The Hardest Choice

22nd day of the 6th moon, 1162 HC

Hanna's breaths are rasp, shallow and uneven, too exhausted for screams. Sobs flutter past her lips like shredded parchment caught in wind. Her head hangs. Her hair clings to her cheeks in wet strands from cold sweat.

Mulsae stands in the crowd, rooted. His arms hang limp. His heart is thudding, but only faintly, like it's trying to keep time underwater. Damion is beside him, still kneeling from when she first screamed. Neither of them has spoken. Neither of them can. He keeps the pain block steady. It's the only thread left in his hands. The last barrier between her and hell. He holds it tight.

Is that... me? Hanna's voice is calm and distant. Mulsae doesn't answer. He doesn't understand the question.

There's this girl hanging there, but... Her voice is small. No. That can't be me. I'm over here next to you two. Mulsae doesn't understand what she's talking about.

Damion lumbers to his feet and leans in to whisper in Mulsae's ear, "Viri told me about it. Under extreme trauma people can see themselves in third person. She really senses as though she's standing with us looking at herself."

You're right here with us, Mulsae sends gently. We're all together.

We're a team, Damion says, We've got this.

... We've got this, she repeats, languid, like a lullaby echo.

The court has mostly moved on. Servants refill goblets. A few people dance in slow arcs in the center. Laughter murmurs in the distance. Flirtation hums, sharp as sugar glass. A few still watch like they're waiting to see if something might happen. But most have forgotten. The show, they think, is over.

The blood keeps dripping, though. He watches the drips from her stumps like water from a leaky faucet while she continues to process her reality.

Why is she crying? Hanna asks quietly.

She's very sad, Damion offers.

Why is she sad?

She lost something important to her.

What did she lose?

Damion shifts uncomfortably, so Mulsae replies, Her feet were taken from her.

That's horrid! I don't know what I would ever do if I lost my feet! Hanna says it like it's hypothetical. Like it didn't just happen. Like they weren't the ones who watched it.

Mulsae bites his knuckle to suppress a sob. Damion sways and has to catch his balance. Mulsae is shocked when he tastes blood. He quickly licks it away and hides his hands in his pockets.

The creak of the rig is the only steady rhythm left in the room. Most of the audience has drifted into their usual indulgences: gossip, music, food. The air carries wine and smoke, but none of it reaches Hanna. The knot of pain and silence around her is its own world.

She hangs, trembling, her arms pulled too far above her. What remains of her feet dangle limp, bound crudely back to her stumps, swaying with each shallow breath. Her sobbing has softened. Not stopped. But shifted.

Her name is Hanna, her soft voice says. No... My name is Hanna.

Your name is Hanna, Damion assures.

I'm Hanna, and that girl is... me, too. She tries to understand. I'm both me and her.

You and her are the same person.

But her feet have been separated from her legs. They're hanging there by strings. She says incredulously. Surely, my legs are fine.

Damion turns away and inhales a wet sniffle. Mulsae tells the truth, Your legs are not fine. What you see in her is what has happened to you.

No, that's not possible. Hanna says doubtfully. Mulsae sees her body suddenly shudder. Her head twitches left, then right. Then down. "No..." leaves her lips. Garrick's head jerks up to finally look at her. "No... No..." Her breathing deepens and quickens, "No no no no no no no..." Garrick grimaces. Mulsae braces himself on Damion's shoulder.

She then lets out a blood curdling scream. Her body jerks and sways as her lungs gasp for air, each breath expelled as another terrified scream over and over again. Garrick covers his ears and cowers. Zudaeshi beams in delight. Mulsae stumbles forward because his support is released when Damion falls to his knees. He lowers his head to the floor and shakes.

A voice in the back calls out, "That's better! I was afraid she'd gone dull!" Laughter erupts from that direction. Awkward chuckles ripple out uncomfortably.

Zudaeshi clasps her hands together in glee. "Oh, lovely! I was worried she'd broken. But no, no! There's still music left in her!" She leans toward Garrick like a lover sharing a secret. "Doesn't she make the prettiest sounds, Garrick dear? And they're all for you."

The screams begin to thin. Her voice, once shrill and splitting, starts to rasp. Each breath scrapes up like sandpaper. Her body sags more with each cry, weight settling heavier in her shoulders, in her spine, in the bandaged stumps that sway with every motion. Eventually her throat can't keep up. The sound gives out before her terror does, fading into ragged gasps and strangled sobs that don't reach past her lips.

