Solitary

Solitary

The stranger comes in smelling like waste and spirits and blood. Mostly blood. He’s covered in it, too—his own or another’s, she cannot tell. Has he shitted himself? No, that must have been another; his pants are bloodstained but clean of feces.

He’s loud. Not his voice, for he does not speak, but everything about him. His clothes crinkle and jingle loudly, all coarse wool and leather and metal. He’s stumbling from exhaustion and injuries and alcohol; boots thudding against the polished wooden floor, and tracking in mud, nasty stuff. His skin is dark, too dark for the quiet paleness of the world around him, rough, scarred and dotted across his chin by short, angry dark hairs.

He is an unwelcome splash of rancor in a world wrapped in whiteness and silk and silence.



You will have the man as a guest in your house. You will see to his daily needs. You will observe his actions. You will not harm him in any way. And when it is time, you will bring him, and you will forget him.
Yes, my Lord.



She leads him to the room she has prepared; her stockinged feet make no sound as she carefully rolls her feet into every step. The image: like she’s gliding.

Behind her, the stranger stumbles noisily. He says something, but of course she cannot understand. This thought is comforting to her; he is alone and unheard in this world. Now they share something in common.

She stops at his door and gestures to him: this is your room. Again he speaks in that foreign, guttural language, and she understands it not, but the look of gratitude in his eyes is unmistakable. She looks away.

She will not speak to him.



“Our man is well?”

“He is alive, my Lord.” She glances up at the Commander’s keen, furrowed brow. “But he is troubled by spirits.”

“It is of no consequence to me, as long as he does not die. But if it is a bother to you, cousin, then it is your responsibility to address his problem.”

“Yes, my Lord.

“You are doing well, Ieina.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”



Night and day he screams. He screams in pain; he screams in torment; he screams for alcohol. She tends to his wounds—they are healing—but will not bring him the drink.

He must do without it.

So he screams.



Ieina has taken to sleeping outside in the garden, away from the barbarian’s cries. It is normally not allowed, but she has asked the Commander’s permission and he has granted it: a family member’s privilege.

The trees begin to blossom.

She wakes one morning to hear clanking and thudding footsteps behind her. It can only be one person.

The man stumbles unsteadily towards her, dragging his injured leg. He looks ragged; greasy hair, unshaven beard, gaunt cheeks, dark circles under his eyes. But he is sober. At last.

He killed him.

He stops a few feet away from her. Says something that yet again she does not understand. Then he taps his emaciated chest with a dark, callused hand and says, “Trystan.” He gazes at her expectantly with strange colored eyes, a muddy freckled green-yellow.

She turns away from her husband’s murderer.



Ieina enters her house prepared with cloth and basin to clean up the man’s muddy tracks—but there is none. Disconcerted, she wonders if he has not returned; perhaps he has escaped, and now she will be punished.

Then she notices the muddy boots set outside on the wooden patio. So the barbarian is capable of learning.



Alone.

That is what she has been for all this time. No parents, no siblings, no children, and now no husband. Barely a husband when he was alive. Yes, they had loved each other, and loved passionately, that exuberant affection and lust that only a young couple can feel as if the lovebirds cannot have enough of one another, no matter how tightly and closely and scandalously they embrace, even when he is inside her, she could never have enough of him—

Barren, she was. Like the wastelands up far north, cold and dry and dead, never to foster life, unable to nourish love. And so he grew disappointed and distant. In her bed he lay like a stone, and she like a pressed leaf, so light, almost of no substance at all, as if you could touch her and she would break.

And now she has nothing.

Nothing except this loud, smelly stranger who took from her the last thing she had. This loud, smelly stranger who eats her food and drinks her water and has

intruded

upon

her life

that is not a life at all but a stagnant period of existence, silent footsteps, layers of silk, pointless daily rituals and silent screams that she cannot let out so they are muffled inside her head, and the headaches, oh the headaches—

CRACK! the porcelain dish falls from her hands to the floor. She takes care to smother the curse before it reaches her mouth and tilts her head to glance at the barbarian who has just startled her so.

With a startled, apologetic expression, he moves jerkily towards her and ducks to gather the jagged white shards lying across the pristine floorboards. Ieina motions him away but he persists.

