“Warner?”
“Mr. Warner?”
The invocation of my name in stereo nearly startles me; I absorb this surprise with practiced calm, carefully releasing the dog to the ground. I begin to turn in the direction of the familiar voices, but the liberated creature decides to do nothing with its freedom, instead lifting a paw to my trousers as it whines, yet again, its upturned face imploring me to do something.
Feed it? Pet it?
It barks then, and I spare it a single sharp look, after which it quiets, eyes cast down as its mangy body slumps to the ground, head resting on its paws. The dog settles so close to me its little black snout bumps my boot. I sigh.
“Mr. Warner?” Castle, again.
He and his daughter, Nouria, are staring at me, the latter breaking eye contact only to shoot her father a nearly imperceptible look of frustration.
I glance between them. Clearly, the two still haven’t fully settled the specifics of their roles around here.
“Yes?” I say, even as a feeling of unease blooms in my chest.
Castle and Nouria have come to collect me for a private conversation; I can sense this right away. That my mind reaches for anger in response is irrational—I understand this even as it happens—for they cannot know the fear I experience when I leave Ella behind. I have a sudden need to search for her eyes then, to reach for her hand, and I crush the impulse even as my heart rate climbs, a symptom of the new panic lately born in my body. These reactions began shortly after we returned to the Sanctuary; when, to the soundtrack of horrified screams, Ella’s limp figure was carted off the plane and planted in the medical tent, where she lived and slept for ten of
the fourteen days we’ve been back. It has been, in a word—difficult. And now, whenever I can’t see her, my brain tries to convince me she’s dead.
Castle says, “Could we steal you for a brief window? Something urgent has come up, and w—”
Nouria presses pause on this statement with a gentle touch to her father’s forearm. Her smile is forced.
“I’ll need only a few minutes of your time,” she says, glancing briefly at someone—Ella, probably—before meeting my eyes again. “I promise it won’t take long.”
I want to say no.
Instead, I say, “Of course,” and finally compel myself to look at Ella, whose steady gaze I have been avoiding. I smile at her as my brain attempts to override its own instincts, to do the calculus necessary to prove my fears a manifestation of an imaginary threat. Every day that Ella remains alive and well is a victory, a concrete set of numbers to add to a column, all of which make it easier for me to do this math; I’m able to process the panic a bit faster now than I did those first few nights. Still—despite my efforts to keep this from her—I have felt Ella watch me. Worry.
Even now, my smile has not convinced her.
She scrutinizes my eyes as she presses a bouquet of newly acquired tools—screwdrivers?—into Kenji’s arms. She walks over to me and promptly takes my hand and I’m dealt the blow of an emotional eye roll from our audience. It is a miracle, then, that Ella’s love is louder; and I’m so grateful for the reassurance of her touch it pierces me through the chest.
“What’s going on?” she says to Nouria. “Maybe I can help.”
I catch a note of worry from Nouria then, and, impressive: it never touches her features. She grins when she says, “I think you have enough to do today. Warner and I just have some things we need to discuss. Privately.” She says this last bit in a teasing way, the implication that our discussion might have something to do with the wedding. I stare intently at
Nouria, who will not now meet my eyes.
Ella squeezes my hand and I turn to face her.
You okay? she seems to say.
She’s done this a lot lately, speaking to me with her thoughts, her emotions.
For a moment, I can only stare at her. A riot of feeling seems to have fused inside me, fear and joy and love and terror now indistinguishable
from one another. I lean down, kiss her gently on the cheek. Her skin is so soft I’m tempted to linger, even as the emotional disgust of our audience ratchets only higher.
I’ve been afraid to touch her lately.
