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At last, Flynn Scifo was a man at peace.
Or at least, he was meant to be. But men at peace did not clench their fists so tightly that their knuckles turned white. Men at peace did not blink so hard, eyes shining with unshed tears.
This was hardly peace, and it was hardly Flynn Scifo. Flynn had always been a serious man, yes, but tempered it well with a soft voice and gentle smile. He still spoke in hushed tones, but he’d entirely lost that cheerful expression, spiraling somewhere into the ocean beneath Zaude and washing away with Yuri Lowell’s body.
Sodia hoped she’d see him smile again, one day. She didn’t deserve to, but she hoped still.
She could be selfish, like that.
Flynn’s fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. His brow furrowed, like he was in pain—like it had when that shot had torn through his chest.
Sodia kept seeing it, when she closed her eyes. She saw the next things that happened, too—a knife in her hands, Yuri Lowell closer than he’d ever been before, blood splattering on the ground—
None of it had stained her. How lucky.
Sleep was impossible, these days. How could she possibly rest, when tension had become her? Sodia’s muscles locked up at night, rigid. Her eyes stared aimlessly at the ceiling.
But now it was day. Now Flynn was in pain.
“Do you need-“
“No,” he said, too quickly. “…thank you.”
He didn’t take enough of the numbing herbs. Always less than what the doctor recommended. Should Sodia say something? Did she have the right to?
Maybe she was the only person who had the right to. She’d done all this for him. In his name. She’d torn out his heart to protect him. Didn’t life-saving procedures demand amputations, sometimes?
Sodia couldn’t look at him anymore. She had to avert her eyes, like from the sun’s glare.
Papers laid strewn across Flynn’s desk, messier than Sodia had ever seen it before. The very thought of anything associated with Flynn being messy would’ve seemed ludicrous just days ago. But that was who he was, now—unbrushed hair, rumpled clothing, ink stains welling into the desk.
She swallowed, dry. I did this to you.
I killed Yuri Lowell.
Sodia didn’t say it. She should’ve. Flynn should know.
Her mouth wouldn’t move. She cleared her throat, but Flynn didn’t even react. He just stared into space, looking but not seeing. Was something wrong with him? Something… beyond the obvious?
“Have you…” Sodia’s fingers clenched into fists. “Have you eaten today, sir?”
Flynn blinked. His lips curled.
He was going to lie.
“A bit.”
Sodia was learning quickly to pick out his lies—it’s alright. I’m ready. It doesn’t hurt.
I’m fine.
She’d done all this for him. Her nails bit into the palms of her hands. She’d spilled blood in his name. His best friend laid dead at the bottom of the sea so he could live.
A necessary amputation. Cut away the disease, so the rest might live.
Sodia had to make sure Flynn would survive this. Don’t let me have died for nothing, Yuri Lowell’s spiteful voice rang in her head.
No. She hadn’t committed murder to watch Flynn waste away now. Sodia excused herself with a bow—not that Flynn noticed, eyes skating across the same sentence over, and over, and over again—and headed for the kitchen. There had to be something there… perhaps nothing befitting a commandant, but something to sustain him, at least.
Flynn barely glanced over when the plate hit his desk. Sodia couldn’t blame him. It was just a sandwich. But it was something.
“…thank you.” He said. His hand brushed his bangs back, and they fell into his eyes again, and again.
A crayon drawing laid on top of the papers, something scrawled by a child. Sodia smiled to herself, recognizing the portrayal instantly—blonde hair, and blue eyes, and… another face beside him. Long, dark hair.
He’d seemed so imposing, so powerful, so dangerous, once. But he went limp after she plunged that knife into him. He just… fell.
Sodia swallowed. That hair had flung up as he plummeted, whipping and tangling into a knot. Once, when she’d been a child, she’d walked up where a crowd of noble boys had gathered, crouched in a huddle on the ground. When she got closer, she saw what had captured their attention.
They prodded at the dead crow. Poked it with a stick. Its feathers twisted into a heap, once beautiful, now limp and worthless. She’d yelled at them. They shouldn’t make a mockery of death.
Later, she joined the knights. She vowed to protect the people who deserved it. People like Flynn.
“…you aren’t eating, sir.”
“I’m not hungry right now.”
She’d accuse him of lying, but she doubted he was. Sodia could hardly eat, either. It sat like a lump of iron in her stomach—the memory of what she’d done. Cut a life short. Tormented Flynn.
She hadn’t meant to. But that was an excuse. Excuses were useless.
Still, Sodia wanted to say, you should still eat.
I can’t eat, either, she wanted to say. But we’re not the same. My stomach doesn’t ache from grief. Should I be grieving him? Is it possible to grieve a man you killed?
