EMILY CHAN
The first sun sinks into the sky like a stamp into a molten gold wax seal.
You lie with her on the highest hilltop, so close you could skim your fingers through the heat. Hundreds of thousands of steps below, the lesser hills are dusted with pink and white wildflowers, turning their heads in the breeze like flocks of galahs. Every now and then, clouds gather like sheep around your hill, lingering until she shoos them away.
The hike up would have been perilous, but you don’t remember it. You don’t remember how the blisters came to cluster your feet, nor how the skin on your cheeks and shoulders and neck slowly broiled and peeled beneath the suns. You don’t remember her walking alongside you, but you know she was there. You know she guided the way when the bitter smoke from the village pyre throttled your senses. You know she didn’t leave your side when the lilibreath was still fighting its way out of your system. She must have somehow given you an antidote while you were asleep because your body aches much less than it should.
So. How does it feel to be on top of the whole world? She asks, arm tucked behind her head. You try to position yourself the same way, but the bindis prick your skin and you can’t fathom how she can possibly be comfortable and how there can possibly still be bindis this high up in the atmosphere. And isn’t it strange how you trekked all this way just to lie back down and face the endless sky, as though the entire world wasn’t a mere glance beneath you? She tosses and catches her ruby-encrusted dagger in her other hand, the blade flipping as deftly as a coin. You run out of an appropriate time to respond and in the end you say nothing.
I get it. Why don’t you remember, right? Why can’t you?
You shift your weight and watch her carefully, because even though you know you know her, you don’t. Not really. Her eyes slant to meet yours, lazily assessing. They’re a murky green in this light, like the ocean floor in the late afternoon sun, but you could have sworn they were a bottomless black last night, so dark you remember seeing your own eyes reflected back at you. Then again–It’s probably the lilibreath to some degree, she winks as if reading your mind. She takes an audible breath, beginning to mumble something, then drops her gaze as she trails off.
What? You want to ask, but there’s something about the tightness of her limbs that stops you from pushing. Or perhaps it’s just your cowardice. You see the thought enter her mind as her brows tighten, debating whether or not to share it.
We’re not meant to be up here, you know. It’s a careful selection of words. You’re not meant to be up here, is what she really means. What do I get in return, is what she knows you know she means as well. The dagger is long forgotten somewhere in the grass and her arm now rests by her side, dangerously close to yours. If either of you shifted, your skin would touch. Your mind wanders, wondering how that would feel. If she would like it as much as you would.
The sky is a slab of concrete above you and occasionally, leathery shadows glide past, bringing with them the heavy smell of iron. There are moments when the cloud cover shifts and reassembles, offering you a glimpse into the world beyond. At times you see flashes of what looks like the aftermath of a battle, smoke billowing, charred remains, but you can’t say for sure and it’s easy to look away. When you turn to glance at her, her eyes are already on yours. She’s waiting for something, but she won’t ask for it. Instead, she pivots like she always does. You’re more alike than either of you let on.
We’ll have to leave soon.
Yeah, dragons right? Your voice barely escapes your throat and you can’t tell if she’s heard you.
Dragons. She adds, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or an explanation.
You nod, you think. Does it matter when she doesn’t see you? You have so much to say, but you can’t say any of it, so you let your eyes drift shut again, if only to avoid facing the inevitable.
*
When you open your eyes, the world is sideways and she is gone. You sit up with a start. Down in the village, the flattened patch of grass beside you would have indicated that she hadn’t left too long ago, that you still had a chance of catching up to her. Up here though, where the wind does not dare to blow, there is no telling. We’ll have to leave soon, her voice runs through your head. We’ll have to leave soon—the voice drops into something mocking and cruel and you can’t believe you are painting her in this way. But it’s not her voice, you tell yourself. She wouldn’t do this. You barely know her, the voice is clinical now, toneless, simply pointing out a fact that guts you. She’d said we. So did something happen? To the village? To her?
The second and third suns have now taken their places, boring down on you like three gleaming eyes. You can’t tell if the third sun has fully set in place, but judging from the second sun, it’s been twelve hours at the very least. The most daring of clouds reaching for the suns do little to alleviate the heat, having tripled since your arrival. At least your head feels clearer now.