In fact, I’ve done little more than hold her since we fled Oceania. She nearly died on the flight home. She was already weak when we found Emmaline, having spent most of her energy fighting to kill the poisonous program overriding her mind; worse, she’d torn the tech free from her arm, leaving behind a gaping, gruesome wound. She was still bleeding from her ears, her nose, her eyes, and her teeth when she tore through Max’s light, stripping the flesh from her fingers in the process. She was so drained by this point that even with Evie’s reinforcements her body was failing. She landed badly and snapped her femur when she fell loose from Max’s holding chamber, and then used what little strength she had left to first kill her own sister and then set fire to the capital of Oceania.
When the adrenaline wore off and I saw, for the first time, the edge of severed bone jutting through her pant leg—
The memory is not worth describing.
The next several hours were grim; we had no healers on the flight home, no sufficient pain medication, nothing more than a basic first aid kit. Ella had lost so much blood—and was in such excruciating pain—that she soon fell unconscious. I had no doubt she would die before we touched ground. That she survived that horrific plane ride was its own miracle.
When we finally arrived on base Sonya and Sara did everything they could to help Ella, but they made no promises; even as Ella’s physical injuries healed, she was unresponsive. She was incapable of even opening her eyes.
For days, I wasn’t sure she would make it. “Aaron—”
“Secrets,” I whisper, forcing myself to draw away. “Nothing to worry about.”
She studies my eyes. I feel her quietly wage war, happiness and doubt fighting for dominance.
“Good secrets?” she asks hopefully.
My heart lurches at the softness in her voice, the smile that lights up her eyes. I never cease wondering at how skillfully she compartmentalizes her emotions, even in the wake of so much brutality.
Ella is strong where I have forever been weak.
I lost faith in people—in the world—long ago. But no matter how much bloodshed and darkness she experiences, Ella never seems to lose hope in humanity. She is always striving to build a better future. She is always gentle and kind with those she loves.
It is still so strange to me that I am one of those people.
I feel the hum of Castle and Nouria’s increasing impatience, and my resentment grows only larger; I generate a fresh smile for Ella and walk away as I do, having left her question unanswered. I don’t know what Nouria needs from me, but I fear her news is bleak; no doubt Ella’s life is at risk in some new way we’d not anticipated.
The thought alone fills me with dread.
Unbidden, I feel my hands tremble; I shove them in my pockets as I go. The hesitant bark of a mangy dog is soon followed by the sound of its paws tapping the ground, the little beast picking up speed as it hurries to keep pace with me. Briefly, I close my eyes.
This place is a zoo.
Even as I recognize the importance of our work, there remains a regrettably large portion of my mind that finds everyone here detestable— everything here detestable.
I am tired.
I want nothing more than to escape this noise with Ella. I want, above all else, for her to be safe. I want people to stop trying to kill her. I want, for the first time in my life, to live in peace, undisturbed; I want to be required by no one but my wife.
These, I realize, are unattainable fantasies.
Castle and Nouria both nod at me as I approach, indicating that I should follow their lead as they turn down the path. I already know they’re headed to Nouria and Sam’s office—affectionately labeled the war room—where we’ve had many similar meetings.
I glance back just once, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Ella’s face, and instead home in on Kenji, whose thoughts are so loud they’re impossible to ignore. I experience a flash of anger; I know he’s going to follow me even before he moves in my direction.
Between him and the dog trailing me, I’d choose the dog.
Still, both creatures are on my heels now, and I hear Adam laugh as he says something unintelligible to Winston, the two of them no doubt
enjoying the spectacle that is my life. “What?” I say sharply.
The approaching shadow soon evolves into flesh beside me, Kenji matching my strides down the overgrown path, our boots crushing aggressive weeds underfoot. Figures dot the periphery of my vision, their feelings assaulting me as I go. Some of them still think I’m some kind of hero, and are consumed as a result by an idiotic devotion to a warped perception of my identity. My face. My body.
I find these interactions suffocating. Just now, Kenji’s anger toward me is so audible I feel it giving me a headache. Still—better anger, I think, than grief.
The collective grief of a crowd is nearly unbearable.
