Heatstroke was drifting through the quintessence stream, the light bubbled around them shoving past them babbling like a brook. They laid motionless like a stone, their dark curls swirling around them. The light reflected off their cheeks, their earthen skin looking even more sun kissed flushed slightly from the warmth of the cradle of magic. Their arms were curled under their heads in support. Heatstroke looked at ease, I hated to interrupt them. But, it had already been decided that The Writer would arrive here to meet them in The River of Light.
Heatstroke opened their eyes sitting up clutching their chest. It was aching terribly, I felt it too. The tightening of the pressure of my heart trying to pump blood that was leaking out from my chest. My shadow had managed to get me in the gut with my knife. I sheathed it away and offered my hand to it. My shadow had gripped it tightly, and I had been so sure that we had seen eye to eye. But when they pulled me in for what I had thought was a hug, they quickly pulled my obsidian blade from the sheath at my hip. They pulled back and thrusted it right into my sternum, twisted, pulled back and plunged it in again. I had made a sort of whining sound before collapsing to the ground.
Heatstroke wouldn’t remember that though. This was the first of our many deaths, and they were currently experiencing our last. Heatstroke’s heart was stuttering to a stop from the weight of our shadow settling back into their form. The black pit that we called a heart wrapping around the very human one beating in our chest. The weight of physical injury and emotional energy was something that we were not destined to withstand. The curtain call on the Millennial Life of Heatstroke Masonjar, an inevitability that I had hoped my death would have prevented. I wasn’t so lucky, and instead Heatstroke had been created. My wish had forced them to live life again and again until the cosmic clock had arrived serendipitously giving them the life that was necessary to fulfill my wish.
This was why The Writer arrived. He just appeared standing next to Heatstroke, his cartoonish body looking surreal where he was standing in the quintessence. I didn’t blink but at the same time he had suddenly become a toddler. He had curly black hair that spiraled curving his head softly. He wore a black saree wrapped and pinned around his tawny body. In his hand he held the book where he had been recording our story.
“Heatstroke,” He said, “What are you doing here?”
Heatstroke opened one eye, their green eye glittering with joy: “Enjoying the quintessence. Wanna join me?”
“This is my first time at the river of light.” The Writer said, “I’ve only seen it in my dreams, well– our dreams.”
“Isn’t it wonderful? Most souls that come here, don’t get to go back. I was lucky before. I got to come and go as I pleased,” Heatstroke said and they propped themselves up on one arm and turned to look up at The Writer.
“ I didn’t expect you to be a kid,” Heatstroke said, “Are you really that young?”
The Writer sat down beside them, and allowed the light to bubble past his fingers, “No, not any more. But, I prefer this age. It’s more fun.”
“No wonder you get away with writing all the time. People can’t help but wanna spoil you! Look how cute you are? Why choose that goofy cartoon character?” Heatstroke laughed.
“Writing is all I have. No one besides The Reader and The Editor, until you,” The Writer said, “I don’t want you to die.”
“Aw, Wry,” Heatstroke said, reaching out to ruffle the hair on The Writer’s head, “I’ve served my purpose. The other’s will be able to handle it all. They were prepared for this.”
“You just expect me to wrap up the end on my own?” The Writer asked, capturing Heatstroke’s eyes with his own endless black gaze.
Heatstroke looked at the ground, “Wry. I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me you want to live,” The Writer said, grabbing Heatstroke’s face with their hands.
“I’m just a character,” Heatstroke laughed dryly, “You’re the one who told me that I don’t get to choose.”
Heatstroke was right, but The Writer had actually said that to me. When I had met them at this same river the first time. When I had made my wish. The Writer had held out his hand to me, and told me he would fulfill my desire. That he was my writer, and he would give me the ending I wanted. How foolish I had been to wish to die so that everyone I loved would survive.
The Writer shoved Heatstroke to the ground, his entire body shaking. A few large tears fell on Heatstroke’s face. The Writer punched Heatstroke in the chest, and yelled: “You stupid idiot. Tell me you want to live.”
Heatstroke just smiled staring up beyond The Writer, and our gazes met. Heatstroke’s arms wrapped around The Writer and their smile softened toward me. “I don’t get to choose.” They coo’ed.
The Writer continued to pound on Heatstroke’s chest sobbing, “Idiot.” He repeated.
I don’t get to choose, rang in my mind as Heatstroke and I held eye-contact. We mirrored one another, each pinned in place. Blink. I stared at Heatstroke pinned to the ceiling, and felt the weight of The Writer on my chest. Blink. I stared at Heatstroke pinned to the floor, The Writer sobbing.
“Just say it,” He cried, “Don’t make me do this.”
Blink. I tightened my arms around him, “Alright, I want to live.” Blink.
I felt the Writer’s arms tighten around me, and Heatstroke was no longer on the ceiling.I wrapped my arms around The Writer in comfort, stroking his silken curls gently. He hugged me tighter, until I felt like I couldn’t breathe.