//
This story is completed
Fear, too. Even in the stillness, it is palpable, a sweat musk that draws him in with anticipation. It has been many days since his last meal and he feels himself go weak with it.
They say that in the Cloister there is no hunger, but they are wrong. He hungers for many things, though not all of them are thirsts he can quench.
But if he knows one thing, it is that freedom is the sweetest draught of all.
Then the shadows stir, calling to him. He raises his weapon in one fluid motion. Snap and release, the prey falls to the forest floor.
Susuro smiles. His weapons are the finest – the arrows perfectly balanced and the release taut. With the proper aim it is quick and painless– just the way he likes it.
He could take the carcass back to the Home – to the lowlings that deal in such things. But then they might ask him to share and that is not an option. He hunts alone.
Susuro grunts as he tries to lift the prey to his back. It is heavier than it looks – matted fur tickling at his ear, hooves clinking together aimlessly with his stride. He will feast for days.
In the Home, they will cover the rubbery flesh in minerals to store it, or divide it up among themselves. But that is not his way – walls terrify him. He would rather sleep staring up at the stars, bits and pieces of the myths of a forgotten history returning to him like long-separated brothers. Gods and heroes and brothers. Monsters too, but he prefers not to think about that.
Perhaps tonight he will dream again. His dreams are always the same: a small man – slender and sleek like the Knowing-Ones but with eyes that are fierce – dark like a Warrior. The man stands beneath a canopy of stars. His lips move, silent in the night when he touches his hand to Susuro's chest. He doesn't need to hear the words to know that this is a promise, like the greatest bonds of old.
Susuro does not sigh, but hefts the prey higher onto his shoulder and stalks into the forest. Perhaps this is the stirrings of what the Knowing-ones proclaim to be Enlightenment. He hopes not. His knees are too worn for meditation.
A twig snaps and he spins around. Sense too, is not as it should be.
"Menaje," he grumbles. Susuro may be growing worn, but he cannot imagine a day when a Knowing-one might be able to sneak up on him.
"Yes," The voice is resentful, shimmering in from the left.
"What now?" Susuro grumbles.
"Someone has come. The prophesy . . ." It has been many moons since Eresse died, the future on his lips, his blood so red, dark crimson like the blood of beasts – no different.
"I thought you didn't believe in myth," Susuro sighs. The Knowing-ones are all so young.
Menaje's voice changes – high and commanding, like a scholar. "I do not believe in histories of vision, not word."
Word is concrete, carved in stone. It tells the path to Enlightenment in riddles, but riddles are not what Susuro needs. He is not a Knowing-one. He is a Hunter. For him, the forest speaks louder than unchanging rock.
"And yet it is vision that has come to pass," Susuro remarks, turning from his companion, the hooves of the beast swinging out behind him.
Just like a Knowing-one, Menaje ducks the spatter of blood that follows. "It does not matter. All that matters is that one has come – the Portal has opened. And you . . . you must see."
Susuro grunts out a nod. Perhaps this is just a trick to get his prey into the communal stores, or to lure him back and fix his lonely ways, like they did to Eresse after hearing his prophesy. But then he thinks of his dream - the man and the stars twinkling in his eyes, conviction like salvation on his lips.
The Home is bustling, buzzing like that hive of the golden insects who turn their prey into the sweetest tasting blood.
"Where is he?" A new voice demands – angry and deep like a Hunter.
"He's here," someone responds, placating, voice high and weak, too smooth for the forest but still too rough for the Enlightenment that they all seek.
The crowd parts and there he is, just like Susuro's dream. His hair is dark like the night, but ragged, his body is taut, hard like a bowstring, even as his face looks unworn. But there is something in his eyes – sadness like that place deep in Susuro's soul, where he cries out for something he didn't even know he was missing.
Their gazes meet.
"Oh," the man says. "I was looking for you."
Susuro does not know what to say.
"Do you remember me?" the man demands, looking as lost as he does resigned. Here, Susuro does not see the hero Eresse promised – the man who would save them all from the horrors of this life, whatever they might be.
Susuro looks from one face to the next – Menaje bouncing nervously at his side, Allacé looking down upon them all like Master, the Knowing-ones meeting his eyes with simple accusation. He knows how they treat prophets here.
"Yes," he answers. "Yes, I do."
The man nods. "You never told me your name."
"My name is Susuro. It means ‘he who suffers alone.'"
The man seems to pause, eyes clouding over for a second.
"And yours?" Susuro prompts. His dreams never included words.
"John."
"John." Susuro tries it out. Short. Too simple. "What does it mean?"