She twitches once. Then again. And then stills. The silence after is cavernous. Her head droops low, chin pressed to her chest. Blood still drips. Sticky. Mulsae watches one drop cling then fall.

Around them, the crowd breathes again. The moment passes. A few people shift on their feet. Someone clears their throat. Conversation resumes, carefully casual. One person lifts a forkful of melon and mutters, "Well. That's sorted, then."

The musicians strike up a new melody. Louder this time. Lively. It fills the space like perfume to cover a stench. Someone laughs too loudly. Someone else pours more wine. And just like that, Hanna becomes background again. No longer the performance, just the decor.

But Mulsae doesn't look away. Damion doesn't move. And Hanna, limp and trembling in her bindings, hangs suspended between forgetting and being remembered.

Hanna's mental voice returns, again soft and distant. Can her feet be put back on?

Mulsae answers. He should simply say 'No', but impulsively masks his uncomfortable answer with elaborated truth. There were techniques in the Heaven Sanctum. Reattachments. Magical grafting. But... Heaven has been sacked. And the limb must be preserved, iced. Attached within half a day.

That's a No, then, she says. Can she grow them back?

No, Mulsae swallows, Limbs cannot grow back. Damion sits back up and stumbles to his feet.

I feel so bad for her, Hanna sympathizes, Can you imagine going through life without dancing? I can't imagine. She makes a soft contented hum. I love dancing. I have a dance routine I do every time I take a bath.

Mulsae's breath hitches. She had told them her definition of survival was laughter and dance. That memory lurches in his chest. His heart clenches as if trying to hold onto it, for her, before it slips through. He grasps at his chest. That line is gone now.

I remember, Hanna, Damion says, You told us. It's such a lovely routine.

It is, I love it. I'd like to take a bath now. Can we go do that?

No, we can't take a bath right now. We need to wait.

Shame. Do you know where my mom has gone? I just... I don't know why, I really would like to see her right now.

Damion continues to talk to Hanna. Mulsae trembles. He abruptly stuffs his hands into his pockets once again. He rolls his shoulders and shifts on his feet. He shifts again. His toes flex.

Finally he leans over to Damion to whisper, "I need to walk. Stay here. Keep watch. Keep talking to her." Damion nods.

Mulsae paces away. Somewhere near the dais, a singer lets loose a drawn-out moan, sultry and performative. Laughter trails behind it. Goblets clink. No one mourns Hanna but them.

Laughter and dance.

Laughter and dance.

He imagines lounging in the parlor with Damion, Hanna, Nori, and Rivenar. They talk and laugh. Uproarious laughter. They rise to go to the dining room. Damion lifts Hanna off the couch and carries her. She has no feet, but she can be carried. Damion places her in a chair at the table. They dine and laugh.

But that's at Veilstone Manor. And that's not where they are. They are here. Up in this godsdamn occupied palace atop Harmony Mountain.

Someone approaches Mulsae as he walks the perimeter. He sneers at them viciously. They raise their hands defensively and dart off.

Laughter and dance.

Laughter and dance.

He imagines Hanna sitting in the bed. She can't crouch before the fire to tend and talk to it. She can still read. She loves to read. But that would be all her time, sitting, reading, sleeping. She couldn't fucking join them when they leave the fucking room because she can't fucking walk anymore. He kicks the floor with his heel, shakes out his tense shoulders, and continues his walk.

He imagines her depressed. She stops laughing. She just sits and reads and sleeps. No more dancing in the bathing chamber. No more twirls as she crosses the room. Given her caretaking nature, she's going to be pissed at herself that she can't help tend to Mulsae after a session with Zudaeshi. He imagines her laying on the bed with a glazed expression. Too depressed to even move.

He growls. He can't fucking offer her anything here. Fuck!

Laughter and dance.

Laughter and dance.

They're gone. He draws in a shaky breath. They discussed this. While sober. They defined survival. He shudders and walks to the wall to lean his arm and head on it. Hanna no longer meets her definition of survival. He pants and squeezes his fists hard. She no longer meets her definition of survival. He slams his foot into the wall then pushes himself off it.

His mask is abandoned. He wears a grim scowl as he walks to regroup with Damion. People step back wide eyed when they see him. The crowd causes very little obstacle to navigate as he takes the heavy steps back to Damion.

He leans into Damion's ear, "We need to talk euthanasia."