“Alright.” She ended up saying, rather uselessly.
She should leave. Was her concern just an excuse to stay close to him? She wanted to. She wanted to help, wanted to comfort him, wanted to be someone he could rely on in his time of need.
Surely she didn’t deserve it. She was the source of this agony. She was the weight crushing Flynn now.
Sodia shifted. She made to take a step—
—and Flynn spoke. Rare, these days.
“Did you know that Yuri used to cook for me?”
Sodia shook her head—useless, because Flynn wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were focused on the crayon drawing. On Yuri.
Even now.
“It doesn’t seem like him, does it?” Was that a smile on his face? Or just something nearing one? “But he was always kind like that. Thoughtful, deep down.”
“I didn’t know.” Sodia said.
But how could she have known? Who did know, that the late Yuri Lowell had once liked to cook?
There was a lot Sodia hadn’t known.
“I’ll have him make something, once we’ve found him. His cooking is excellent. You really have to try it.”
This was the most energy she’d heard in his voice in weeks. It almost sounded like Flynn again, soft but so strong, so motivated. Not this empty shell who had taken his place.
“That would be wonderful,” Sodia said, because it would be, if only Yuri Lowell wasn’t dead.
A waste of time.
A fool’s errand.
A squandering of vital resources.
Sodia could stop it all. She could stop it all right now. But she wouldn’t, because she was a coward. Her hand clutched at the side of the ship, hard. It supported her weight.
I don’t think it’s a good idea.
I appreciate your concern. The doctor has granted me full clearance to return to my usual activity levels.
No one has- we have no leads.
I’m… good at tracking him down.
What was Sodia more afraid of: finding nothing, or finding something? Would it be more devastating to watch this imposter-Flynn, this dead-eyed shadow slowly give up what little hope he had left, or to let him pull a body from the sea, and watch the horror dawn on his face at the sight of Yuri Lowell’s waterlogged corpse?
Would he notice the stab wound? Would he ask about it? Would Sodia be able to lie?
It must’ve been Alexei. Flynn had been unconscious. He could believe it. He would have to-
Sodia cringed, hissing. Her eyes blinked hot with tears. Stupid. Unfair.
Why are you the one who’s crying?
She had a job to do. She had to watch over Flynn. She couldn’t falter now. She had to hold her head high, evoke dignity and grace as she watched the Commandant waste precious time and resources searching for a man she’d killed.
Sodia laughed, humorless. She really was pathetic.
Every drifting bunch of seaweed looked like dark, tangled hair. Every stain in the water looked like blood. What a painful way to go. Yuri Lowell was a bad man, and a poor influence on Flynn. He was a blemish on Flynn’s flawless mind, his spotless reputation. But this? Did Sodia really have to do this?
It said something about her. Sodia’s eyes flicked down to her fingers, the same ones that had clutched the knife she’d left on top of Zaude—bloodied, tainted. She wasn’t as good as she’d always believed. At her most panicked, her most desperate, she’d done exactly as he had.
It’s different. He acted deliberately. I wasn’t thinking.
They’d done the same thing.
Knights kill in self-defense all the time. Protecting some people means hurting others. That’s the way of it.
The wind pulled at Sodia’s hair, leading her as her chin tilted up at Flynn—Flynn, standing more upright than he had in weeks, eyes brighter than ever as he gazed past the knight he spoke to and out into the waves. He was watching.
He was awake again. Alive again. Hoping again.
It would poison him from the inside.
If Yuri Lowell didn’t deserve to be near him… if Yuri Lowell’s crimes would’ve dragged Flynn down…
Sodia heard her boots thump against the wooden deck. She walked to him almost in a trance—to Flynn, his soft cheeks and sky-blue eyes and broad chest.
“Commandant.” She saluted.
Flynn nodded—at ease.
“If you-“ Sodia’s throat was dry. “If you ever need anything…”
A crease wound between Flynn’s eyes. “Thank you, Sodia.”
But there was something clear in his voice, in his eyes, in the way he stared out into the ocean that said he would never take her up on her offer. Sodia wasn’t enough. She never would be. She could stab a thousand Yuri Lowells, and she would never measure up to him in Flynn’s mind.
It wasn’t her. It would never be her. How could she have been so stupid?
Not for the first time, Sodia felt guilt. Not for the first time, Sodia wondered why she had done that.
Not for the first time, Sodia contemplated hurling herself over the side of the ship, and drowning along with Yuri Lowell.
Not for the first time, Sodia offered Flynn her honest advice.
“We’ll have to pronounce him dead.”
Flynn was quiet. A dark cloud settled over his face.