The man pauses, fiddling with the pockets of his hunting vest. "I don't know."
A gasp ripples through the crowd and John eyes them uncomfortably. There are too many people in the pavilion. It is why Sususro finds the Home so confining. "Come," he holds out a hand.
John nods, wincing as they touch him – hand after hand finding his temple, his neck, his chest, as though they can drink of the draught that makes him a hero. They think that contact can protect them, but what do they know? If they can kill over words then no talisman can protect against their infinite fragility.
John crouches low in the brush, intent and silent. He is not a predator, as Susuro had hoped, but neither is he out of his Caste. A shift in the brush and Susuro's head snaps around. It is hard to see in the watery dusk, but the sun is brighter in the clearing. John raises his bow, but Susuro waves him down. John's last shot had gone wide and Susuro does not want to risk a night of hunger. They are probably feasting on his catch in the village, celebrating the return of the hero of myth.
A quick snap and the prey is lying bleeding into the soft babble of the river.
"Good job," John says with a sigh, rising to his knees with a creak. He is subdued, not like the fierce Warrior of Susuro's vision.
Susuro grunts in agreement. "No thanks to you." John may be a hero in the eyes of the prophets, but to Susuro, he is just another mortal being, the sadness in every movement giving him away.
John smiles a little at that, helping Susuro lift the prey from the water. Its eyes are glassy and lifeless, just like Eresse, blood welling up from his throat, but its heart is still warm when Susuro cuts down through the soft flesh.
John looks away at that, almost disgusted.
"I had thought that you were a Hunter," Susuro remarks, as casually as he might, lifting the carcass up and over his shoulder.
John shakes his head. "No. I knew someone who was. Or maybe not. He was a soldier first." For the first time since they've met, John speaks with conviction.
"He was your brother," Susuro remarks, wondering what that must feel like.
John pauses a second, stumbling over a tree root hidden by the dusk. "I guess you could say that. He was . . . they were . . . like . . ." he winces. "How about I go grab some wood . . . start a fire."
Susuro shrugs. Words are hollow vessels, like a tree struck by lightning, the insides charred and gutted. It is feeling that matters. "A little while longer and we will reach a shelter where we might camp."
John nods, voice stuttering. "Why do you live all the way out here? It seemed pretty cushy back there in the town."
"Why are you here and not back at the Home, then?"
John shrugs. If he is to lead the people to Enlightenment, they must be better than Susuro is at reading the language of the body.
Dusk is falling fast, the first twinkle of stars peaking in above the horizon. Susuro looks up, watching as they dance so fast across the sky, shrouded in ether. "I like to be able to see the stars."
"Me too." When John sighs, it reminds Susuro of an ocean, though the ocean too is a thing of myth – bad dreams used to make them appreciate the wonders of this place.
The ruins are shiny black, obelisks rising like claws from the soft sand of the ravine. Once there was a river here, but in all the time he's lived, it has been dry, constant as the rain.
John stalks among them warily, not daring to tread too close.
"It's alright," Susuro grumbles. "They are empty history, no more."
But even as John steps closer, he keeps his hands clasped, white-knuckled, behind his back. "Don't touch that, Colonel," he whispers under his breath.
Susuro grunts, hunkering down to flay the meat. Starting a fire was easy, using a special flint John drew from his hunting vest. "Who is Colonel?"
John spins around, embarrassedly ducking his head. "I am, actually. Well, I used to be."
"What does it mean?"
"Important enough to make decisions. But not the ones that really matter." He sounds resentful.
"I, too, used to be called something else."
"What?"
"I do not remember the syllables, but it meant ‘he who fights alone.'"
"What changed?"
Susuro shrugs. Perhaps this is why John came, so that he might have someone to accept his silence.
John turns back to the ruins, squinting. "What do they say?"
"That one is my favorite, they say it tells the story of a man who came. He fell through the Portal to fight a great beast. The prophesy said that when the beast was defeated that he would follow his brothers to Ascension. But he did not. For this, prophets cannot be trusted."
John's body has gone tense. He steps back from the ruins, wary as one of the beasts, gingerly dipping its head to the stream.
"Why do you like it so much?"
"Because the man of the story shows the people strength. The only thing I do not understand is why he did not Ascend with his brothers. If you had a chance at that – eternal life, true communion among your brothers, without this sick parody that is speech, why would you walk away?"
John comes to sit by the fire, tentatively accepting a piece of of prey from the roast. "Maybe they weren't his true brothers."
