Chimípu woke up in agony. Her body throbbed with pain and she was in a pool of cooling blood. She managed to pull the sword from her stomach without passing out again. Panting against the agony, she clutched her stomach and rolled over to look for Rutejìmo.
He was curled up in a fetal position in the middle of the battlefield. Blood splattered across his dark skin, both of them were nearly black in the false dawn.
Her heart almost stopped at the sight.
He coughed.
Chimípu let out a choking sob. He was alive. Groaning, she forced herself on her knees and her good wrist. She crawled over to him. With tears running down her cheeks, she forced herself up into a sitting position and brought his head to rest on her lap. The effort left her dizzy and nauseous.
Her movement reopened the wound on her side and she felt hot blood dribbling down her wrist. A thousand other cuts, burns, and bruises reported themselves along her body. Swallowing the blood filling her mouth, she looked down at him with a sad smile. “My… little brother.”
Brushing the matted hair from his face, she watched him breathe fitfully as the light grew brighter. He would wake with the sun, she knew that.
She was so tired. It would be easy just to close her eyes and rest for a moment.
Shaking her head, she summoned the last dredges of her life. A thin wisp of flame rose along her body. It sluggishly ran through her veins and pushed back the agony enough to remain conscious.
She watched over Rutejìmo, her blurry vision scanning the horizon before returning to him. She kept one hand on his cheek, just to feel his heartbeat.
He woke up crying, a soft sob of nightmares and terror.
Chimípu fought back her own tears as she listened to him.
When he pushed himself up and looked around in sorrow, she almost passed out. Gulping, she answered his silent question. “No, it's okay.”
“I… I didn't mean for this.”
It wasn't his fault, he was just caught up in a plot by clans far more powerful than the Shimusògo. “I know, little brother.”
His eyes grew wider as he inspected her. Her hopes fell. If a warrior had looked at her that way, she knew there was no hope for survival. Despite not being a warrior, Rute had seen far more people die than her from his years of tending to the diseased, injured, and infirm.
He licked his lips. “Mípu? H-How?”
She struggled to give him a comforting smile. “I promised… my little brother would wake up.”
He grabbed her shoulders. “No! No, you are the warrior! You are supposed to save us. You were the one that was going to make it!”
The effort caused the world to blur and blackness crept up along the edges of her vision. She tried to keep her head up but she slumped against him as her heart strained to keep beating.
“No, Mípu, no. You can't die! No, not for me!”
Chimípu struggled to speak. “Prom…”
“Mípu!?” Rutejìmo leaned her back and stared into her eyes.
Her vision was growing narrower, consumed by the blackness. She couldn't see anything but Rutejìmo. She could see the determination burning inside his gaze, she already knew what he was planning. “P-Promise me.”
“What? Anything!”
“Don't stay for me.”
“B-But,” he sobbed, “you are my friend. My best friend. My big sister.”
“I'm… also a warrior. Tachìra will take… me.”
Trembling, she lifted her good hand up to him. She had to ignore the missing fingers and cuts that had cut clear to the bone. She shoved his chest, but it was a weak motion. “Shimusògo… run.”
Rutejìmo shook his head violently. “No, I can't. I can't leave you. I left Desòchu when I should have—”
He was going to stay all the night for the bonfire. She had seen his rituals many times over the years: after burning until sunrise, he would walk naked across the desert for the entire day to purify himself. The assassin would find him and slaughter him.
She closed her eyes and prayed to Shimusògo and Tachìra, the sun spirit from where her clan gained their powers. “Please,” she mouthed, “don't let him stay.”
The translucent form of Shimusògo raced past her. As it did, her heart almost burst from the power being sucked out of her. She gasped and struggled to form the words. “Shimusògo—”
It took all of her effort to pull her hand back and wrap her individual fingers into a fist.
“—run!”
She hit him with a weak strike but a blast of wind threw him back.
Rutejìmo rolled over before coming to a stop. He looked up. Her heart almost broke at the devastated look on his face. “Mípu!?”
Chimípu didn't think he would listen. She tried to push herself up but the crunch of bone stopped her. “Shimusògo… run,” she gasped.
He staggered to his feet. “No… no, I'll run. I promise. I'll run, Mípu.”
Thankful, she thumped back to the ground. “You better, J-Jìmo. I know about Sòchu… and Nèku… and Ríshi. You will make it. If you… run.”
Tears rolling down his cheeks, he looked around. He grabbed her scroll case and transferred the damning documents into his own. Everything else, he left behind.
As she watched him, the run rose up behind his body. His dark form became a blot of darkness but the light streaming around him felt good. The welcoming energy flowed back into her but it was too late, she was dying.
Finally, he finished. Standing up, he looked at her with fresh tears on his cheeks. “I… I'm sorry.”
She coughed and a fresh dribble of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. She knew there wasn't much left, only a few seconds to speak. It only took her a strained heartbeat to figure out what to say. “I'm not. Not… for a single moment. I love you…”
The sunlight grew brighter. It seemed to focus on her, scraping against her skin and blurring her vision.
“… little…”
She couldn't see him anymore. She kept moving her mouth, hoping to get out the final words. “… brother…”
Fire filled her lungs, sucking out all the heat. There was no pain, just a sense of peace, a moment of crossing into death. She smiled and choked out her last words through her burning throat. “Shimusògo run.”
Then her world became nothing but flame and heat as Tachìra, the sun spirit, claimed her as one of his own, a warrior who sacrificed everything for her clan.