Page 17 of We Were Eternal Once

Bored. Is that what I am? One word to describe the way I cannot sit still, how I stare over the sea, how I trace the route of where we came to where we are going. Why must it be Rome? Why not back over land, to a different place?

When I listen in the tavern, it’s to the sailors. They still trade on their boats, though they complain about pirates and taxes and the military. I take note of who they are, who returns the most frequently, what their routes are. I commit them to memory and trace the map when I get home.

I hunt alone now. I’ve been deemed successful enough at quieting my prey and trusted enough not to feed from a local. I use this time to plan.

You said we would travel by box. I journey the harbor, watching the boxes that are loaded onto the ships. Two days if the seas are kind, four if they are not. Could I sit in a box for four days? I wouldn’t starve—I’ll have a large meal before we leave. Summer has faded to fall. In a few weeks it will be winter, and during the solstice, the longest night. Less chance to be caught in the sun.

I commission a box. I make it long enough for comfort, sealed tight from the sun. It latches from the inside, with a sliding peephole so I might look out if I desire.

I stare at the box for days. When I return home, I scrub the scent of sawdust from my skin until it bleeds.

The solstice draws nearer.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” you tell me one morning as we crawl into our grave. “And gone often.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my face burning. I cannot look at you without thinking of the box. I cannot speak to you without thinking about what it would be never to hear your voice again.

“You want to leave,” you say. It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact.

“I…” I trail off. I cannot lie to you. I bury my face in my hands and tell you everything. I know a boat. I have a box. If I leave on the solstice, I have the least sunlight. I’ve picked a captain. I have the money.

All my plans, unraveling before you.

And now that I’ve said them, I know I can never go. When I hunt alone, I long for you. When I rise, I reach for you. How stupid I was to think I could sleep without your body against mine.

I thought I wanted freedom. But freedom without you is death.

You don’t interrupt, your sharp gaze assessing. I wait, shaking, for your answer. For the admonishment. For the same conversation we’ve had over and over and over again.

“I promised you decadence,” you say. “Is this not enough? Am I not enough?”

“No!” And then, in horror at how that sounded, “No! You are enough, you are my everything. I can’t stay. I feel as though this war will never end! I cannot sit in the same tavern every night, walk the same path every time I hunt. I hate the soldiers, I hate their haunted faces when they return. It isn’t you.”

“You’re right—it’s not me,” you say. I’ve said something wrong, but I cannot for the life of me figure out what it is. “You would leave without me?”

“I won’t,” I promise. “It was a passing thought.”

“You bought a box. You picked a boat and a captain,” you say. “You bought one box.”

“I’m sorry,” I cry, because I really am. I am selfish and stupid and so, so unkind. All you’ve done is love me, and I’ve let boredom tear us apart.

“No, Melinoë, I am sorry,” you say. You cup my chin, tilting me to look at you. I can’t make sense of what I see in your face, can’t understand the look you’re giving me.

“Is there enough time to build a second box?” you ask softly.

“What?”

“A second box. One for me,” you clarify.

“I can have him build one big enough for the both of us…”

“No. It will be too heavy. Better to be separate, though it will pain me to be from you so long,” you say. I close my eyes and tip my forehead to yours. You hold me close, dragging us into the grave. My eyelids grow heavy as the sun starts to crest the horizon.

“Tonight, we will plan. I’ll make sure we’re safe,” you whisper. “No matter what happens.” And then sleep pulls me under.

All Roads, part 2

One box becomes two.