That night Susuro dreams of Death. He has seen many a beast go down beneath the weight of his arrows. He rushed to Eresse's side as she choked out her last bloody breath, he knows myths of great battles, wounds and losses and many horrible things, but those are not Death's true face.
In his dream he sees so many souls, hair white like his, eyes clouded and empty, skin folded like the edges of the great ravine, like a dried hide to the touch.
He wakes gasping, meeting John's suddenly-dark eyes across the last embers of the fire.
"Nightmare?" John asks.
Susuro does not know the meaning of the word. "I dream of fear."
John nods, wary. "What could you possibly be afraid of? The man in the story has already defeated the beast." That is true – the Cloister is peaceful.
"I fear that my name might someday change to ‘he that dies alone.'"
"I think we all fear that."
When Susuro wakes the fire is cool and John is staring into the dawn, sitting cross-legged in the sand, surrounded by scratches that look like writing that Susuro does not understand.
"What are you doing?"
John jumps a little, turning to face him. "Nothing . . . calculating."
"Calculating what?"
"It's not important."
"Come. If we trek to the salt flats we might be able to preserve this prey for many days." He reaches out with his foot to nudge John, but he jerks away.
And before he knows it, he is flat on his back in the middle of a field of John's calculations, looking up at the hazy red of the beginnings of the day. "You attacked me."
When he sits up, John is smirking. But his eyes are far away.
That night, Susuro dreams of John again. He is standing outside of a brilliant silver ship, pointed like an arrow. It is like many of Susuro's dreams, only this time, sound whispers in, fades in and out so he can only read intention, if not full words.
"Trust me," John says. "I won't let them do this to you. You deserve . . . well, you don't deserve to die."
"What makes you say that?" Susuro asks.
He wakes before he receives his answer.
"Susuro! Susuro!"
The prey skips away. Thwarted by Menaje's complete incompetence at stealth. But what should he expect from a Knowing-one? Susuro groans, rolling his eyes at John, who is crouched nearby, ready to fire only if Susuro should miss.
They will go hungry tonight.
"What is it, Menaje?" Susuro asks, wondering if he can change Menaje's name from ‘he who quests' to ‘he who annoys.'
"Come, come. There has been an accident. One of the community is damaged. You must bring John. The stories say that those close to Enlightenment are blessed with the power to heal."
"I can't heal," John remarks, stiff and wary behind him.
"You must try," Menaje commands, grabbing John's hand (which he jerks away) and setting himself crashing out of the forest.
The dwelling smells moist, silence hanging within like mist. Allacé sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, saying a useless prayer, no doubt.
Susuro can just make out the figure curled up on the bed. He can smell blood with, thick and cloying instead of rejuvenating as it is in the forest, but he still startles when he spots the pool of crimson spreading across the threadbare sheet.
"Nassim?" he asks, fear tightening in his chest like the Touch of Death. Nassim is one of the few in the village who understands Susuro, who speaks to him compassionately. He was the one to recount the story of the Warrior, and the one to tell him that there are many paths to Ascension – that we need not all follow the same one. "John . . ."
John lingers in the doorway. "Look, I'm only trained in field medicine . . . I don't . . ."
"Please," Allacé pleads, standing. His white robes are also stained and his eyes wild with a fear that those on the path towards Ascension claim not to feel. "You must help him. He is so close . . . we cannot lose him now, before we Ascend."
John looks at her askance, moving to towards Nassim even as he disdains, "You will never Ascend."
"How . . ." Allacé begins. He is the greatest advocate to follow the ways of the Ancestors towards Enlightenment.
John ignores him, pulling back the sheets to reveal a gaping wound.
"He stumbled into a jagged branch," Allacé explains. "You can fix him, can't you?"
John looks as lost as he often does on their treks through the woods. "I . . . um . . . I don't know."
He grabs at the cloth of the sheet, pulling it up in a bunch and packing it into the wound, pressing hard. Nassim gasps, eyes flying open. "Stop!"
"No! What are you doing? You're hurting him!" Allacé protests, trying to drag John away.
"Get him out of here!"
Susuro doesn't even think before he obeys, dragging Allacé to the door and bolting it closed.
"I need you to boil some water."
Susuro nods, grabbing John's flint and setting the hearth alight.
"Good, now come here and hold this. I can't believe you didn't even think to bandage it." A pause. "Or maybe not so surprised. Here, you have to put more pressure. It'll hurt him, but at least that way he won't be bleeding out. And I don't even have anything stronger than Tylenol . . . or any antibiotics if he gets a fever . . ."
"Antibiotics? Fever?" Susuro asks.
"Words are meaningless, remember?" John asks, ripping at the sheets to tear them into narrow strips.
