“And so it is the two of us at the end, Mirnían,” said Voran, smiling. “As it should be.”
He stood up awkwardly, nearly fainting again, and unsheathed his sword. His left hand limp and throbbing with fire, he somehow leveraged himself with his right, sword in hand, and clambered up the rock, foot by foot, until he lay under the shadow of the branches. Breathing with difficulty, he rose to his knees and touched the pale flowers, grazed his fingers over the thorns. It was so beautiful. His tears returned, and he spat in disgust at himself.
“No one should have to make this choice,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Mother.”
He breathed in, braced himself, and hacked at the thin trunk with his sword.
“What are you doing?” shrieked Mirnían.
Voran struck again and again like a man possessed, his eyes blurry with the flow of tears, his hands unsteady from the pain.
“No one should have access to so much power,” he said.
He saw Aglaia’s stricken body in his mind, and he despaired.
The sword finally broke through the trunk, and Voran pushed the hawthorn down the far side of the cliff. It fell out of sight. A fountain of fragrant water blossomed from the raw, jagged stump and immediately began to ebb. Voran had a sudden compulsion to drink the water before it disappeared completely. He caught a little in his hands. It sparkled in his cupped palms, multifaceted like a fluid diamond. He drank.
The waves of hot pain receded into the back of Mirnían’s awareness. He was tired, so tired that he could easily fall asleep on the bare rock. Now that it was over, now that Voran had singlehandedly destroyed Vasyllia and dashed all their hopes, there was little left to do except die. But he remembered Lebía; he remembered their coming child; he remembered the life in Ghavan, and somehow he knew he would press on.
Voran had stopped weeping. He looked at Mirnían with eyes that seemed centuries older, eyes so green that they seemed almost mad. Voran slipped off the top of the rock, holding on to the stone with his left arm and balancing with his right.
His left arm?
“Voran, your arm!”
Voran looked confused for a moment, then looked down at his shoulder. The black fabric was clotted with blood. Voran poked his fingers into the rip made by the two arrows, and his face turned white.
“Mirnían, I am healed.”
Mirnían’s heart raced. He thought he understood what had happened. He got up, groaned from the pain, and hobbled to Voran, feeling more an old man than a youth of twenty-two years. He took Voran’s right hand in both his own.
“No, Voran,” he said, strangely elated. “You are not healed. You are the healer.”
Mirnían placed Voran’s right palm on his own exposed chest, and his entire body felt as though it were burned with hot irons. He screamed, but held on to Voran’s wrist as if his life depended on it. It lasted a long time, but then the pain went out, like a fire extinguished by a gust of wind.
Mirnían knew that he was healed—this time completely—but to see that truth reflected in Voran’s expression was glorious. Voran looked like a gleeful boy, making his wiry, sparse beard seem a storyteller’s disguise. His strong features softened into a smile so full of joy, Mirnían realized he did not know the meaning of the word until he saw it in Voran’s face.
“Voran,” he said, unsure of the words, “I—”
“No, Mirnían,” said Voran, more calm and in control than Mirnían had ever seen him. “All that is past. There is a great deal of work left to be done. A great deal of hardship to be overcome. It would be easier to overcome it all together, as family.”
Mirnían felt as though an old version of himself died in that moment, and a new Mirnían arose in his place, a Mirnían who did not merely act the part of the solicitous leader, as he so often used to do in Vasyllia. At that moment, Mirnían felt ready to contain all of Vasyllia in his heart. It occurred to him that his father must have felt the same way every day of his life.
“There is something you should know, Voran. I married Lebía, and we are expecting…”
Voran grabbed him and raised him off the ground. At first, Mirnían thought that finally Voran’s temper had the better of him, but there was nothing but warmth in his embrace, and then Voran laughed. It echoed over the mountains.
“My little swanling picked you?” He chortled.
Mirnían felt himself blush violently, something he could not remember ever doing in his life. It was very strange for their roles to be so reversed, but there was something liberating in it. He returned Voran’s embrace.
“It is time, my brother. We must go,” said Voran, staring over Mirnían’s shoulder, his eyes illuminated by a golden light. Mirnían turned to see a majestic stag, his fur completely white, his antlers sparkling gold. It wasn’t entirely there. It shimmered, as though it were in water.
“Will you consent to bear us to the waystone, old friend?” asked Voran.
The white stag lowered its head.
As Voran stood before the waystone, he laughed.
It was the last thing either of the giants expected, and their expressions soured.
Voran turned his back to both of them and ran to Aglaia. Even with his new strength, even with the healing flowing through him, stoked by the Sirin’s flame, he was afraid to touch her. The spear point was deep in the ground, passing through her chest completely.
“Mirnían, help me,” he said.
Mirnían’s face was a fierce shade of green, but he came. Together, they snapped the haft of the spear in two and gently pulled her body up, until she was free of it. She gasped in pain as the blood gushed. Mirnían held his hand to his mouth, looking ready to vomit at any moment.
Voran closed his eyes and began to mouth the word—Saddaí, Saddaí. He placed both hands on the gaping wound and breathed out deeply. He reached for Tarin’s stillness, deeper and deeper within, then gently nudged at his heart-flame. Aglaia’s breathing was ragged, then she moaned. Voran looked down at his hands, and the blood still flowed over them.
“She is not healing,” whispered Mirnían.
Voran plunged deeper within, and forced his accelerating heart to still again into the pleasant rhythm and presence of the word. He forced all thoughts to cease. When there was nothing but the word in his heart, he submitted. Let it be as it must.
A soft light throbbed from his hands, and Aglaia was bathed in it. Her eyes opened, wide and surprised, and she gently gasped.
