Chapter 112: Nightmare of Memory
They split the tents by habit and by courtesy.
Keahi put the girls in the warmer one near the generator. Raizen wound up further out with Obi, then watched as Obi traded places with Esen so Esen could keep an eye on Ichiro’s fever and Obi could "patrol" the perimeter, which meant lurk where trouble liked to walk. Hikari didn’t argue about the shuffle. She was pale and shaky from the healing - she slept early, wrapped in two blankets, her staff leaning where her hand could find it.
Raizen lay on his back on a thin mat with his boots by the flap and his coat over his chest. The tent breathed with the wind. Somewhere, a kettle sang and clicked off. The generator coughed once and settled. He let the sounds stack into a rhythm he could rest inside. He closed his eyes and told his ribs to loosen.
Sleep came like a door on an oiled hinge.
...
He was standing.
The tent was gone. Camp was gone. Night had left, but dawn hadn’t arrived yet. The sky was a flat, soft gray that felt close to his face, like fog with discipline. Snow stretched in every direction, clean, unmarked, the kind that makes a sound under your boots and then decides to forget you.
Ahead, up the slope where the ridge bent to the right, a single figure stood in a gray winter coat.
Her.
He knew the seam at the shoulder where she’d mended it twice. He knew the way her hair never obeyed the pin behind her ear. He knew her posture: small, straight, stubborn because gentle has to be. He could see her from the side - cheek, jaw, the smile she always wore when she didn’t want to worry him.
"Mother..." he whispered.
The word didn’t go anywhere. It lived in his mouth and that was all.
He started up the slope. The first step felt normal. The second felt like wading into a current he couldn’t see. Each step after, the ground took more of him and gave less back. His breath sounded too loud and then not loud enough. His heartbeat picked a speed without asking him.
The snow at his feet wasn’t white anymore. It ran pale gray, like someone had washed a stain and couldn’t get it out. He looked down: his right pant leg clung to his shin, darker than it should be. He didn’t remember being cut. The pain arrived late, the way thunder does. A hot, tight band around his calf, then a long blade of hurt up the side of his thigh, like something under the skin had been pulled until it frayed.
He kept walking.
"Raizen" she whispered back.
The sound was a house sound. A kitchen sound. Steam and spoon and warm, the kind you put in your pocket for later. He almost laughed, because the switch in his chest that turns tears on and off had broken years ago and here it was, trying to work.
"I see you" she said. "You did enough."
His chest hurt. It always did when someone tried to hand him forgiveness he didn’t think he’d earned. He took another step and the snow made a thin squeak. A new sound began somewhere under the trees that hadn’t been there a moment ago: click... click... click. Slow at first. Then quicker. Then too fast to be about anything but a countdown.
He looked left. Trees stood where there had been a drift. Tall, colorless trunks with bark so smooth it reflected the gray. Their spacing was wrong - too exact, as if a careful hand had planted them with a ruler. Shadows around them forgot to behave. Some lay the wrong way. Some skated ahead of nothing, like children running without a mind.
He felt the sweet scent of blood in the air.
The clicks turned into sound with edges. High, thin, layered - like broken glass being filed. Then higher, until the skin behind his ears pulled tight. He put his palm there and it came away damp. He looked. Red. He waited for the embarrassment to show up and it didn’t. Only the fact of it.
He looked back up the slope. She was closer now. The drift at her shoes never sloughed. Snow didn’t cling to the hem of her coat. The light behind him threw his shadow to the left, long and obedient. The shadow at her feet pointed right, tidy and sure.
Wrongness is a map, Kori had said once. Learn it or you’ll be buried in someone else’s story.
He didn’t stop. That was rule one: be human first, then correct yourself.
He put his hand out. His fingers shook. He told them to stop and they didn’t obey. He wanted to say something clean and simple. He had a hundred good sentences, but none of them arrived.
She turned her head, just enough that he could see both eyes.
They shone. Not with light. With water. The same wet brightness from every winter he carried in his bones. Tears she didn’t like him to see.
Her smile was small and real and broke him in a way nothing on a battlefield ever had.
Silence held its breath.
Between two of the smooth trunks, a shape stepped out.
Humanoid. Wrong. Taller than a man by a head, maybe more. Arms too long by an insult. Its face was a plate - no mouth, no nose. Just a suggestion of angles where a skull might be if skulls were made of darkness.
And eyes.
