31. Lazarus
LAZARUS
Lazarus wishes he had weed.
Not that he’s ever tried weed, nor seen any sort of depiction of it. All he knows is that people used it before the Fall of Nations to calm down.
That in mind, Lazarus wishes he had a big old cup of weed to drink or snort or whatever you’re meant to do with it. Because he is, unsurprisingly—in fact, very predictably—insanely stressed.
The door in front of him isn’t unfamiliar, but he’s never been called here unless it’s for something important. It’s on the top floor of the Main Building, looking down into the courtyard, two doors down from the Educator.
Lazarus nearly jumped out of his skin when, just as he arrived, he heard the door to the Educator’s chambers slam shut.
When Lazarus checks his ring he sees that it’s—Oh, Forms—eleven forty, meaning he’s been standing here like a coward for a full ten minutes. He gathers his courage and knocks twice, and the door swings open. Sitting across from its entrance is Apollonia, third member of the Council of Kings.
“Lazarus. Sit.”
He does.
Apollonia is an unforgiving spirit. That much has always been clear in the deep lines on her face and her eyes filled with drive. She knows what she wants, and she always gets it.
She leans back in her chair and whips her grey hair over one shoulder, a stark contrast to her navy Council uniform. The harsh set of her features is almost unnatural given their delicacy: gentle cheekbones, small brows, and upturned, almond-shaped eyes.
“I don’t need to remind you of the importance of the upcoming Trial.”
“No, Councilwoman.”
“And I don’t need to tell you how many people are depending on your success.”
“No, Councilwoman.”
“Good,” she says, no kindness in her face. “You’re dismissed.”
“Ma’am?”
She tilts her head up so she’s looking down her nose at him. “I said you’re dismissed.”
Lazarus doesn’t ask anything else. He stands from the chair and leaves Apollonia’s office.
When the door is closed behind him, he exhales roughly. He must have been holding his breath.
But, seriously, what in the Forms was that meant to accomplish? Of course he knows the stakes. Those stakes have been hammered into him since he was born.
It’s all too fast: his heart, his mind. Even his body as he sprints to the dorms.
Please say Kleitos isn’t in their room right now.
He’s almost reached the stairs when someone catches his forearm and pulls him to a stop.
“I’ve been calling your name for, like, five minutes, Lazarus,” Eudoxos says, twisting Lazarus around to face him. He’s breathing hard like he ran to catch up.
“I—” Lazarus starts, trying to calm the rabbit pace of his heart. “I didn’t notice, I’m sorry.”
Eudoxos’ eyes squint, and he rests a hand on Lazarus’ shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
Forms, he is really sick of people asking him that. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He shakes Eudoxos’ hand off of him.
Eudoxos shrugs and says, “No reason.”
“What do you need?” he asks maybe a little too bluntly.
“I came to warn you of something.”
Oh, Forms, what else could possibly be going wrong right now?
“It’s Kleitos.”
“What?” Lazarus asks.
Kleitos presents no threat. He doesn’t even want to be the Educator. If he did, Lazarus would be afraid of getting his throat slit every night and he’d probably have a heart attack in his sleep.
“He wants to be the Educator.”
He’s definitely getting his throat slit.
“Oh?” he asks, and it comes out desperate and exhausted and definitely pathetic.
“It seems like he’ll do anything to make it happen. And, look, we’re all rooting for you: me, Zeno, Alexander, Kallias. We just wanted you to know so you aren’t blindsided.”
“Okay,” Lazarus says on a sigh. Of course Kleitos is out for his head—why wouldn’t he be?
“Good luck, Lazarus,” Eudoxos says, turning to leave. But Lazarus calls Eudoxos’ name before he can go.
“How did you know? About Kleitos, I mean.”
Eudoxos spins around back to him, brows furrowed like he’s weighing his options, then says, “He threatened me. Well, blackmailed me, more accurately.”
“Are you serious?”
Not that Lazarus is completely shocked, but he thought that there was a code amongst Auxiliaries. A mutual respect for honor and a fair fight.
“He found out some… things about me. Things that’ll get me in trouble. He wants me to help him win, but I’m not going to.”
“Won’t he tell everyone your secret, then?”
“He could. In fact, he probably will, but I won’t be around for it to matter anymore,” Eudoxos says, then his eyes widen. “I just mean, at that point, Forms willing, I’ll be in training to be a Guardian. More leverage and all that.”
