The Night We Met Pt.2 [Edited]

I looked up at the starless night sky.

The green moon lit the world in its palette. Everything already green was, well... even greener. The swaying grass, the falling leaves, the pond scum. All competed for Most Obnoxious Shade of Verdant. If there were a prize though, the moss between my fingers would win, no question.

I sighed and dropped my head. Holding it up was difficult.

My back voiced its displeasure. Slouching like a wilted flower wasn’t doing me any good.

One hand lifted. It reached to my ear, trembling so hard I worried for a moment that I'd damaged a nerve.

The pin holding up my hair came loose.

It was a Flare-pin. Designed to resemble a flickering flame. On paper, it was functional—but the look was distasteful.

I stared down at it, pinched between my fingers.

This past week alone, they'd spread like a plague. You could find them on anyone, from the jeweled heads of noble ladies to the greasy heads of fishmongers.

Not because it suited them. It didn’t, for they clashed horribly with the majority of outfits. Their main appeal wasn’t aesthetic.

It was diagnostic.

The hotter your body became, the richer the shade of fire it took on. Like fever charts attached to your skull for all to see. A very clever idea... but a brutal one, still.

A glance at a mirror and oh, look, your yellow pin is now a bright orange. A surefire sign—you'd caught the Burnwake Blight.

It was a brilliant invention, an early-warning system that struck first before the symptoms did. But people still found a way to make it stupid.

Couples started using it like some sort of romantic thermometer. Whoever’s color was a deeper red was more 'hot' for the other. If both their pins went red, it meant they were soulmates. If only one did... well, that conversation probably didn’t end with flowers.

Prices tripled. Somehow, a fireproof alloy of cheap quality cost more than a full week's worth of cold well-water. I still bought one.

If it turned red, then fate would finally be confirmed.

I mindlessly traced my thumb around the surface of the pin. A lazy circle, over and over.

“Come to think of it...”

I stopped. The Flare-pin bathed in the pale green light of the moon.

“I could always get reinfected.”

Then, all of a sudden, it didn’t.

Something had blocked the light.

A shadow passed over it. My hand squeezed around the metal.

I was still staring at my closed fist, too absorbed to look up. But I didn’t need to; I knew exactly who it was that stood over me.

“If you seriously consider what you're saying—reinfecting yourself, that is—you'd need to kill someone.”

A second passed. The wind rustled the grass.

“As far as I can see, the only person you could kill right now,” he added, “is me.”

August dropped into a squat beside me, then sat. A minute of silence passed.

“Careful, you're holding that thing too hard. You'll bend it. Or worse, hurt yourself.”

I blinked down at my fist. It was then I noticed the shallow trench carved into my palm. I let out a sharp sigh, feeling somewhat stupid for letting my grip be so strong as to injure myself.

“Sit up straight.” He instructed, his tone not commanding but somehow worse—like that of an annoying older brother.

My irritation grew. August had that effect on me. Everything about him just made me mad. Not only was he too observant, he was also bossy. The words slipped out before I could even think.

“Why should I?”

“You’ll hurt your back, Yori. Again.”

I shot him a sharp sidelong glare, not caring to hide my annoyance.

A few summers ago Fia had asked me to fill a pail with water. I'd been so determined to prove I could handle twice the load. I couldn’t. My back snapped like old bamboo halfway home.

August, who had been sent to check on me—in reality, to check on Fia’s workload—had found me in that sorry state.

He'd taken the heavy buckets from my hands, scolded me like I was six, then, to my surprise, he'd turned around and knelt down, letting me ride on his back all the way back.

I sulked into his shoulder, mortified. August hadn’t said much then, but I’d secretly concluded he didn’t completely suck.

“Sit up,” he repeated.

I obeyed almost on instinct.

My eyes went to his.

Wary—because while I knew he likely wouldn’t harm me... I didn’t know anything for certain. Curious—because I knew this face, this person. But I had no idea who he really was anymore. Furious—because this was not the person who had gently carried me home... he was the hound sent to drag me back. And I was searching for something, anything, to tell me if I should trust in him, or be afraid.

“You didn't have to obey me.”

“I don't know. You're just lucky, I suppose.”

“Lucky,” he said flatly. “Is that so.”

I couldn't resist adding in a bit of sass.

“Yeah. I think it's definitely luck that I just happened to listen to a random guy's words.”

My statement lingered between us, and my smirk faded as my expression sobered.

“But... if you really want to know. You were the one who’d quietly told me where to hide when Alfred was in a bad mood. Who’d bluntly told me not to eat if I was nervous. You were...”

I hated saying it.

“You were like a brother.”

Not a single reaction. Of course.

“So, why are you here?” I asked. “I mean, why do you guard Alfred, work for him? Why would you even agree to drag me back so they can cut me up and use me by the organ?”

