23 – 7

It's funny; I felt better after killing someone than I did in that linen closet, alone with the shattered air of brutal argument. It wasn't the solitude that knotted my stomach, nor was it the words Clarke and Edith fired at each other like crossbow bolts. It was having watched them fight at all, over me and what I did.

I hadn't thought it would happen like that. It wasn't supposed to. Edith was supposed to side with Clarke, they were to hate what I'd revealed myself to be together, and it was to be that which cleaved this wound into my heart. They weren't supposed to divide themselves over me.

It's been hours since then; I still can't make sense of it. I found myself retreating to a warm and quiet place, somewhere I knew would be a sympathetic ear.

“What do you think?” I ask Peanut, running my hand down his neck and scratching beneath his chin. He grumbles at being interrupted, the last bite of a winter carrot hanging from his lips. Then I ask him, “– Do – you think?” which gets me more grumbling and an annoyed swish of his long, wispy tail. “Alright, alright; my apologies.”

Mollified, he crunches that last bite and noses at me for more. To what I'm sure is his great disappointment, I haven't any. He goes back to idly searching the straw of his stall for any dropped bits.

“I hate that I came between them,” I tell him, his tufted ear flicking towards my voice, “I hate that...I hate that I didn't know that about Clarke's mother, or – or Edith's. What sort of – of friend or lover am I that I didn't know?” I lean against the stall door, watch him nose around my boots. “I didn't think I was bad at those things, too.” I sigh. “I was a good sister, wasn't I? A good daughter?”

Peanut snorts. So do I.

“It doesn't matter, does it? Not any of it,” I say, rubbing sore, reddened eyes. “It's not as though we'll ever see them again.” I tangle my fingers in his mane, wind the hair around my knuckles. I sigh. “I don't want to come back here,” it's not quite a confession, “I don't want to see any of the towns, or the road, or that stupid lake anymore! I want to leave, Peanut. I want to be somewhere else. I want to be – someone – else.”

I blink a few times, sore eyes stinging, and drop my brow against his neck; I breathe in horse-sweat and hay, and I let it out slow. Peanut's hide twitches, as if I'm some stinging insect in need of rousting.

I pull away, pat his neck, and dig through the saddlebags for his brush. Peanut enjoys the attention, how the itch of loose hair and hay-dust is soothed by the scraping bristles. For that reason alone, I'd do it, but it also calms me and helps me think. It always has, ever since I was small, and now is no exception. With one long, broad stroke of the brush after another, I find that place of calm.

There hadn't been a lie in what I'd said aloud, none more so than the last, but neither had they been wholly true. They'd touched it, faintly, but had gone no deeper. I had gone no deeper, still wounded by what happened last time and afraid of what I'd learn. It's different this time. I can face these deep, whole truths without breaking.

The first truth is that I don't like who I am. I don't like that I'm the kind of person who can kill. I don't like that I can do it without hesitation or regret. I don't like how good it feels to hate, nor how easy it was to drown in it. I don't like how I took something right and good, seeking justice for Juliana's murder, turned it into a lie, and indulged myself in its name. I don't want to be this person anymore. I want to change.

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Change is the second truth. To have it, I need to leave this place behind; not just Valdenwood, but the Timberlands entirely. I cannot stay and become what I want to be: a better person. Too much has happened, to and because of me. With reminders in every shadow and behind every watchful eye, it would not – could not – happen.

The third and final truth is that my road has come to an end. What began in a heartbroken flight through a rain-drenched forest finishes in a pensive moment in a stable stall.

Peanut tosses his head. I realize I've stopped brushing. “Alright, alright,” I say, “My apologies.” I start again, brush-bristles rasping over golden hide, thick walls of muscle twitching beneath. “I was thinking.”

To this, I get a snort. Fair enough. He returns to luxuriating in attention; I, to my thoughts. To the road's end.

To this road's end, I should say. The beginning of the next awaits me, beckons to me. I run the brush down Peanut's back and promise myself that this time, it will be different. It'll be better. I'll be better.

There's just one thing I have to do first.

- - -

I leave Peanut to crunch on the last piece of winter carrot, found at last, and make my way to the Rest. The sun's broken through the ever-present gray and set the streets to shining, snow and ice glinting in pale blue and bright gold. People are out to take advantage of it; some to do business, others just to be out. I skirt around them and stomp the slush from my boots just outside the inn's doors.

The Rest's commons are busy, filled but not over-full, and Edith swirls past as I enter, bearing a tray of steaming drinks that smell of sweet and spice. She sets them down to a chorus of cheerful there she is and the scrape of scooped-up coins. She drops them into an apron pocket and turns back towards the bar, tray tucked under her arm. Her steps falter when she sees me, steel-gray eyes gone wide. I try to smile for her, to at least look pleased, but that's not why I'm here.

I'm here to say farewell; to her, to Agnes, and to Clarke. There's little about that to be pleased with, though it must be done. I'll not disappear and leave her wondering again.

She points her chin at the bar, and we make our separate ways to it, sliding into our respective places on either side. I lay my hands flat, feeling the tacky stick of old drink on my palms, and say, “I'm leaving.”

Edith asks, “Ye mean town, or...?”

I shake my head. “I mean the Timberlands.”

“'Cause of earlier?” she asks. It's only been a few hours since the linen closet, since a discussion turned to an argument turned to hurting each other. “'Cause of what she said?”

“No,” I say; then, after a moment's thought, “and yes.”

Edith pulls a short, sharp breath, “Zira –”

“She wasn't wrong, Edith,” I interrupt, “I did awful things, and –”

“They were Windrunners!” She protests, voice rising.

“– and I'd have done it even if they weren't,” I finish. This gives her pause. This is what Clarke had been trying to say before and not been able to. She'd found it in me before I ever knew it was there. “I didn't do it for her, I did it for me. I wanted to.” I look her in the eye. I need to know she understands. “I liked it.”

Edith says nothing. What should she say, what is there to say?

“It's not because of you,” I say, “You're the last friend I have left. I don't want to leave, but...I can't stay.”

The fear that crosses her steel-gray eyes hurts as much as any blow I've taken. “Ye think ye'll hurt me?”

I hadn't, not until now. I would if I thought I had cause to, or if I wanted it badly enough. “I don't want to be like this anymore. I want to be better, and – and I can't do that here, so...” I take a shuddering breath, swallow the knot in my throat, and try to smile, “I have to leave.”

Edith nods, the line of her jaw flexing, her steel-gray eyes bright. Then she's coming over the top of the bar and wrapping her arms around me, holding me. Her shoulders shake; once, twice. I bury my face in her hair, breathe in soap, spice, and sweat.

Then she lets me go. Steps back. Breathes in deep, lets it out slow. “I'll miss ye,” she says. “somethin' fierce.”

“I'll miss you,” I say back; then, “Is Agnes awake?”

It takes Edith a moment to grasp my question. She nods jerkily, “In her room, readin'. She'll be glad to see ye.”

I take her hands and squeeze them. She grips tight in return.

She lets me go, and I make it a half-dozen steps before she's calling my name. I look back. She's fierce, commanding. “Be better!”

I nod. “I will!”

Her business pulls her away.

So does mine.

I knock on Agnes' door.