Susuro nods. There is only one question that matters: "Will he heal?"
"I hope so."
Susuro examines Nassim's pale face with a frown. "He doesn't look better."
"That's because it depends on the one thing we do have here – time."
"You said you would protect us." At least that's what John said in the dream.
John laughs a hollow laugh. "From your enemies maybe. But no one can protect you from death."
Somehow, that does not ring true.
"If you are truly a hero, then why did you not heal him?" Allacé demands, keeping up with John as he strides from the cabin.
"I told you, I can't heal him. And I'm not a hero. I did my best, now, please just leave me alone. Sterilize the bandages and change them twice a day. You just have to wait and see."
"The first step on the path to Ascension is compassion," Allacé entreats.
John turns around, eyes cold. "Trust me, it's not one you'll need if you do happen to Ascend."
"I demand you stay!" Allacé yells. "I compel you to obey me."
John turns, smirking again, but this time his eyes are those of a Warrior. "Empty words."
Susuro follows him out of the Home, silent until they reach their own camp.
"Could you have healed him?" Susuro asks.
"No. I'm not here for the reason you think I am."
But then Susuro remembers his dream, the words growing clearer and clearer by the night. John promised to protect them. He said he would do his best to keep the enemy from harming them.
The enemy is vanquished, but what about the enemy that plagues them all? John cannot protect them from Death.
The next morning, when they wake again at the ruins, John's calculations are abandoned behind him. He points to a single line of script carved on the tallest stone.
"What is it?" Susuro asks, concerned.
"It says that it does not matter where we've been. Ascension is only about where we are going."
They are trekking through the forest when John stumbles, going down on his knees and tumbling out to the edge of the cliff. Susuro is quick, though, diving down and grabbing hold of John's wrist as he scrambles at the edge.
He can feel gravel digging into his chest, his breath burning like fire in his lungs, but he holds on, holds tight because even though they are slipping, it is a long way down and Death will not permit John to live if Susuro releases him.
John pants out a pained breath, swinging frantically bellow. The edge of the ravine here hangs out, leaving him without footing.
"Let go," John commands.
They are slipping.
"No."
"You have to let go, or we'll both fall! You don't even . . . you can't care . . . just let go!" John tries to squirm out of his grip.
Perhaps John has known enough of Death not to fear it, but Susuro . . . he cannot think of anything more terrifying. Even to witness it. No, it is not permissible.
"Since when do you give up?" Susuro asks, response rising out of the blue. "You are strong."
John's face is turning red, twisted in exertion and pain, but he nods, reaching up with his other hand to grab hold of the ledge. Susuro uses all his strength to yank him over.
With John finally panting beside him, massaging a sore shoulder but wonderfully alive, Susuro asks, "How could you give up so easily?" Susuro will fight it until his last breath.
John turns away, levering himself up despite the pain. "Thanks," he says, but does not answer.
The only reason Susuro can think of not to fight is if you have nothing left worth fighting for.
John is not a very good hunter, but Susuro has begun to appreciate his company. Perhaps one day they will be true brothers.
But then Susuro thinks about what John said, about the man in the story leaving the Ascended behind for his real brothers.
"Tell me about them," Susuro asks, juggling this slippery thing called ‘soap' John has fashioned from beast-fat and ashes.
"About who?"
"The brothers. The ones you left behind to come here to receive Enlightenment."
"I didn't come here to Ascend," John mutters.
"Then why did you?"
John evades the question. "Well, I already told you about Ronon. He was a warrior. But then he was . . . captured. He lived on the run for 7 years, escaping his enemies, hunting just like this."
Susuro nods. He remembers enemies – dark eyes, hard like the unforgiving surface of the Portal, commands and shouts and the cold steel of a prison cell. He should be grateful. Those things do not exist here in the Cloister.
"And the others?"
"Well, Teyla was . . . when I first met her she was just like Xena. I didn't think women like that existed in real life."
"Who is Xena?"
"It's a television show . . . like a box, only with pictures – moving pictures. And there are these stories . . . Xena is one about a Warrior princess . . . wears these bodice-y things . . . I'm not making any sense to you, am I?"
Susuro shrugs. "Words are imprecise."
John frowns. "Well, what I meant was that when I met her she seemed too good to be true. But she's proud sometimes. And more caring. Better than Xena."
"Are all your brothers Warriors?" John sounds proud of them.
John laughs – the first real laugh Susuro has heard from him. "No. God, no. Elizabeth would do anything to avoid war or violence. And if she did have to go with a military solution, then she'd blame herself afterwards. And Rodney, Rodney was more likely to run screaming from a conflict . . . or shoot a mouse, than he was to fight. But if he had to . . . he'd shoot a thousand mice trying."