I almost winced hearing my own words. I didn't need to shout, to plead, to demand. I just spoke the words, and the truth of them was enough.

His eyes dropped to the grass. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Should I be moved by that?” I asked, plucking a blade of grass. “Because I’m not.”

I twirled it idly in my fingers, turning to him.

“Oh, so I suppose next you'll tell me you're doing it to protect me? That dragging me off to be butchered is for my own good? Would you like to add that you'll cry afterward, too? For drama, of course.”

I knew my words had hit home. I felt a sort of sick satisfaction as I watched his face. It was brief, but I caught it—a flinch.

“I—”

“Save your breath. I don't need your self-pity.”

The grass fell from my hand, I brushed off the green stain it left on my palm. It was harmless. Unlike some people.

“You had a choice, August. You just didn’t like what it would cost.”

I rose.

“Let's go.”

“If I was in your position, I'd run too.”

“You and I are nothing alike.”

“We are.”

He paused. Then:

“Yori, I’m a Hale. Like you.”

My heart stopped for half a second. That sort of claim was a bald-faced lie.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“Prove it.”

He reached for the buttons on his shirt. One, two, three. The material fell away.

I'd been expecting scars. Battle wounds. But the pale, scarred flesh I saw was not the result of a fight.

It took everything in me to keep my voice calm. “You’re not Haleborn.”

“I’m Ascended.”

I felt a shudder of revulsion.

Ascended. Huh. I think I laughed. But it held none of the joy.

“Disgusting.”

August hung his head.

“You had someone’s organs put into you.”

He nodded.

“Whose?” The sharpness of my voice could have cut steel.

He didn’t answer. Though, the cigarette in his mouth gave him away. The tip quivered, just once, before a quick drag steadied it.

Ah. So that was the game.

I dropped to my knees, the skirt of my pinafore fanning out around me like petals.

It was a proper pose, one that any humble girl would use in the presence of a man.

It was also a more efficient angle for reading facial cues than if I were towering over him.

“Behind that smokescreen,” I smiled, sweet and lifeless. “What is it you’re so afraid I’ll see?”

Another drag. No response.

I leaned in.

“You do realize smoke sticks to things, don't you? Clothes, hair, even your breath. Same goes for guilt.”

His shoulders tensed.

“So, I’ll ask again. Whose?” And this time, I didn’t whisper.

“Alfred's.”

There was a particular feeling I'd only experienced once before—that day in the back of the storeroom, surrounded by jars of spices, when I’d realized, far too late, that the white powder in one of them wasn’t just another type of seasoned salt.

I hadn't panicked. I'd simply... gone cold.

That was how I felt now.

“Alfred’s.”

My spine straightened slowly. Shock was too generous a word. I was... Hm.

“He’s Haleborn,” I muttered.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

Haleborn.

So Alfred was like me.

August opened his mouth. I held up a hand. He closed it. Smart man.

So.

Alfred was Haleborn.

But what did that mean?

It meant the one orchestrating my slow dissection wasn’t just a monster—he was a cannibal.

The very first emotion I felt was not anger, sadness, not even feeling betrayed. No, what I felt was something far more primal—

Curiosity.

A stinging itch at the back of my neck that said, how interesting.

I moved so close to his face our noses were nearly touching.

“Was it a gift? Did he offer it up to you? Or did he make you beg for it on your hands and knees?”

“Yori—”

“I’m genuinely curious. Which organ did you take? Liver? Lungs?”

I needed to learn more. I needed to know.

“How many others are you aware of?”

Still no answer. His silence was very telling.

“You’re still alive. You’re not Alfred. But he is in you. Literally.”

My eyes dropped to his chest.

“If I stabbed you...”

“Enough,” he snapped.

...

I leaned back. It wasn't out of mercy, no. How would he react? I needed space to see.

August took a draw on his cigarette. It was a short one. His mind was clearly elsewhere.

I looked away, and this time, there was no tease in my voice. Just the truth.

“Borrowed or not. You shouldn’t smoke so much, it’s bad for your lungs.”

“I'm sorry. For snapping at you.”

I gave him a look. “You’re making it really hard to enjoy being awful to you.”

He looked at the space between us. As if that was easier to face.

“I never wanted any of this. I never wanted to chase after you, to force you back to that house... none of it.”

I said nothing. It seemed like the kind of statement that needed silence in return.

He rubbed his face with his hands.

“I was going to die,” he confessed, finally.

“Burnwake is fatal for people like me. Wasting-born.”

He meant the Plague with a base Blight load of four hundred percent. I knew all too well what that meant. A Blight load of that level would have roasted him immediately.

“My threshold was one hundred,” he went on. “Using Suppression Tonics, I could barely hold on. I had to do whatever I could just to survive. Odd jobs, assassinations, guarding people... whatever it took to keep myself—”

“Alive?” I cut in.

He nodded.

