Chapter Fourteen Cat #2
The building feels dead, cold, and filled with a nothingness that used to carry its own kind of peace back in Alerae when Cat was young. Marina and a small group of soldiers man the last door to the lecture hall the Reapers have been placed in. His old mentor does not seem surprised to see him.
‘Your Grace,’ she greets, fetching a key from her pocket despite a few grumbling complaints from her fellow guards. ‘Princess.’
‘How have they been?’ he asks.
‘Good, calm. Are you ready?’ She could mean so many things, too many to contemplate.
‘I will do my best,’ is all he can say in turn.
Marina unlocks the chains holding the door shut, then the door proper. She pushes it open, and there is no running, screaming mob of the dead hurrying to lay waste to all of Altas. There is only the quiet shift of bodies and a hiss of confusion whispering out in the dark.
Fen grimaces as she follows him inside, gasping when the doors close behind them. But he pays her no mind.
The Reapers have gathered into a tightly packed circle.
Their limbs are sprawled every which way.
Heads rest on arms, backs, stomachs, legs.
There are men and women spooning and using each other as blankets.
His first reaction is to look away. To behold such conduct is indecent and voyeuristic by Alelunen standards.
These people have wanted to touch one another for years, and the sweet enjoyment of doing so now is too personal for a stranger’s eye.
He keeps his eyes averted as the Reapers untangle themselves.
One after another, hissing a low mourning sound.
They are sad to part. Fearful to be separated.
He wants to hiss back a reassurance, but waits.
It is not his place to disturb this grief, and they deserve to know their feelings are felt and echoed by their group first.
As they find their own space on the floor, Cat thinks of their clothes.
They were barely covered when they arrived, given only scraps from the Alelunen army, and while Lio has gathered donations from Altasians for them to wear (without specifically explaining what for), the fits are not good.
It reminds him of when he first came to Soleb.
He had hated how his borrowed clothes settled on his body, how clumsy and ridiculous he felt within them.
But in the evenings, Elician shared a blanket with him, smiled and made adjustments to try to make the outfit less cumbersome.
He liked that. Liked, too, reaching out and just touching Elician’s skin from time to time, relishing the thought that the other man couldn’t die.
That wasn’t so bad. He would have been ashamed if Lio had ogled him at any point during it, though.
‘Fen,’ he chastises when he realizes she is doing just that. Finally, she drops her eyes. They wait. And only when the Reapers are in more decent positioning does Cat approach.
In Lunae, he says, ‘My name is Alest, son of Queen Alenée of Alelune. I am your rightful king…and I am a Reaper just like you.’
A Reaper with dark curly hair slowly crawls forward.
He holds out his hand, palm upwards, fingers pressed tight.
Cat rests his bare palm on top. He does not seek to grab, or hold.
He lets their palms and fingers connect, and he feels the sparking, tingling familiarity of home against his skin.
Muffled whispers shift amongst the group.
Cat says, ‘I was kept in the Reaper cells under Alerae. I do not recognize you.’
‘I’m Angelo,’ the Reaper before him replies. ‘We were of the city of Sinestra. We knew of no son of Alenée that was a Reaper.’
‘We thought Alest of Alelune died,’ another informs him.
Cat nods without speaking. Angelo lowers his hand, and the others shuffle forward.
They arrange themselves so he can see most just by turning his head.
Some introduce themselves. Some do not. Some speak in Lunae, others hiss – like a test. He hisses back, matching sound for sound, marvelling at how the language of their people had emerged in Sinestra just as it had in Alerae.
He longs, suddenly, surprisingly, for his cell back in the city.
The way his family once embraced him through the cascading whisper of their voices and sounds.
Not a language but a presence. Trapped in the dark of Alerae, only the echoes of their thoughts could spread through a round of voices all pushing the same feeling along.
Each hissing breath felt natural, building a conversation through intonation and inclination that they all took part in.
He longs for the people he loves. For Brielle.
‘Why have you come to us now, and not before?’ Angelo asks.
‘We were trying to understand what happened in the city,’ Cat replies.
‘We killed everyone,’ Angelo answers, shameless, unafraid. His chin tilts up in expectation. Cat dashes that in an instant.
‘They have all been brought back.’ A startled burble of uncertainty courses through the crowd. Voices split apart, seeking clarification.
‘All of them?’
‘But there were so many?’
‘Why did you kill them in the first place?’ Fen asks. Cat twists, not expecting her involvement just yet, but she had asked the question in a Lunae so flawless that it startled him. He didn’t know she had been practising. He didn’t know that in this, too, she had been trying to be helpful.
‘They said Altas could be ours,’ Angelo replies. ‘That when we were done, we would be free. What are its citizens to us?’
‘Human beings!’ Fen snaps, accent slipping in her rage.
Cat cannot bear to look at her. He keeps his gaze focused on Angelo, on the soft and gentle, soothing grace that fills him just by being close to these people.
Fen marches forward and the Reapers startle at her presence, unused to someone being so brazen in their proximity.
‘You killed thousands just so you could have a city to live in?’
‘Yes?’ Angelo glances between them.
‘Fen is a Giver,’ Cat reveals. Some of the tension bleeds out of the group, though they do not appear particularly mollified by the information.
Curiosity echoes through them as quiet hisses and gestures fly about the room.
Cat touches his cheek. He feels the smooth skin that Fen gave him all those years ago. ‘She healed my scar,’ he says.
‘So, you had one?’ a Reaper named Ana asks. He nods, hums his affirmation.
‘I did, same as you. And I have asked Fen…’ He trails off. Her anger still sours the air, her distemper impossible to ignore. He will not force her.
But Ana leans forward. She asks of her own accord, ‘Will you heal us too?’ and it is for Fen to respond.
Cat half expects Fen to answer abruptly, her ire overtaking her attempt at politics.
She does not. She waits. She waits so long that Cat turns to gauge her response, taking in her tightly pressed lips, the clench of her jaw.
But when she looks at Ana, her eyes do not have the vicious hatred that accompanied most of her challenges to his plea.
If nothing else, she seems contemplative. Her curiosity warring with her hatred.
Fen’s teeth grind so much there is a pop in the corner of her jaw. She casts her eyes over each of them individually and inspects them from head to toe. Then, she sighs, and says: ‘Make a line.’ And whether Fen cares to take note of it or not – her actions today matter to him.