“You know, I really thought you’d be less of an asshole once we got J home,” he says flatly. “I see nothing has changed. I see all the efforts I made to defend your shitty behavior were for nothing.”
The dog barks. I hear it panting. It barks again.
“So you’re just going to ignore me?” Kenji exhales, irritated. “Why?
Why are you like this? Why are you always such a dick?”
Sometimes I’m so desperate for quiet I think I might commit murder for a moment of silence. Instead, I shut down incrementally, tuning out as many voices as I’m able. It wasn’t so bad before I was forced to join this peace cult. In my previous life at Sector 45 I was left alone. At Omega Point, I spent most of my time in solitary confinement. When we later took over 45, I retained the privacy of my rooms.
Here, I am losing my mind.
I am bombarded, en masse, by the emotional downloads of others. There is no reprieve from the pandemonium. Ella likes spending time with these people, and these people do everything in crowds. Meals are taken in a massive dining tent. End-of-day mingling is done communally, in the quiet tent, where it is never quiet. Many of the cabins were damaged or destroyed in the battle, which means everyone is currently sharing space— or sleeping in common areas—while we rebuild. Nouria and Sam did us a kindness by repurposing Ella’s room in the medical tent; it seemed the only alternative to bunking with everyone else in a makeshift barracks. Still, our room smells always of antiseptic and death. There is only one narrow
hospital bed, over which Ella and I argue each night. She insists, despite my unassailable protests, that I take the bed while she sleeps on the floor.
It’s the only time I ever get upset with her.
I don’t mind the cold floor. I don’t mind physical discomfort. No, what I hate is lying awake every night listening to the pain and grief of others still recovering. I hate being reminded constantly of the ten days I spent standing in the corner of our room watching Ella struggle to come back to life.
My need for silence has grown debilitating. Sometimes I think if I could kill this part of me, I would.
“Don’t touch me,” I say suddenly, sensing Kenji’s intention to make contact with me—to tap my shoulder or grab my arm—before it happens. It takes a great deal of self-control not to physically respond.
“Why do you have to say it like that?” he says, wounded. “Why do you make it sound like I was going to enjoy touching you? I’m just trying to get your attention.”
“What do you need, Kishimoto?” I ask unkindly. “I’m not interested in your company.”
His responding pain is loud; it glances off my chest, leaving a vague impression. This pathetic new development fills me with shame. I desperately don’t want to care, and yet—
Ella adores this idiot.
I come to a sudden stop on the path. The dog bumps my legs, wagging its tail violently before barking again. I take a deep breath, stare at a tree in the distance.
“What is it you need?” I ask again, this time gently.
I feel him frown as he processes his feelings. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I just wanted to tell you that I got it.”
I stiffen at that, my body activating with awareness. I pivot fully to face him. Suddenly, Kenji Kishimoto appears to me vividly rendered: his tired eyes, his tanned skin, his heavy, sharp black brows—and his hair, in desperate need of a cut. There’s a bruise fading along his temple, his left hand wrapped in gauze. I hear the rattle of leaves and spot a squirrel, darting into a bush. The dog goes berserk.
“You got what?” I say carefully.
“Oh, now you’re interested?” He meets my eyes, his own narrowed in anger. “Now you’re going to look at me like I’m a human being? You know
what? Fuck this. I don’t even know why I do shit for you.” “You didn’t do it for me.”
Kenji makes a sound of disbelief, looking away before looking back at me. “Yeah, well, she deserves to have a nice ring, doesn’t she? You miserable piece of shit. Who proposes to a girl without a ring?”
“I might remind you that you are in no position to exercise moral superiority,” I say, my voice growing lethal even as I will myself to remain calm. “Having destroyed her wedding dress.”
“That was an accident!” he cries. “Yours was an oversight!” “Your very existence is an oversight.”
“Oh, wow.” He throws up his hands. “Ha ha. Very mature comeback.” “Do you have it or not?”
