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Look toward the light, she reminds herself. Then you will not see the shadow behind you.
He grimaces. “I preferred you when you were quiet.” “And I preferred you when you were a deer.”
His is a treacherous beauty, a rusałka’s beauty—enthralling and deceitful, good for nothing but tragedy.
“If I look like a monster,” he says roughly, “then no one will be surprised when I do monstrous things.”
“He does not deserve you, Liska Radost.” “Nor I him,” she replies. “But nothing is ever equal with humans, really—we give and we take, the scales ever tipping. That’s just the way of it. I am what he has, and he is what I have—there’s no point keeping score.”
I have two questions, says the spirit, not bothering with hellos. One, why do you look like you were trampled by an ox, and two, why is there a strange child in the manor, who also looks like he was trampled by an ox?
if the world has not prepared a place for you, you must take up a hammer and chisel and carve one out for yourself.”
“You are not a monster, Liska Radost. You are sunlight, and you breathe life into everything you touch.”
“God,” Liska pants. “Not quite,” the Leszy says, watching her carefully. “But it’s still a better compliment than screaming the moment you see me.”
“How did you do that?” Liska coughs. “Do what?” “That was a Driada tree. They hardly even obey me, and I created them.” There are red marks on his face and neck from the blunt nails of utopiec, his shirt torn nearly in half and hanging in tatters around his pale, well-muscled chest. It takes all of Liska’s willpower not to stare. “I just asked it politely,” she says, wiping her hands on her skirt. “She asked it politely.” The demon makes a sound that is half laugh, half wheeze. “I resent you, you absolute madwoman.”
“I must tell you, my dear fox,” says the Leszy, “that you deserve someone far better than me. And yet—” His fingers brush the tip of her ear, linger there. “And yet, and yet and yet, I am a selfish creature, and I do not want to let you go.”
“Do not go back to that village, Liska.” He holds her gaze, steadfast. “Stay here with me. Stay, and you can have all the power and magic you desire. Stay, and you can be anyone you want.”
“I can defend myself well enough now. And if not… if I am gone too long, wake the Leszy.” Wonderful. And how am I to explain your idiotic plan, hm? “Quick, boy, your servant-turned-apprentice-turned-paramour has gone traipsing into the realm of demons to try to befriend one specific demon who also happens to be the lingering soul of your dead lover’s hound! But don’t worry, she ended up there by accident. She is certainly not trying to dig up your dubious and probably exceptionally horrifying past.”
“I’m going to find a coat,” she informs the Leszy, slipping through the manor door, which he has left ajar and swinging in the breeze. “I don’t suppose you could conjure some tea in the meantime?” The corner of his mouth pulls up in that laughing half smile. “I do so love when you command me.”
It is simple, and then it is not. She kisses him, he kisses back, and then oh… there is so much more. There are greedy touches and tense muscles and tangled limbs and pieces that fit perfectly together. They breathe the same breaths and share the same soul, fern-green magic and periwinkle-blue glowing gloriously around them until they inevitably unravel.
(Of women, he’s heard it said: “She will be the end of me,” or “She will be my undoing.” None of that is true for Liska Radost. She is not the end of anything, but the beginning of everything. He has been dead a long time, and she is his resurrection.)
In nature, everything balances itself. There can be no winter without summer, no shadow without the sun. You are my soul, Liska Radost. I lived seven hundred years to find you.”
“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “I wish I had another choice, but… he was coming back. I could already feel him waking inside me.” His eyes are drifting closed; he forces them open, more blood bubbling at his lips as he whispers, “This was the only way to free the Driada from his influence. And… it is only right that I was the last sacrifice.” There is no pain on his face, only serenity, his mouth relaxed into a peaceful smile.
STOP IT RN
“Leszy, take your magic back,” she grits out. “Take it back so I can heal you!” She is shouting now, furious like she has never been before. “I cannot,” he murmurs. “It’s yours now. It has always been yours, every part of me.”
PLS DONT DIE OH MY GOD
A long time ago, a boy sold his heart to a demon in exchange for belonging. For every century he lived, he had to take a life, and with every life he took, he died a little more. After seven hundred years, he was no better than one of his spirits, his grand manor turned into a haunting ground and the memory of his former glory faded into myth. Then, on the night of the summer solstice, a girl wandered into the wood. She thought she might die. He intended to kill her. Instead, she taught him how to live. He died to save them all.
I have never felt more distraught in my whole life
SHE GROWS FLOWERS FOR HIM. At her behest, hundreds of buds erupt from the earth, unfurling white petals that shimmer like tears of starlight. These are the flowers from the waterfall, twins of the one he tucked into her hair. This is the last time they will ever grow in the Driada.
Liska buries him in the flowers, and she does not weep, for he asked her not to mourn him. When she is done, she curls up at his side, clutching his lifeless hand to her chest as exhaustion crashes over her. Her eyes close, and she succumbs to sleep.