Lazarus frowns. That doesn’t make sense. Being a Guardian won’t protect Eudoxos when it comes down to it, and he knows that.
“You said you won’t be around,” Lazarus repeats. “Where will you be?”
“I just told you. It was bad phrasing. I meant—”
“Are you leaving?”
Eudoxos schools his face into a forced expression of confusion. “Leaving? To where?”
“Is it all of you? Zeno, Alexander, and Kallias?”
“Nobody is leaving. We don’t have a death wish.”
Eudoxos is lying. Lazarus can see the telltale signs all over his face. His heart rate speeds up again. They’re leaving?
And, look, he knows they don’t think of him as their friend but they’re the closest he’s ever had. If they leave, he’ll be back in the depths, drowning under the expectations of people who care more about his future than him. Not to mention that if they try to leave, they’ll die.
“You’ll never make it,” he says, reaching for Eudoxos’ shoulder to stop him from walking away.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Eudoxos shouts back. “And if I were, it’s not your business. Just look after yourself. Everyone knows how big of a threat you are and if they’re after me, they’re after you too.”
Lazarus backs off of Eudoxos’ glare.
“Don’t tell anyone, Lazarus. Please,” he says.
“I won’t,” Lazarus promises.
Eudoxos stalks off, and Lazarus hears him curse under his breath.
Once he’s sure Eudoxos has had enough time to get to his room, he barrels down to his own. When he opens the door, his heart drops. Kleitos sits on his own bed, tossing a pocketknife up and down.
Lazarus decides to pretend that he isn’t there. This becomes especially difficult when Kleitos starts talking to him.
“You’ve been hanging out with Eudoxos recently. Meals, class, you know,” he says, tossing the knife.
“Yes,” Lazarus responds.
Kleitos sits up straight. “I’d be careful with that one. He’s got secrets.”
“And?”
“Don’t trust him, is all I mean. For your own good.”
Lazarus hesitates, crossing his arms, and debates whether or not to leave the room. It only takes one more flick of the knife for him to decide. When he heads for the door, Kleitos says, “Lazarus.”
Lazarus turns to face him.
“Good luck in the Trials.” He smiles and flips the knife again before throwing it across the room and into the wall above Lazarus’ bed. “Sorry. Slip of the hand.”
He’s doing this on purpose. He’s trying to rattle me.
But Lazarus doesn’t care if it’s on purpose or not, because it works. He bolts, unsure of where he’s going until he reaches the cove exit and stumbles onto the sand.
Despite the fresh air, he can’t breathe. It shouldn’t be a new feeling—but what if this time is the heart attack or the stroke or the final death blow from the Forms?
He rips off his high-tops, but feeling the ground under his feet, ironically, does nothing to ground him like he thought it would. He just wants something to save him. Anything.
The ocean waves crash loudly and something in his subconscious says that if the sand won’t ground him, perhaps the waves will. So he takes off again, closing the short distance between himself and the water. He runs recklessly, stumbling against the tide.
The waves are small, but eventually he’s far enough into the sea that his feet don’t touch the bottom.
Then he swims and swims until the water consumes him.
He doesn’t even try to paddle, just lets himself sink.
The ocean is salty and it stings his wide-open eyes, but that’s not enough to make him swim up.
Drowning would be better than the panic. Anything would be better than the panic.
If only there was something that could make him invincible, or give him the powers to fight all of this off and get ahead and not disappoint everyone.
His eyes hurt almost as much as his lungs, but what surrounds him is beautiful. Even submerged deep in the ocean, the moon’s silver rays shimmer around him, turning the water to a grey-blue. It would be nice to stay here forever where it’s quiet.
They’re after you too.
But right now no one is after him except for the sea. And he doesn’t mind losing to a formidable opponent.
If only he was strong enough to concede defeat.
But he’s the same coward he’s always been.
Just before his body gives out, he pushes off from the ocean floor into the waves.
Somehow, between coughs and gasps and sobs, he makes it back to shore and collapses onto the sand. He’s crying so hard that it hurts and he’s shivering because it’s just so cold and what did he just do? Did he really just walk into the ocean and… and…
He lies on his back.
And, oh.
He didn’t notice before, but the moon is full and almost blue in its brightness.
The ocean is her domain, the moon. He wonders why she didn’t just let him drown.