"Welcome back, dearest."
"Have a fun time watching my life crumble?"
I never really had a fear of heights.
Living in the upper-crust of society quickly ground that fear out of you— either that— or you wouldn’t be able to handle day-to-day life in Tisali. The bridges that composed half the city from would be too much, and— if you lived higher up, like I did— then you’d be treated to perilous cliffs with thin, frosty railings and taller towers filled with people you didn’t like playing politics. All the while the year-round weather coated everything in banks of dirty and melting snow and ice.
To say the least, living here didn’t allow for a fear of heights— either you got over it— or you stopped living there. Though, the alternative, Liospa, was warmer, mostly safe from monsters, and most importantly; didn’t feature ice-coated cliffs or structures for you to fall off of. The only drawback would be the lack of amenities you’d have access to— any advancements made in Tisali took anywhere between a couple years and a couple decades to reach Liospa.
Living here didn’t allow for a fear of heights, but in spite of that, panic still strangled my heart.
It wasn’t that I genuinely had a fear of heights— it was simply that my lack of fear had been born out of a similar origin to my other coping mechanisms. Namely, I ignored it if it wasn’t currently a problem in my life, but like all problems I ignored, I’d immediately shut down as it blew up in my face.
The fact that I never addressed it didn’t change the fact that it was there, lingering everywhere I chose not to look. I’d probably be just as apprehensive if someone told me I had to jump off the cliff. I suppose if you considered that, I did have a fear of heights. I just never properly acknowledged it since, why be scared of a height you’re not planning to fall off of?
Well, thanks past-Estelle, look where that got us today. You realize normal people don’t exactly plan to jump off cliffs, right?
[][][]
For a moment, it looked like a scene from a dream; the endless sky with its infinite kaleidoscope of stars; the silver moon dripping into the clouded horizon; the twisting firelight of Clarion Isthmus; the trails drawn in smoke through the air by escaping rubble. Everything about it screamed of illusion— of something less than reality— of everything I couldn’t believe my life had come to.
Reality quickly ripped away that numbing veil of disbelief.
Sharp, icy wind whipped past me, roaring in my ear, dragging daggers through my eyes, yanking my hair, drowning the world in a whirlwind of weightless panic and static darkness. The void blended the colors around me; pale knives of moonlight twisted into branches of bone stabbing into the darkness; roiling clouds of infinite ash became a wall, and I a fly; smoldering stars melted into hazy shades of smearing silver.
My cloak whipped around me, my sweat flash-froze and stuck like dried scales, my collar burnt like a malevolent star, my insides lurched, eager to become one with the sky, and my hands grasped at nothing but trickling air. Frozen air burst through my coughing lungs like drowning in a desert— and I saw the the ground falling to meet me.
Instinct took over— the temperature mellowed, the world sharpened, and the frigid air became less like a knife and more like a hug. Will wove intent— and pain like a frozen star shattering skewered through me. My heart choked, pirouetting bruises through my veins, spilling bitter iron from my throat into my mouth like molten sand, and killing any attempt at a spell.
The clouds opened their frostbitten maw, flashing their snow stained, lightning struck teeth and swallowed me in a single gulp.
Pain like a million needles tap-dancing along my skin killed any attempt to think. An infinite row of serrated teeth glided past my arms like gentle chains. Frigid air became water, and that water became a lake. My limbs went numb, my cloths clinging to my skin like adhesive. Splotches of static darkness ate away at my vision.
The clouds spit me out into a world of stars and rising snow.
Above me, the infinite clouds, flashing their frozen sneer, cloudy tongue stuck out as if mocking me. Around me, the snow rose in streams of trickle-thin smoke. A flash of heat, and a stinging smell like acid stung my nose— then, back to the sharp, icy wind. Below, the city rose towards me like a spear wall dashed in glowing glitter, like I’d fallen close enough to the stars to make our their distance from one another. My graveyard, if I didn’t act fast enough. My final resting place, if I couldn’t solve this problem.
Perhaps Dumah will receive me on death’s door, I mused, stringing together incoherent thoughts as I sped towards my death. A memory spun itself in my mind—
“What’s the point of praying to the Angels?” I asked, “I thought they were impartial and wouldn’t help even if they could.”
