“We will not leave you to die alone.”

A puny boy, Xau,

not a natural warrior.

Unlike his father, his eldest brother.

But Xau had acquitted himself well today.

Had fought as Tsung had taught him.

Efficient, effective.

Two of them against seven.

The boy. A boy no longer. The king.

Twilight.

Tsung tried to sort out time:

he’d told the other guards

to set up camp,

had walked into the forest

with the king—

stupid, no backup, Tsung’s fault.

A mile? Two miles?

before he’d told the king

he’d be stepping down as captain.

How far? How far did they walk?

Cold now.

The press of the king’s hands.

Seven men who fought like soldiers,

pale-skinned Innish men.

Maybe brigands who’d crossed the border.

Clear that the seven hadn’t guessed who Xau was.

Mere bad luck to run into them.

No, not bad luck, Tsung’s fault,

because he’d ordered the other guards

to stay behind,

had wanted (stupidly) to speak

to the king alone.

Darker,

twilight fading,

and, at the last, pain after all.

As if the sword

were in his belly still. Twisting.

Tsung turned his head,

out of breath,

sucked in air.

A dark puddle under him.

“Leong!” Xau’s hands pushing, hurting

—why was the king hurting him?—

the king shouting, “Leong! Here! Help!”

Tsung shaped a word.

No breath in him to sound it.

The pain hard to bear,

hard to keep his eyes open.

He looked at Xau, his king,

his king whom he loved.

No breath to tell him so.

“Tsung.” Xau’s voice very gentle.

“You were a better father to us—”

The king stopped, restarted.

“A better father to me

than my father ever was.

Tsung? I love you.”

Tsung closed his eyes for a moment.

FALLEN

A fire made, the tent up,

last light dimming in the west,

when Leong and the other guards

followed Li under the snow-heavy trees—

Captain Tsung had ordered them

to remain at camp,

but if Tsung had meant

to stay out past dark,

he would have taken backup—

The captain’s prints,

the king’s prints plain on the snow,

the pace close to a run,

Leong’s pack digging into his back.

Lantern-light bobbed ahead,

more lantern-light behind

as Shuen brought up the rear,

leading a horse, ropes:

Leong refused to think on that.

Ahead, what might have been a shout.

Then, carried clearly,

King Xau’s voice, “Help! Leong!”

Leong ran to that voice

faster than he’d ever run,

despite his pack, the snow,

ran past Gan, past Dao.

Li’s lantern stopped,

Li shouted, “Leong! Hurry!”

—King Xau crouched in the snow,

bent over Captain Tsung,

blood pooled all about them,

the king’s hands red with it,

pushing down on Tsung’s stomach.

(Li set the lantern down by Leong.)

Too much blood,

yet still Leong took the time

to assess the captain:

skin clammy, lips blue-tinged;

breath shallow, fast;

four of the twelve pulses imperceptible,

the other eight erratic, faint, racing;

Tsung unresponsive to touch, to pressure,

to Leong calling his name.