5 Liters
The end...
“Gris isn’t some prize for you to win and make decisions for. Gris is the desperate howling of the wind in the fiercest silt storm, and like any fierce woman, she is just as free to come and go as she pleases. If she would rather die than become a servant, that’s her choice. If she would rather be stubborn than do what it takes to survive, there is nothing you can do to stop her.”
Melissa puts a hand on the tribal woman’s shoulder. “Her honor is everything to her. She’s braver than I could ever be.”
“There’s nothing brave about a hunger strike, or attempting to commit suicide at the hands of your captors. The world forgets martyrs just as easily as it forgets tyrants.”
“So … then, what? Conviction means nothing?”
“Convictions look good on paper, hell, even better when carefully scribed on a marble tombstone. No one is going to read about her convictions, and if we fail to get out of this, then no one will be left to remember her noble yet most stubborn of sacrifices.”
Melissa makes a sound, something between disgust and pity.
“What an awful and dark place the world must be in your eyes.”
Garrett lies back down, looking into the hollow sockets of the fetid corpse next to him. He closes his eyes, and a ghost threatens to dance down his spine. Images of Elizabeth twirling in the meadow behind his aunt’s homestead, the sunlight shining behind her, creep into his mind. That was the best of days, truly when the world was evergreen and full of promise.
“I see the world as it is,” Garrett says, eyes still closed, “but that doesn’t mean I look upon a world without hope. I don’t know how yet, but I will be back with my people soon, and I will commit the rest of my days to a humble joy unknown in dark times such as these.”