The porcelain is sharp; it leaves cuts on his rough hands. He seems not to notice. He gathers the fragments, cupping them in his palms; Ieina fetches a basket for him to dispose of them in. “Thank you,” she feels the need to mumble.

“The fault was mine.”

She regards him sharply, unpleasantly startled. He speaks comfortably and without an accent; when did he learn her language? When could he have?

He is someone to watch out for, this quick and intelligent Southern savage.



His wounds have healed well; his body is seasoned but still young and strong. He bulks up on the food she gives him, softened and yet harder; gone are the sharp, jutting angles of jaw and clavicle and cheekbone and rib, but now replaced by curving lines and firm, taut flesh. He goes outside now, always followed by a guard. He watches the men practice.

Men like her husband was.

And he bathes. That she has noticed. He does not reek of sweat and filth and pigs now, but smells almost like the men she knows

…like her husband—no, she cannot think that

like washed linen and her lavender soap

but still there is that foreign odor, something inherently sour and dangerous.

He tries to initiate conversation. Hello. Thank you. What is that there? May I help you?

The man is a master of tongues.



Summer always rushes upon the village like a torrent of demure fire. The blossoms are fallen and withered, in their place vibrant, brilliant hues of green. By now the foreigner is friendly with the other men; Trystan, they call him. They spar and wrestle together, and it is even planned that he will accompany the group to hunt.

How long will this last?

He is taking over her house, strange man. He washes the linen sometimes before she can get to it, and all she can do and smile and try to appreciate it when really she only wishes for him to disappear and leave so this

torment

may stop.

He talks to her as they eat together, peculiarly trivial and frivolous things, and seems bothered not at all by her replies of silence.

“This is very good.”

“…”

“That painting there is very beautiful.”

“…”

“What do you enjoy in your spare time? Do you like music?”

“…”

“That gown looks very nice on you.”

“…!”

And all the while she is aware of his new sharp vitality. Clean-shaven and washed and sober and wiry-muscled, he seems entirely different from the repulsive creature that arrived on her doorstep that winter. But they are the same, she must remind herself. This man is still the drunkard whose care her cousin entrusted her with because he knew

she would not become attached.

And she has not.



Over the neurotically guarded Border lies the South, that hot, disorderly kingdom of tall, burly men in noisy metal armor and long-limbed, tough women all with wide hips for bearing children, sometimes six to a girl-mother of no more than eighteen years. Every man for himself, no order to what can hardly be called society. Their provinces war against one another, plot against their own leaders, bloodthirsty beings. Few healers, too, no medicine and no treatments and no knowledge. Almost none live past forty.

A stark contrast to the structured, military North.

For centuries they were cleanly divided. After the Great Revolution of the North, the military districts were established here and it has run quietly and smoothly since. The South was left to its own self-destruction.

So why is he here?

He speaks now to the other men and reveals that bands in the south have gathered influence and numbers and—most importantly—a unified ambition. They want the northern lands.

Thus was the reason for that attack—and an alarmingly effective one it was. These southerners, whichever area they are from, have progressed in their previously primitive and ineffectual methods. They slaughtered a good number of the Commander’s skilled warriors, almost were able to enter the walls of the town. But not quite. The Commander sent his regimental cavalry out, and then the remaining southerners were slaughtered, their limbs and organs flying through the air and splattering on the ground, all but two and one of them so wounded, with a spear in his side and a fatal gash through his stomach. The Commander stabbed him through the heart out of cold pity.

This one, Trystan, he kept.

“Why did you do it, my Lord?”

“Why did I do what, Ieina?”

“Why did you keep him alive? You could have retrieved information from other sources.”

“Yes, I could have ended his life. Leodo sought to, in fact.”

“Yes. I know the story.”

“Trystan was for Leodo. None of us could interfere. Despite his exhaustion and delirious state, he somehow survived, and Leodo suffered a sword through his gut. It was a straightforward bout. It was fair.

“You know your husband was a great fighter—it would have been a hard battle against him. I would not allow my men to kill Trystan after that. He is a valiant warrior, Ieina, and gave your husband a valiant death.”

“Yes, my Lord.” A long pause. “He gave his life with honor.”

But what does honor mean to her? Honor means eternal loneliness. Honor means the tragic waste of a powerful body rippling with muscle and life, now just a pile of bones and useless flesh.

Honor is the dry sea she floats on in her broken raft, searching for land and finding none because all there is is floating dust and empty space, and no waterfall, either, to tip over and experience the elation of falling eternally until she sees no more.

