23 – 8

Agnes calls me in, her voice roughly quiet after coughing the sickness out of her chest. She looks better for having done it: her eyes are brighter, less shadowed; some vital color has returned to her skin; and the spidery wrinkles that line her face are not quite as deep. It's a testament of the power Clarke can conjure and the skill she wields it with that Agnes has come so far in these few, short hours; and a marker of the danger she was in that it could do nothing else.

If Clarke had been only a few days later, I'd have to say this farewell to a grave.

A bitter smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I've done it again. Edith would've lost her only family, been burdened with ever more grief, but what's most important is that I wouldn't have gotten what I wanted.

I really do need to be better than this.

Agnes clears her throat, sets her book down. Her smile is longer lived than mine; born from a better place, as well. “What brings ye 'round?” she asks, and pats the bed in invitation.

I do as bid and sit. “I'm leaving,” I say, “and I wanted to say goodbye.”

Surprise travels across her face, followed by, “So soon? Ye've only just got here.”

“I know,” I nod, “but...”

What do I say? Do I retread the same ground, tell her the same things I just told her granddaughter? I could. She might see things differently, but considering where Edith got her opinions about Windrunners and the fates they deserve, I rather doubt it. Even if that weren't true, I don't want to hear her also defend what I did. I'm afraid of what will happen.

I'll start to think she's right. I want her to be, after all, the same way I wanted Edith to be, back in the linen closet. I'll convince myself, using her words, that Clarke and the Thorngages were in the wrong, not me. I'll let this fragile, newborn resolve to be better die. I'll fester in this place, letting the lies I've told myself fill me up until they're all that's there.

I'll be Merigold.

Worse than her, actually. She killed for money, for power. She had a purpose, petty as it was. I didn't. I was a child, selfishly chasing whims through five lives ended and at least that many worsened, telling lies all the while.

I don't want to know what I'll become when the lies and whims are all that's left.

“I need to,” is all I say.

Agnes' brow furrows, but she nods. “Well,” she says, “I suppose if ye need to, ye need to.” Then, “Know where ye'll be goin'?”

“Not really,” I answer, “South, for sure, into the Grasslands, but then...” I shrug. “wherever the road takes me, I guess.”

Agnes smiles, drifting back into a memory. “I went to Galmash once, when I was young. Saw the sails on all the rooftops, spinnin' away. Saw the ocean. Ye ever see the ocean?” I shake my head, and so does she, “Ah, ye need to, at least once. The lake here's near big enough to count, but it's not the same. The ocean is...” she sighs. “third most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” She frowns. “No, fourth.”

“What are the first three?” I ask.

She settles back into her pillows. “My daughter, my granddaughter, and seein' each of 'em for the first time.” Her smile turns less wistful, more loving. “Even when they were screamin' the ceilin' down.” She shakes her head, “Oh, listen to me. I swore myself blind I'd not be one of those old women, sitting in bed talking about the old days, and here I am doin' just that.” She picks up her book, swats me gently with it. “Go on, get goin'. Yer burnin' daylight.”

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I stand, but, before I leave, say, “Thank you, Agnes, for taking me in.”

In the afternoon light, her steel-gray eyes are soft, her hair more gold than white. The age spots on her skin are washed away and she is hale and whole and strong. “Nothin' to it,” she says, then cracks the book open, “now get. I expect letters, ye hear me?”

I laugh and promise I'll write. Then I leave, slipping out through the back of the inn. I breathe in the cold air to steady myself, then set off.

One more. One last farewell, then I'll be gone.

- - -

I can't find her.

I search the town over. She's nowhere. No one has seen her; or if they have, they won't say. I think she's hiding from me. She's every right to, no matter my feelings, and so I trudge back to the stable, resigned. Peanut greets me with a searching nose, prodding for treats I don't have, and I start to saddle him up.

That's when she finds me.

“Edith told me you were leaving,” She says, leaned against the far, empty stall. She's guarded, closed-off. I swallow my surprise and nod. “I thought you might.”

“You did?”

She nods, a hurtful curl in the corner of her mouth, “You're good at running.”

I remember how things used to between us. I remember dancing in the autumn sun, laughing as we hid from the rain beneath a wagon. I remember kisses in the dark and the pleasure of her touch. I remember the fights, the distance.

Were we doomed from the start, I wonder?

She takes my silence poorly, anger flashing in her eyes. “What? Nothing to say?”

“I don't want to lie to you,” I answer quietly.

She scoffs. “You chose a fine time to start.”

It wasn't all lies. That has to count for something. I could say it, could argue it, but there's no point. Instead I ask, “Why are you here, Clarke? What did you want?”

“I...” She pauses. Hesitates.

“I was going to apologize,” I say, going to Peanut's saddle, checking the cinch, “if I found you. I was going to tell you how much I regretted dragging you into...everything. I was going to tell you that I – ” I felt a flush of embarrassment. It sounds stupid, “I want to be better. A better person, I mean.”

She's quiet for a moment. Then, “Why now?”

Isn't that the question. “I don't know.”

That pushes Clarke off the stall, drives her forward. Makes her angry. “No, you – you don't get to – you can't just decide to be a better person – now – , after it's all over!” There's something in her eyes. Hurt. Betrayal. “You should've – why didn't you – why now?!”

“I don't know!”

Her eyes burn. “Stop! Lying!”

So do mine. “I'm not!”

“You are!” she shouts, “You have to be!”

If you're not, she might not say, then I wasn't enough. I wasn't good enough. You didn't love me enough. Maybe you didn't love me at all.

Through thorn-and-tangle, I say, “I'm sorry.”

“That's not good enough! You can't just – just say that and make it alright!” She takes a shuddering breath. “You left me!” She starts to cry. “I hate you.”

So do I. So do I.

We cry; apart, but together. We mourn what we had and what we might've. It hurts. It's cleansing, but it hurts.

Once she's done, Clarke sniffs and asks, “Where will you go?”

I swallow the knot. “Agnes said I should visit Galmash. It's as good a place to start as any.”

She nods at the floor; she won't look at me. “And what about your family?”

My family, who I might never see again, who might be dead or around the next bend in the road or just over the horizon. It's hard to be hopeful right now, but I try. “We'll find our ways back to each other.”

“And here?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Probably not.”

There's no 'probably' about it. We both know: we'll never see each other again.

“Alright.” She nods. Breathes in. A moment passes. So much goes unsaid within it. “Farewell, Zira.”

“Farewell, Clarke.”

Coda

A horse slowly walks south down a frozen road, snow crunching and ice cracking beneath its massive hooves. It's a cart horse, not really meant for riding, but it bears a rider nonetheless. She's young, her eyes a bright, golden brown and her hair a honeyed shade. She came to this place a girl, no more than a child. She leaves it grown; not yet a woman, but closer.

To one side of her, a great lake slowly freezes. To the other, snow-laden trees stand still. She wonders if an elk walks among them. She wonders if it's there now, looking back at her. Just in case, she lifts her hand.

The air is cold, clean, and still. The sky is clear and bright, bright blue. Zira, daughter of Alia, daughter of the Lost, leans down to whisper into her horse's tufted ear.

“What do you think,” she asks him, “ready for somewhere warm?”