Chapter 41:
What remains
Glory of Ash
He woke to sunlight.
The same sunlight. The same angle through the window. The same warmth on his face.
Luke sat up. His hands were clean. The room was still.
He pressed his palm to his chest.
The warmth was still there.
---
Liara was in the kitchen.
She was cutting bread. Her hands were steady. The knife moved in slow, even strokes.
"You're up early," she said.
"I didn't sleep."
"You should eat."
He sat at the table. She placed a plate in front of him. Bread. Cheese. A cup of water.
"Where's Varra?"
"At the gate. Inspecting the repairs."
"And Silla?"
"With the Medics. They want to study her leg."
Luke looked at the bread. Didn't touch it.
"The herb healed her."
"Yes."
"But it didn't heal Harkin."
Liara sat across from him. Her hands were folded on the table.
"The herb works differently on different people. You know that."
"Do I?"
She looked at him. Her eyes were soft.
"You're looking for problems where there aren't any."
---
He walked to the gate.
Varra was standing with her back to the wood, her arms crossed, watching a crew of workers replace a cracked timber.
"You're supposed to be resting," she said.
"So are you."
She almost smiled.
"The Chief wants to see you again. This afternoon. Something about a memorial."
"A memorial for who?"
"The ones who didn't come back."
Luke looked at the gate. The wood was new. The iron was polished.
"There's no body for Jorund."
"No."
"No grave."
"No."
He pressed his palm to the wood.
Warm.
"Luke."
He pulled his hand back.
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
"It keeps being true."
---
He went to the Red Ward.
Silla was sitting on a cot, her leg extended, a medic pressing her fingers into the skin.
"Fascinating," the medic murmured.
"What's fascinating?" Luke asked.
Silla looked up. Her face was pale.
"The tissue. It's not scar tissue. It's—" The medic stopped. Shook her head. "I don't have the words for it."
"Try," Luke said.
The medic looked at him.
"It's not healing. It's replacement. The herb didn't repair her leg. It built a new one."
---
Silla walked with him to the well.
The water was still. The sky was blue.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"About what the medic said. Replacement. Not healing."
Silla looked at her leg.
"It works. That's what matters."
"Does it?"
She turned to face him.
"What's wrong with you? We're alive. The village is alive. People are getting better."
"Jorund isn't."
Her face didn't change.
"Jorund knew what he was doing."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
---
He went to Harkin's room.
The door was closed. He knocked. No answer.
He pushed it open.
Harkin was sitting on the edge of the bed. His leg was stretched out in front of him. The bandages were clean. But his hands were grey.
"Harkin."
"The herb didn't work."
"I heard."
Harkin looked up. His eyes were tired.
"It didn't work on me. It didn't work on Leon. It worked on Silla. It worked on Varra. It worked on you."
Luke sat across from him.
"Why?"
Harkin looked at his hands.
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
---
Luke left the room.
The hallway was empty. The light through the windows was the same as before. Same angle. Same warmth.
He walked to the gate.
The workers were gone. The wood was still. The iron was cold.
He pressed his palm to the surface.
Warm.
"Luke."
He turned. Varra was standing behind him.
"The Chief is waiting."
"Let him wait."
"He's not going to."
---
The Council chamber was empty.
The Chief was alone at the long table. His hands were folded. His face was smooth.
"You wanted to see me," Luke said.
"Sit."
Luke sat.
"The memorial will be at dusk. I want you to speak."
"About what?"
"About what we lost. About what we gained."
Luke looked at the table.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what we gained."
The Chief's smile didn't waver.
"We gained time. We gained a future. We gained hope."
Luke stood.
"That's not enough."
"It has to be."
---
He walked to the well.
The water was still. His reflection stared back.
Brown eyes. Clean skin.
He looked at his hands.
The stain was gone.
He pressed his palm to his chest.
The warmth was still there.
---
Silla found him at sunset.
"The memorial is starting."
"I'm not going."
"You have to."
"Why?"
She looked at the sky. The sun was low. The shadows were long. The light didn't shift.
"Because they're expecting you."
---
He went.
The Square was crowded. Torches were lit. Faces were turned toward the center, where a stone had been placed. Unmarked. Grey.
The Chief spoke. Words about sacrifice. About courage. About the future.
Luke stood at the edge of the crowd. People glanced at him. Nodded. Smiled.
He didn't speak.
When the Chief called his name, he shook his head.
The Chief's smile flickered.
Then he moved on.
---
After the memorial, Varra found him at the gate.
"You should have spoken."
"I couldn't."
"Couldn't or wouldn't?"
He looked at the wood.
"Does it matter?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"He would have wanted you to."
"We don't know what he wanted."
"He gave you the stalks. He trusted you."
Luke pressed his palm to the wood.
Warm.
"He trusted me to use them. Not to speak about him."
---
That night, he dreamed of roots again.
They were wrapped around his arms. His legs. His chest. They were warm. They were pulsing.
He struggled.
"Stay."
He woke.
The ceiling was white. The walls were clean. His hands were clean.
He pressed his palm to his chest.
The warmth was stronger.
He looked at his reflection in the window.
His eyes were grey.
Just for a moment.
Then brown.
He blinked.
The window showed only the dark.
He didn't sleep again.
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