“I eventually ran out of jobs. I ran out of money. I stopped taking the pills. I couldn't run from the Ward. I was going to die.”

“And Alfred offered you a way out.”

For men like Alfred, there was no such thing as an offer. Only investments.

“No. I begged.”

I blinked.

“You begged him.” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“Not a gracious offer, that lead you right to his door.”

“No.”

“When you begged. Did you cry? Like. Visibly. Snot and everything.”

“Yori—”

“I’ll shut up now.”

I watched him quietly.

August sat hunched, head bowed, waiting for execution.

I was supposed to feel bad for him, wasn't I? Poor August, dying from the Blight, willing to do whatever it took to keep himself alive.

But there was a difference between surviving, and willingly submitting yourself to a monster.

“You hate me.”

“Of course I do.”

That startled him. His eyes finally met mine, and there was no pleading, no begging there. Simply... acceptance.

I plucked another blade of grass, taking my time to rip it into a series of small threads. “When you were at the well, you knew that I was inside, didn't you?”

He didn't deny the fact.

“Keep going.”

August took a deep breath.

“I’m the worst kind of person to you,” he said, hoarsely.

I said nothing.

“You’re free to hate me as much as you want. You’d be right.”

I still said nothing.

“But there wasn't anything else I could do. Fred agreed. He... he said he didn't mind as long as it was for a friend. He'd use my organs and with his funds from the bathhouse he'd cover the costs of the Suppression Tonics.”

My lips parted. He cut me off.

“I’m not stupid. Alfred wouldn’t give something like that to me unless he planned to take it back.”

Good.

“Or so I'd thought. He said to me... ‘It’s not a loan, August. It’s an apology.’”

Absentmindedly, I picked yet another blade of grass, running my fingers along its length. I just didn’t want to look directly at him until I was ready.

Cause and effect... there were always patterns to these things.

August had no money, no pills, and a Blight load that should’ve baked him inside out. He went to Alfred, begging for organs. Alfred agreed and didn’t ask for anything in return.

That was suspicious? No, it was just... rare.

Perhaps the reason he wasn’t asking for more was because he already thought he had taken too much. The only question was: why did he think that?

Did Alfred take advantage of August? Cheat him? Hurt him? Abuse him in any way?

If so, an apology like that would be more than enough.

No. That was a guess. And guessing wasn’t something I did. That was for people who didn’t mind being wrong.

I interrupted my thoughts to look up at August.

“You said you no longer found work. Was that to do with Alfred? Because—”

“No.”

“No? Did he ever explain what he was sorry for, then?” I pressed. “If I'm going to return to that house, then I want every last detail. You owe me—”

I broke off, startled by the sudden thwack of something striking the side of the Wall. I turned my head to see a rope ladder sliding down its stony expanse.

I blinked... Twice.

Hope.

I didn’t want to feel hope. It was stupid. It made the heart weak. I wanted to close my eyes, to keep it out. Yet...

I crawled forward, desperate.

I barely paid attention to August. Only when he moved, not to draw a weapon, but to rest his hand on a rung, when the steam rose from his fingertips, that I looked at him.

Lunging forward, I grabbed his wrist.

“Don't.”

I despised the crack in my voice, the way it felt like pleading. I hated that I said the word. But it left my mouth nonetheless.

“Please.”

“Hiyori,” he began, calmly, “if you climb…”

“I will burn it.”

I gritted my teeth together, looking into his eyes.

“I hate you.”

“Good,” he whispered.

The ladder swayed. Neither of us moved.

That was what was so painful.

We stayed like that for a breath, my fingers still hooked around his wrist, his skin warm under mine. Then, slowly, I let go.

Sentiment was pointless.

I stood.

It wasn't because I forgave him. Nor was it because I changed my mind.

I walked toward the Wall.

There was no great ceremony or fanfare. Just me, putting one foot in front of the other.

I felt August’s eyes follow me, his hold on the ladders rung growing tighter. Ah, the idiot. He probably thought I was going to climb.

Instead, I stopped right next to the ladder and leaned against the Wall.

“Cold.”

I pulled my head back a little...

Then drove my forehead right into the wall.

It wasn't exactly painful. More like a dull thwack, similar to being slapped by an adoptive mother who was more frustrated than actually trying to hurt you.

The second hit was harder. Like being hit by an adoptive father who was trying to knock sense into your hard, stubborn head.

On the third—

The world turned upsy-downsy south. My legs buckled. My ears rang. My eyes blurred. Something in my head shifted. Blood trickled down the bridge of my nose.

I heard August rise to his feet.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Using all the effort I could manage, I put on my most deranged smile.

God, it must've looked awful—my hair stuck to my face with blood, one of my eyes had started to swell.

I looked like a lunatic, or a girl with an ace up her sleeve. August clearly thought the former, his eyes widening in shock.

“If you burn that ladder,” I said, grinning, “I’ll kill myself.”