SAVE POINT 63
Loading a Change in The Wind...200%
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1117638665896734811/597e55b5-8f79-4933-b825-68531d032989.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1117638588251766885/7d081f49-16d2-4e57-9419-34939a6fec08.png]
Rosabella
So, that thing I'd forgotten last night? Yep, it was important—so important, in fact, that it woke me up at the crack of dawn not even three hours later.
I rub sleep out of my eyes, trying to prop my back up straight in the purple, velvet-seated chair that can fit three of me. Honestly, it's getting hard even to lie to myself anymore. This isn't a chair; it's an ornate, golden throne. A carpet stretches straight down the middle of the grand, Victorian-styled hall and ends here, at the foot of my chair. It might not be red—it's actually tan and gold—but there's no denying this anymore.
I'm a puppet in a throne room.
I'm a symbol of power and unity that these people desperately need.
I'm the show of order in the chaos and I'm—
Fucking tired.
Golden archways of the ceiling stretch out overhead like the endless sea of people waiting in line just a few feet away. Their eyes hover on me whenever I gaze at their waiting forms—a seemingly endless snake of them wrapping around the marble columns in the room—but I don't want to make eye contact. It's like looking at a physical to-do list that I haven't checked off yet.
"Rosabella, the next visitor," Madame Constant-Frown-on-Her-Face (the wrinkled woman from the Welcome Back event and the kitchen—does she actually have a name? If so, no one's introduced me.) prods me in the back with a boney finger, jolting me awake. Honestly, how am I even falling asleep in the getup they have me wearing? They'd set a dressy, off-the-shoulders pantsuit made of some type of silken material out for me this morning which literally has me shivering. Did they jack the AC up to 1,000, or am I just really dreaming of being back snuggled under the covers?
Pay attention, right.
Stop dreaming of Sparo?
...Hmmm...deliciously 'not right'.
A shy smile slips onto my lips as I lose myself, just for a quick minute, in the memory of my kiss with the dragon-non-dragon. Luckily, the young, peasant-looking girl dressed in rags, waiting in line before me, thinks it's for her. She grins toothlessly back, crushing all hot dragon thoughts.
"Game Maker, thank you for seeing me!" she quips breathlessly, the air whistling through her thick teeth, "My land is plagued by the darkness. I know you can fix it; I know you can. There's talk all over of how you fixed Talliger Heights."
"What is the name of your town?" I ask, drolly. I've asked the question so many times at this point that it literally just slides, nearly automatically, off my bored, sleep-deprived tongue.
Every person in this entire line has a tale of darkness overtaking their town.
And I have to address each one.
And tell the name of the place to the attendant on my right who jots it down, with a studiously scratching pencil, in the large notebook he has.
All under the watchful eye of the wrinkled matron whose formal attire for the day looks like Alfred Dunner on sparkly steroids.
At the temple, I'd used my creator magic and healed a huge chunk of The Game world. But there's more that still needs to be purged...by the look of the line wrapping around the room and out the grand doors at the far end, a lot more.
Oh my God, I have a headache and am far too thrilled as the young, peasant girl slips to the side and there's that glorious space in line before another hopeless cause steps towards me.
I lean towards the weathered woman overseeing us all.
"I need a break," I whisper.
And I don't wait for her response as I go to stand. And the room falls hushed. And the woman's lips pucker into a disapproving line. Not this again—not when the air distorts and there's that high-pitched—
"It's the darkness," I lie to her quickly, hoping that'll make her back off, "I need more root powder."
It works.
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She takes the bait.
Her thin lips resume their frown, but it's a worried frown, not a judging one.
She leans towards a guard, "Root powder—"
"Ma'am, as we mentioned, we're running out," the guard mutters back, clearly attempting to keep his voice an all-time low, "The only place we can get more is the Dragon's Sea Town."
"We'll send an expedition in the afternoon," the woman nods, her voice hushed and urgent.
But I've overheard, and my heart freezes. "Wait," I sputter, "Can't I just use my creator magic to create more root powder?"
The guard and woman stare at me like I've just stepped into the wrong conversation. The guard, a young man with curls of red hair, bows low before addressing me, "Game Maker, creator magic doesn't work that way with medicine. You can't create health packs or remedies."
Sure.
I knew that.
According to everyone here, I'm supposed to have been dropped back in this game world and, suddenly, know everything—
I bite my tongue.
"You know," I lie again, trying to brush the darkness thing under the rug, "I'm feeling better. Maybe it wasn't the darkness. I probably don't need that root powder right now. I just—I'll just go to my bedroom and rest for a minute—"
I don't wait for permission. I'm feeling way past that. My breath catches in my throat as I brush past the wrinkled woman and make a beeline for my bedroom. ...For my privacy.
Down the hall.
Past staring guards.
Past flashing windows—my steps are a jog, now, rapid like my breath.
In.
And out.
In and—
I made it.
I slam the bedroom door shut behind me like it can somehow barricade me from all the forces here—trying to get at me. They're running low on root powder? Without it, I die. And, here, every moment is beginning to feel like death. There's so many rules...so many expectations and people staring...
One wrong step and I—
Well, the air distorts, and I can barely STAND that ringing noise...
What am I supposed to do?
...What am I going to do?
Tears burn at the brim of my eyes. Where's Sparo when I need him? He'd lifted me up last night. He'd made things better. But here in this still-dark bedroom? In that giant throne room? I'm so alone. Even with all the attendants and guards...I feel alone. I haven't even seen the majority of my friends since I've been in this place. It's like they've decided to lock me away, and I'm not their ruler; I'm a prisoner here.
Even these outfits! I pull at the silken fabric, wanting nothing more than to rip it off my body and replace it with something soft. I'm freezing!
Socks! I, at least, need socks! My toes are ice!
I dive for the set of dresser drawers, my fingers flying. The smell of wood hits me square in the face as I yank the heavy drawer open, but I can't see much from the tears.
Blurring my vision.
Pouring down my cheeks with a speed I can't control anymore.
What am I doing here?
What can I do? They even have a camera in here! They're watching me all the time—
...What? What's this...?
My fingers were diving through the soft fabric pile in the drawer for socks, but they curl around a square piece of glossy paper—a—a picture?
I wipe at my eyes, and the black-and-white portrait comes into view:
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1117638495419256852/5485787c-bb79-4a29-bc18-9ad8e93dce72.png]
It's of a beautiful woman cradling a child.
And the woman looks familiar...
The woman...
My breath snags.
It can't be.
My hands tremble as I bring the photo closer. Is it my imagination or does she have my eyes...or, maybe, I have her's... I turn the photo over. On the back is a hand-scrawled note:
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1118176011511672883/Modern_Monogram_Wedding_Badge_Logo_1.jpg]
I stare at the handwriting—at the message—feeling the tears well up again. They overwhelm me like an ocean wave from my core, crashing over my head.
Dad? My Dad had written this to—my Mom? And she saved it in this drawer? In this sock drawer all this time? Does that mean she was in this room? ...Was this HER room?
My eyes scan the dark curtains and canopy bed with a newness I can't describe. Even in the dark, there's so much light here. Because she was here. Mom was...here.
Oh my God, I have a picture of my Mom! I can hardly believe it.
I flip the picture over again with a haste I can't deny any longer, staring at every curve and line in the woman's face. She looks patient and kind and...tired. It sounds like she felt like me: overburdened, alone, frustrated...maybe even caged by expectations.
But Dad had said—
And a different surge wells up in me this time.
Not tears.
Determination.
Strong.
Healthy.
Alive.
Because I know what I have to do this time, and I'm not afraid. I'm finally not afraid of it—of myself.
Screw socks. I have a better idea.