“Let me help you.” She lifted his collar and moved his hair. His torso was still swathed in bandages, but the Yin and Yang was tattooed above them. Akhila leaned down to look.
“Do you see the two halves?”
“Yes.”
“The dark half represents the receptive part of nature and the bright half the aggressive part. The opposing spots in each are the seeds of one in the other, the hope for integration.”
She raised her head. “You think I can heal.”
“I don’t know. Your path is a hard one. But I do know there’s a place beyond duality where the Tao is eternal, a place we all come from, a place we all return to.”
“And what happens when we return?” Her hand rested on his bare shoulder.
“We come to understand why we had two halves to begin with. Help me with my shirt again, would you?”
Akhila slipped the garment over his arms and helped him with his robe.
“It would be better if nobody else saw you out here.” He stood and prepared to leave.
“I know. I won’t be much longer. I just want to take in a little more light before it gets too dark.”
“All right, then. Good night, Akhila.”
“Good night, Vegar,” he heard her say as he walked toward the monastery kitchen, where a cup of evening tea and other human comforts could be found.
Sigurd was waiting in Vegar’s room when he returned there.
“Where have you been?”
“In meditation.”
“Ah.”
“Is there something I can do for you, Father?”
The older man opened his mouth to speak, fell silent, and then opened his mouth again. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m better than I was.”
“Good.”
“Are you all right?” Vegar sat on the bed and put his elbows on his knees.
Sigurd shifted in his seat. “Do you believe in fate?”
“Well, I believe our ancestors needed the idea of fate, and I think our thoughts and behaviors create ripple effects we often don’t understand, but no, not really, not in the way I think you mean it. Why do you ask?”
“I… do you know how I came to be a priest?”
Vegar smiled. “I’m afraid that was before my time.”
Sigurd gripped the chair seat between his legs, shifted again, and looked out of the window. “This war with the Augments has been going on a long while.”
“Did you lose someone, Father?”
The knuckles on Sigurd’s hand whitened. “I’ve tried to be a good priest.”
“And you’ve succeeded.”
Sigurd turned his head and stared at the floor. “Some wounds never heal.”
“Priests don’t have to be perfect; they have to be present. You taught me that.”
“You’re a good man, son.” Sigurd rose from the chair. “Remember I said so.” He left the room and closed the door behind him before Vegar could formulate a reply.
Akhila was still sitting beside the sand sculpture when Sigurd finally found her. She rose and turned to face him in a single, fluid motion. “Good evening.”
“How did you get out?” He raised his weapon and aimed at her chest.
“You’ve never imprisoned a nanobody before, have you? You’re a long way from the war, here.”
“Not long enough.” His hands shook, and the lines of his face were hard.
“I see. Well, you don’t need your weapon, Father. I’m here of my own free will.”
“Stop calling me Father.”
“Of course, Sigurd.”
“You look just like a woman.” He took two steps toward her.
“I am a….”
“Shut up.” He took two more. “You shouldn’t look like a woman. You shouldn’t look like anything you’ve killed. It’s obscene.” His eyes filled with tears, and he ground his teeth together. “Obscene.”
“You went to the root cellar to kill me.” Akhila looked from the weapon to his face, so red and full of rage. This is it, she thought, and waited for the blast.
“There is no sanctuary for you, no redemption, no peace.” He lowered his weapon and closed the space between them. His free hand grazed the skin of her belly and then gripped a breast. “No.”
“What are you doing?” She put her hand on his coat and pushed a little, but he lunged forward instead, closing the space between them. Then he buried his nose in her neck and his hand traveled upward, tightening around her throat.
“You don’t smell like a woman.”
“You don’t want to do this, Sigurd. I don’t want you to have to live with this. Please, shoot me or go back inside.”
“Are you a woman?”
Akhila shuddered. “Yes, I am.”
“Didn’t you invite me to do whatever I thought was just to avenge my loss?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then I want to do this.” Sigurd lifted her into the air by her neck. “Open your legs, woman,” he said, and threw her onto the sand sculpture.
She reached into the place where she carried the imprint of a small, half-metal boy lying in a dark place, of all the children lying in dark places because she had ruined them. She thought about the sun on her nanobody. She remembered the touch of Vegar’s hand and the long threads of hair she held aside so that she could put her fingers on his shoulder. She thought of the girl who would have been her granddaughter, who should have been her granddaughter, and of all the things, the human things her body would never be able to do.
She opened her legs.
He shoved his gun inside her, and she opened inside so it would fit. Then he flipped her onto her stomach, grabbing her hair and pushing her face into the sand while he loosened his trousers.
“Can you bleed?” he roared into her ear as he shoved himself into her rectum, which she opened for him as well. “Let’s see if you can bleed!” He spat on the right side of her face, and she closed her eyes while his saliva crossed her nose on its way to the ground. “Let’s see if you can bleed like my sister bled! Let’s see if you can bleed like my son bled! Let’s see if you can bleed like my wife bled!” Akhila’s body rocked with his thrusts, and the gun rocked loosely in her body, but she didn’t resist him, and this only inflamed his rage. He punched her face again and again with his free fist, and when she didn’t respond, he reached behind their joined bodies and slammed his gun into her with a repetitive, jerking motion. When he was spent, an anguished howl escaped his throat, and he held her pinned while he wailed. Tears streamed down his cheeks and onto her face, where they cooled on her lips and eyelids.
The crunch of footsteps on frozen ground and the muffled chatter of worried voices moved toward the arboretum from the monastery. A crowd was gathering, looking for him, looking for her.
“Sounds like your guards are coming.” Sigurd wiped his face on his coat sleeve and leaned down close to her ear. “Why don’t we see if they’re interested in any ‘justice’ before I melt you into scrap metal?” He rose from Akhila’s back and reached for the weapon still buried inside her. But half of the barrel was gone, absorbed. He stepped back, trousers around his knees, and watched as she began to glow. A second passed and she was bright, blazing. A face appeared in the back of her head; hands and arms reached out of her back. Then her body halved. The fiery part of her got up out of the dark self still lying in the sand, whipped long fingers around Sigurd’s neck and lifted him into the air.
“Thank you Father,” she said as she left her other self behind, “for renewing my sense of purpose. You’ll make a fine carrier.”
Bright Akhila was half the size of her whole body, but she began to remedy her lack by drawing sand up out of the sculpture and processing it. As it was diminished, her darker self stirred and rose, a diminutive shadow to that growing brightness. Vegar found them then. She watched him look from her to Bright Akhila and then to Sigurd’s half-naked form struggling against the burning fingers that held him.