Death is immortality.
Death is your second chance.
Velian Terrashine belongs to a classless society of equality, art and democracy; a land full of creativity and mindfulness. It is in that perfect political system that one wrong movement, one carele...
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"YOU TOLD ME that nothing was going to happen tonight!"
Denfer almost shouted at Jersen, as we entered the infirmary, the place I'd woken up in my very first day here. Surveying the room, I found that nothing had dramatically changed over the weeks I hadn't visited it. The filigree golden curtains were closed but the shuddering flames of the torches that were placed in every corner of the room brightened up the place—and reminded me of the flaming building. What differed were the countless cots that had been placed across the room, ready to accommodate the wounded.
Everything here was speckless, clean and in perfect order, as if the greatest enemy of the room was dust. Yet what caught my attention wasn't the incensed look on Denfer's face that had replaced the exhaustion nor Jersen's long-gone fierceness.
I couldn't care for neither of these things when upon a dais and in the center of the room that enormous bed that could fit five adults wasn't empty.
Cloudien was on it. His eyes were closed, his face clean from the glowing blood and the dust and everything that had made me not recognize him earlier, but still full of burns, the rest of his body as well.
Even my worst nightmares couldn't be compared to that image of decay. I couldn't stand looking at him without my eyes burning, cold sweat sliding down my neck. So I let my gaze wander around the place; at the hearth that stood proud in the back of the room and the wooden library next to the door, which Denfer quickly closed behind him. Candles flickered on a worktable that was placed against one wall, full of Jersen's supplies. Bandages, needles, salves, medicinal herbs.
"I was wrong," Jersen replied, something like regret written all over his face. I almost felt bad for him.
I watched Denfer moving closer to the unconscious male on the bed, his steps slow, but steady. I wondered how he could be so sure of his every movement after everything, how he could still trust himself. But at the same time, there was nothing else he could do but walk with his head high and his shoulders straight. Jersen braced his hands on the low table in front of him, letting a sound of exhaustion escape his mouth. At that moment, I knew that in his current mental state he couldn't save Cloudien; he couldn't save anyone.
And there were so many people hurt, so many families destroyed, so many souls having drifted away only to be forgotten the next day by those who hadn't known them.
"I would have been there earlier. Nothing would have happened," Denfer said, as he stepped toward Jersen and rested his hands on his shoulders, shaking him like he was trying to wake him up, to make him understand the depth of the ruination.
Jersen didn't speak. His eyes met mine and found refuge in them. I broke that connection first.
"Is he dead?" I asked, my voice a silent whisper, as if by voicing that question, his imminent death would come sooner.
