Kei's Gift by Ann Somerville

know that, and they will pay, I promise you. But for now, you’re relieved, my friend. Go to him and give him comfort.”
    “Wait—the men who died. I don’t want their bodies anywhere near this wretched village.”
    “We’ll carry out rites for them tomorrow. Don’t trouble yourself.” Jozo clasped his shoulder. “I know this is hard, my friend. But it’s war.”
    “Loke is not at war with anyone,” Arman bit out, and shrugged off Jozo’s hand. “I’ll be on duty tomorrow.”
    “As long as it takes,” Jozo said kindly.
    Arman stalked back into the tent, and was immediately struck by the stink. Loke had soiled himself, and was distressed by it.
    “Never mind, it’s nothing,” Arman said gently, soothing his anguished friend’s embarrassment, cleaning up unobtrusively and settling clean blankets around him. Even these gentle careful movements caused Loke acute pain, every bitten off cry like a knife in the heart to Arman.
    But at last he was settled again. “I’m so cold, Arman. Hold me?”
    “Of course.” He tucked more blankets around the shivering body and sat on the pallet, lifting Loke’s head and shoulders into his lap. “Is that better?”
    “Yes,” Loke sighed. “It doesn’t hurt so much now.”
    “That’s good,” Arman said with a sinking heart. This was not relief that came from anything but the beginning of the final struggle. Unbidden, tears trickled down his cheeks, but Loke’s eyes were closed, so he could not see them, thank the gods. He forced himself to smile, so his voice sounded cheerful. “Did I ever tell you about the time Tijus and I stole two jesigs and decided to race them across my father’s garden? I was only eight.”
    “No,” Loke whispered. “Tell me.”
    So Arman told him about the escapade and the unholy mess they’d made, then about the time they trained Karus’s pet tuktuk bird to swear. And how he had once tried to make the fish in his mother’s pond turn pink by feeding them clisel berries, but all it did was to send them into a frenzy, and the gardener had had to net them and separate them before they fought themselves to death. Loke laughed a little, even though it clearly hurt him. “You...were a bad child, Arman.”
    “Very naughty. Karus said I was one of the worst boys he’d ever taught.”
    “And...the best...man. He said...you...the best man....”
    “Only because he never taught you, my friend.” There was no colour at all in Loke’s face now, and his breathing was ragged, each breath a struggle. Arman helped him sit up a little, which eased his breathing, but pained him so much Arman had no choice but to let him lie still. “Loke...I need to tell you....”
    Loke opened his eyes a little—even that effort seeming to exhaust him. “Yes?” A word or a puff of air, it was hard to tell.
    “I have always valued you. I wish I had made that plainer.”
    “You did.” The barest whisper. “Always...felt treasured.”
    “You were. You are. I love you, and I can’t bear.... Please don’t go. Stay with me.” Tears dripped unhindered down Arman’s face. He brushed them carefully off Loke’s hair where they had fallen.
    “I’ll...try. Don’t...weep. I...love...Arman.”
    Arman bent low and kissed Loke’s forehead, and laid his hand on Loke’s cold cheek. Loke reached his own hand up and weakly held Arman’s fingers as Arman grieved as silently as he could, his sorrow a wild, uncontrollable agony in his chest, the depth of his loss immeasurable and indescribable.
    He didn’t know when Loke finally passed. All he knew was Loke’s hand had dropped away, and the shallow breaths had ceased, the body that had suffered so long, now lax and free of pain. He still checked, his palm against Loke’s mouth, a finger against the missing pulse. Then he slid out from under Loke’s shoulders and laid his head down gently, before bending and kissing the cool forehead again. “Farewell, dear friend. The gods grant you a home in the