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With each hurried step Malaya took throughout the purple fog, her lungs burned and seized, desperate for air. The poisonous air lapped at her open skin; it ran up her body like flames on a log. Every part of her body ached for relief. It hurt, more than any pain she had ever known.
But she couldn’t stop running.
Malaya wasn’t sure how far they were from Healeaks. It was possible she hadn’t carried Castti away enough from Trousseau’s madness. That had she dared to look over her shoulder, fetid air warped by his rain, twisted and gnarled like old roots, would take the form of hands and take away their one chance of hope.
Jeyah whinnied under them both, and it caused a pang of guilt to shoot through Malaya’s heart. He didn’t deserve this fate—no one did. She desperately wished this was a nightmare, but no nightmares were so cruel.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, uncertain of who her words were for. “I wish I could do more for you.”
Castti groaned weakly behind her. It was no easier to hear her in pain, but at the very least, it signified she was alive. Her breaths were haggard at best. Malaya gripped Jeyah’s reigns tighter, and forced herself to lightly kick his sides so he’d gallop faster.
As sudden as a storm on a summer day, Healeaks had come and gone. Their friends, the people, the lives they fought to save. Once lush grasses and vibrant plants withered under the unrelenting poison. The pristine air carried now carried the scent of death. The children that once flourished under the summer sun would never play and laugh again. She wouldn’t take walks with Castti at sunset and wave to the villagers who jokingly asked when they would wed.
Had this rain never come to pass, maybe Malaya would have found the answer to that question.
“Focus on me, Castti.” Malaya knew she sounded weak. Hoarse from an illness that had no cure. “I’ll get you out of here… you need to live.”
Unable to speak, Castti gripped the hem of Malaya’s shawl as if to say, ‘Not without you.’
More than anything did Malaya want their idyllic life together. Still leading Eir’s apothecaries, extending hands to those in need. They would have done so much together. Malaya knew her strength continue to wane with each hoof beat that carried her further away from the wasteland behind her.
She would do anything for Castti. Defy the gods, overturn odds, bring the sun down from the sky if needed. Every idle fantasy seemed cruelly out of reach with each wheezing, harsh breath that left her lungs.
But Malaya couldn’t die. Not yet. Not when her hands could be used for true salvation.
“Castti, do you remember the first tincture we made together?” Her voice was barely audible over the rain.
A weak groan was her only response. It was better than silence.
“Watching you work—it was—you were amazing, Castti.” Even now, with death whispering in her ear, Malaya managed a smile. Of all the final thoughts to have, she couldn’t ask for anyone else. Castti, her Castti, her sweet snowdrop flower. Her blossom in winter. “You inspired me that day to work harder than before. Not to be better than you—but to help as many people as possible.”
She knew breathing in this air was shortening what little time she had left. But she wanted Castti to remember the sound of her voice, its timbre when she spoke of the woman she loved. The softness she wanted to wrap Castti in, a warm blanket to shield her from this awful rain. Malaya could spend her last breath damning Trousseau, or she could use it for Castti.
And she’d always pick Castti, in the end.
Malaya had to believe she’d find a cure. That Castti would see through the pain and loss, and honor Eir’s apothecaries. She’d prevent another tragedy of this scale. Solistia’s warmth would return with her smile.
She wouldn’t be there to see it—not in a tangible way, where her fingers could weave through Castti’s soft hair. Where they could brush over sun-kissed cheeks from days collecting herbs. Malaya would be there in every spring breeze, each turn of the season into warmer days. The first blooms when snows melted away. Her pride when Castti concocted something new, saved another life, did anything for this world that made it a better place.
As long as Castti could smile still—it would make these last, precious moments worth it all.
“We’re almost there,” Malaya was barely able to whisper now. Her throat burned; her tongue and words tasted acrid. “Just… hold on a little longer, my love.”
They stopped under a tree that did little to block them from the continuous downpour. Jeyah gave a soft whinny as Malaya slowly brought Castti to her feet. She slung Castti’s arm over her shoulder, refusing to let her legs give out as they made their way across the pier. The edges of her vision were a purple haze. Her body was heavy; her head was spun full of wool.
Malaya took in a breath to center herself. She carefully knelt down to place Castti in the small skiff tied to the pier. She laid a single white flower in her hands, wrapping her fingers around its stem. Malaya knew she couldn’t delay this; hesitation would bring ruin.
“Dream sweet of me,” Malaya whispered. She leaned forward and brushed her lips over Castti’s forehead. “I’ll be with you, always.”
Her hands did not shake as they untied the rope. She pushed the skiff from the pier and watched it begin to float away with the tide. Wherever it carried her, Malaya had to hope it was somewhere kinder. And that when her journey came to its end, she would return and share stories of the cure she found.
Malaya watched the boat drift off until it was no more than a speck on the horizon.
She thought of Castti one last time.
Then she closed her eyes, and the burning ebbed away like the tide.