Damion rears back in horror. He freezes and then slowly melts. His shoulders lower. His eyes gradually shift to the floor. "Breathing is not living," he says quietly. Somberly. Damion paces away in a circle then returns. He nods to Mulsae and mouths 'Okay'.

Mulsae leans in to whisper again, "I wasn't paying attention, where is she at right now?"

"She was talking about her family. Now she's trying to figure out how 'the girl' could maybe dance on her hands."

The blood on the floor has stopped spreading, already half-dried into a sticky crust. Her breath sounds faint now. Faint, but steady. Mulsae watches her back rise and fall.

The crowd's attention has drifted. Music continues to play soft and low. The people drink. They pretend she isn't there.

She can do handstands, Hanna says thoughtfully. Maybe even climb stairs, with enough training.

Mulsae winces. Damion whispers, "She's trying to solve it. Trying to make it work."

Mulsae nods. "But she knows."

Damion doesn't reply. He stands watching the sway of her limp hair, the slack in her limbs. The weight of it all.

A long silence stretches. Then her voice reaches them again, quiet and crystalline. I don't think it's going to work out for her.

Mulsae and Damion whip their faces towards each other. Mulsae's lip trembles. Damion's brow furrows and he blinks furiously. He draws in a shaky breath and says in a breathy exhale, "It's time."

Damion and I don't think it will work out for her, either, Mulsae says gingerly.

I can't see what she has left is living. It can't be really living. Hanna says confidently. She adds more hesitantly, Have you ever thought... ever thought of, you know, letting her... go?

Yes. Damion trembles. We think it is time.

I agree, she says slowly, but it's a serious decision. We can't make it lightly.

No, we won't, Mulsae replies, Let's talk it through.

They do talk it through. They talk about it for a long time, and Hanna is engaged and involved in the discussion. Around them, the evening drifts forward. Laughter resumes. Wine flows. Someone begins to dance in the corner, and no one seems to notice the girl still hanging at center stage.

Mulsae and Damion do not move. They just talk. They weigh what it means to survive when the core of your joy has been stripped away. They try to measure suffering, not in pain alone, but in purpose. They ask whether Hanna is making this choice from clarity or despair, and agree she is not confused. She remembers who she is. She knows what she's saying. She's not asking them to act on a passing storm.

They check again for coercion. Not from Zudaeshi, not from shame, not even from them. They ask if she feels like a burden, if this is an escape from guilt. When her answers remain the same, they believe her. The silence that follows is not void but a stillness full of respect.

They discuss whether life with limitations can still be full. Mulsae names men who fought with no legs. Damion names women who danced with no sight. But this isn't about what's possible. This is about what Hanna would have wanted. About what she did want. And the truth, sharp and quiet, is this: she told them that survival meant laughter and dance. And she no longer believes she can do either.

She refers to the girl in third person less often. She gradually has shifted into first person. The missing legs are hers. She is the one hanging. Her voice sounds more like herself again. Damion notes it softly: the shock is wearing off. Her mind is settling. She still wants the same thing.

They wait. They ask again. And again. The people forget her. Time slides around them like water. They hold their ground.

Mulsae folds his hands over his mouth. We don't have to decide now, he says, almost reverently. We don't decide until we're sure. Until we've said everything twice, maybe three times.

And then Zudaeshi's laughter slices the air like a blade. She hasn't looked at them since before dinner was served. She's been pacing the dais, circling Garrick like a cat with a half-dead bird. Toying with him. Taunting him. Waiting for a confession that will never come.

"All this silence from you," she sighs at last, emptying her goblet of wine. "How can you be so stubborn?"

Garrick says nothing. His hands are clenched white on his knees. His eyes shift to Hanna, who hangs limp. A shivering breath, then another. The bandages are soaked red, still dripping blood. Her head sways gently, the rig pulling her shoulders past what a body should bear.

Zudaeshi taps her lips with one long nail, then smiles slowly. "I think I'm done waiting."

She steps to the edge of the dais, voice sharp and bright as a blade. "If you won't admit you lied, I'll give her back to you. Limbless. Polished. Perfectly trussed. I'll have her tucked into your bed and you can use her however you like."

"Stop," Hanna whispers aloud, the word barely formed.

Zudaeshi goes on, breezy. "I wonder how many pieces I can take before she dies. Let's take her two arms. Cut out her tongue, maybe? No, if she's going to be your sex toy, you'll want her tongue."

