or obeyed it?”
“The fate of all is to die. It matters only to live before dying.” She turns, her dark eyes
sweeping past his face. “What is your name?”
“Our order does not permit one. Anonymity is the defense against pride and recognition, the
teacher of humility. We are taught to have no name, no place, no self.”
“Your should choose a new one, now that you are no longer bound to your masters.”
Before he can answer, steel rasps outside, baying for blood. Neither of them say a word as the
white-armored sentinels drag him away with white-gloved hands. The eerie silence that descends
upon their world ends with her dying scream, but by then he is already chained in a cell below
the white temple.
White is the color of surrender.
It is a year, six months and two days before he sees the sun again. His flesh has melted away,
his skin shriveled up, his hair fallen out. They clothe him in the white robes as before, but fit a
collar of grey steel around his neck, to mark him for straying. He did not serve them in heart, so
he must now serve them in flesh.
He is permitted an hour alone on the temple rooftop, to reflect upon his sins under the open
sky. They tell him to behold the wonder of the Lord. He can see no wonder; loss hangs in the air
around him. The sun glows a harsh white, the sky is an expanse of white, the desert ripples white.
Perhaps it is an aftereffect of his imprisonment, or perhaps it is just his misery. Either way, he
knows only white.
White is the color of ignorance.
If he walks to the very edge of the roof, he can see the waters of the oasis turn uneasily,
rippling away to freedom and yet finding nothing but sand. As the oasis sighs in despair, the
chilly, indifferent wind swirls the water and laughs mockingly. The colorless date trees lining the
shore reach out to touch the water, but fall woefully short. The wind picks up and pushes through
the branches, which whisper over and over again: sorry, so so sorry.
A bird drops down and touches the water, before swinging up in a black arc against the
unchanging white canopy, its silhouette more pronounced than ever. No, the sky is not unchanging,
the huge blanched clouds are creeping slowly away, bringing misery wherever they go.
White is the color of grief.
Warmth brushes his face as her breath tickles his ear. A pair of eagles rise from the bridge and
one flutters into the sky, soaring to freedom. The other chooses to skim across the river, setting
small ripples all over the water. For the first time in so long, he feels the corners of his lips pull up
as he turn around.
“I’m here,” she says. Her black hair tumbles past her sand-colored skin, her smile so warm
and reassuring.
“I know,” he says. He reaches out to hold her hand, but grasps only air. “I’ve been waiting
for you.”
“I’ve always been here. I’ve been waiting for you to come to me, so that I may break your
shackles. They took you back, though.”
“Never,” he vows. “I am yours.”
“You are your own,” she corrects, “so long as you hold your fate in your hands.”
“You said that the fate of all is to die, so we must live before dying. I do not think I have ever
lived before.”