John's eyes go sad and distant. Perhaps, if Susuro had that, he would fear the pain of losing it too.
"Kind of like you, then?" he jokes, trying to lighten the tone.
"Hey," John complains, punching Susuro playfully in the arm.
It's like instinct to hit back. But John gives back as good as he's getting, until they are both panting, trying to pin each other in the rich dirt of the forest floor. It feels good to do this. All of the Knowing-ones shun it, and Susuro does not bother to watch the lowlings picking out in the fields to see if they give in to the temptation.
Susuro is bigger, but John still manages to flip them over in a move Susuro is not prepared for, pinning his hands over his head. "That'll teach you to make fun of my hunting ability. Bow and arrow aren't really my thing, okay?"
To tell the truth, Susuro had some trouble when he first had the idea to make them, but he won't tell John that.
Every day when Susuro wakes, there are ‘calculations' etched into the sand, even when John has fallen back to sleep beside him.
Today, he wakes to a sob. Susuro has never heard a sound like that come from a body, but he feels a sympathetic twinge in his chest. Suffering, he thinks, is universal, even if he might be left to it alone. Perhaps it is sounds like this that make up for the gap in language. He wonders if when the community Ascends, they will feel their brother's pain like he feels John's now.
John is whispering something, repeated over and over under his breath. Susuro moves stealthily closer trying to listen. "Rodney . . . Rodney . . . Rodney, please . . ."
"John?" Susuro asks tentatively. He was not aware one could talk in one's sleep.
"Huh?" John's eyes open, then he scrambles up and away, suddenly frightened.
"Rodney is your brother?"
"What? No. Rodney's . . . he's important to me. I . . . ."
"Then he is your true brother," Susuro pronounces, digging his toes into the sand, indulging John his misunderstanding. "Has he . . . did Death take him?"
John shakes his head. "No. He's still alive."
"Then why are you here and not with him?"
John sighs. "It was the right thing to do."
"Will they come, one day?" The way John did?
John shakes his head. "No. This time, they're not coming."
John has just shot and gutted his very first beast all by himself. Of course he is not half as skilled as Susuro, leaving them both soaked in blood. Luckily it is a warm day and the brook is not far from their camp tonight.
John strips off his shirt and there is something in the way his muscles pull in the sunlight that catches Susuro's breath and consumes it.
John goes about washing the shirt, wringing it out, not even noticing he's being watched until he dunks his head under and pulls back to shake the water from his eyes.
He studies Susuro with the same intensity that Susuro is studying him. And Susuro can feel hunger, thirst deep in his belly, like fire.
"Do you like what you see?" John asks nervously, after a long pause.
"Yes." Words cannot express it. John is beautiful – like the soft pitter-patter of the beat of a heart, like the stars flying through the sky, like brotherhood and all the things it should be.
John bites his lower lip then nods, as though agreeing with something a nonexistent voice has said. "Come here."
Susuro does not know what to do other than to obey so he steps forward and into John's arms, feeling strong fingers stroke down his spine, wide green eyes imploring his. He sucks in a gasp. He has never felt this way before – easy in his own skin.
"John," he sighs.
"Shhh . . ."
John is running his fingers down Susuro's chest, down to that area. Susuro remembers the first time he tried this, before Nassim cautioned him against it. It feels like Ascension must, like color and lightning dancing, even faster than the stars.
"Feel free to reciprocate," John pants. His eyes are dark.
"What?"
John sighs, grabbing Susuro's hand and bringing it to wrap around . . . . It's hot, even in the cool of the river. Susuro closes his eyes, letting the universe open up to swallow him. This . . . pleasure - how much he's been missing, like he's been thirsty all this time, and finally granted his first drink.
Color, intention, feeling, it all builds until he's gasping, knees going weak. John and the river support him. He's floating away. His fist clenches and he hears John's gasp, feels it as cool lips brush his own. They are merging, becoming. This, he thinks, is the Greatest Gift – the Gift of Life itself.
As Susuro pants down from his climax he thinks that this is what true brotherhood must really mean.
"That was amazing," he says, smiling into John's shoulder, licking at the droplets of water that cling there. So thirsty . . . .
"You've never done that before?"
"The stones say that we must all make sacrifices on the path to Ascension."s
They pass many days just like that. Hunting, fishing in the river, as John has taught him, laying in the sun, and fucking, as John calls it. Susuro really likes the fucking.
