Withering Hope (26 page)

I eye the makeup bag. Maybe I can work with this, though I doubt any amount of makeup can make me look beautiful now. My spirits lift a tad as I start applying makeup. The fluttering feeling becomes more intense, filling me more and more as I apply concealer under my eyes, and put a light blush on my cheeks. By the time I smear lipstick on my lifeless lips, I'm certain I will burst with excitement. The image in the mirror gradually becomes alive. By the time I'm done, I'm far from beautiful, but I no longer look like a corpse. It takes me forever to crawl back to my seat. After pondering for a few seconds whether this is the best place to sit, I crawl to the space in front of the door. We'll have more room here. I'm attempting to clean the spot by pushing aside the remnants of thread Tristan uses to tie the end of the arrows, when an idea strikes me. I put some of the thread between my fingers and weave it in a surprise for Tristan. When he comes out of the cockpit, I hide my secret behind my back. My breath catches. He's wearing his uniform with a freshly washed, white shirt underneath.

"Wow. You look beautiful, Aimee."

My face warms as his gaze rakes over me, drinking me in. "Thank you." I check whether the dress covers my hurt leg. “So do you."

"I had a tie somewhere, but can't find it. Why are you holding your hands behind your back?"

"None of your business," I say cheekily.

"What are you hiding?" He grins, and takes a step toward me, trying to peek behind my back. I jerk, pressing my elbow on my hurt leg. I wince from the pain, and Tristan's grin drops. I force a smile on my face, even though the pain is so sharp that my eyes begin to water. "Shhh, don't look. It's a surprise. Go find your tie."

He looks at my covered leg, but I shake my head, smiling. "Go find it, before I change my mind about marrying you." The second he's out of sight I let my pain out through gritted teeth. There is a blood stain on my dress from where I pressed on my leg. I don't dare look under my dress. I rearrange the dress so the stain isn't visible.

Tristan takes forever, and I begin to wonder if something happened to him, or if he changed his mind, when he comes out. His tie in place, I don't think I have ever loved him more than when he sits in front of me, saying, "Ready to be mine forever?"

I smile. "Ready."

He takes my hands. "I haven't prepared any elaborate vows, but I… I would love for you to be my wife. It will be a privilege to love you more every day. I will not take your love for granted, but give you new reasons to fall in love with me every day. I will learn all the ways to make you smile and make sure the only kind of tears you spill are ones of happiness."

A knot forms in my throat, and when Tristan indicates it's my turn to speak, I chuckle.

"You hadn't prepared any vows, huh?" I whisper, searching for words, but only finding tears. He spoke so beautifully of a future we won't have.

"Hey, we can skip your vows and go straight to the kiss."

"No, you can't kiss me yet," I say.

At his puzzled expression, I bring out my hands from behind my back and hold them out to him. In my palm are two gray rings woven out of thread. He puts one between his fingers, and for a moment seems unable to speak.

"You like them?" I ask nervously. "I just wanted us to have something resembling rings—”

"They're perfect."

He's the first to push the ring on my finger, and I hold my breath, my whole body shaking with fulfilling, exhilarating happiness. As I push the larger ring on his finger, I see the thread has started to rot away already. The ring will wither away before long. Just like me. Perhaps it's a good thing. No permanent reminder of me. This way, he can recover quicker after I’m gone. Tristan's lips clash against mine when I secure the ring on his finger. His kiss isn't gentle or restrained like the ones grooms give their brides. He cups my head in his palms, his tongue ravaging mine. He kisses me like he knows he doesn't have many kisses left.

Afterward I ask, "Can you bring the spines?"

"Just a sec." He places the pile of spines on one of the old magazines I must have re-read at least ten times. My vision is so blurry it’s hard to distinguish one letter from the other on the magazine cover. That's when I know my fever is impossibly high. My heart pounding in my throat, I focus harder on the letters. A stream of hot tears bursts down my cheeks. I hope he thinks it's from emotion.

"Should I do yours first?" Tristan asks.

"Absolutely."

"How about I put the first letter of my name?”

"No. I want your whole name. It's beautiful."

"Are you sure?"

I nod.

"All right. Here we go."

While Tristan puts the dripping tip of the spine on my upper arm, I study his features. The arch of his brows, the curl of his long lashes, his lips. I want to memorize every detail about him, while I can still see through the blurs. Feeling the spine on my skin doesn't hurt at all. It gives me a giddy feeling of completion that is replaced by horror when Tristan puts another spine in my hand, saying, "Your turn. I want to get your whole name, too."

"No," I say, terrified. "Why not just the first letter or something else? You said natives use symbols sometimes…"

"I want us to match. Go on," he beckons, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing his upper arm. I mentally curse as I write my name on his skin. I shouldn't have brought tattooing up. A permanent reminder of my name is the last thing he needs. I only want him to remember how I made him feel. Nothing more.

