14 – 3
So here we sit, seething with a shared sentiment: hatred for the entirety of our circumstances, but most of all for our helplessness and its many horrible implications. Conversation returns to the room at large. If I were to drop eaves, I would no doubt hear a bilious mix of support for Merigold's new, orderly way of life and a contemptuous disregard for the young and outsider; people who simply don't know what's good for them or how life should be in a proper, civilized place.
Why not just leave, they would ask of each other, while looking at us, if they don't like it, why stay and whine?
The first time I heard it I found myself bewildered. Whining is when a child doesn't want to eat sprouts, bathe, or go to bed. It is not arguing an unwarranted increase of price, telling a grown man his attentions are unwelcome, or asking why we cannot be permitted to leave. I don't know what name those actions answer to, but it isn't and will not ever be mere whining.
“So,” Clarke says, falsely mild, “that was Merigold.”
Juliana snorts a weary laugh through her crooked nose. Her mouth pulls up at the corner and she asks, “Is she always that nice?”
“So far,” I answer. I find a little smile of my own to share, not any brighter or longer-lived than hers. Clarke's eyes spark with pride and satisfaction; her goal achieved.
Reality returns in a low and heavy sigh; drawn from the exhausted weakness that lines every last piece of Juliana. What little of vitality's color her skin had is gone, her once-proud shoulders are crumbling remnants of themselves, and even at rest on the tabletop there is a tremor in her fingers. In the brief moment that her eyes drop to the drink-stained wood, Clarke and I share a now-familiar look of fear and worry. Without a word, we make our decision: we're not leaving. Not yet.
Why not just leave, they ask? Here is the answer. She waves away our concerns and attempts to reassure us with a bald and brazen lie, “I'm alright.”
I roll my eyes. Clarke says, “You very clearly aren't.”
This seems to cause some offense; a glinting in a blue-dark gaze. Its bearer says, “Why don't you let me decide that,” in a voice nowhere near as rich or deep as it should be.
“No,” comes the magi's answer. It's as flat and grim as the fold of her arms. “I won't. You've been in a coma, you – need – to rest!”
“I'll rest easy once we're out of here,” Juliana says, “it's...you're not safe.”
She says this as if we don't know; as if we haven't lived with this place's new dangers for longer than she's been awake; as if we weren't reminded, every time we stepped outside, exactly what threatened us. It's this that sparks my temper and leads me to snap, “She knows! We both do, better than you!”
“We've – lived – it,” Clarke adds on, “for–”
“Three days,” Juliana nods, her bite flexing; her calm fragile, “I've heard, now I want you both to listen to me: I'm not stupid, and I'm not reckless. I know what I'm doing, alright?”
Before I can deny her, Clarke does; leaning over the table to hiss, “No, it's not alright! It's –” Her hands curl, claws into fists, “you were dying, for three–” She bites it off, huffs through her nose, and tries again, “Do you have any idea how close it was?! E – every time I healed you it was as if I'd just started! Twelve hours,” she drops back. “just so your heart wouldn't stop. Do you have...you can't just...go back to it, like none of it ever happened. You...”
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She stands quickly, sending her chair skidding across the floor. The grating, grinding sound pulls eyes from around the room. She feels their weight; flattens her mouth into a thin line. “Clarke,” Juliana says her name like a plea, soft and sorrowful, “that's not what – I didn't–” there she stops, ended by the short, sharp jerk of Clarke's head.
It's clear enough. No. “I need some...I'll be in the room,” she mutters, before rushing from the room. I'm halfway out of my own seat to follow, ears trained on the distant drumming of her steps on the stairs, when Juliana stops me; catches me with an upheld palm.
“Let me,” she says, and here is the plea. She plants that hand and heaves to her feet; sways once she's there, dizzy from the effort. Again, I'm waved off, and she asks, “Give us a few minutes, would you?”
I lift my chin and she mistakes it for agreement; makes her way out. I listen for the first, thunderous stomps of her going upstairs before I follow.
