Y'all. I am so bad at this "ending the story" thing. Here is the third and LAST (definitely the last) installment of the series that included Against the Grain and With the Tide. I just couldn't quit these characters, y'all. Warning: this one is going to hurt. Going deep into angst-land, people.
Returning readers! Please go re-read the preludes of ATG and WTT before you start this one. It'll set the tone of the story and will make this prelude make a lot more sense. First chapter should be out sometime tomorrow possibly.
Into the Miasma
"But for us the road unfurls itself; we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go"
-Denise Levertov
Prelude
I never thought I would get this far.
I am utterly spent. My silence, save the quick, desperate breaths, is more exhaustion than me holding out. Hiei sees my humiliation, his eyes like lit coals in the dark. Kuronue is kneeling next to me on the floor, urging me. The Undoer watches over all.
"I can't—"
"—You have to," Kuronue says in an urgent whisper. His voice is a quiet, tense backdrop to the pathetic sound of the blood screaming in my ears, the grief only punctuated by the words: That I can't; I cannot do this thing—I can't say it out loud. I know that the Undoer must be unimpressed, and I've lost everything and all hope of getting any of it back, but it's too much. It's far too much.
There is a grief beyond words. I know that now. Watching someone die for me. Losing my friends, my family, my love—and myself—nothing, none of that compares to the final blow. It must be the last cruelty. There is nothing worse than this.
"Tell me," the Undoer's voice booms; I know it's loud but it fades in and out like an old radio. "Everything at once. What is it you want to tell me? What happened? A single word, if that is all you can manage."
"You see," Kuronue whispers. The other is outside of us; Kuronue is a lifeline as I drown. "Just a few words. He'll settle for that. You don't have to say anything else. Tell him what you're feeling. Reina," his hand brushes hair away from my face, "It's almost over. I know you can do this."
Over. Almost over. My life has been a series of endings. Lives ending. Barriers dropping. A cycle of opening myself up further and further, finishing the last pieces of myself to put on display. For what? All of my efforts to open myself up to… what? And now, all of this—the story, everything—it feels so final. Most of me cannot speak because of the grief, but another part, a deeper and more honest part, is afraid.
It's funny how, at the end of all things, your needs simplify. Before, I'd wanted a way to both protect and seek revenge. My needs had been complex and insatiable; they drove me forward when nothing else would. Later, just two feet to walk on—to get to the Undoer before I physically gave out. After that, the stories—I'd wanted to impress the demon who is now watching me fight this last unfolding, to win his assistance, and after that I just wanted to be able to speak. Now, it's very simple, and very clear:
I don't want to die.
How many times can you give of yourself before there is nothing left to offer? How long can bare bones face an open flame before they crumble into ash? How long can I peer ahead, trudge forward, before I fade completely into the miasma? I've left every piece of myself littered along the way, but I can't turn back. Not now.
The conclusion stuns me, and my breathing settles. The silence around me yawns wide and deep. It's waiting to consume every part of me. The Undoer is waiting. He's seen my unraveling to its very end. It is all I can do to lift my head and meet his gaze, still afraid, still trembling, but ready.
And I tell him.