My mother softly laughed— a rare moment where she wasn’t lecturing me on magic or the like. “Don’t let any priests hear you say that— they’ll throw up their hands and think, ‘that’s the problem with mages— the ability to shift reality gets to their head!’”
I tilted my head. She hadn’t answered the question.
My mother acquiesced, giving me a smile. “People pray because they wish for things beyond their own means.”
“But they’re impartial,” I said again.
“It is faith,” my mother calmly answered, wearing the smile that said I should drop the question. “Faith that they will make the one exception for them like in times of old. It is wishful thinking, in the end, because the Angel’s are impartial. They do not stoop to our level to help us rise from our petty issues.”
I swallowed the question about the Church, and the High Cardinal, and all the priests and holymen that proclaimed otherwise. The glint in my mother’s eye was not friendly.
I broke through another cloud, and my mind reeled, shifting back to the present. I gave another choking breath, pushing through the smog and fog miring my mind, and did my best to think.
What can I do? What will I do?
My first answer lay in what had just failed me: The Featherstones.
In magic— there were two primary groups that spells could be sorted by. The first group— the tangible— were spells and effects produced through a series of duplicable, mundane phenomena or systems. They could be replicated through complex rituals or runes, to the same efficacy and effect as the original. Tangible spells were found in every aspect of life; from the lights that hung on every street, to the faucets that didn’t really draw water from any sort of well.
Featherstones were one such example. They were simple, their complexity coming from their convenient size rather than their tangible effect.
I also, notably, did not know the principles behind how they worked.
My second answer was Alteration, the branch of Transmutation that dealt with changing the body. It would allow me to change forms, maybe spin myself into a bird and fly away before I hit the ground. I also, notably, did not know the theory behind it. I balked at the idea of casting again, if the steady ache thrumming through my heart was any warning to go by.
My third answer was the last one I could come to.
The second categorization was the intangible— spells that functioned purely off ether alone. Effects that couldn’t be replicated through mundane means. Miracles, and prayers— strung together through will and intent, bolstered by divine recognition and penance— spells that were intangible were the wishes and fantasies presented and peddled in every childhood fairy tale.
My hand snapped out, grasping and steadying the hem of my cloak where my pocket laid. Where the second Vitrine crystal rested— my dangerous insurance. I couldn’t feel it in my fingers as I grasped it, cradling it to my chest as ice bloomed along ice.
Then, without any other options, I shut my eyes, and prayed.
[][][]
Soft dying light danced on the back of my shut eyes. Plush blanket nestled against me, aggravating my stinging wounds. I frowned, wincing as the pain steadily receded. I heard the sound of gently rustling crops. A gentle, warm breeze blew past, bringing the sound of a distant, wordless lullaby, and the scent of old parchment and ink and… paint?
I opened my eyes, greeted by the sight of the dream I’d taken residence in. My eyes narrowed.
Where I’d once sat on a plain surrounded by crops, with a dirt path branching into either direction, I now woke up on a hill. Around me, infinite crops swayed in time with the breeze. Some distance away, on a stool as tall as I was, perched my Shade, turned away from me. In front of her sat a massive square canvas, easily twice as long as I was tall. In her hand was a palette, an assortment of blues on it. Her other hand held a brush, poised to paint. As I shifted, she turned, and the train of the plain gray dress she now wore swept around her, pooling around the base of the stool. It would’ve been a nice outfit, if the patterned beret on her head didn’t clash horribly with the rest of it.
I sat up, grumpy and glaring. “What do you want this time?”
“Is that really the way you should be thanking me?” My Shades’ grin split her face, before it grew petulant, like a parent telling their child something that should’ve been obvious. “You would’ve had nightmares without my timely interference.”
“This isn’t already a nightmare?”
She rolled her eyes. “Boohoo, whatever, you’re free to leave if you want.”
I scooted to the edge of the bed, ignoring the second eye-roll she sent me as I slid into slippers. My Shade huffed, before turning back to her painting. I muttered, “You didn’t have have grab me, you know. I can weave dreamless sleep charms.”
“Because you were in such a state to do that,” she intoned.
“And I was in such a state to remember my nightmares in the morning.”