Two of them. White-gold. No pupil, no iris. Lights, not organs. Burning steady and patient.
His stomach went empty.
Recognition didn’t tap his shoulder. It put both hands on him and turned him hard enough to make his vision blur.
The same eyes that had stared at him through heat and smoke that night. The same brightness lifting over the body of the person he couldn’t carry. The same stripe of light that lived in all his bad sleep.
The one that killed her. Her, and his father.
It took three steps. Each footfall made the air ring, a pressure popping in his inner ear. It cocked its head with a small mechanical courtesy, like it was trying to hear him think.
He tried to run.
The ground reached up and caught his leg. Not soft. Not a drift. A seam opened where there hadn’t been one, and snow swallowed him to the knee. Pain detonated up the bone. He yanked, and something inside his calf screamed back, a hot rip like a rope snapping against his hands. He fell forward into his palms. The snow under them was warm. He pushed up. Red smeared. He pulled free, dragging a line that looked like a sentence the world didn’t want to finish.
The shriek reached him. High. Thin. Needle-sharp. It didn’t come from a mouth. It came from its shape. The pitch climbed until it felt like it had hands, then those hands grabbed the air and tore it. He slapped both palms over his ears. Blood wet his fingers and ran along his wrists into his sleeves. His jaw locked. His teeth ached. The shriek pressed his eyes full of heat and water and would not stop.
"Raizen..." his mother said, again. The same tone she’d used when he’d come home scraped and insisted he didn’t need a bandage. The tone that turned fear into a room you could sit down in.
He turned.
She faced him now. The smile hadn’t left.
Tears ran and made clean little roads along her cheeks. She lifted her hands like she meant to fix his collar.
Behind her, almost between her shoulders, the Nyx stood for half a heartbeat in the same posture, head tilted the same - like a child pretending to be a shadow late to a lesson.
Raizen staggered toward her, dragging his bad leg. His foot left a thick line. The pain stopped being a blade and became a song - one note, held too long, until it wasn’t loud anymore, just total.
He reached.
The Nyx moved.
It didn’t lunge like an animal. It chose a line and took it. Two long strides. The distance vanished. It was on him. Its arms punched into him like decisions. Not slashes. Entries. Clean. His hand went through the fabric at his belly and out his back. It lifted him until his feet forgot the ground. The world got small. The shriek came again, closer, vibrating in his teeth, and for a second everything around him shook in sympathy - trees, ridge, even the air, like a drum.
He still reached for the coat. His fingers made it almost to the cuff. He saw the loose thread at the hem. He heard the tiny squirrel-laugh she had, the one she only used when he pretended not to be proud of something and she let him.
Her eyes folded on him. Not pity. Love that had seen every stupid thing he’d done and had never once decided to stop.
He tried to say "I’m sorry!". He tried to say "I’m trying..." He tried to say that the earrings look good on her, you’d like her, she makes the room quiet. He tried to say I was late and I am so tired of being late.
Blood ran hot down his side and turned cold immediately. His hands shook out of their own accord. The edges of the world went in and in, like the light was deciding to leave him first.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Firm. Warm. Real.
"Hey" a voice said, near his ear, low and steady. "Hey. Raizen! Wake up."
The cold snapped like a wire.
Raizen sat bolt upright in a dark tent, his lungs trying to decide if they knew their job. His hands flew to his belly and found only fabric and sweat. His calf cramped - hard, sudden - and when he grabbed it, his fingertips came away damp.
Obi crouched beside his mat, one hand still on Raizen’s shoulder. His face was half shadow, half the thin light that leaked through the seam of the flap from the banked fire outside. For once, there was nothing easy on him.
"You good bro?" Obi asked, voice kept low so it didn’t knock against the walls. He glanced at Raizen’s palms, saw the torn skin at the nails where he’d dug in, the thin lines of blood along the creases. "Night-wrestling a bear?"
Raizen swallowed. His throat felt scraped. Words lined up uselessly in his head. He shook it once, small.
Obi didn’t push. He squeezed Raizen’s shoulder once, then let go and sat back on his heels. He looked toward the flap again, listening. Something outside tapped once - soft, rhythmic, not wind. Obi’s mouth went into a line.
"Come on" he said. "You need to see this."
"What is it?" Raizen asked. His voice came out husky, smaller than he meant.
Obi tilted his head toward the flap. "Not-inside-the-tent kind of thing."