Page 84 of Fable for the End of the World

Melinoë

I pull out the cabin owner’s ancient, yellowed map and Inesaunfolds the slip of paper with the coordinates. The owner was prescient enough to mark the cabin’s location with a red X. Bending over the map, Inesa traces the lines of latitude and longitude with her finger. My eyes follow the arc she draws, and in my head, I’m adding up the miles. By the time I’ve finished my mental calculations, I’m shocked to realize we’re little more than a day of brisk walking from the spot where the coordinates point.

“Did you ever imagine it?” I ask. “That we were so close?”

“I never really thought about it,” Inesa admits. “I didn’t believe I could survive. Much less...”

Much less escape. Much less be free. Fondness makes my chest swell, and along with it, a very foreign sensation: hope. It’s perhaps the most dangerous emotion of all. The one that Azrael and all his countless procedures tried hardest to excise.

But the fire is mine now, all the mourning and all the fear andall the fondness that lick within me like tongues of flame. Azrael’s voice echoes in my mind, marred by static and by my still imperfect memory:You aren’t capable of such a sentiment.

And then an answer surges up within me, silent but fierce:You’re wrong.

I reach out and take Inesa’s hand. She links our fingers and squeezes.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go.”

The sky is darkening but we can’t afford to wait. I’m less afraid of the Wends than I am of Azrael. We’ve managed to fit a day’s worth of food and water into our packs, and I have my rifle slung over my shoulder. Its weight is familiar and comforting. I managed to fend off the Wends once, even in my weakened state. I can do it again—especially now that I’m stronger.

As we step out of the cabin for the last time, hand in hand, I feel a tug of grief. I came to life within its four flimsy walls, like a corpse reanimated and lifted from its grave. I’ll never be the creature I was when I first walked through the door. I’ll never drift into that dreamless, annihilating slumber again.

But it wasn’t the cabin that brought me to life. It was Inesa. I flowered up like ivy beneath her touch. And now, as we set off into the purple dusk, I can feel myself still growing, budding, blooming.

We walk for a while in silence, Inesa keeping her gaze fixed on the map while I guide us around tree roots and puddles. Birds flit in and out of the canopy of trees, their iridescent wings flecking the air. Squirrels and rabbits rustle in the brush. I stay alert for the scent of rotting flesh, for the sound of the Wends snarling andbaying, but I smell and hear nothing. It’s only the elements against us, for now.

The cold comes with the darkness, and I feel Inesa start to shiver. The night vision in my prosthetic clicks on, casting the world in an eerie green. I press Inesa close to me, maneuvering us around obstacles she can no longer see. But we’ve practically slowed to a crawl.

“Let’s look for somewhere to take shelter,” I suggest, my arm around her waist. “Until it’s light out again.”

“I’m going to leave that up to you,” Inesa says through chattering teeth. “I’d probably lead us down a ravine.”

It takes a good amount of circling before I find a rocky overhang. It’s not quite a cave, but it reminds me of the place where we first sheltered together, after killing the Wends. If it starts to rain, at least we’ll be dry. We decide to risk a small fire, just to keep warm, and dig into our rations of deer meat. We eat with our hands in the glow of the crackling flame.

“What do you think it will be like?” Inesa asks, when she’s licked her fingers clean.

I lift a teasing eyebrow and reply, “Hopefully there will be forks and knives.”

“Hey,” she says in mock offense. “It’s called being thorough.” As if to make a point, she wipes at the grease around her mouth. Then her tone grows solemn. “But I like to think it will be different from anything I’ve ever known. People helping each other without expecting anything in return. Without worrying about owing each other. People living, not just surviving.”

It’s almost incomprehensible to me, really. So is thinking about the future at all. I never allowed myself to imagine a different fate for myself, other than what Azrael set out: a final Wipe, a marriage to a man I barely knew and could never care for. Total obliteration—of guilt, but also of love. The thought sends a thrill of fear through me, and I shift closer to Inesa.

“I hope they don’t hate me,” I say quietly. “For what I’ve done.”

Inesa leans over and rests her head on my shoulder. “See, that’s what I hope for most of all. That no one judges each other for how we’ve managed to survive. You’re not an Angel anymore. Well—at least not a Caerus one. You still feel like some kind of angel to me.”

Thirty-Three

Inesa

I sleep fitfully, curled against Mel for warmth, and when I wake,I think of Luka. I wonder where he’s waking up, and how. In a cell, jolted out of sleep with a gun pressed to his temple? I find it more likely that Caerus is keeping him in comfortable quarters, so as not to mar New Amsterdam’s alluringly rugged hero. His interview with Zetamon was probably just one of many. I can easily imagine Caerus parading him around endlessly, proudly, as the ratings for my Gauntlet soared. They’ll win themselves goodwill just by appearing to treat Luka kindly. At least in public.

Just because he’s well-fed and sleeping in a warm bed doesn’t mean he’s not a prisoner. After all, that’s how they kept Melinoë too. She could have anything she ever wanted—except her freedom.

It was never supposed to be this way. Luka was always meant to survive. It’s hard to make myself believe I deserve it, to be the one who lives.

I have to push the thoughts from my mind. I glance over at Melas she rouses herself. There was never any way for all three of us to make it. No matter what, someone has to lose the Gauntlet.

And in a way, Caerus is the only one who ever wins. I reach into my pocket and squeeze the scrap of paper with the coordinates, as if to imbue it with some of my skin’s warmth. The cameras have definitely been cut by now. This is sedition, what we’re doing. Maybe even open rebellion.

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