“The time approaches, Ieina. Will you be ready to let go?”

“Yes, my Lord.”



It is days later, when Ieina has freshly forced the tale into the back of her mind, when he utters the two words that she has been waiting her life to hear.

“I’m sorry.”

They are washing the linen in the river. Or rather, she was, and he invited himself to join.

This time she looks up. “Sorry?”

He is staring down at his hands, clutching one of the sheets so tightly that Ieina fears it will rip. She extracts it gently from his grip, and he mumbles an apology.

Now he looks up, compelling her to stare into those strange, discolored eyes. “I am sorry for…what I’ve done. Killing your husband.” His voice cracks. “And so many others…”

Ieina is silent. What can she possibly say? “I miss him very much.”

“I’m sorry.”

Perhaps he is. His eyes have a wild, desperate look to them, as if he is trying to outrun something in his mind.

“He would have killed you.”

“Yes.”

“You did not have so much of a choice.”

“No.”

“So why do you apologize?”

“Because I have caused you pain.”

Because he has caused you pain. Yes. But not so much as Leodo did, the disappointment in his eyes each time he looked at her, caressed her.

“I forgave you long ago, Trystan.”

“Did you love him?”

“Yes. So much.”

“Don’t cry.” His thumb is rough against the porcelain finish of her cheek; but there is something comforting about that dry rubbing, massaging the salty droplets from her skin.



“Cousin, it is time to exchange your farewell with Trystan. He will be leaving us in two days’ time.”

The Commander studies Ieina’s face carefully.

“He will return to the South?”

As soon as she says it, she realizes her pathetic, childlike naiveté. “Oh. I see.”

“Yes.”

“There is no alternative.”

“No.”

“Why is it now, my Lord?”

“The Southern forces are moving. Gathering.”

“You think he would betray us to them?”

“No, I do not. He has been…he has willingly given us information about their soldiers—strategies, weapons, any advances in technology.”

“My Lord?”

“He refuses to fight against them. They are his countrymen. He will not personally shed their blood.”

“So you kill him.”

“Ieina, he asked me to. That is the truth. I would not tell you, but you've pressed too far.”

He is always such a perceptive man.

Ieina does not speak for what seems like hours. “I…The men will miss him.”

The Commander is already exiting the room. “They are experienced in losing friends.” As are you.



Another lonely dinner of two. One of the last.

The twisting in her gut frightens her.

Trystan senses her discomfort. “What is wrong?”

“…”

“Is someone sick?”

“No.”

“Is—“

“The Commander says your stay must end tomorrow.”

A pause. “Ah. Yes, I know.”

“He said you asked him to.”

“Yes.”

“Why, Trystan?”

He only gazes at her sadly.

“…Are you afraid?”

“No. No, it is time.”

“You lie.”

“No. Yes. Yes, I’m terrified.”

“Don’t be.”

“I don’t know what I want to do.”

“The Commander will be merciful.”

“Yes.”

“…”

“Run away with me.”

The words hang between them, like shimmering droplets caught on a fine veil. Run away with me.

So tempting.

They dangle there for eternity.

“I cannot.” The words are a breath of air, caught in her throat, but Trystan hears them clearly.

“Ieina.”

“I cannot.”






Over on the hillside there is a vast green terrace field where the remains of many past generations are buried.

Trystan is laid down here.

It is the Commander’s decision. He invites but does not order Ieina to attend the burial, and she does not.

Each individual’s place is marked by a stone. Trystan’s is large, polished and black: obsidian. On it is inscribed his name, only his name and no other extensive background because no one knew what it was, and no one knew him.

This is the name that a month later Ieina will search for and sink down onto the grassy earth next to,
broken.

Her white fingers appear starkly fragile against the black stone as she places her offering atop it: three violet flowers, already wilting and still heartbreakingly exquisite.

In the distance there is the soft padding of footsteps on grass, but they are approaching. Ieina stands, gathers herself together. They must not see her.

She makes as if to retreat up the hill, but on a whim stops and turns, gazes off into the misty distance. There is the terrace before her, carefully cultivated for centuries, plunging down, vast and lush and at the same time bleak and unforgiving and so lonely.

She gazes out. Miles of empty beauty. Miles of solitude.

The end of the world.