Some Thing Called Myself (Complete)

LXII: Something disappears

Things were disappearing.

It had started a while ago, more or less when King Çaíra fell asleep and the beyond-fleshers around Mara seemed to lose a bit of their fear.

Like a sand castle in the wind, the Kerana tree's roots crumbled little by little, leaving deep grooves in the rock. The structures inside the chamber—the cathedral, the stairs, even the stalagmites—were already covered by cracks, and Mara doubted it would take much longer for them to collapse.

At least the king's scale seemed to have a good effect on Falchi. They had stopped coughing and was now sleeping like a little angel beside Kiki, much like the king. Out of respect, perhaps, every beyond-flesher in the undercroft had either kept silent or lowered their voices as much as they could. The whispers rolling around the chamber were ever lower than the King's soft snoring and the soft murmur of the Baetatá's fire.

"Is it still too cold?" the Baetatá asked the little Alamoa.

"No. It's very good, thank you," the child answered. He yawned and nestled closer to his mother. "How long will we have to stay here?"

"I don't know, baby," Sônia said in a whisper. "But look," she pointed at a third Alamoa on the other side of the chamber. "Momma is already asleep. Why don't you follow her example and take a little nap?"

"Okay," said the kid.

Mara shared a tiny smile with Sônia, one marred with sadness. Like all the others here, none of them knew what to expect—and with Alessa out of the picture, taken Goddess-knows-where, no one seemed interested in trying to escape.

She sat in the same spot as before, but the Baetatá had been kind enough to slide a few meters closer so Mara would be warmed by the fire dancing in her hands.

"And is this good for you too, flesh-eater?" The Baetatá whispered.

"Mara. Call me Mara, please," she answered, low enough to make sure the kind wouldn't hear it. "If we're going to die together, let's at least do that on a first-name basis."

The Baetatá snorted, and something glimmered in her beady, golden eyes. "That sounds good. I never liked any kind of formality." She lifted her burning hand and shook it as if getting rid of droplets of water. When she outstretched her hand to Mara, the fire was gone, replaced by an ashen, overly-pale hand of short nails painted in red. "Doranina. But call me Dora."

Mara accepted the handshake. At first, she was afraid that Dora's hand would crumble like ashes between her fingers, but once they touched, there was nothing but a firm, warm, slightly calloused hand waiting for her.

"Dora," Mara repeated with a smile. It might've been a trick of the light, but for a moment, there was something familiar about the flames growing even hotter around her.

"Someone's excited," the Jía said with a teasing croak.

"Shut up," Dora hissed.

Boots pummeled the ground, breaking the silence. Two, no, three squads of Sentinels climbed down the stairs to the chamber and spread among the cells. They were all wearing crispy-white uniforms that looked like new and just as white breathing masks. As they stopped, the beyond-fleshers inside them got up. A person in their mid-fifties walked through the standing Sents and stopped in front of King Çaíra's cell. Mara recognized them as Rebeca, one of Jano's people.

Sônia, the Alamoa, hugged her kid and growled, "You can't be serious about this, Rebeca. What the hell is happening? You need to let us go!"

Rebeca looked from the king to Sônia, then to the ground. "I apologize, Nia." They faced forward once more. "I hope you won't think too poorly of me." They lifted an arm, donned a breathing mask, and took a step back.