Afeallan

"Chapter" Twenty-Three

“It has come to my attention,” Léas said, addressing the crowd, “that there has been a suicide. If you have not yet heard, which undoubtedly you must have, it was that boy you tormented three days ago. He went out into the wilderness and hung himself. Terrible, terrible tragedy. The weight of his fantasies was too much for him to bear. This Rýnelic, he is a danger to you all real or not. Now, I realize some of you, yes, still cling to this belief that Rýnelic was and, in fact, will return. I assure you, this is impossible. How can nothing return? It’s silly. Please, do not fall into the same demise that our young friend did. For your safety, and the well being of all, I strictly forbid the use of the name ‘Rýnelic’ and any other propagation of his name. Disobedience will result in strict punishment. For now, do your work. Do it well. We have come so far. We remember the fallen through our work, and I will continue to lead us through these tragedies.” He led Byldan by the hand off of the platform. Líchama was not in attendance.

Líchama was lying in bed. He was dying. The death had spread through the tissue in his legs and up into his lower abdomen. The toxins had turned septic. Líchama had hours to live. He had called for Léas, who was rushing as quickly as he could to the bedside. He thrust open the door and fell to his knees at Líchama’s side. “What can I do, my dearest friend?”

“A drink, please. Just the tiniest of drops. I am so thirsty.” Líchama was going.

“Anything for you my friend.” Léas rushed away and returned with ample drink.

Líchama drank.

Léas climbed in bed with Líchama and stroked away the sweat through his hair with the palm of his hand. “I did what was best. I did what was best.”

“I know you did,” Líchama reassured. “All that you do is for the best.”

Léas stroked. “You have always been my dearest companion. My dearest.” He shifted his hips to come closer to Líchama.

“I know. And you, mine.”

“I did what was best. I did what was best.”

“I don’t doubt you.”

“I’m sorry that I was ever jealous of you.”

“Jealous of me? For what?”

“Your magical hands,” Léas said without missing a beat, as if scripted. “Those hands with which you can create or destroy. Those beautiful, delicate hands.” Léas shifted closer, then away, then closer. Slightly.

“I built you this castle,” Líchama reminded, becoming delirious.

“Of course you did. Of course you did.”

“All for you.” There was an upheaval. “I hope it was enough.”

“Of course it was.” Closer. Further. Closer. Further. Stroking. Stroking.

“May your glory live on…” And Líchama died.

Léas began to weep. Closer. Further. Closer. Further. In. And out. In. And out In. And out.

And Byldan drank her tea. Alone.