Chapter Ten

A force smacks into the boy, knocking the breath from him with as much haste as the ground was stolen from beneath his feet. Stolen—the theme word of these past few harrowing weeks. Chiro rolls over and pushes himself up, and suddenly he's back in Antauri's room, breathing heavily and desperately, as if that privilege will dissipate at any moment. Fatigue sets in everywhere, increasingly heavy behind his eyes. Strangely enough, no impulses tell him to sleep.

"You did it, Chiro." The black monkey offers his leader a hand, and Chiro accepts and gets up as unsteadily as his gait has been for the past few days. The boy cannot determine the source of Antauri's jubilation.

"But—how? I fell. She—it threw me over. I felt . . ."

"You didn't go by your own accord. You didn't submit." With a large smile, the second-in-command places a hand on Chiro's shoulder. "All of this time, the dark forces have been trying to make you succumb, to give up fighting. You refused them, and therefore they couldn't take you. If it was as simple as killing you themselves, then they would've already done that. They wanted to break you, Chiro, and you've proven that you can't be broken."

The boy coughs. "Well, they certainly did their best."

Chiro feels paper-thin, ready to be crumpled up. Sure, it's an improvement from his self-destructive phase. The boy knows the truth, even if it hurts. He's never known his real parents, ever. The routines—his lack of complaints through the training and the discussions. Nothing has changed. Antauri said that he'd grown stronger—when, truly, he'd experienced a stint of weakness.

It's like they've died right in front of him, like he's an orphan all over again. Everyone else acts distant, even if they watch him constantly and ask their leader questions, afraid that if they touch something brittle—it'll snap.

Grief melts away into anger, or maybe anger is just a stage of his grief. He trains harder, longer, grows satisfied in his strained muscles and stretched-out days. Chiro almost can't look at Antauri without feeling something hot boiling under his ribcage. The darkness, how desperately Chiro yearned for the lies to be true—how weak he is, Mr. Savior of Shuggazoom, the grand ol' bonafide Chosen One.

His parents. They died before he could remember what they were like. Then he spent the rest of his life either scared or complacent—before he met the team; that's an extra weight on his shoulders: what could've been, a weight that only gets heavier.

He has "talking sessions" with Antauri where he attempts to sort through his frustration. That's the best and worst thing about his mentor: he knows how to get under your skin and properly lay on his aphorisms. They sit in Antauri's room with its mosaics and small water display almost every day.

"You can't change what's been given, Chiro. Take the resources you have and enjoy the life you find." The boy doesn't reply. They've been over this before, and Antauri is waiting for the boy to listen. Right now, the recovery is sluggish, but that's to be expected. And Antauri can wait as long as it takes.

"Should I tell them—the others?"

"About?" Of course Antauri knows. He knows everything, yet he still acts reserved. Not judgmental. Chiro admits that he's starting to appreciate the calmness. He needs it.

"About how I went crazy." Maybe if he's self-effacing, everyone will judge him less because they know he's sure of how big his mistakes have been.

The black monkey meets Chiro's eyes. "You haven't acted in any manner that could be deemed crazy." Antauri sees pain and regret, and he laments that a boy so young has been burdened by so much; however, the simian finds consolation in the revelation that no matter how many times the young man's been weary, distressed or saddened, Chiro has never once been broken or defeated. There is no hopelessness in his leader's gaze, not anymore.

"Well, maybe not Krinkle-crazy," Chiro replies, "but, you, know, stupid."

"Nor stupid."

"Misguided," Chiro suggests.

"Not at all. If anything, these are issues that have plagued you all of your life, and these trials, no matter when anyone stumbles, teach you how to overcome and persevere."

The boy rubs the back of his neck. "I almost flung myself off of a cliff. That's not really a good situation any way you go."

"I'm quite proud of the progress you've made. You rectified the situation."

When Chiro rests in his bed, he thinks about the lovely figure who pretended to be his mother—her urging him to lose himself in the darkness. That isn't even the worst part—the worst part is that he almost fell for it until it was too late. How would the team even be able to look at him straight, their big, heroic leader, so easily fooled by a bunch of fluffy dreams?

He directs all of the hatred previously saved for his tormentors toward himself because, in reality, he's made himself the biggest enemy, his needs the exposed weaknesses. Chiro lays in his bed and releases all of the pent-up, pitiful tears. For minutes, he just lays on his back and cries like he's three again. A child. Not a savior. Not Mandarin's good-hearted replacement. All of those tears with no single, solid emotion behind them: grief (for what?); anger (at who?); shame (at himself). All of it pours out, cleanses him.

Later, Antauri walks into the boy's room, sensing the spike of distress and immediately hearing the pained noises as he enters the bedroom. He calmly reaches to wipe away Chiro's tears. He doesn't know if the boy will allow him, but Chiro offers no protests as he weeps himself into an uneasy, dreamless sleep with Antauri murmuring insistent consolations above him.