Fated

slink of long legs, the elegant V of his torso, up to his broad rectangle of chest. Greedily tracking every square inch—until I return to his eyes and realize I’m content to remain there for as long as I can. His words repeating in my head until I finally say, “Us? Are you a Seeker too?”
    He wipes a hand over his chin and quickly looks away. Dodging my question when he replies, “You and I are the last of our lines.”
    My mouth grows grim as I force myself to look elsewhere, settling on the fiends jeering behind me. The boy doesn’t know me, doesn’t know the challenge I face. Doesn’t know it’ll be much better for me—much better for everyone—if I admit my defeat and go home.
    Home.
    Wherever that is.
    Besides, if this is just a dream like I think, what difference could it make? So what if I go in search of a little relief?
    I take a deep breath. Push to move past him. The toe of my shoe edged up to the grainy white line marking the entrance, when his eyes fix on mine and he blocks me again.
    “It’s a dream!” I cry, voice filled with frustration. “You’re a phantom—a fantasy—no different from them!” I motion toward the demons. “So do us both a favor and let me out of this place.”
    He shakes his head slowly as his eyes tug down at the sides, the sudden transformation making me want to take it all back, renege on my words if only to see him smile again. “I can’t let you do that,” he says. “Everything that happens here—whether in the dream state or the waking state—it’s all part of the test. The actions you choose bear significant consequence. You must determine the mirage from the truth. It’s the only path to success.”
    “You’re the mirage!” I shout, eager to move past him, be free of this place. “It’s all a mirage! I just want to be free—why won’t you let me?”
    My tirade cut short by the press of his finger just under my chin as he tilts my face toward his and urges me near. Our lips swelling—meeting—the first taste tentative and unsure—though it soon melds into something much deeper—something surging with untold promise—cresting with hope.
    Something I’ve no doubt is real.
    His hand slips to my shoulder—dips into the valley of my chest—circling the soft buckskin pouch lying close to my heart as he says, “They want this—they want to see you defeated more than anything else.” His gaze intense, voice a soft, whispered warning. “Don’t let them win.”
    I press hard against him, his touch so enticing, magnetic, I can’t bear even the slightest divide to stand between us. My progress halted by his hands gripping my shoulders—the forced backward shuffle of my feet—moving me well behind the white line—only satisfied when an expanse of blank space yawns wide between us.
    “You must stay until it’s over. You must see this thing through. It’s all a mirage, everything but this anyway—” He leans past the barrier and kisses me again, his touch light, fleeting, but leaving me breathless all the same.
    Leaving me staring into the dark, his words lingering in the space he once filled: “We’re all counting on you…”

twenty-one
    I wake again.
    For the second time. Or is it the third? I can no longer tell.
    Time’s so intangible, so fleeting—the day turns to night, and the night becomes day. Indecipherable flashes of dark and light meshing together, blurring into a series of smoldering images that spark and flare—lure and seduce—until I can no longer determine what’s real and what’s fake.
    Can no longer distinguish between dreams and reality—between evil and good.
    All I know for sure is that the cave is now as dark as it is cold, but I’m too weak from hunger and thirst to light that candle or do much of anything to comfort myself.
    I push hard against the wall, the tips of my fingers seeking my ancestors, reading their names like braille. Reminded of the words Paloma wrote in her note, about learning to see through the mirage—to see in the dark, see with my heart—and knowing I can’t go it alone. I need them to help.
    I hold tight to my pouch, seeking comfort in the hard, curved edge of Raven’s beak, but my resolve is wearing so thin, stepping over the line before it’s time seems like a small price to pay for a reward that’s so great.
    I stumble to my feet, my gait so stiff and uncertain, I kick the rattle, causing the small beads to spin and loop crazily, as I move toward the exit, eager to