Page 116 of Reign of the Talon
The final cherry blossom fluttering to the ground from a bare tree.
Rui gasps, staggering back, one hand pressed to his chest, face ashen. I open my mouth to cry out, but green blood leaks instead as my eyes flicker down to the firesword embedded in my chest. It flickers a brilliant blue in the darkness as the blade protrudes from my chest, coated in emerald, dripping with it.
“For Hana,”a familiar voice hisses in my ear, and then the blade is withdrawing and I am choking, choking on my blood as I fall to the ground, twisting at the last moment, staring up at a vengeful Kim Chan—bruised and bloodied and swaying on his feet, the firesword in his hands. Heavy cables wrap around the length of his large torso, but the ones around his arms and legs look as if they have been brutally, hastily severed. His eyes spark through a heavy, drugged haze, and his mouth flattens into a thin line as my hands fly to the wound, the hole in my body, the torn flesh and ripped muscle and seeping emerald…
Rui. Oh gods, Rui.
He is roaring my name, having fallen perhaps five feet away, ichor spilling from his body rapidly. He is not healing. I am not healing.
I am not healing.
Somewhere far above, the Yong roar in thunderous horror. A flash of lightning illuminates the twisting bodies as they soar forth, attempting to reach us…
Chan stares triumphantly down at me as I choke on my own blood. Behind him, my failing eyesight glimpses Kang—clenching his gnarled staff, robes blowing in the icy winds, face somber. Beside him stands Iseul, one hand pressed to her mouth, horror-filled realization carving itself over her fine features.
“Lina,” Rui gasps wetly, ichor running from his mouth. His hand stretches futilely toward mine, scrabbling on the stones. He groans, eyes beginning to cloud over.
No.No.It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It would have beenmyhands, guiding us gently toward our death.
Yet there is no escaping fate, is there? Every thread of fate has led…to this. It was always,alwaysgoing to end here. A low, hoarse sob escapes my lips. It is the first sound I have made in so long, and it is—it is horrible, a blade against my throat, cutting into my lips, shredding my tongue. I reach for him, screaming through my teeth as the wound rips further, as my fingers finally touch Rui’s.
They twitch, growing cold. So very cold, and so very stiff.
The red thread connects our bodies, stretching across the distance, joining our hearts as they begin to fail.
“Chan,” I hear Iseul whisper, her words muted, as if we are underwater. “That’s not— I do not think that is the Prophecy…”
The white-haired Dokkaebi doesn’t move, still standing over me with a snarl. He wants to watch every moment of this, savor every second. But behind him, I hear Kang’s sharp intake of breath.
“No,” he whispers, and then the advisor is crouched down over me, face drained of color. “Can it be?”
Iseul, in a burst of strength, shoves Chan away from me. Already unsteady, the Dokkaebi falls, but his eyes still gleam with satisfaction. She falls to her knees, hands desperately going to the wound in my chest. “Lina,” she cries frantically as Kang rushes to his emperor, whose eyes have already closed. “Lina. Nonono. You’ve only just gotten back, don’t go—”
There is nothing she can do to stop the bleeding. It is flowing from me, my life, like water from a stream. It takes with it the pain, and as my vision darkens, I focus on the feeling of Rui’s fingers beneath mine. His have gone still.
I feel it, the moment his heart stops beating.
It is the same moment my own fails.
Darkness comes as a swift wave, cold and biting.
INTERLUDE
Yeomra the Death God is no stranger to long, winding games.
Rather, he delights in them. It was Seokga the Trickster who introduced him to the concept of the game steeped in tricks, and death is nothing if not the end of one of these games.
Yeomrawang has been playing such a game for a very, very long time.
It started with discontent.
One could argue that in life lies the true suffering, and death is only the cool rush of relief of ending. And, subsequently, that death is ratherboring.
If,hypothetically, Yeomrawang were to have heard this argument, he might have replied with something along the lines of, “But humans still cling to life when I take them, Seokga. The loss of life to death is the greatest agony mortals can suffer.”
And Seokga the Trickster, who is rather notorious, historically, for starting grand-scale wars simply for the fun of it, as well as being generally deceitful, spiteful, and a menace to society at large, would have replied with a long-winded and altogether convincing argument that the true purpose of Yeomra the Death God is to be nothing but a balance to existence—a boring tool to weigh out the suffering the other gods inflict, and if Yeomra did not inflict suffering but rather relieve it, was he really even a god?
The gods, after all, took much pride in inflicting suffering. Habaek the River God, despite his love of humanity (or humanwomen), frequently drowned nearby plains simply for the fun of it; Yongwang often capsized boats in his ships. Haemosu brought droughts and hot, scorched summers with no relief and sickness. Hwanung, the God of Laws, punished wrongdoers according to a list of laws that he frequently modified and updated, as to ensure that nobody really knew how to behave and could therefore be punished in gruesome ways. Even Samshin-Halmoni killed women in childbirth, sending them to Yeomra’s realm. And what did Yeomra do? Grant them arelieffrom pain. Where was the suffering in that? Where was thegodlinessin that?