“You would’ve encountered them, eventually.”
“Meaning?”
“I pulled you in here as soon as I could.”
I frowned, staring up at her.
“You were resting up,” she sighed. “Eventually, your mental state would’ve rested enough to start having nightmares again. You would’ve woken up, and then fallen back asleep, and then had more nightmares.” My Shade gave me an ignominious side eye. “And we both know none of the doctors would’ve given you anything to sleep it off.”
“There’s no way you know all that.”
She shrugged, dabbing another spot of blue onto white. “Better safe than sorry.”
I got to my feet, wobbled slightly before the world corrected my posture, and took a new look around my new dreamscape. “What happened to everything? How’d you get your hands on a canvas? And don’t give me that ‘whole world’ excuse again— we both know this place has limited space and even more limited resources.”
My Shade blew out a breath, halfway between a scoff and a huff. “Ask yourself.”
“I am,” I deadpanned.
“Booo. Age has only dampened our ability at humor.”
“When was this ‘we’?”
Her eyes tracked mine as she changed the topic. “You’re not going to be rested when you wake up.”
I kicked my feet. “Thanks, I guess.”
“No need to be sarcastic, we both know that you prefer it that way.”
I scowled, turning my head away.
Her head tilted to watch me, a self-deprecating grin on her lips. “Better to be tired, so we have an excuse to ign—“
My voice was sharp. “— Did you drag me in here just to—“
“Gosh!” Not-me cut in with a scoff. “Why do you insist on always being so snippety when it comes to calling you out on it? It’s literally me and you— it’s us!— or just you and you! It’s yourself! I am you and you are me! What’s your problem?”
I didn’t rise to the bait. I wouldn’t sink to her juvenile level. “When was there an ‘us’?” I repeated.
My Shade clicked her tongue, eyes flicking back to the canvas as she slashed an aggressively dark-blue smear against it. “You’re so stupid! I hate you!”
“I gathered. Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual.”
She huffed, continuing, “All I wanted to do was something nice for once! Or maybe some kind of self-care—“
My frown grew.
“— but noooo, my stupid self can’t— sorry, no— refuses, to acknowledge it!”
“You literally insulted me like ten seconds ago—“
“— Yeah and you hit me over the head with a fucking pipe!— I’m entitled to at least some kind of rebuke, don’t you think?” Her painting became more aggressive, the canvas now a swirling mix of darker and lighter blues in some kind of circle.
I found my gaze trailing the ground, small tremors starting to build in my hand, heralded by the blistering bursts of violence I’d enacted in the last few days. Heat bloomed in my cheeks as I quickly shoved both the image and the topic to the wayside. “You claimed this would’ve been a better alternative than the nightmares. I find it hard to believe.”
Not-Estelle slumped her shoulders, flicking more blue onto the canvas. “Cross my heart and hope to die, this— all of this— is far better an alternative than the nightmares you would’ve gotten. I saw them. I threw up in that bush over there— they were pretty bad.”
“Yet here you are, needling me with stuff you know I don’t like.”
“You act like you would’ve reacted any better if I gave you some stupid consolation like, ‘it’ll be okay,’ or ‘don’t worry, everything will be fine’,” she spat the last bit like it disgusted her.
I grimaced, both unable to retort and silently agreeing with her. My Shade knew me too well for me to deny half the things she’d claimed. Despite it’s truth, it didn’t make them any more pleasant to hear.
“Let’s be real, dearest, if I had led with comforting words and false platitudes, you would’ve immediately thought something was wrong, then maybe you would’ve smacked me with a pipe again.”
The bristles of panic flared again, and I kept my voice carefully level. “I would not have smacked you with a pipe.”
If my Shade noticed, she didn’t let on, continuing on in her sardonic-mimicry. “Yeah, right, you would’ve found some other stupid object to hurt me with, like a horribly blunt stick.” Her eyes narrowed on the canvas. “If you’re going to hit me, can’t you at least choose a method that won’t leave me in horrible agony for a couple days? Though, I am thankful you didn’t do to me what you did to Patches. That was bad.”
