i.
She could remember how panicked the people had been. How enraged her brother had been.
"Saira, go downstairs and lock the door. I'll be back!"
He'd been so sure of himself.
He'd always been so sure of himself.
ii.
No one had attempted to stop him when he ran out with the makeshift spear.
After all, he'd always defended the town. Always saved everyone.
He was fearless, brave.
Confident.
iii.
His battles with the black monsters became more and more vicious. They ganged up on him, he began to rely on multiple weapons. He stayed up late. His eyes had bags under them, he became jumpy.
But still, her brother would always smile for them.
He'd always get up and help her clean up a spill or carry her to bed or help the neighbor with his garden.
But what he did best—even better than saving everyone—was play music.
And when he did this, he seemed to relax and things went back to how they used to be. No one was dying when he played and the monsters were somewhere else and their island was safe and even the storms and avalanches and fires didn't exist.
iv.
She remembers clearly the day her brother smashed his sitar.
The monsters had come, for the first time, while he was playing and he had nothing else on him.
She also remembers, later that day, when he was cleaning it up, something like tears fell down his face.
But her brother never cried so they couldn't be tears.
They couldn't be.
v.
It was her eighth birthday when he went missing.
She found his present hidden underneath her pillow.
It was a tiny wooden flute, carved from the wood of his sitar.
But when she went to thank him, he wasn't there.
vi.
They searched everywhere for him. The stones, the dock, the three tunnels—everywhere.
But, it seemed, that he was nowhere to be found.
But Saira had thought 'He'll be back' and she stayed up for two and half days, refusing to move from in front of the house, clutching one spear in her tiny hand and the little flute in the other.
He would be back, she told herself. He always comes back.
vii.
For a month, she waited, unmoving, barely eating, barely sleeping.
But then Maya died.
And it was her turn to defend.
viii.
He came back after a year, limping into the village with blood splattered clothing, scarred skin, and a nasty infection on his thigh.
She had hardly recognized him.
That would remain one of the worst days of her life, second only to one other day.
Because she had almost killed her brother.
ix.
There were many painful and bittersweet memories of the time between her two hated days.
One of them when he saw she had kept the little flute.
He had hugged her so fiercely she thought she would break and promised to never leave again.
Her brother, her stupid, brave, sweet brother, had never meant to lie to her.
But he had.
x.
He died protecting the village. Throwing himself recklessly into a fight to save Tyke.
That was the worst day of her life.
His heart had been stabbed, the little monsters had shrieked and crowded over him, devouring his heart. And then another black monster formed.
And that monster—that hideous creature… Was what was left of her brother—ripped and severed from his broken, bleeding body.
She hadn't been able to bring herself to kill it.
So many people died that day.
But she could only cry for her brother.