Should Sodia have told him the truth from the beginning? Maybe it would have been better. Maybe it would have spared him these weeks of searching, the toxic swell of hope in his chest. Maybe he already would have accepted this outcome, if he’d known from the start.
Now they would begin the process anew. He would mourn anew. Would there be a funeral? Would the tears that welled in Flynn’s eyes fall? Would he carry this weight for the rest of his life? Would the old Flynn ever return?
Sodia was beginning to worry that the answer was no.
It can’t be possible. Flynn seemed to want to say, jaw trembling. He must be alive.
But he wasn’t. Sodia knew.
She could tell him now. It would ruin her life. She deserved it. She did. But she couldn’t tell him. The words stuck in her throat. They died a hundred deaths before she could speak them aloud.
They drowned, in the sea beneath Zaude.
Flynn just stood there, in the entry hall of the castle, unmoving. Frozen in place, as if time stood still for him now.
Sodia understood the hesitance. She knew what held him back.
I don’t want him to be dead.
Flynn had never wanted any of this. How unfair. She deserved to suffer his misery now, to watch helpless as the bravest, noblest man in the world crumbled like sand.
Flynn deserved better than this. He deserved better than Yuri Lowell. He deserved better than Sodia. He deserved better than this stupid, petty squabble. He deserved better than their bloodstained hands. Flynn deserved the world, the sweep of the sea and the glittering stars above, galaxies and eternities for a man so good.
But he didn’t get that. He got this.
“Of course.” He said, dull. “People are worried. They have a right to know.”
His eyes blinked, tired. Wrinkles had formed beneath them, around them, stress etched deep into his handsome face.
“I’ll… draft the announcement.” He said. But he made no move to leave.
Sodia couldn’t look at him without thinking the words, without imagining saying them. It was so easy, in her mind. They flowed from her like water from a stream, like the blood that had poured from his stomach.
I stabbed him. I stabbed Yuri Lowell. He’s dead, and I killed him. It’s my fault.
But when Sodia opened her mouth, nothing came out.
He was already gone by the time the reports reached Sodia. They couldn’t possibly be true, and yet they had to be—too many people, too many reputable people, had seen Yuri Lowell. Alive. Walking about the Lower Quarter, as if nothing had happened, as if it had all been a bad dream. All of a sudden, that pressure lifted from her shoulders—a load something like what an adult man might weigh, like the measure of a twenty-two year old, just shy of six feet, leanly muscular.
Sodia wasn’t a murderer, after all. She’d never been happier to fail.
Then Sodia’s breath caught. Handcuffs and cell bars burst into her mind.
But they remained there and there alone. No officials came to question her, no knights came to arrest her. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.
It seemed too much to believe. Sodia’s hands shook.
Had he really not told anyone?
Yuri Lowell’s survival was good news, unquestionably, but it came with its own burden—a familiar torment. All of a sudden, Sodia was no longer free of him. Was it too cruel to have enjoyed his absence, in some small part? Was it too cruel to dread what would come now? Sodia would have to watch as Flynn looked at him again, expression rapt, as he laughed easily at Yuri Lowell’s words and walked too close to him as they went from one place to the next. Flynn’s world would narrow to one man, again.
But at least he would have a world, again.
Sodia’s fist paused. She couldn’t quite convince it to raise up, to knock against the door to the Commandant’s office.
Why did it have to be her? Why would this news come from her lips? Surely someone else would benefit from currying favor with the new commandant, giving him the news he longed most to hear. For a moment Sodia considered it—fetching Witcher, or one of the new recruits—but she shook her head.
No. It had to be her. This was her mistake. She didn’t deserve the joy that would wash over Flynn, but she should be the one to tell him. She should right this wrong.
“Come in.”
This was the last she would ever hear of hollow Flynn, of this exhausted, emotionless facsimile. She was only too glad to bid him goodbye. The door creaked as Sodia opened it, pushed as little as possible to ease herself in.
Flynn’s head rose.
“Yes, Sodia? What is it?”
It was strange. Sodia had thought about her confession so many times, had mused on the words over and over again in her mind. She thought them as she walked around the capital, as she laid awake after another nightmare where Yuri Lowell’s blood ran down her hands.
This was just the opposite. These words came without her even having to think them.
“He’s alive.”
Sodia had only seen her mother cry once. She remembered it well—how strange the expression had seemed, how alien on her face. Flynn was just the same. They were strong. They shouldn’t cry. They were above such things. Not like Sodia, petty and angry and weak.
But Flynn did cry. Tears ran down his cheeks, gathering at his chin, trembling and dropping onto the desk below.
“I should’ve known.” He said. “Yuri.”
It came out something like a scolding, only there was no admonishment in it. Only affection. Only longing.
Only love.