“Can you write some notes for me? Just to everyone who’s visited?”
“Of course. I’ll go find paper.” Dagan turned to leave, and when he paused to glance back over his shoulder, Hen was watching. Dagan thought of a room in the Apricot Conservancy, and a scruffy-bearded Hendrik in a huge barrel tub, asking him not to be gone long. “I’ll be quick,” Dagan said.
“I know.” Hen smiled.
*
The next day, the healers arrived. Everyone agreed it was too soon to take Hendrik’s leg when it might still have a chance of healing. He spent most of his time in fever dreams, babbling quietly and occasionally yelling incomprehensibly. Dagan read every book he could find in the sex house and then started asking people for more, but the pickings were slim. So he started writing to Bartolo’s partner back in the Heart Wood, telling the story of what had happened to him and why. Then he started writing his own story, their story, his and Hendrik’s.
One afternoon, Innan finally came by. They threw their arms around Dagan the moment he opened the door, and he swept them inside, examining them carefully. A few bruises and scrapes, but nothing too lasting, it seemed. “Last time I saw you, you had a bloody nose and were white as bleached paper! You should’ve been up here in this bed, too!” he scolded.
They shook their head and smiled, but their expression sobered as they came into the room and saw Hen, still and pale. “He looks cold,” they said quietly.
“He’s not. He’s fighting infection tooth-and-nail.”
“Kajja said they don’t think he’ll win.”
Dagan shook his head. “Not with the leg intact, probably. But…we live in hope.”
“We always have.” Innan took his hand and squeezed it. “Sorry I’ve been absent. I’ve been under the Great See again.”
“I heard.” Dagan tried not to look too disapproving. Of course, they had to find the corpse of that hideous monster, if they could. Then he realized: “Wait, does this mean…?”
Innan nodded. “We found it. It was another trip through hell and back, but no one was badly hurt. Just a few sprains and strains. Now they’re trying to bring it aboveground.”
Dagan swallowed hard. “What did it look like?”
Innan cocked their head and was quiet for a moment. “Almost as if it was part-bird. No wings, but it just seemed like half-human. Tall. I thought I was exaggerating it, in my memory. But no. Surprisingly lightweight, though.”
“So—so a lot of it is left?”
Innan nodded. “They’ll burn the rest of it, though. To be sure. After everyone gets a good look.”
Dagan shivered.
Innan squeezed his hand again. “Anyhow, I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“Another phenomenal feat from the generation’s finest earthsinger.” Dagan leaned forward and kissed their cheek. His relief was overwhelming. The monster was dead. Really, truly dead.
Now all they had to do was survive to tell the story. And rebuild an entire society. But that second thing, at least, wouldn’t be his or Hen’s problem. Though Dagan did wonder if it might be Innan’s.
Innan chuckled, a blush darkening their pale freckles. “I wasn’t alone.”
“You’re awe-inspiring, my dear. Don’t accept any lesser accolades, yes?”
Innan laughed this off, too, and glanced at the bed again. “What have you been doing up here this whole time?”
“The opposite of what you’re doing, which is to say nothing.” Dagan smiled. “And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I can’t do much for him but sponge him off and get him food, but without it I’m sure I’d go mad. Otherwise, I’m just reading and writing whatever comes to mind.”
“I’m so glad you have each other,” Innan murmured, watching Hen intently.
“And you and Kajja?” Dagan raised his eyebrows.
Innan flushed again, glancing at Dagan for a moment, then away again. “Well, it’s a busy time. But maybe…once we have time to talk. About something other than underground monsters and how to help the people living in the mines.”
“I saw you kiss her.”
Innan cleared their throat. “She told me.”
“And?”
Finally, Innan cracked a smile. “She really is the smartest, brightest creature I’ve ever met, Dags. I can’t help it.”
“I know the feeling intimately.”
*
Another afternoon, Jak came to check in on Hendrik and brought Dagan an armful of precious paper and books from some raided stockpile. As he was about to leave, he stopped to look back at the bed, at Hen thrashing and murmuring in it, and said quietly, “I’ve been meaning to say…”
Dagan glanced up from his inkpot; Jak’s eye was fixed so intently on him, his pretty mouth pressed into a pale line, his jaw muscle working. Dagan stood and went to him. “What is it? Are you alright?”
“Yes.” Jak shook his head, though. “I just wanted to say that—I’m so glad he has you.”
Of all the things he could’ve said, that one might’ve been the least expected. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been, considering Jak’s unquestioning, uncompromising dedication to Hen’s comfort during recovery thus far. And yet, the relief in Dagan’s belly, sudden and sharp, told him he had been ready to hear something else entirely. Not something unkind but something difficult, perhaps.
“I didn’t want to say it because it sounds idiotic, I know. But I also know that you know…I care for him. A great deal.” Jak glanced away and licked his lips, but then held Dagan’s gaze once more. “And to see him with someone just as devoted and as loyal as he is… He deserves it.”
Dagan moved closer and held out a hand. “He does.”