When I remained silent, focusing on trying to rein in the knee-jerk reaction my mind had towards unpleasant topics— Not-me pounced like a waiting cat. Her attention pulled back to me, the canvas nothing more than a distraction. A mirthful mockery of a reassuring smile split her face. “Oh,” she cooed, sounding absolutely delighted. “So, that’s how it is.”
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I did my best to measure up a glare against her, but it was little more a sand castle to a wave. The next words I saw coming, but they stung all the more for it.
“Broken up about Patches, aren’t you?” my Shade tittered, a hand over her sneering mouth. “Bit sad you had to spill some blood in order to come away clean?”
“Stop.”
Her laugh came out like a broken phonograph. “Why? Don’t you silently pride yourself on saying it like it is? Little murderer? Conniving little twat?”
I swallowed, clenching my fist. “I— I can—”
“You can unmake me, yes,” my Shade absently finished, dismissively waving a hand. “You’ve made that threat so many times over the year its lost all meaning. Let’s be real— you’ll never get rid of me.”
“I— “
“You need me, dear. It’s why you haven’t gotten rid of me despite the fact I get on your nerves so much.” Her eyes glinted. “You’re not scared of the violence or the bloodshed— no— you’re scared that you won’t be scared of it. You know you can’t and won’t be held accountable for it— after all— whats a couple more skeletons to our closet? No—“
She laughed, full and silvery and delighted.
“— you’re scared that at the end of the day, when your skeletons fall out of the closet, you’ll be wrong. That when Arthur and Clara and Stephen and Esmerelda and Heron find out— they won’t look at you with disgust or anger— No— you’re scared that they’ll still look at you with admiration and affection, that at the end of the road, you’ll find that everything you’ve told yourself was in vain— that there was never any need to silently bear this burden— that all your suffering and toil was self-inflicted! That despite the face you had failed, you were still deserving of love.”
She giggled again. “Wouldn’t that be cruel?”
“I— I— “ My voice felt high and useless, thick and weighed down. “I— I can—“
“— Please do it— I’ve been longing for an end for years.” She hopped down from her very tall stool, stopping at the end of my bed, in front of me. I saw she wore no shoes. “But if you’re going to do so— which I’ve been waiting so very long for you to do so— at least have the decency to call it what it is—“
My hands clenched.
“— Please, my dearest— “ she lay a hand over her heart, and a silver stiletto materialized in her hand, facing me, hilt first “— the only one who knows me in utter totality— unmake me, kill me, murder me—“
Her smile grew sickly sweet, and she held the dagger’s point beneath her heart. Thin enough to slide between the ribs.
“— graciously grant me the end you won’t grant yourself.”
Briefly, all too briefly, my mind leapt to the far side of solutions, the one coated in blood and most certainly had a body count now. I shut it down, telling myself I was far better than to resort to petty violence. It was not the fact that my hands shook whenever I thought of violence, or the fact that in the next moment my Shade tittered, laughing like screeching metal.
“Ooh ooh ooh!” she squealed— actually fucking squealed— and bounced up and down. “You were thinking of hurting me just then! You were! You were, you rotten old bitch!”
“C’mon, c’mon,” she hounded, positively buzzing with energy, “please please please— stab me! I’ll shut up!”
Hot tears stung in the corners of my eyes, and my hands clenched from the effort, but I held fast, not rising to the bait.
“Ah, you won’t do it.” She suddenly looked disappointed, before suddenly perking up in renewed energy. She shrugged, my silver pocket watch materializing in her hand. “Well, whatever, time’s up anyway. Get outta here, me.”
[][][]
I woke up angry.
My body ran hot like a fever, my eyes blinked uselessly, hazy and bleary and feeling as if they were filled with straw. With trembling effort, I pushed myself to sitting, huffing and scoffing as I swallowed past a sandpaper throat. My hands trembled, and I swallowed again, clenching the sheets harder as I tried to rein everything in. Hot tears stung at the corner of my eyes, and I dug my nails into the palm of my hands, and the tears never fell. The anger and fear made me shake and put me on edge, but exhaustion wound like barbs along my limbs. Every moment felt as if it’d be my last, like passing the finishing line of a race you’d put everything into. Everything hurt.
You shouldn’t be letting her effect you so much. I swallowed, my throat burning and mouth tasting of ash.
The room I’d woken up in made me still.