- - -
I stop just below the landing and listen to Juliana catch her breath. There's a rough-ragged edge to the sound, so I peek to see her resting against the wall a good half-dozen feet from our door. Then I drop back to where I was: kneeling, with the flat, splintered edges of the stairs digging into my shins. It's very uncomfortable, but then; so is that sound.
It stops, so I peek again. I'm just in time to see her push off the wall and square up her shoulders; lift her head and knock on our door. There's no hiding the infirmity to her voice, the thready rasp tainting what should be smooth and richly deep. “Clarke? Can we talk?”
I'm too far and too many walls removed to hear Clarke's answer. To it, Juliana says, “No, it's just me,” so I needn't guess. The door clicks open and its hinges creak. It leaves me with a strange, unpleasant feeling. It's a rare minute that we've spent apart since the incident at the gate. We very quickly learned that being apart made everything worse; it made the staring more overt, the whispers louder, and the harassers bolder. Why, then, is it important I'm not there? Is it about me? Is it not? Which is worse?
Is either better?
Once the door closes, I leave my splintery perch and creep up into the hall; moving down it with as much cat-like quiet as I can conjure. The trick is in focus; in thinking about how and where to put my feet instead of the privacy I'm going to breach. It's Clarke. I have to know.
I hear crying. Each hiccupping sob is muffled by the door and the hand she holds to her mouth. She'll be lying on her side and curled into the tightest ball she can make of herself, hiding her tears behind her knees and beneath her hair. She'll flinch from any touch she can't see coming. I don't know why she tries so hard to be so small and quiet. She won't tell me.
Floorboards creak, the bed's frame groans. Juliana sits down next to my weeping magi; I, onto the floor across the hall. It's close enough. Minutes pass and all I hear from inside are sobs and reassurances. It's alright, you're alright, says our knight, just breathe, you're alright.
Then it comes to quiet. It comes to sniffles and an embarrassed laugh and a gentle prompting of, “You wanna tell me about it?”
Clarke blows her nose and, in a tears-roughened voice, says, “Mostly, I have,” Then, sheepishly, “Sorry about that, by the way.”
“No, no,” Juliana answers. The frame creaks again; a hug, I should think. I want one. “I didn't think about...well, I didn't think. She just – Merigold made me so angry, I just...didn't. So, – I'm – sorry.”
There's a watery chuckle; it's echo found in the corners of my mouth. “She does that,” Clarke agrees. Juliana hums. “I...I don't know how much more of this I can take.”
“Which part?”
Clarke scoffs. “Do I have to choose? Ever since Market Day, it's been one thing after another: the fire! The – the forest demon! – Everything – about being here! It's been – nothing – but bad for so long...” a sigh; a sniffle, “I can't keep doing this, I just...I can't.”
Oh.
It's like being punched again, only it's my heart that hurts. I don't know what to call it beyond that. It's not loss or longing, heartbreak or homesickness. It's not grief. I don't know what it is, just that it hurts.
After a moment, Juliana says, “You shouldn't have to, either of you. It's what I hate the most about this. It's why I'm so keen to get you both out.”
“What about you?” Clarke asks. “We can't just leave you here.”
“You absolutely can,” Juliana answers without hesitation. She sounds nearly as strong as she once was, as she should be, as she will be again. “and you – will –, if you have to. No, Clarke, listen: this is what I do. I'm a knight and grown woman. You're both brilliant and brave and you've done so, so well; but you're still children; maybe not for much longer, but for now...this is how it is. This is how it's – supposed – to be.”
“I won't let you die for us,” Clarke says; a ragged gasp leaves me. My eyes burn. “We won't.”
“I'm not planning to,” Juliana sounds sure and strong, and I miss my mother. Goddess and Lost, do I miss her. “In fact, if this idea I've got works, we won't even have to run. We'll just...float on out of here.”
“Then we'll make it work,” Clarke says, fierce and determined.
Yes. Yes, we will.