Arc 18: A Breathing Moment
“Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is decide what happens next.”
* Milo Thorngage, former soldier
- - -
The elk-spirit carries us along narrow hilltop trails and down winding, tree-shrouded paths. It crosses glades dappled in sunlight and fords shallow, rocky streams. It brings us to food when we're hungry, water when we're thirsty, and shelter when we need rest. We often do, and tire quickly. Clarke may have cured us of our sicknesses and healed the worst of our injuries, but there's nothing she can do about that.
Our latest shelter is hollowed trunk of a long-dead tree. It's enormous, wide enough for a wagon to pass through easily; and so tall that Clarke on my shoulders could not reach the ceiling. It's easy to find drywood and kindling, even easier for a spark of magic to ignite it, and soon a small fire fills the hollow with its warmth.
We make our bed at the bottom of the trunk's gentle, sloping curve. I curl myself around Clarke, arm draped over her waist, nosing into her ink-dark hair. She twines our fingers and brings them to her mouth, kissing a small, contented smile into the bumpy ridge of our knuckles, then tucks them beneath her chin with a sigh.
The fire pops and sparks. An owl hoots softly from a nearby perch. Then, “Zira?”
“Hm?”
“What do you think she's doing?”
“Who, Merigold?”
“Mm-hm.”
Whatever it is, it's not worth ruining this over, “Crowning herself queen, I should think.”
Clarke snorts, “I can't imagine a crown big enough for that head of hers.”
I smile, snuggle closer, “They'd have to melt all the gold in the city.”
“Her kingdom, you mean.”
“Oh, of course. Mustn't forget that.”
“It's the stocks if you do.”
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“No,” I beg sleepily, “anything but that.”
“Well, it's that or jail.”
My eyes close. Sleep's weight settles over me. The fire pops and sparks. “Jail's easy to break out of, I hear.”
“So do I,” She agrees, a drowsing mumble, “you'd have t'be really incredible t'do it, though.”
“Like a magi?”
She hums, “Or a knight.”
I want you to see what I'm going to do.
This is the first time that thinking about Juliana doesn't hurt. There's no place in this moment for sorrow, grief, or loss. They've had their time and will again, but this is where I see her as she lived: strong, brave, kind, and good; and not as she lay dying. I see the woman who named an enormous draft horse Peanut, who helped a lost girl find her way, and who brought another home.
Clarke sleeps in my arms, and an owl hoots softly from a nearby perch. I see a narrowed squint of blue-dark eyes, warm from a small fire's light. There'll be no nightmares tonight, I should think, not for either of us.
I sigh softly, then follow Clarke into slumber.
- - -
With the sunrise comes the elk-spirit, emerging from the depths of its forest, twigs and fallen leaves crunching under-hoof. It's the snort that wakes me, bringing me from the depths of a rest without dreams. I blink eyes made bleary by sleep-crust and sunlight, breathe deeply of air that smells like pine sap and smoke. Clear my throat and mumble, “G'morning,” as the spirit approaches.
It snorts, which I take to mean and to you. Clarke stirs at the sound, whines at the indignity of being awake, and burrows deeper into my arms to hide from it. There's more grumble than word when she complains, “S'too early!” into my shoulder.
I slide my fingers through her hair, trace the shell of her ear, then lean to press a kiss to her temple. She hums, pleased, and concedes, “Fine, I'm up,” before pulling back to squint up at me suspiciously, “How're you so awake?”
Smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, I shrug, “It's a Royah quality,” and then poke and prod until she rolls off my arm. Pins, needles, and that awful, stinging numbness rushes from shoulder to fingertip. I try to shake it out and, of course, fail utterly. Such things can't be hurried, it would seem. “How close are we to Amberdusk, do you think?”
Clarke yawns hugely and twists into a languid stretch, “Can't be far,” she says, voice straining, then sits up and shrugs, “Another day, maybe a little more. Why?”
I stand up and stomp the last of sleep's looseness from my limbs, “Just curious.” Hold out my hands and she takes them, lets me help her up, “That's all.”
It's not, and clearly so. It seems she's as unwilling to ruin this as I'd been, for all she says is, “Alright.”
The elk-spirit circles us and bumps its snout between my shoulders, magnificent antlers spread like wings behind me. It herds us out of our shelter, the enormous, hollow trunk, and folds its legs beneath it so we can climb onto its back. Once we're up, it stands in halting jerks of movement that would topple the unprepared.
We're not the unprepared, not in this, at least; and so when it looks back with one huge, brown eye, it finds us still mounted. It snorts, a satisfied sound, and sets off into the trees. Somewhere, far ahead, Amberdusk awaits.
I asked because I wanted to know how much longer I had before this ended, before I would have to face all that happened again. Juliana's brother lives in Amberdusk, as tall and good as she was. He doesn't know. He won't, not until he's told, and it should be me who tells him.
Shouldn't it?
The elk-spirit carries us to a gnarled tree, its trunk split and scorched by a lightning strike. A bird's nest had been built inside the fork and abandoned by the builders, leaving behind three small eggs, preserved by cold and frost. There's no rot-stink, and holding them up to the light reveals no half-grown chicks, so they become our breakfast. They sit in the stomach so much better than nothing, and I've had enough of starvation for a lifetime.
“Clarke?”
“Hm?”
“What do you – really – think she's doing?”
“Merigold?”
“Mm-hm.”
She's quiet for a moment, then sighs, “I don't care. Do you?”
I loll my head back, watch the sunlight be shattered by naked canopies and evergreen branches. “I think so. I think...I think I want to stop her. I think I want her dead.”