Arc 19: A Lasting Change
“There's no undoing it once it's done. You can't put it back once you take it. You just have to live with it, if you can, for the rest of your life.”
* Milo Thorngage
- - -
He refused.
I should've expected him to.
So why didn't I? Why did I believe, with all my heart, that he'd agree then and there to turn me into a killer? Have I gone mad?
Maybe I have. Maybe I can't run anymore, or there's nowhere left to go, and it's all finally caught up with me. Surely, that would be reason enough. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't any one thing that I've endured, that I've survived, be reason enough? I should think so, but perhaps that's because I've gone mad. Clarke seems to think I have, as does Milo. They both look at me carefully, cautiously, as if waiting for the rest of me to shatter alongside my sanity.
I am tired and hurt, sorrowful and grieving. I am angry, and I hate, but I don't feel like I've lost my mind. Maybe I wouldn't know; maybe I've earned those looks. Doesn't everyone say that, to the mad, it's everyone else that seems insane?
It's hours after our farewell at Juliana's promontory. Jeremiah's gone, retreated in exhaustion to his own home. Adelaide went with him, though not before sending Lavinia out to spend the afternoon with her friends. Clarke and Milo are here with me, sprawled across the Thorngage's sitting room. They haven't said anything yet, but I should think Clarke soon will; she shifts in her seat and fidgets with her piece of ice, marshaling her thoughts. Milo is incredibly still and his countenance, grim. He doesn't need to marshal a thing. He's waiting. I don't know what for.
Should I say something? If so, what should it be? Should I explain myself? Would it help if I did?
Clarke breaks the quiet, “I didn't...you really meant it then, didn't you?”
Milo's dark eyes snap to her, “What do you mean?”
I don't understand, “You didn't?”
She flinches, as if I've struck her. Perhaps I have. She turns to Milo, “Before we came to town, she – it was late, and – and it was so soon after it'd happened, and so much happened later, I forgot.” Her grip tightens on her piece of ice, “She said she wanted Merigold dead, and – ”
“And you agreed!” I interrupt, “I said, 'I think I want her dead,' and you said, 'I think I do, too'!”
Milo calls for our attention, “Girls.”
He fails. Clarke's eyes widen, “I didn't – mean – it!”
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“Why not?!” I'm a glare and bared teeth, anger burning in my blood, “Did she not do enough?! Has she not earned it?!”
He tries again, “Girls!”
Fails again. Clarke's voice rises to match my own, strung to breaking, “Yes, of course, but – !”
“But what?! She burned down your home! She made monsters of my people, she – killed – Juliana! What more does she need to do?!” Then it bursts from me, “And when will you stop looking at me like I've lost my fucking mind?!”
Tears shine in Clarke's eyes. Her lips part, shock on her face.
I can't stop, “She's evil! She's cruel! She – smiled – while she watched it happen!”
Milo's hand falls on my shoulder, “Zira...”
I whirl on him. I'm standing, now. When did that happen? “She's worse than that – that beast from the forest, than that...thing from Sockeye Bend! Why am I mad for wanting her dead?! She deserves it, a thousand times over! Why are you looking at me like that?!”
“It's alright,” Milo pulls me closer. He's shushing me, like I'm a child, “You're alright.”
I fight him, trying to worm free, “Let me go! You can't just – you don't get to –”
I'm interrupted, then; by myself, by a sob breaking loose and scraping my chest on its way out. I'm crying. When did that happen?
“You're alright,” Milo says again, “I've got you, it's alright.”
It's not, I mean to say, but my eyes blur and another sob chokes out instead. A tentative hand, cool from holding a piece of ice, settles between my shoulders. It's not alright. None of it is.
I think I have gone mad.
When did that happen?
- - -
It's later.
After.
Clarke's not here. I don't know where she went or when she left. Everyone else is gone, too; they didn't see. My throat hurts, every breath I take a raw scrape. They didn't see me screaming. My eyes ache, stung to redness from endless streams of salten tears. They didn't see me crying. My knee and elbow throb, bruised and battered from falling. They didn't see that, either.
Maybe they should've. I'm sat on the sitting room floor, knees pulled to my chest. If they'd seen it, all of it, then maybe things would be different. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and breathe, slow and shaking. Maybe they'd be better. At least they'd know why. That has to count for something, doesn't it?
A steamy whistle from the kitchen, thumping footsteps, and the creak of cabinet hinges. A clay mug's dull scrape and muted clatter. The faintest smell of apples, growing stronger by the second. Someone's making tea, the kind that's supposed to help you sleep.
I lift my head from my knees, call out hoarsely, “Clarke?”
The footsteps grow louder, closer, and Milo steps into the sitting room, a mug of tea cradled in his hands. His face and smile are apologetic, “M'afraid not.” He crouches, sets the mug by my foot, and settles onto the floor beside me with a grunt. “Give that a minute,” he says, pointing his chin at the steaming cup, “needs to cool.”
I nod, scrub the tear-trails from my cheeks. “Thank you.” For lack of else to do with my hands and a sudden need for something, I pick up the mug and curl my fingers around its warmth. I remember the bitter taste on my teeth, how it clung, stubbornly, for hours.
He waits until after I've taken my first sip. “Feelin' better?”
Am I? I don't know, so I shrug; and he nods like it makes sense. Maybe it does. Tea's as bitter and warm as I remember, soothing my raw-worn throat and settling nicely into my stomach, untangling knots I hadn't known were there. A feeling of calm spreads slow over me, followed by guilt. “I'm sorry,” I say, eyes on the drink.
His answer's instant and expected. “No need.” He's always understood. “No wrong thing to feel right now.”
It makes the guilt worse. “No,” I shake my head, “I – M'sorry I yelled at you, an' Clarke, too, but...” I manage to lift my gaze. He deserves to look me in the eye for this, “I still want her dead. I still want to kill her.”
He's not surprised; saddened, yes, but not surprised. He's always understood. “I know. I can't – I won't help you. I'm not turning you into a...”
A killer. “I know.”
“It won't make it better.”
I nod. “I know.”
“It won't bring her back.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
I think he's pleading with me, begging me understand the entirety of my intent. “Because everything I said is true, because it's the only way she'll ever stop, and because...because I hate her. I hate her like I never knew I could.”