Page 37 of These Immortal Truths
She’s tempted to ask how old that is, but she suspects the answer might make her uncomfortable. How long does one need to have walked this earth for its people to name you a god? To write stories and place your name among the stars?
I am all of them, and I am none of them.He told her in the lavender fields of France. Sometimes she forgets how far he must reach. “What was their name for you?”
“Huehuecóyotl,” he answers, a smile in his voice. He gestures to his body, to the clothes adorning it, shrugging. “This time, anyway.”
Anna wants to feed it, make it grow. “And where do they sing the stories of Huehuecóyotl?”
His tentative smile slips away, the pause he gives is full of pain. “That place is gone now.”
“Gone?” she mutters, unsure. How does a place disappear? But when he looks up, she sees the truth of it. It’s not the place that’s disappeared, but thepeople.
Anna suspects she knows why he’s so tired; why he hasn’t visited in so long. “Where?” she asks, knowing he’ll hear the difference in her question despite the syllables being the same.
“On the other side of the world.”
She frowns. “The Indies?”
“That’s not what it’s called,” he hisses. “Nor is it anew world.” He opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “There arepeoplethere. Communities and civilizations that carry a culture just as unique and rich as everywhere else you’ve known.” His expression twists, eyes dark with shadows when he looks at her. “It’s not as they say.”
Anna doesn’t need him to elaborate; she knows what stories he’s referring to. There has been much talk about how uncivilized the ‘New World’ is—how savage. They say the barbarian emperor surrendered his empire after recognizing the divine right of the church and the Spanish people. Has heard that it was the natives revolting, the emperor struck dead by his own, that ignited the war.
Anna has always found it to ring more of lies than truths. Now, seeing Khiran, she’s sure of it.
He raises his hand, a single flick of his wrist fills his empty palm with a bottle. He pulls the cork with his teeth. Anna watches the way his throat works as he tips his head back and takes a long, deep swallow.
Khiran holds it out to her in offering. “Wine?”
She shouldn’t, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that makes it impossible to deny him. It’s easy to remember all those nights they sat by the fire, eating and drinking the gifts of food and drink he brought. Easy to remember the subtle lift it gave her spirits. This feels the same, only she’s not the one needing lifting this time. Accepting the bottle, she takes a healthy drink in solidarity.
It’s cloying and sweet, andfarmore expensive than anything she can afford. It sits on her tongue, a pleasant aftertaste. She can already feel her blood warming as it settles, loosening the questions that stick in her chest as she hands it back to him. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes darken, watching the liquid swirl behind the tinted glass. “I know.”
An acknowledgement, because he of all people understands. The words are not ones of guilt, but of sorrow. Of empathy.
Another long drink. Anna wonders how long the bottle will last—how much damage it will do. Alcohol still affects her, but she’s noticed over the years that she never seems to carry the same crippling hangover that others do. She wonders if it affects him the same.
“They’re destroying it.”
The words are as hollow and haunting as the faraway look in his eyes. Anna wets her lips. “They?”
“Spain. Portugal,” he sneers, standing. His feet pace along herfloors, hands gesturing wildly between drinks. Anna has never seen him so openly distraught. “Every ship that docks on those shores, believing they have a right to the land under their feet. The audacity to think—” he cuts off, hands shaking in anger. “They’ll burn it down until there’s nothing and no one left. I tried—”
His voice cuts short, the tension in his body draining away until his proud shoulders hunch in defeat. Anna stands, goes to him. She touches his arm and catches his eyes. “You tried what?”
He stares down at her, looking so terribly lost. Then his free hand lifts, tracing her brow. “To save them.” He wilts, leaning closer until his forehead rests on her shoulder. “I amfailing.”
Anna knows this pain; has felt it when she walked the corpselined streets of plague and famine. This is different. Khiran grieves not only the loss of lives, but an entire civilization. An entireculture. She can’t imagine what that kind of loss looks like.
She can feel the warmth of his breath on her shoulder, but his arms remain limp at his sides. Anna’s not sure what to do with her hands. They stall, hesitant, before reaching for his. Palms resting on the backs of his hands, her fingers curl over his wrist. She hopes it tethers him the same way he’s helped tether her.
He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t pull away. His sigh is a breath over her heart, warm even through the high collar of her dress. She aches for him—for his pain.
This is not disease—not the plague—relentlessly stripping the land of its people. It makes it more tragic, knowing that man is responsible for the destruction of their brethren.
How do you live with all their ghosts?
Once he held her in a field and assured her that nightmares always have an end. She wants to do the same for him.