And yet even as their bodies become more and more one, John will sleep curled in to himself, shivering and whispering another name.
Susuro thinks of the man in the story, who did not Ascend even when he had the chance. The stone does not say whether his brothers came for him, but Susuro suspects that it is possible to sacrifice yourself for even just a memory.
"Allacé demands to see you," Menaje orders, imperiously.
"Well, tell him I'm busy," John grunts, jogging a little to outpace him. Susuro strides easily ahead of them both. They have enough cured meat for several weeks, but he would like to camp by the waterfall tonight and it is a tough climb to accomplish in the twilight.
"He is the Highest. He requires it."
"Well, he's not my highest."
"Please, if I do not fetch you, he will blame me."
"And what's the punishment for that?"
Menaje pauses a minute at that. "I don't know. I have never disobeyed."
John rolls his eyes and pushes onwards.
"Susuro," Menaje pleads, "tell him to go. It will not take long. We have made the stiff berry drink that you enjoy. You can stay for the meal."
John turns at that. "Susuro, you didn't tell me you had any hooch."
"Hooch?"
"I could use a stiff drink."
"Oh." He supposes John could. Even when they are together, John seems as though he is alone.
"Allacé has been gifted with the sight," Menaje remarks excitedly. "Like it says on the stones. He can see your secrets. All he needs is a touch."
"How do you know he isn't fooling you?" Susuro asks. Menaje is too singular in his devotion. If it were a trick, would he even question?
"He has seen my dreams, the ones I had never told anyone."
"What dreams?"
Menaje sighs. "I dreamed of a cave – dark and cold, blue, but humming. Bodies, so many bodies, Susuro. It is Death, where he keeps those that he consumes."
Yes, yes, Susuro thinks; he has had this dream as well. And he had seen him – Death himself – yellow slitted eyes, long white hair, skin pulled taut, blue and ghastly.
But before he can tell Menaje about it, John is storming out of Allacé's dwelling, body tight like he is readying himself for one of his sparring matches – the one John is teaching him with the sticks.
"What . . ."
"Don't," John reprimands, voice as hard as stone.
In the background he can see Allacé sitting on the bed. He is crying.
When Susuro awakes the next morning, there are no calculations written into the sand. John is whimpering in his sleep again, curled protectively onto his side. Susuro rises to find that the ashes of the fire have already been stamped out, and John's hair is damp, his skin clammy when Susuro reaches out to lay his hand on his chest.
John's eyes fly open, gripping Susuro's hand and pushing it away. He vaults into a frenzy, scrambling back. "Don't touch me like that ever again," he commands, one hand still pressed protectively over his chest. Susuro has never seen him this fierce. Perhaps he, too, was a Warrior.
Later that day, John is telling him a story. John has many stories from the world outside the Cloister. This is one of the ones from the box.
"Because this is True Love. Do you think this happens every day?" John proclaims, all rushed dramatics like most of his stories are.
Susuro frowns. He does not understand this ‘Princess Bride.' "But it was Death."
John smiles, a little sadly. "Not even death can take that from you. The only way to get rid of True Love is to give it away."
Susuro wonders yet again what John is doing here. "But why would you give something so close to Enlightenment away?" To truly be one with another soul - he misses it so much he can taste it.
John takes a long time to answer. "Because there are things that matter even more."
"Like what?"
"Like keeping your promises . . . protecting your people . . . doing the right thing."
Susuro tries to kiss the sadness in his eyes away, but he is afraid that he can't.
It is evening when Nassim catches up to them. He is in a panic. "Have you seen Allacé?" he asks, frantic.
John is quick to shake his head.
"No," Susuro responds, fear already coiling in his belly. "What has happened to him?"
"We don't know. We've searched everywhere for him . . . Menaje says John agitated him . . . that there was a fight. He is demanding . . ."
"John did not do anything," Susuro is quick to say, even though he is not sure it is true.
"Then he will not mind assisting us with the search."
John's eyes are cold when he responds, even as his voice is light, almost joking. "Of course not. Glad to be of assistance."
Today they are camped close to the village, thwarted in their attempt to move further yesterday, so it is not long before they approach the Home. It is the most empty Susuro has ever seen it – the meditation cushions, the kitchens, the looms, the metal workshop, all abandoned.
Menaje is standing at the door to Allacé's house, staring absently inward, like he hears the voices that Enlightenment promises. "There you are," he motions impatiently. "You have been informed?"
Susuro nods, taking in the room beyond. The bed is white, crisply made. Nothing is broken. There is no blood. He could have gone out for the evening – except the pile of clothes discarded in the middle of the floor.