“Yeah. I do.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “But, you know, now I’m thinking I should just give it to her myself. After all, I was the one who did all of this for you. I was the one who asked Winston to sketch your design. I was the one who found someone to make the goddamn thing—”
“I was not going to leave the grounds while she was lying in a hospital bed,” I say, so close to shouting that Kenji visibly startles. He steps back, studies me a moment.
I neutralize my expression, but too late.
Kenji loses his anger as he stands there, softening as he stares at me. I experience nothing but rage in response.
He never seems to understand. It’s his constant pity—his sympathy, not his stupidity—that makes me want to kill him.
I take a step forward, lower my voice. “If you are idiotic enough to think I will allow you to be the one to give her this wedding ring, you have clearly underestimated me. I might not be able to kill you, Kishimoto, but I will devote my life to making yours a palpable, never-ending hellscape.”
He cracks a smile. “I’m not going to give her the ring, man. I wouldn’t do that. I was just messing with you.”
I stare at him. I can hardly speak for wanting to throttle him. “You were just messing with me? That was your idea of a joke?”
“Yeah, okay, listen, you are way too intense,” he says, making a face. “Juliette would’ve thought that was funny.”
“You clearly don’t know her very well if you think so.”
“Whatever.” Kenji crosses his arms. “I’ve known her longer than you have, asshole.”
At this, I experience an anger so acute I think I might actually kill him.
Kenji must see this, because he backpedals.
“No—you’re right,” he says, pointing at me. “My bad, bro. I forgot about all the memory-wiping stuff. I didn’t mean that. I only meant, like— I know her, too, you know?”
“I’m going to give you five seconds to get to your point.”
“See? Who says stuff like that?” Kenji’s brows furrow; his anger is back. “What does that even mean? What are you going to do to me in five seconds? What if I don’t even have a point? No—you know what, I do have a point. My point is that I’m sick of this. I’m sick of your attitude. I’m sick of making excuses for your crappy behavior. I really thought you’d try to be cool for J’s sake, especially now, after everything she’s been through—”
“I know what she’s been through,” I say darkly.
“Oh, really?” Kenji says, feigning surprise. “So then maybe you already know this, too”—he makes a dramatic gesture with his hands—“news flash: she’s, like, a genuinely nice person. She actually gives a shit about other people. She doesn’t threaten to murder people all the time. And she likes my jokes.”
“She’s very charitable, I know.”
Kenji exhales angrily and looks around, searching the sky for inspiration. “You know, I’ve tried, I really have, but I just don’t know what she sees in you. She’s like—she’s like sunshine. And you’re a dark, violent rain cloud. Sun and rain don’t—”
Kenji cuts himself off, blinking.
I walk away before the realization hits him. Nothing is worth listening to him finish that sentence.
“Oh my God,” he says, his voice carrying. “Oh my God.” I pick up speed.
“Hey— Don’t walk away from me when I’m about to say something awesome—”
“Don’t you dare say it—”
“I’m going to say it, man. I have to say it,” Kenji says, jumping ahead of me on the path. He’s walking backward now, grinning like an idiot.
“I was wrong,” he says, making a crude heart shape with his hands. “Sun and rain make a rainbow.”
I come to a sudden halt. For a moment, I close my eyes.
“I want to throw up now,” Kenji says, still smiling. “Really. Actual vomit. You disgust me.”
I’m able to manufacture only mild anger in response to this slew of insults, as the feeling dissipates in the face of irrefutable evidence: Kenji’s words belie his emotions. He’s genuinely happy for us; I can feel it.
He’s happy for Ella, in particular.
I experience a pang at that, at the love and devotion she’s inspired in others. It’s a rare thing to find even a single person who desires your unqualified joy; she has found many.
She’s built her own family.