The blankets pooling around me were white, dry and fuzzy. Light enough to be shrugged off, and not thick enough to provide any warmth. The bed I’d woken up on had a railing, and besides them, a metallic pole with a bag scrawled with blurry black characters I couldn’t read. A tube ran from that bag into my wrist. I swallowed, feeling uncomfortable.
Beyond them, the room was composed of pale, off-white staccato walls and ivory tiles. A sterile, ice-white light hanging above my head had been dimmed, as if to mimic the comfort of dimmed lighting, but the attempt felt hollow and false. A fuzzy white curtain hung on one side of the room, blocking off the view. A large window ate up the other side of the room, but a shade had been drawn across it. No light peeked around the curtain. Across from me, a statue with a gentle face, drawn-back robe, and clasped hands.
The familiar scent of medicine, undercut by the dry, sharper, lonelier smell of cleaning products, made me grimace. Then, I’d noticed the gown I wore— pale white, horribly unflattering, and if my sense of touch hadn’t died, all I was actually wearing.
“Lady Estelle!” A nurse clutching a clipboard looked surprised broke the silence.
At some point between my introspection and when I’d woken up, a nurse had stepped in. She flinched when I met her gaze, and I forced my anger to settle— to sit at a simmer rather than a boil. I relaxed my shoulders, breathed out the tense breath I’d been holding, and forced my hands to slowly unclench. I closed my eyes, breathed in— and swallowed a wince as an ache filled my lung— and breathed out. I nearly reached for my ether— the comforting embrace of my ice— but I held off. I knew I’d pushed far past my limit in the hours before. I turned my gaze back towards the nurse.
“Yes?” I responded, not quite able to manage the scorn that leaked into my voice.
After a heartbeat, the nurse spun muttering some excuse I could barely hear about retrieving the doctor, and retreated out of sight. A trickle of guilt wormed its way into my anger. The staff did not deserve to be the subject of my scorn— my Shade did.
I slumped, shifting uncomfortably as dull pain lanced through my body and my mind crawled through muck. The anger was still there, and I forced it further away, until it was just distant, like most things. It was easy for me to shove it away, pay attention to other things. I did my best to turn my focus to the present. The future could be handled when I was fully, fully alone.
Eventually, the same nurse came back in, following a doctor with kind eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard. He nodded when he saw me, unperturbed by the scowl I likely still wore. He spoke, his voice warm and rich and calming. “Lady Estelle, I see you’re awake. The news gladdens me.”
I carefully restrained my scowl. The man spoke like nobility, and conducted himself like a smarmy conman. It’s not his fault— probably. People don’t just naturally act like that. He probably speaks to all patients like that.
“You see,” he went on to explain, as if expecting answers, “You were in quite the state when you were brought in, Lady Estelle.”
“If you’re hoping I’ll answer questions,” I softly spoke, keeping the rasp out of my voice. “I’ll kindly decline.”
He nodded. “Of course, I’ll refrain from asking about the source of your injuries. Simply, I’d like to ask you for your past medical history— Have you any past surgical history?”
I shook my head.
“Do you currently take any medications? Are you aware of any allergies you may have?”
“No. I have no allergies.”
“Does your family have a history of disease?”
“No.”
“Are you sexually active? Or have engaged in related activities recently?”
“No.”
“History of drug or alcohol use? Tobacco? Cigars?”
“No, I hate the smell of smoke.”
He hummed, writing something down on a notepad. “That’s wonderful, Lady Estelle. Let us move on to what your projected course of recovery is. Fortunately, you’re young, so you’ll brush it off.”
The doctor flipped to another page of his notepad, rattling off, “We were able to heal your physical injuries, primarily the bruising along your neck and your broken collarbone, but they’ll remain tender and sore in the coming days. If pain persists or resurfaces please let us know. We observed signs of Major Strain— so you’ll have to rest until your internal reservoir recovers. Additionally, please refrain from any and all sorts of strenuous activities. Your collarbone will remain weak for a week or so, and any additional magic will most likely prove fatal. Beyond that, your recovery consists mostly of resting. I’d also recommend some hearty foods, like meats or potatoes. Try to have some fruit, but keep it to small portions. You understand? Nothing that’ll be difficult to eat.”
