(IM)MORTAL

17

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THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER
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༶•┈┈୨ SHADOW RAN UNTIL his lungs went in reverse and made him cough

(and cough and cough and cough)

         until he was folded over, on all fours, forehead on the ground, fighting for breath. No air in, only out. It took too long to remember how to breathe.

He wiped the phlegm from his lips with a trembling wrist; that hand remained there, pressed to his mouth. There was no point wiping his tears because they kept coming and coming.

You have forgotten yourself.

Her words branded him worse than fire. He deserved it. He had done wrong, so wrong, for the sake of remembering. But did he even truly remember? Were the memories he regained real, or twisted by the demon king?

Shadow knew only three things:

His name. Her name. And her face.

These things were for certain. Twice he awoke to a different world with only those three things in his memory bank. For months, that was all that mattered, until Rouge had taken his hand in the jungle. Her hand in his—a spark. He wanted to remember, no matter how painful, and he had—only to forget again.

Other things came to him in the day, mostly whilst Rouge slept, from the smallest of kicks. In fragments, he remembered her, remembered himself, remembered Maria and everything else. In tiny pieces, he recalled his life before and after. Sometimes he pushed them aside as dreams, hallucinations.

Now he knew for certain nothing he regained was a hallucination. The only fakery was the demon king.

Shadow knew better now. And he knew what he had to do—there was no question about it, no doubts.

But did he have the strength?

He hoped he did.