I exist on the outskirts of this phenomenon: hyperaware that I eclipse her light with my darkness, worried always that she will find me wanting. These relationships mean a great deal to her; I have long known this, and I have tried, for her sake, to be more social. To be nicer to her friends. I don’t protest when she asks to gather with the others; I no longer suggest that we take our meals alone together. I follow her around, sitting quietly beside her as she talks and laughs with people whose names I struggle to remember. I watch her bloom in the company of those she cares about, all while I try to drown out their voices, to kill the noise in my head. I worry, constantly, that despite my efforts, I will not be able to be what she wants.
It’s true; I am insufferable.
I wonder whether it is only a matter of time before Ella discovers this fact for herself.
Subdued, the fight leaves my body.
“Either give me the ring or leave me alone,” I say, hearing the exhaustion in my voice. “Nouria and Castle are waiting for me.”
Kenji registers the change in my tone and switches gears, activating in himself a rarely witnessed solemnity. He looks at me for longer than I am comfortable before reaching into his pocket, from which he withdraws a dark blue velvet box.
This, he holds out to me.
I experience an unsettling spike of nerves as I study the box, and collect the object with trepidation, closing my fingers around its soft contours while staring into the distance, trying to collect myself.
I was not expecting to feel like this.
My heart is hammering in my chest. I feel like a nervous child. I wish Kenji were not here to witness this moment, and I wish I cared less about
the contents of this box than I actually do, which is impossible.
It’s desperately important to me that Ella love it.
Very slowly, I force myself to open the lid, the delicate objects inside catching the light before I’ve even had a chance to examine them. The rings glitter in the sun, refracting color everywhere. I don’t dare remove them from their case, choosing instead only to stare, heart pounding as I do.
I couldn’t decide between the two.
Kenji told me it was stupid to get two rings, but as I seldom care for Kenji’s opinions, I’d ignored him. Now, as I stare at the set, I wonder if she will think me absurd. One is meant to be an engagement ring, and the other a wedding band—but they are both equally stunning, each in their own way. The engagement ring is more traditional; the gold band is ultrathin,
simple and elegant. There is a single center stone—repurposed from an antique—and though it’s quite large, it seemed to me a study in contrasts that reflected how I saw Ella: both powerful and gentle. The jeweler had sent me a selection of stones, each extracted from rings salvaged from different eras. I’d been fascinated by the unusual faceting of an old mine cut diamond. It had been forged by hand a very, very long time ago and was, as a result, slightly imperfect, but I liked that it wasn’t machine-made. The tedious, painful honing of a dull but unbreakable stone into a state of dazzling brilliance—it seemed appropriate.
Kenji had assured me there was such a thing as a princess-cut diamond, which he thought would be a hilarious choice for Ella, as it recalls his ridiculous nickname for her. I told him I had no interest in choosing a ring based on a joke; neither did I want my wife’s wedding ring reminding her of another man. Besides, when I saw the shape of the stone in question, it felt wrong. The square was too sharp—all hard edges. It didn’t remind me of Ella at all.
I asked that the antique stone be placed in a lightly filigreed, brushed- gold setting, the whisper-thin band of which I wanted to resemble an organic, delicate twig. This design is matched in the wedding band: a fine, curving branch rendered in gold, bare but for two tiny emerald leaves growing on opposite sides of the same path.
“It’s really beautiful, man. She’s going to love it.”
I snap the box shut, returning to the present moment with a disorienting jolt. I look up to discover a contemplative Kenji has been watching me too
closely; and I feel so suddenly uncomfortable in his presence that I fantasize, for a moment, about disappearing.
Then, I do.
“Son of a bitch,” Kenji says angrily. He runs both hands through his hair, glaring at the place I stood. I tuck the velvet box into my pocket and turn down the path.
The dog barks twice.
“That’s real mature, bro,” Kenji shouts in my direction. “Very nice.” Then—acidly—“And you’re welcome, by the way. Dickhead.”
The dog, still barking, haunts me all the way to the war room.
