Archive of Our Own ^beta

Origami remembers one thing from before the glass breaks—Tama's voice.

“What are you going to do about it?” he'd asked, hovering over her, smug and certain he'd stolen everything of value she had. Her diamonds, her gold, her memories, her self, he’d taken them all.

The memory is searing and painful, but she lets it wash across her mind again, taking strength from the fear and anger. She knows she has to move; this might well be the same beach where he destroyed her.

It's dark, and she flexes her fingers, clutching at the sand, pricking her fingers on the debris of her former prison, a wine bottle. If she thinks just hard enough, she can remember how it tasted, sweet and warm in her throat. She can taste the water saturating the salt air, too, and she suspects a storm threw her back here, though on what god's command she doesn’t know. One who didn't like Tama's methods, perhaps?

At the time, he claimed she wouldn't even know her own name, wouldn't be able to string two thoughts together ever again, even if she did escape.

“O-ri-ga-mi,” she mumbles, savoring each syllable, feeling her heart swell with determination. It isn't her real name, just like Tama isn't his, though those are the names they used with each other. She doesn't recall the real one yet.

She'll piece it together, slow, slowly.

She says it again, but so softly, her voice is carried off by the shushing surf and the weak breeze. She doesn't care; it’s a relief to know Tama is actually wrong about something for once. The roof of her mouth is as dry as cardboard, gritty with sand, and she realizes she's thirsty. The sky above is starry dark, the white sand below wet and molded to her form.

She wants to move, but her body hurts too much.

His face floats to the top of her memory then. His lips are thin and soft, his smile wide, crooked, and an unreal white when he shows teeth. Tama's eyes are the green of glass in the mud, their true color hidden, until just the right light passes across them. He has shiny, shiny black hair, left longish, tied back loosely, like an afterthought; his skin, like hers, is as pale as foam, matte and smooth like the meat of a fresh-peeled apple.

There are a pair of moles on his neck, and she's kissed them before. If they were just a little closer, he'd look like he'd been bitten by some possessive demon, which meant to mark its claim. Not that he'd need biting—the monster is already inside him, always has been.

She learned about that part of him much too late to stop him, of course. Perhaps, on some level, she deserved what had been done to her. Hubris, she'd had that in spades, before. He stole that, too.

Not all of it. If she can stand, she can find a mirror. If she can find a mirror, she can find Tama.

What she will do when she does find him, she hasn't decided yet. His lack of mortality doesn't protect him from pain, though she doesn’t know what she could do to hurt him. She has a sense that such despicable thoughts are supposed to be against her nature, yet she cannot help them. She very much wants to visit upon him something close to the near-death he inflicted upon her.

Her stomach rolls, and though there's nothing in it, she chokes and coughs bile. He's driven her to these thoughts of annihilation. He has done this to her, he deserves every ounce of hate she can muster. If she only knew why he did this.

When she finishes retching, she takes a deep breath, pushing up slowly from the beach. One muscle contracts at a time. Moving feels like each of her individual cells are remembering their jobs, and protesting mightily at being requested to return to them. Her whole body is shaking with strain when she's fully standing, and her damp hair falls like a black curtain, tickling the backs of her thighs.

It's too dark to tell where on the island she's washed up, if it even is an island. There's a palm-thatched bungalow, standing in the shadows not far behind her, though. She doesn't sense people inside, just the small flickers of life that represent spiders and crabs and sleeping birds. It doesn’t feel abandoned, just empty.

She has nothing to make a light with, but that’s fine for now; she doesn't want to call attention to herself. Naked and barefoot, she moves to walk to the little house, and sucks in her breath when she’s unable to avoid all of the glass. She’s gotten this far, she can’t stop now.

From what she can surmise in the dim, she is right about a recent violent storm. There is debris scattered around the house, and her feet touch boards and seaweed, palm fronds and plastic bottles. The weathered planks of the front door hang loose on the hinges, and the rough wood catches at her hair as she pushes past.

Inside, the smooth-planed floor is slick and there’s a cloying, wet smell all around. She doesn’t know where to look for a light, but she can see stars through a patch of the roof that’s been blown off.

She feels around, following the wall, and finds a soggy couch, a chair, and then a low table with a glass lamp, which she nearly knocks over with clumsy fingers. It’s not electric, which is good, because the power seems to be out, if this place ever had it. There’s an ashtray, with powdery ash and smelly, stubbed out cigarettes, and near that, a lighter.

As the lamp fills the room with a warm, yellow glow, she feels the brush of fur against her ankles and looks down to see a gray tabby cat staring up at her. It chirps and sits down on her glass-stung foot, as if imploring her not to leave. It might have wandered here to hide from the storm, or, maybe its owners left it behind, seeking better shelter themselves.

“Shh,” she says, though she’s glad to have the company. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be here long.”

To the left is a bedroom. The back wall is half blown in, more of the ceiling missing. The bed is covered in debris and there are clothes scattered, perhaps left over from hastily packed bags. There is a mirror, dirty and wet, but intact, over a long bureau, and she lifts her lamp to see her reflection.

She’s older, she thinks, as her breath catches, surprised by the lines on her face, the silver in her hair. More than what a little makeup could gloss over, for certain. There’s no telling how much time has passed, years, perhaps even centuries. She shudders in horror and looks away, to search for something to cover herself with.

In the small pile of clothing on the bed, she finds a thin robe. It's floral and shapeless, something for throwing on over a swim costume, perhaps. It will have to do. She wraps herself in it, fumbling to knot the belt.

Once she’s dressed, Origami takes the mirror down, and polishes it with a dry corner of the coverlet from the bed. She lays it flat and passes her hand over the surface.

Now, instead of her reflection, she sees another place—an enormous white hall, constructed of porous, fossil-pocked limestone, and full of sinuous pillars, carved with water lilies and laurel. It is lit by globes of an unwavering silvery light, hovering at even intervals along the walls, each of the four walls inset with a massive ivory door. The sight of it is enough to provoke another frantic rush of memories, like birds released.

She sees slivers of her life from before she started walking in between worlds, long before Tama brought her to ruin—she danced for the gods, beside their elegant wives, in a gown of folded paper and silk; she poured wine in their cloud gardens, and eagerly carried their perfumed correspondence, as a girl. She remembers vague flickers of love and of jealousy, unattached to any faces or names, and at some point, a great howling fire. As quick as the oldest memories surface, they fade and slip away.

The hall in the mirror seems strangely vacant and still. Where are the golden statues? The passing devas and angels? The live vines twisting with fragrant flowers? There’s something deeply wrong—but everything is wrong, isn’t it? Perhaps if she returns, she will remember.

Origami takes a breath, her gut filling with dread, and slips down through the mirror.