"This is all?" Susuro asks, puzzled.
"Yes. And it doesn't look as though we are going to find him," Menaje adds, petulant.
"Did he get lost? Go hunting and fall down a hill? Perhaps he is hiding . . ."
"Or maybe . . ." John suggests, "he Ascended."
Menaje spins around, looking perplexed. "But surely he would have left some sort of message . . . someone would have seen . . ."
"Wasn't he the most ‘enlightened' you guys have? Your head-honcho? If you believe in Ascension, why not believe that your leader would Ascend?"
‘Because,' Susuro thinks, ‘there were track marks just outside the door, walked over and messed, but there. They would fit a body being dragged. The bed was too neatly made, the clothes ripped just slightly at the collar. Besides, John did not wake up to write his calculations today.' But Susuro holds his tongue. John deserves the chance to explain himself.
"But to leave . . . I can't . . . he couldn't have . . ."
John sighs. "I've seen it. One minute you're standing there and the next you're a glowing squid-thing floating off to nirvana."
"You have . . . you saw . . ."
"Yes." John's voice is decisive, but his eyes . . . oh, his eyes.
"What did you do?" Susuro asks, as soon as they have made it back to the riverbank. He dips his feet into the cool of the water, feeling his toes sink into gritty mud.
"I didn't do anything!"
"He did not Ascend. Not unless someone dragged his body to Enlightenment."
John flounders, mouth agape. "Fine. So maybe someone got jealous. Maybe they . . ."
Susuro stops, growing angry now. "John. There are no lies between true brothers. I will not betray you. I promise."
John runs a hand through that strange dark hair, flustered. "Fine. I killed him. Are you happy now?"
No, Susuro is not. He may not have always agreed with Allacé, but he respected him. He was not a true brother, but he was a brother nonetheless. Is not the first step towards Enlightenment compassion?
"Why?" Susuro whispers. Why kill a good soul?
John looks away, tensing, defensive like the prey as it stalks through the forest. "I couldn't let him Ascend."
"Why not?"
John sighs. "Because that's what I came here to do."
That night, Susuro's dream is vivid. He is back in that dank, dark cell again, missing the brilliance of the stars. The enemy towers above him, round nose and face marked with the claw-marks of Death, prickling his skin like craters. And Susuro is hungry, starving, hurting so much that he can taste it in every pore of his body.
John is there too, hidden in the shadows. But Susuro knows that he is there. "You realize he is torturing both of us?" he asks.
Death must lurk somewhere around here . . . Susuro can hear it in the clank of the walls, in the sadness. There is a bucket of water in the corner, but when Susuro looks into it . . .
A pallid face, eyes dark and tired, long sickly grey hair, and skin tinged green . . .
Then he is panting, gasping out of his nightmare, with John stirring beside him.
"What is it?" John asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"I dreamed of Death. I saw his face. Green like rot . . . he is a monster."
"Don't worry," John says, inching closer to lay his head down on Susuro's chest. "You won't see him here."
When Susuro wakes, he is warm, comfortable. He sighs, breath ruffling the strangely dark mass that is John's hair. His hand is laid out in the perfect curve of John's throat. And for the first time, he notices small notches there, five scars that touch each point of his fingertip. He is marked like destiny.
Susuro removes his hand before John stirs, muscles clenching around Susuro's body before he stretches out with a yawn.
"No ‘calculations' today?" Susuro asks.
"I've done them a thousand times," John answers. "No closer to figuring out what's going on."
"Why not?"
John sighs. "You can calculate ratios and time, but you can never figure out how long people will take."
"You are calculating how long you must wait for someone?"
"No. I'm calculating how long I have to wait before I can give up hope."
It is midday when Nassim comes to fetch them yet again. He does not waste time in idle pleasantries. "We've found a body."
John's head shoots up at that, eyes wild for just a second before he schools his features into stunned indifference.
"Where?" Susuro asks.
"Down in the cave near the Portal."
"Let's go."
It is a long trek to the ridge and the Portal, but it passes too quickly for Susuro's liking. He is nervous of what they will find there. He has seen many a dead beast in his days hunting, but it is only in his dreams that he finds bodies.
When they arrive, he cannot even see him. The community is gathered around in a hushed circle. Susuro resists the urge to close his eyes. He does not want to see wizened wrinkled flesh, skeleton bones and empty eye sockets and white hair stringy and lifeless. It is either that or blood – so much blood like it rained from the sky in tears.
