Page 53 of A Love of Wrath and Rapture

“I’ve seen men in far better condition die, Evangeline,” he says, unfazed as I pull away. “There’s really nothing we can do. This creature will be remembered as a hero by our people. I’m sure the elders will build a statue to remember this day.”

I almost can’t contain my rage, trembling now as I feel Xeros grow closer and closer to death.

“When you make a statue for him, you’ll give him a human head,” I say, bringing myself to my feet now. “You’ll forget his name. And when you honor him halfheartedly, it will only be to cover up your shame.”

I swat the air, as the men gathering around me back away.

“If you’re not going to help, then get out of my way,” I say, glad to be finding my voice even as I’m nauseous from overstimulation. “Stop trying to make yourselves feel better. Stop trying to justify your prejudices.”

And thinking quickly, I find the satchel on my waist, feeling its contents.

I’ve never been trained as a healer, but I’ve worked around and observed them many times. If I’m going to help his gushing wounds, I’ll need to make a salve and bandage the wound.

Anything beyond that is up to fate.

Please don’t be too late.

He’s going to be far too heavy to carry. Pushing through the insincere and unhelpful crowd, I find a small wagon several feet away, near the town gate. It’s decrepit, its wood having been devoured by yillese, and the wheels are lopsided and unruly.

With all my effort, I lean into him, getting blood on my shoulder.

Don’t move the body.

I remember the words of healers, but I can’t just do nothing. And I can’t treat him with this audience watching. I can barely keep myself from throwing up, even looking in their faces.

Why did I want so badly to be accepted by these people? They’re utter cowards.

I push and feel myself slipping in the mud. He topples back down with a small thud.

With their help, I could easily lift him into the cart. But they don’t even want to acknowledge Xeros as ‘him.’ They keep calling him ‘the creature’ and ‘it’.

I grit my teeth, stilling my boots in the mud.

I hear myself crying out as, with all my strength, I push him forward, feeling his cold, heavy body finally slide into the cart.

I can almost feel it buckling under his weight. The wood is eaten through and decayed.

I don’t have time to make a trail through the bodies. As I guide the cart forward, I have to zigzag around inhuman corpses, keeping my feet steady against the pulling muck.

Sweat grazes my brow, and the smell of iron fills my nostrils.

I can see the gate approaching, the line of houses getting larger in my vision. If I can just get him back into bed, then I’ll be able to rest. Then, I’ll be able to think about how to help him.

And all the while, I can see life draining from his face. I know a few solid things about healing humans, but Xeros isn’t even a human. I don’t know if the same things will work for him.

“Guess the waira helped us out after all,” I hear a man say. “Got rid of our real enemy for us.”

I don’t want to look at his face. I might do something I regret.

“Timm, stop,” a woman says.

“What? If nobody else is going to say it, then I will.”

The crowd of passersby look at Xeros in disgust and compassion alike. But I’m more annoyed with those village cowards, feigning concern while doing nothing, than I am with the bigots.

I pull open the door, questioning how I’m going to lift Xeros from the cart to the bed.

But now that I’m out of the eyes of those intolerant sycophants, I can finally focus.

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