“Then beyond that— I’m okay?”
“Yes, but we’ll be extending your stay for a little bit to monitor your condition. I hope you can understand.”
I grimaced. “I understand.”
“Of course, we’ll make your stay here as comfortable as possible. We do hope you’ll find our amenities enjoyable.”
I nodded again, and the doctor turned to leave. His silhouette paused behind the curtain. “One more thing, Lady Estelle. You have friends out in lobby waiting for you. If you’re feeling up for it, I’ll have someone send them along.”
“I—“ my throat caught, guilt trickling through “— no. No, thank you. Please send away visitors for the remainder of my stay.”
“Of course. Please let us know if you change your mind.”
Then, the doctor left, and I was alone again. Fully, fully alone, and slightly more awake than I was before.
What happens next? The question rose back to the surface from where I’d shoved it away.
As always, I would need to handle my research on Dimensionalism. While recent efforts had proved ineffective, as they’d been for years, in some way, it had become some kind of project I’d work on whenever I didn’t have anything else to do. Then, the matters of the Vitrine Crystals, which sat a foot away from me as if they weren’t horrifying explosives. I wasn’t sure if their existence constituted more or less problems for me. On one hand, I could use them to fuel my spells, both Dimensionalism and not, while on the other hand, the trouble I’d went through to get them made me apprehensive.
Ah, what I’ve been through.
The memories of the night prior to my hospitalization finally settled in, without the safety blanket of adrenaline, or the frantic need for self-preservation. I didn’t have the energy to shove them away, to rationalize them away into obscurity, where I could ignore them for however long I wanted.
Suddenly, the hospital room no longer looked sterile or clean or pristine or at all like a place to recover.
The dim light above me faded, condensing to a hazy knife through the dark as I saw myself when I was ten, locked in a cold, damp closet. My bare feet ached, tears streamed down my face, my body shook uncontrollably, my hands felt raw and scraped, and my wrist hurt from where my mother had roughly dragged me. My throat burned, hoarse and stifled from begging. Around me, the darkness in the closet clawed in.
In the darkness, my imagination reigned.
I saw Patches face, without the hazy censor of my broken glasses, peeking, pockmarked bone and drooling, stringy viscera and gulping, bloody goop. His face, pulped and peeling and sloughing off like warm slime, more akin to a honeycomb, or swiss cheese, from a splatter of stones that cried blood and jut out like sea urchins.
I jerked away, scrambling as I bolted to move up and away— pain lanced through my arms and legs, and my head complained from the sudden movement as I tilted over the edge of the bed, and crashed onto the tiled ground beneath. I stifled my cry of pain— if I wanted out of the closet, I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t make sound. My heart seesawed between too fast and too slow, my stomach tumbling, and I heaved molten glass past a veil of tears. My hands ached from where I pounded against the locked closet doors. My knees burned from where they scraped on the wood. The doors didn’t open.
In the silence, my Shade’s voice, singing and insidious, Murderer— murderer! How many until you’re satisfied? How many more people will you hurt?
In the silence, my choked and stifled sobs, drowned out by screaming. Full throated, bellowing from Patches, slowly drowned under wet gurgles and twitching fingers. Then, my mother, vice-grip on my wrist, slamming the doors. A click of a lock, and a calm and icy voice ignoring my million useless apologies, telling me I’d stay in there until I learned to get a grip on myself, until I learned how to cast that spell, until I learned to do better.
I swallowed again, shutting my eyes and mustering up the will to choke down my memories. I tried to stand, and my sweat-slicked hand slipped on the railing. Pain exploded in my knee and my hand, and I bit down my cry. Hands were on my throat and I silently gasped for air.
Hurt your mother— hurt Arthur— all because you’re a shitty mage— if only you were better— if only you were actually capable of doing anything well— maybe Patches wouldn’t have died, maybe his blood wouldn’t be on your hands. Maybe Mom wouldn’t have left. Maybe things could’ve been different. Maybe you’d still have both parents.
I couldn’t see in the dark, and I smelled blood around me. The tile beneath my knee was cold— like ice. Again, that presence of roiling ice, the memory of the hallway engulfed in ice— having devoured where the group of men stood before. My head pounded, and my hands slipped again, scraping against the floor. The pain didn’t register.