But when the crowd parts, he sees that it is not the case. Perhaps he is not truly dead? Perhaps he has just fallen into a very deep sleep. There is a ring of purple around his neck, blotching his pale skin. Maybe that is the mark of Death. Is that how one is supposed to tell?
Someone in the crowd is crying. But mostly they all stare on in shock.
"And this is Ascended?" Menaje asks, voice cracking like a whip.
"No. This is dead," John says it like it is the simplest thing in the world – like Death matters so little.
"And how do you explain this?"
"Maybe he killed himself," John remarks, almost nonchalantly.
"What do you mean? Why would he do that? How do we know that you did not kill him?"
"Because he was with me when he died," Susuro explains. It is a lie, but for a true brother it is oh-so-easy.
"But he brings you pleasure!" Nassim accuses. "I saw you."
Susuro whirls. "Are you saying that I lie?"
"No. You are my brother. Of course you would not."
A guilty little thing within him twinges at that, but he does not relent. He remembers what they did to Eresse. He cannot permit that to happen to John. John deserves the Gift of Life, nothing less.
"Then if it was none of us that killed him, he must have killed himself," Susuro continues.
"But why would he do that?" Menaje asks, lost.
Susuro turns to John. So far, John is the only one that Susuro knows who might have lost their grip on life.
Their eyes meet a long moment before John speaks, slow and deliberate. "Because he looked into my mind. He found the truth."
"And what truth is that?" the crowd mumbles, evenly, in a unison that seems to make John shiver, though Susuro can not fathom why.
"That there is no such thing as Ascension."
It is dusk by the time they have all gone, wandering back to the safety of the Home. Their eyes are haunted, shifting in melancholy like shadows.
Only Susuro and John remain, but Susuro cannot read his companion's eyes. They stay focused on the empty black of the Portal before him. Susuro does not remember passing through, just as he does not remember being born. But he does remember waking up here among his brothers, and beginning the quest to bring meaning to their lives.
"You want to lose hope so badly that you must make them lose theirs?" Susuro asks. The anger is purifying, so near both hatred and love that he wonders how he ever lived before this feeling, the rush deep in his veins.
"No. I told you before. You can't Ascend."
"But you read it to me yourself – it does not matter where we have been. Ascension is about where we are going."
"And you are not going there!"
"Am I not your brother? I may have lied, and hunted, and lived a solitary life. But we are not so different, you and I."
"I won't be Ascending either."
"Why not?"
John just shakes his head.
"Why are you so determined to prevent those who want that path to follow it?"
"The truth?"
"The truth."
"Remember your dream? The one about Death?"
Susuro nods. He remembers vividly.
"Where did you see him?"
"In a bucket of water."
John nods, slow, baleful. "And when you gaze in a bucket of water, what do you normally see?"
Susuro shrugs. "I don't know . . . whatever is reflecting . . ." No. No, it couldn't be. He touches his face, feels his hair. It is long and white, but his face . . . he has gazed at himself in the river. His brothers . . . if they saw that monster they would run in fear!
"But the enemy! He tortured us . . . . I . . . I remember.
"That time our enemy was mutual. But we . . . my people. It was you that we were fighting."
"So we were enemies?" Susuro asks, finding it impossible that John should gift so much to someone he fought.
"No. You and me . . . never were."
"But our peoples?"
"Yes. We fought to exterminate."
"But you . . . we are still alive."
John shakes his head. "As you were before, you would never have to die. Not as long as you could keep killing."
Yes, Susuro remembers, the thick thrill of the hunt.
"But you let us live. You protected us."
"Only in this place. It's a time dilation field." He would call words hollow, but something deep within him resonates with that. "They won't destroy it because they know I'm in here. But in only a few days, their time, we will already be dead."
"And that will be the end of my kind?" Susuro asks, trembling. Death is scary enough, to say nothing of extinction. How could one live without even the knowledge that his brothers would carry on his memory after Death had taken him?
John nods.
"And yet you still deny us hope of Ascension?"
"I can't let the enemy wield that kind of power."
"So the calculations date until the end of this place?"
"No, they depend upon how long it takes for someone to wake up from a stunner blast."
"One of your brothers?"
John bites his lips. "Yes."
"He will come."
"How can you know that?"
"Brotherhood is like love, you have to give it up."
That night, when Susuro dreams, he sees . . . no, remembers . . . John, beneath the stars, the high whine of a silver ship, flitting by overhead.
"All bets are off," John had said.
Susuro never agreed.
In the Home there is a new prophesy. Nobody knows the prophet, but they know that one day a hero will come. He will have broad shoulders and bright blue eyes. They cannot tell you why they wait for him, only that they do.
FIN