*
You wake in time to see the first sun stretch its way across the sky. Something feels different this time. Something has changed somewhere in the world. The sun emits a weak light. The clouds reflect a sombre, burnished gold and the air coils tight around your skin, tense with static.
A sudden gust of wind whips your head to the side and you spot a dark, lean shape cresting the far end of the hill, making quick progress towards you. A figure swinging a cane—no, a sword—in a figure eight motion, the silver glinting with each twist of their hand. Their gait is proud and steady. Bit by bit, their face comes into view—a blur that sharpens into cunning yet playful features. A woman. You know her, you think. You must know her. How else could she have found you?
Hey. She grins. Her lips are so full, so pink. The grin deepens when she catches you looking. You look away. She drops down beside you with an ease that suggests your bodies are familiar with each other. Too close to be mere acquaintances, too far to be more than friends, but close enough to mean something. You wonder if you should ask.
I have something for you. She pulls the sword in between you and your eyes catch on the rubies encrusted on the hilt. They remind you of something. A memory that you can’t quite place. She unscrews the pommel of the sword and tips out a glass vial of iridescent purple liquid. A tiny label flaps in the wind and you catch it to read. Lilibreath.
A night of dancing flashes in a breath. She is spinning with you, making you feel—something you haven’t done in a long time. Tiny empty glass vials fly through the air and scatter on the ground, diffracting the firelight. An iridescent purple haze shimmers in the smoke like low-hanging fruit. The pyre grows larger and larger behind your back; flames leaping higher and higher; sparks catching onto nearby huts. The village, ablaze. Then running, blisters, split skin, pain, then nothing. But her hand, intertwined with yours the entire time. You feel it even now, her callouses rough against your own.
For the first time, you look her in the eyes. But all you see is your own reflection, your hollow eyes and gaping mouth.
Has the sun been a little dim these days? Her finger skims along your arm gently. You forget what you were about to ask her and can’t help but nod, thinking she knows the reason why, thinking she’ll tell you. But she only catches the back of your neck with one hand and nudges the vial against your bottom lip with the other. The glass warms so quickly to your skin that for a moment, you think she’s taken it away, until she nudges you again and tilts the contents of the vial into your mouth. Light and floral, it’s not a hard swallow but you’re not ready for it. There was something you were meant to ask her before. You were meant to ask her something important. About her. Or you.
'I’m sorry for leaving you.' It’s the first time her voice has sounded so clear in your head, so warm yet pained. So real. It should startle you, the sudden volume reverberating inside your head, but the lilibreath is already working its magic, relaxing your limbs and clouding your mind, and all you can think is that you want to hear her say it again and again and again. You almost miss the last thing she says. 'The lilibreath will make you happy until I’m gone.'
*
A white dragon drifts down upon a cushion of cloud. She lies beside you, her eyes closed, her body still. You squeeze yours tight too, but can’t stop your shiver when the dragon pauses beside you, dousing you in the smell of iron so thick you can taste it. The dragon inhales slowly, heavily, its maw dripping a warm stream of saliva onto your skin. It is after one thing only and finds it quickly, limp in her outstretched hand. The sword lacks the valour it once had brandished in her artful grip. Even its rubies are duller, the edges caked with dust and dark shards of dried blood. The dragon slides the blade free and clutches it in its mouth as it brushes past you, its job done, pushing off on its hind legs as it takes to the skies. You roll onto your side to face her, spotting one more item resting in the palm of her hand: the glass vial, still warm and humming with the remnants of the lilibreath’s energy.
You know there is no difference you can make, whether you push yourself up or stay lying in her pool of cooling blood. There will never be enough lilibreath to go around. There will never be enough to make you forget.
Emily Chan has been writing and consuming stories ever since she learnt how to read and write. She trusts a bit too easily, enjoys writing prose and poetry and can always be bribed by a good chocolate cookie. She is always in need of a happy ending (although that doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll give her characters one).
