Mena found the note beside her on the bed when she awoke. Seeing the square of paper, she knew exactly what it was, and the knowledge twisted her heart. Melio… It meant he was gone, probably afloat already on one of the early transports sailing from Acacia for the Teh Coast. A cruel trick, for he had given no sign that he would leave her like this when they spoke last night, nor when they made love just hours ago. He had said not a word when she yet again washed herself clean of his seed. Or perhaps he had.
The night before, naked against him, still breathing hard from the conclusion of their lovemaking, she spoke as if it were just another night. True, she did touch on the bizarre realities of their life, but these were topics they turned over many times.
All this that we're doing," she had said, "in so many ways, it feels unreal. I live it, yes. I do it. I slay monsters and ride a winged lizard and lead armies to battle… It's strange, though, when I step back and imagine how others will hear this story. That's what it is, you know? It's a tale from the distant past. It's Edifus and Tinhadin. It's Hauchmeinish. It's the Forms before they were Forms. How is my killing Maeben or slaying the foulthings any more probable than the Priest of Adaval slaying the wolf-headed guards of the rebellious cult of Andar?"
"There were twenty wolf-headed guards, for one thing. You had much safer odds."
Mena nudged him. "Be serious."
"Even if people forget the Priest of Adaval, they will not forget Mena Akaran. Not Maeben. Not the slayer who flies with beauty. Not the warrior princess who beat back the savage Numrek. Such things can't be forgotten."
Had they said more? Yes, she believed they had. Strange, though, that they had managed to speak of mundane things. She had described a dream she had had in her childhood, one in which she and a girl had tried to catch fish with nets. He had claimed he never dreamed, saying life was strange enough for him by far. They had talked nonsense about which were worse, the bites from mosquitoes in Senival or those of the black flies of the Aushenian spring.
At some point, Mena had rolled away from him and, without thought, out of habit, really, went to perform the brief ritual of cleaning her sex and washing away his seed with the herb mixture he so hated. Perhaps it was at that moment that he parted with her. For, when she slipped back into bed, he turned away without comment or protest. His breathing had been steady, though not yet that of sleep, and she had chosen to wrap an arm around him and hook her ankle over his and share the silence. That silence, though, may have been different to him than it was to her.
The note she held pinched between the fingers of her two hands testified to that.