In days, so few and so short, he brought me the crane. It was garbed white, the color of death. It was crowned red, the color of weddings.
Dijun knelt to present his gift, not from humility but necessity; he was nearly as pale as its feathers, his eyes glittering above bloodless cheeks. "It fed from my arteries, to have light without heat."
I did not let on how well the bird pleased me; its beak like butchery, its talons like anger. Expectant, it stretched its long neck in my direction. "Is it to feed from mine also?"
"Then it would be no gift." His eyes fluttered shut and his head lowered, as though it could no longer bear the weight of being.
Weakness inspired if not tenderness then bravery. I would remember: I was the one who let him into my arms, I and no other. His head was heavy
