known my whole life survey the battlefield, which looks like an unburied cemetery, with only one body really mattering to me anymore.

I gasp, coming alive again.

And I hear my feet as they trod over corpses of humans and waira alike, my only companion the noise and feeling of mud slushing beneath me, trying to stop me from discovering what I know must be true.

I topple to the soil beneath him, unconcerned as blood and dirt cling to my knees, staining my torn leggings.

Please be okay.

My chest is aflame, every breath more labored than the last.

I feel like I'm dying in his place, and I barely did anything to help him. Every thought feels more dire than the last.

His chest moves up and down, a breath escaping him.

He's alive, but only just. As I run my fingers up to his chest, feeling blood leaking liberally, I realize how cold he is.

It's about as cold as I feel.

Fear seizes my heart as the gravity of the situation dawns upon me. He's dying, isn't he? Xeros, the one individual that has shown me how to love, is fighting for life underneath my fingertips.

I love him too much to lose him like this.

"Somebody please help me!"

It burns to yell. I know that I need to do something to help him, but thoughts aren't forming in my mind, every word more inaccessible than the last.

A ringing fills my ears, until my attention converges on a voice behind me, and the ringing stops.

"He was a worthy warrior."

I turn far too quickly, feeling my neck strain.

Jeb.

His eyes bloodshot, his blond hair matted, he stands behind me, reaching to comfort me.

The memory of him rejecting me is still brand new to me. I remember turning to face him, hoping for comfort at a more opportune time when I felt completely abandoned by everything, and getting shunned instead.

"And what would you know about it?" I ask, noticing the gathering crowd of observers.

I feel venom escaping me.

"He saved you single-handedly," I add.

I snarl.

"If it wasn't for him, you would have been dead. You'd all be dead. And there'd be nobody to remember any of you."

Jeb's eyes cast toward Xeros's body, then back at the ground.

"Well, yeah," he says. "It's not exactly human, is it? Can't exactly compete with that."

My eyes scan behind me.

I have to apply pressure. I have to make a tourniquet.

His nerves are probably overloaded with pain. I need to gather some herbs and mash something together. There's a chance I can save him, but I have to act fast.

I can't fail here. Not again.

"He's going to die without your help," I spit, wishing venom were leaving my mouth. "And you're really just going to fucking stand there and do nothing?"

A man whose name I can't remember leans down, rubbing my shoulder.

"I've seen men in far better condition die, Evangeline," he says, unfazed as I pull away. "There's really nothing we can do. This creature will be remembered as a hero by our people. I'm sure the elders will build a statue to remember this day."

I almost can't contain my rage, trembling now as I feel Xeros grow closer and closer to death.

"When you make a statue for him, you'll give him a human head," I say, bringing myself to my feet now. "You'll forget his name. And when you honor him halfheartedly, it will only be to cover up your shame."

I swat the air, as the men gathering around me back away.

"If you're not going to help, then get out of my way," I say, glad to be finding my voice even as I'm nauseous from overstimulation. "Stop trying to make yourselves feel better. Stop trying to justify your prejudices."

And thinking quickly, I find the satchel on my waist, feeling its contents.

I've never been trained as a healer, but I've worked around and observed them many times. If I'm going to help his gushing wounds, I'll need to make a salve and bandage the wound.

Anything beyond that is up to fate.

Please don't be too late.

He's going to be far too heavy to carry. Pushing through the insincere and unhelpful crowd, I find a small wagon several feet away, near the town gate. It's decrepit, its wood having been devoured by yillese, and the wheels are lopsided and unruly.

With all my effort, I lean into him, getting blood on my shoulder.

Don't move the body.

I remember the words of healers, but I can't just do nothing. And I can't treat him with this audience watching. I can barely keep myself from throwing up, even looking in their faces.

Why did I want so badly to be accepted by these people? They're utter cowards.

I push and feel myself slipping in the mud. He topples back down with a small thud.

With their help, I could easily lift him into the cart. But they don't even want to acknowledge Xeros as ‘him.' They keep calling him ‘the creature' and ‘it'.

I grit my teeth, stilling my boots in the mud.

I hear myself crying out as, with all my strength, I push him forward, feeling his cold, heavy body finally slide into the cart.

I can almost feel it buckling under his weight. The wood is eaten through and decayed.

I don't have time to make a trail through the bodies. As I guide the cart forward, I have to zigzag around inhuman corpses, keeping my feet steady against the pulling muck.

Sweat grazes my brow, and the smell of iron fills my nostrils.

I can see the gate approaching, the line of houses getting larger in my vision. If I can just get him back into bed, then I'll be able to rest. Then, I'll be able to think about how to help him.

And all the while, I can see life draining from his face. I know a few solid things about healing humans, but Xeros isn't even a human. I don't know if the same things will work for him.

"Guess the waira helped us out after all," I hear a man say. "Got rid of our real enemy for us."

I don't want to look at his face. I might do something I regret.

"Timm, stop," a woman says.

"What? If nobody else is going to say it, then I will."

The crowd of passersby look at Xeros in disgust and compassion alike. But I'm more annoyed with those village cowards, feigning concern while doing nothing, than I am with the bigots.

I pull open the door, questioning how I'm going to lift Xeros from the cart to the bed.

But now that I'm out of the eyes of those intolerant sycophants, I can finally focus.

Leaving the cart at the door, I find some shears and cut from old sheets. Then I find my mortar and begin to gather what ingredients I can find.

I need to stabilize him. There's unimaginable power in medicine if you know what you're doing.

I can still hear the commotion of passersby, the door wide open. But not a single soul offers to help me lift him. Not even after the ingredients have formed a solid paste, and I've applied it to the wound, then wrapped the bedsheet over the gaping wound on his torso.

He's still breathing. As long as he's drawing breath, there's hope.

I think I always kind of knew.

These people will never accept Xeros. I'm not even sure if they ever accepted me.

I grab him by the arm and begin to drag him over the hardwood floor, feeling every muscle strain. Before today, I never realized how heavy Xeros was. It's like he's made from a different material entirely.

When I've gotten him through the door, I shut it behind me, hoping to pretend for a minute that the world outside doesn't exist. I don't care about the waira anymore.

What I care about are the thoughts filling through my mind as I bring him through the living room, almost giving up halfway.

I never expected to see anything in him. Perhaps I was blind when we met. I imagine I saw the same things they did. He was a monster, who would rip my limbs from my body the moment I misspoke.

I reach the bedroom and I gasp, a cough sputtering from my lungs. Briefly, I consider just treating him from the floor beside the bed, rather than lifting him upon it. It seems impossible to lift him.

"I always thought I'd be in your position," I mutter, taking a deep breath. "But I guess us feeble humans aren't so bad after all."

Maybe I put too much faith in them, expecting them to see what I see when I look at him.

I'm not going to let him die. Maybe the world doesn't see the terrible loss it would be, and maybe I can never really convince them.

But without his beauty, the world would be so much darker.