Reparations by T. A. Hernandez

REPARATIONS

                On the night the rebels free us, Kito and I emerge
into starlight hand in hand. Even though clouds veil parts of the
sky, I blink against the light, blinded after all the days we’ve
spent in darkness. The new leaves on the tree branches above us
tell me it is spring, and my sixteenth birthday has come and gone
with the winter snows. The cold air feels thin; the cleanness of it
prickles my skin and dries my lungs. I breathe deep and try to
smile. The unpracticed gesture splits a new crack in my
lips.
                I look at Kito. Dirty black hair hangs limp
over a gaunt face. His body is pale skin stretched too thin over
every sharp angle and deep crevice of the skeleton beneath. His
eyes look as dead as I imagine mine do, and yet he is just as
handsome to me as he has always been, because he is
alive.   We   are
alive. I want to kiss him, but I don’t. My mouth still tastes too
much of blood and salt and fear.
                I notice that there are only twenty or so other
captives wandering out of our prison. My throat knots; there were
close to two hundred of us when the rebellion started. I didn’t
realize so many had died. Or perhaps I’ve become so accustomed to
death that I stopped noticing at some point.
    Kito is all that’s left of his
family. He’s buried three brothers, two sisters, and both of his
parents. How he can deal with the pain of it is beyond my
understanding. I catch myself wondering if he only made it this
long because of the promise we made to each other—that we’d survive
this together, no matter what. Promise or not, I doubt I would have
lasted much longer. Until now, this moment of unexpected freedom, I
hadn’t wanted to live anymore. Not even for Kito. But I will never
tell him that.
    Our liberators guide us through
the trees to an encampment at the edge of the forest. A banner with
the fox insignia of the rebellion flutters in the breeze. They call
themselves the Tainted Army, and their soldiers patrol the
perimeter or stand guard on the road ahead. We walk under a large
canopy, which seems to be the gathering place for any enchanters
the rebels have liberated. The people there are dirty and tired,
but they sing and dance and laugh as if the war has never touched
them.
    They smile at us as we take our
place among them, some with sympathy, some with reverence, some
with pity. I can tell which ones have been out longest; there’s a
spark in their eyes that comes from more than just the firelight. I
wonder how long it will take for me to find that spark again.
Perhaps it is already returning.
    Perhaps it never will.
    Kito and I follow the others to a
table where a man hands out bowls of rice and mutton. We sit on the
ground near the fire with some other enchanters. One man notices
how my teeth chatter and hands me his jacket. I scoot closer to
Kito and throw the garment around both of us. “Thank you,” I say.
My voice is dry and unfamiliar.
    “ You’re welcome.” He sits on the
ground beside us. “My name is Taka.”
    Kito dips his head in a bow. “I’m
Kito.”
    I haven’t eaten in three days, and
the moment’s pause it takes to give the man my name seems an
eternity. “Amaya,” I say, then shovel a bite of rice into my
mouth.
    While we eat, Kito asks Taka about
the war. Most of what he tells us I know or have guessed already.
The Tainted Army—made of enchanter rebels and their
sympathizers—won the war. They have killed the former emperor to
set a ruler of their own choosing on the Imperial Throne and lifted
the harsh restrictions formerly placed on all who could use magic.
The Pure Ones—non-magical people who make up the majority of the
population—have mixed opinions about this outcome. Some are
cautiously optimistic. Others are quietly outraged. The more
foolish individuals were outspoken in their discontent at first and
were dealt with accordingly. No one voices such dissatisfaction
anymore.
    “ You said the