Fear's Union

Chapter Twenty-Eight

—Aran—

Was this truly death? Was it? It certainly wasn't how Aran had imagined death, but how would he know? Death was not something you dipped in and out of. It was absolute; a one-way journey. For him, it also seemed to be an unattainable privilege.

It was dark, very dark, but not complete. There was a hairline fracture which had, over time, turned from a riotous black to cool blue. Now it was a dusky orange, shifting back to midnight hues. The changing of colours had followed the natural order of the living world, the cycle of day and night, and that at least was evidence. But what stops death from having cycles? What did he know, after all?

Darkness came once more, dreams and fitful images. His past was there, the recent past which had tormented him, but also something from further back. It was a repressed memory being stirred by his troubled slumber, but it wasn't clear.

A deep chill seeped through him, a cold so complete that he shivered from the core of his body. His mouth opened and closed, sucking in air and preserving the fight. But it was no good. He was saturated, drained and doomed. Maybe this was death after all.

No, he was drowning.

Consciousness slammed home, and he was half submerged. His lower body still rested on slippery stone, but his frantic sleeping movements were edging him into the water. Instinct overtook him and he righted himself. He breathed in deep and exhaled. He was definitely alive. How had death been to denied him?

He was certainly little more than a shell, even if death had escaped him. He was empty, and terribly hungry. So hungry. He lay on the smooth rock and turned to the hairline fracture. Images from his semi-consciousness-memory swam through his head. There was a search party at one point, but thankfully they had failed. Death may have eluded him, but at least the rest of the world did not know that. He was dead to them.

Could he starve himself? Could he rot to dust in this dank place? No, he couldn't. He found himself licking stone, his tongue extending in long effective strokes. The alga was rank, but it was full of goodness. He slipped back into a fitful sleep, but death stayed frustratingly without his grasp.

He was falling, fast approaching the chaotic rock-pool of Widow's Edge. His end was coming, and he surrendered the shell of his body to its fate. But it was not that simple. He was not the only custodian of his body, and the darkness intervened. He'd watched his limbs go rigid, and then crumple up. He'd hit the water and his legs had kicked out, his body shearing off. The act saved his body from shattering against the sharp rocks, and death was denied. He'd surfaced in the cave and crawled onto the rock, very much alive. Still alive. He woke again, in that same cave. He was piecing the bits together.

So what now for the boy who wanted to die? He'd hoped never to ask that question again, but such was his luck. Something inside him ached, tore at him like the remnants of a blow, and yet it was not physical. It was not familiar, but he'd heard others talking of something similar. He wasn't a complete fool. This was guilt, wasn't it?

Guilt. It was almost satisfying, for the sensation of guilt was evidence of living. Mostly he wanted it gone though.

Maybe that was where he should go? He had no other path. But what did he have to feel guilty about? The blood that stained his hands. So much blood.

He had to leave Ahan for certain. In Ahan, the tug of his past would be everywhere, and his failure would catch up with him. He could not cope with that. The risk of being recognised, slim as it was, must also be mitigated. He must remain dead to the world. If he wasn't going to die, then he would disappear.