1- Xerondar

"Xeron– " Nira stopped, her eyes widening as her hand slipped out of his to cover her mouth, and she was taken over once again by that wracking cough. Xerondar watched her gasping and hacking, her whole body convulsing as her shaky hands tried to cover her pale, sweaty face. Finally it calmed down again, and after a few wet, raspy breaths she glanced up at him apologetically as she wiped at the corners of her mouth. He tried not to look at the blood. The red smeared on her trembling fingers, smudged across her colorless lips. He willed himself not to think about the stray droplet on her chin, or the red and brown speckles that stained the collar of her housecoat, the ends of her sleeves– even the bit of her sweat-soaked nightgown that he could see poking out at her throat had a few small red-brown spots on it. Thinking about it just made him feel angry, and helpless, and weak. It has always been this way, a voice in the back of his mind reminded him as he watched his own hand reach for another handkerchief to dab at her chin and wipe at her fingers, You can protect her from steel and fire, you can hide her from her enemies, heal her wounds and guard her happiness. But in the end no matter how well you defend her, there always comes something like this, against which there is no way for you to fight, which steals her away from you. He looked away and forced his face into a pleasant, comforting smile for her. Yes, this had happened countless times before. But this time it was too soon. It had only been seventeen years, and it was already time to say good-bye? She had only recently regained her memories, only been her true self for little more than three years, and now. . . .


Xerondar felt slightly disoriented as he adjusted to his surroundings. A dark room, a firm bed, the soft breeze from the ceiling fan tickling his bare skin. The bedsheet had somehow tied itself in an elaborate knot around his ankles. The pillow was wet. He rubbed his face and glanced at the clock. 3:14am. After lying awake for nearly five hours, he’d slept maybe twenty minutes. And in that twenty minutes, of course he would have to have that dream. He flipped his pillow over to the dry side and let out a grumbling sigh as buried his face in the cool cotton pillowcase. It was going to be another one of those nights. Perhaps a glass of milk? He made an attempt to gracefully roll out of bed and get up, but his legs were still impossibly tangled in the sheets and before he could free them he found himself lying face-down on the floor, one foot still ensnared on the bed. Xerondar laughed quietly at himself. After all this time, he could still occasionally exhibit this kind of goofy human clumsiness.

He padded into the kitchen and poured some milk into a paper cup, then crossed to the other end of his tiny efficiency apartment and sank into his overstuffed armchair. He took a sip, then tilted his head back and closed his eyes. This in-between time was torture. And this time seemed even longer than usual. Eighty-six years now since she last died. "Still I wait . . ." he sighed.

He glanced around at his sparse apartment. He’d learned to keep his home bare, his possessions minimal. For the past eighty-six years he’d been living in a constant state of transition, always ready to leave everything at a moment’s notice. His apartment was leased on a month-to-month basis, all of his important papers and his laptop were in a backpack by the door. He kept all of his clothes in a suitcase in his bedroom. Everything he owned fit into the trunk of his car. The two pieces of furniture he’d bought– his bed and his armchair– he’d gotten cheap at a going-out-of-business sale, and he would leave them here when he left.

There was one exception to his spartan lifestyle. His eyes came to rest on the old steamtrunk beside his chair. In there was his personal library. Xerondar donated most of the books he read to libraries, schools, and used book shops when he was finished with them, but there were a few that he loved enough to keep, to try to take with him. Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy shared that trunk with Plato and Sun Tsu. Preserved in its own glass tube was a faded old skin on which was written an ancient copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh, alongside several other similar-looking tubes which contained literary treasures that scholars and collectors all over the world would be willing to kill for if they knew he had them. He’d been building his collection nearly his entire life. He popped open one compartment of the trunk and absently ran a finger down the spine of an old leather-bound copy of Voltaire’s Candide.

That’s right. His life wasn’t completely consumed with waiting for her return. If it were, he’d probably have gone insane long ago. He kept himself busy enough. He picked up new hobbies, as well as keeping with several of his old ones. He tried to stay connected with the world as much as possible. He kept up with current events, modern technology, the latest trends and fads . . . these were all useful and important.

Still, sometimes he would get depressed. For days he’d do nothing but lie in one place, not eating, not sleeping, not really even thinking. Just the vague whisper of a question in his mind: Why is it taking so long? His only comfort during those times was the fact that he was still there. Lungs still breathing, heart still beating. If she were truly never coming back, he would be dead. But the depression never lasted longer than a week or two. Eventually the despair would begin to clear away and he would remember once again that when she does return, he must be ready for her.

He trained his body daily to keep it strong, flexible, agile. He enrolled in classes for whichever martial art was currently in fashion, and took it upon himself to master each one. Back in the 1980's he’d dusted off his old karate skills, ten years later it was tae kwon do, and now he was going four times a week to a place downtown that specialized in krav maga. And of course, he always kept up with his old favorites, Hindi kalarippayattu and Persian varzesh-e-baustani.

And it wasn’t only his body that he trained. His mind, too, must have regular exercise. Every few years he picked a college or a university and studied something new. Right now he was a computer programming major at UCLA. He’d studied computers before, in the early nineties, but technology was changing so fast that he felt another round of courses would be a good idea. As for his financial state, well . . . he did sell the occasional essay or research paper, and sometimes he won cash prizes in martial arts competitions, but most of his income came from corporate investments and real estate.

All of this kept him occupied, ate up his overabundance of spare time, and for the most part he had fun with this kind of lifestyle, but in the end it was all for the same purpose. He did it all for her. When she returned, he would be strong, well-educated, capable, and secure. He would be able to take care of her in every possible way. It was what drove him, and also what kept him awake at night.

Xerondar drained the last of his milk and set the empty paper cup on top of the trunk beside him. He arched his back and stretched, then let out a big sigh as he rubbed his stubbly face and ran a hand through his dark, shoulder-length curls. He was slightly chilly in this air-conditioned room, wearing only his cotton boxers, but he suddenly felt too lazy to do anything about it. He nestled back in his chair and closed his eyes, and his last conscious thoughts were of smiling eyes, girlish laughter, oaths kept, and words thought but never spoken.