Hanna's mind shatters into panic. No no no no no no no—

She gasps so hard her chest locks up. No air, no sound, just the convulsing body of a girl in freefall. Hyperventilating. Her thoughts aren't words anymore, just flailing terror. Her whole body tries to flee, but the rig holds her fast. Garrick recoils from the girl suffering in his name.

Mulsae closes his eyes and speaks into her mind. Breathe. Just breathe. In, then out. Match my voice. Inhale, Hanna. In. Just a little. Now out. Good. Again. You're doing it. Just stay with me. In... and out...

Damion adds, You're safe with us. Breathe with us.

Hanna tries. Fails. Tries again. The world narrows to those three minds and the slow rhythm of breath. Finally, she finds a thread of air. Then another.

She's not going to let me go, Hanna says faintly.

No.

She'll keep hurting me.

Yes.

A long pause. Then Hanna, softly, I don't want to stay.

Silence falls between them. Mulsae does not flinch. We'll give you that choice, he says. We'll do it with care.

And Hanna breathes, slow, steady, broken, but no longer panicking.

The crowd keeps buzzing. Somewhere, a flute trills. Laughter rises from the far side of the hall. Someone's retelling a dirty joke about the Ground Sanctum and a mole.

But none of it touches them. Mulsae and Damion stand side by side in the crowd, eyes on Hanna. She hangs limp, her breathing shallow. Her stumps drip steadily. Her eyes flick between them, dazed but no longer panicked. She is calm.

I'm not scared anymore, she says.

Damion's tears fall silently. He doesn't wipe them. Just stands, heart in his throat, gaze never leaving hers. Mulsae is dry-eyed. But there's a pressure behind his eyes he doesn't dare name.

Thank you, Hanna says. For seeing me.

Damion tilts his head to the side, I'll keep talking to the fire for you. His lip trembles. You made this place less dark just by existing.

You reminded me of what gentleness looks like, Mulsae says, Even here. I was starting to forget.

Hanna sobs quietly. I didn't think I mattered to anyone.

Damion's voice goes fierce. You mattered to us. Every day. Every moment. I'll carry you with me.

Mulsae steps closer, wishing he could hold her hand. You brought light, Hanna. You gave us something we thought was gone. You reminded us why we're still fighting.

She closes her eyes, tears slipping over her cheeks. Thank you. That means so much to me.

There's a long silence before Mulsae asks, Are you ready?

Hanna nods.

Hanna, I need you to say it.

Her head lifts and her lips part, "Yes," she clearly says. Garrick glances up at her face.

I'll make it gentle, Mulsae soothes.

She nods. I trust you.

His heart clenches. His mind starts to spiral— then he stops himself. She can trust him if that's what she wants to feel right now.

You mattered so much to me, Damion sneaks in one last message.

Thank you, she says softly. Calmly. Peacefully.

Mulsae draws a breath, I'm going to make you sleep now.

She nods. Good night. Pretend I just tapped your foreheads. She smiles.

Damion buckles over and breathes deeply.

Good night, Hanna. Mulsae strokes her mind and she falls asleep. Her head drops suddenly. Garrick glances at her again.

Mulsae focuses on the blood along her stumps and pulls out the stitching one by one. Blood flows. Quiet. Steady. No one notices except for Mulsae, Damion... and Garrick. He gazes down to her stumps and the floor. He looks up at her form.

Damion watches Hanna with reverence, like a priest bearing witness. Mulsae watches the blood flow and pool below her. The goal is to make this look like a death from blood loss. When a seemingly dangerous amount has finally collected he washes away her life in a single, painless wave through her mind. A clean end.

Her body immediately shifts as every muscle goes completely slack. Her chest no longer moves. Urine drips down her leg. Her gentle sway on the rig ceases and its soft creaking ends.

Mulsae has spent fifty years clawing people back from the edge. He's bartered with monsters, traded his body, spun lies he never planned to honor. Anything to postpone the inevitable. He's dragged the dying into one more hour, one more day, one more breath. He's saved tyrants and sacrificed innocents, all in the name of surviving just a little longer.

But this is different. This is the first time he hasn't pulled someone back. The first time he's taken a hand and walked with them toward the end. Not resisting death, but welcoming it, not as a defeat, but as a gift.

He didn't let her die. He helped her leave. On her own terms. And for the first time, in all these brutal years, death feels not cruel, but holy. He bows his head in reverence.