I feel dizzy when I finish, and lie on the floor, with my head in his lap. I close my eyes as he threads his fingers through my hair. Each movement of his fingers, each breath seems to last an eternity. I no longer resent I won't have more time for moments like this. In fact, I no longer feel like I am out of time.

When you are on the brink of the great unknown, when you're so close to the edge of the abyss you can almost bite into the darkness, time acquires something of a magical quality to it. You start measuring time in seconds, and all of a sudden, each second lasts forever.

Death has its beauty.

It makes you see the eternity in every second; it makes you see every moment’s perfection instead of searching an eternity for the perfect moment.

Time moves differently—beautifully—for those who only have smidgens of it left. But there is no beauty in death for those left behind. When I open my eyes, I find Tristan looking at me. I try to avoid it, because there is no mistaking the pain in his eyes. I know that pain. I remember how it felt to watch over him, thinking how lucky he was for being the one who got to leave first, and how unlucky I was to be the one left behind. I am the lucky one now. The fever exhausts me, and I soon have to fight to keep my eyes open.

"I love you, Aimee," Tristan whispers. "So much." Cracks shatter his voice, finding their way deep into him. I know how those cracks feel. When he was sick, they splintered me too, in that terrifying way only pain can. Now I’m too weak to move, there is no pretending. Nowhere to run from the truth. Or in my case, the end.

In a blur, I raise my hand, touching his cheek. I find tears on it. Lowering my hand on his chest, I realize he's shaking.

He's losing it.

I'm glad the fever is tampering with my vision, because I can't see him like this. Not when I know there is nothing I can do to alleviate the pain of this man who has given me so much.

"I love you too," I say in a weak whisper. He hugs me to his chest. Despite the fact that I am barely aware of my surroundings, the rhythm of his heartbeats reaches me. Clear and loud. They sound like scattered fragments of hopes and dreams. With a shift that claims my very last drops of energy, I push myself up to meet his lips, hoping I can transfer some of my peace to him.

As I feel the warmth of his lips, I become greedy. Suddenly, an eternity is not enough, and his cracks become mine. The fragments slashing at him slash at me too, until tears stream on my cheeks as well, mingling with his. The fervor of our lips is not enough to build a shield around us. Inside it, we would be protected from the truth.

I give myself completely to him with this kiss, like I have with all the kisses before. Every kiss, caress, and word of his has claimed a part of me; now I belong more to him than to myself. One stolen kiss, one gifted smile, one shared memory at a time.

T
here is no wedding night because, still lying in Tristan's arms, I succumb to the fever. A heavy sleep overcomes me the moment I close my eyes. After that, days and nights morph into an endless spiral of pain and despair. My body shuts down systematically. Tristan tries to feed me, but my throat forgets how to swallow. My whole body rejects food. Soon, it starts rejecting water too, though it needs it. Oh, so much. I can feel myself cremating from the inside, scorching away until there is a bitter taste of ash in my mouth. And then comes the moment when I feel no hunger or thirst. I know I'm in real trouble when I can't even feel the pain anymore. What grounds me to the world is the intake of air—a whiff of forest air or the smell of Tristan's skin, indicating he's nearby.

I start praying for my body to reject the air, too, along with everything else. Tristan talks to me, but I can't make sense of his words. Of course, that could just be my imagination; maybe Tristan is not talking to me at all, too weak from hunger, or hurt by the jaguars. But if it's a mirage, I'll gladly stick to it.

I know my brain has succumbed to madness when I start hearing voices. Lots of them. Frantic and loud. I try to ignore them at first, because hearing voices in my head is not a dignified way to leave this world. But then I start paying attention. I recognize more than one voice. For the first time, I become aware that at least one part of my body is still functioning: my heart. It slams against my ribcage, reminding me I'm still alive.

For now.

I open my eyes, and force them to stay open for a few seconds, but I get dizzy fast, and my eyes start watering. I push myself up my elbows, but my fever-fried brain perceives this as a disruption equal to an earthquake, and I become nauseous. I can't make sense of much other than there are many people milling around in the plane. People I don't know.

Two of them crouch in front of me, and one of them shouts something over his shoulder. It might have been,
She woke up
.

I look down at my hands, and I see needles in my veins, and an infusion bag next to me. The rescue team must have arrived. I don't have time to rejoice, because I collapse on my back, my eyes sewing themselves together so tightly I can't open them again, hard as I try. I cling to my senses with my last ounce of energy: to the smell of the forest present in the plane, to the sound of voices calling to me, some with desperation, some hopeless. One with quiet urgency. Tristan's. I can't make out his whispered words, but when he interlaces his fingers with mine, I cling to him.

The last words I hear before I slide into a coma are, "She won't make it."

They belong to Chris.