I swallowed, clawing my hand into my chest, as if I could gouge out my heart. As if I could cut off the root of all my suffering. Calm down, calm down. Rationale and logic stuttered, hurried and panting and feeble with exhaustion. You’re being wildly irrational— you’re being insane and irrational— you’re safe. You’re fine. Nothing is wrong. There is no reason to be in pain. This is a stress reaction.
How many people died or got hurt, because of you?
My thin self-comfort crumbled.
The wave of heat from the explosion, trembling filled the room. Imagination spun the victims for me— faces I didn’t recognize, charred and burnt beyond identification, accusing. Imagination put me where Dmitri once was, standing amid a field of sulfur-ridden corpses and last breaths.
I had failed, between everything then and now, I had failed beyond belief. Failure choked the last of my sobs, and strangled the last of the energy from my limbs as I curled in on myself. The tiled floor was wonderfully, refreshingly cool. The gown loosely on my shoulders was thin— feeling more like cobwebs or dust or a thin settling of snow rather than actual clothes. In some ways, I felt like a corpse, walking around, approximating the fact that everything was fine, that my life wasn’t a gigantic mess.
In some ways, it felt true.
The realization that I’d woken up in a hospital somehow only felt like confirmation— that’d I’d overstepped, that I’d gone too far this time, that I had failed. Silently, I agreed with all the voices. My Shade had been right, I was a horrible failure— I couldn’t even fulfill my Oath to Arthur, I couldn’t even protect him properly like I wanted to. My mother had been right, I was a disappointment— still was, by all accounts— and unable to fulfill the most basic of her requirements. I deserved to be abandoned for everything I’d done.
I tried to comfort myself again, but this time, they came back with barbs. You’re being overly emotional. Get a grip on yourself. Your mother was right, you just have to do better. You always have to do better. Stop crying. It’s a waste of time and energy. You can’t afford to waste your time.
Slowly, achingly, repeating my silent lies into the darkness of the room, my breaths slowed, the tears stopped streaming, my body settled into an age-old ache, and I silently lay on my side, brittle and spent. I didn’t entertain the possibility that my mother had been wrong. I shot it down like I had years before. My mother had a fair eye at assessment, and my actions had only proved her right with every passing breath. Even I wasn’t blind enough to dispute the logic behind it. My Shade wouldn’t be incorrect— she knew me better than anyone else alive, and for all her flaws, she never lied.
In her own twisted little way, she loved me. Like my mother, she loved me and only wanted the best for me. She’d nettled and needled and nestled like a thorn until my energy had been directed towards bitter anger rather than horrific sorrow. Though— that attempt had fallen through like soggy parchment. The emotional turmoil slowly left me, abandoning me on the floor to my own other, unproductive thoughts.
It’ll be okay, I whispered to myself, it’s for your own good. She just want what’s best for you.
What happens next? The question came back again.
My shoulders slumped, my fingers lacked the energy to close or open, instead laying limp beside my face, hazy in my vision. My breath felt shallow against the floor, and the pain in my body became a distant thing. I laid there for several minutes, unwilling to get up.
Exhaustion slowly settled in.
Numbness clung like spiderwebs to my bones, draping across my limbs like a frozen blanket, tying me to the floor. I knew that I shouldn’t continue laying on the floor, but my mind clambered through muck, unable to muster additional reasons to get off the floor. My limbs swam in ice, too numb and too weak to dredge the energy to move.
What happens next? The question echoed again.
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. My answer silently rang in my head.
After some time, I shakily stood, leaning heavily against the railing of my bed, clutching at the pole beside me as I shambled towards the only spot in the room that gave me a change in scenery. Breathing hard, I clambered onto a small ledge beside the window. I nestled into the wall, letting my head rest against the glass. It, like the tiled floor, felt wonderfully cool.
Outside, Tisali slept like it always did. Soft snow blew in from clouds far above, blanketing the bridges in white, coating the rivers and puddles and streets in frost, and drowning the industrious humming and hissing of the city. Steam rose from bundles of chimneys, twisted together from a dozen different homes stacked together like bricks in a wall. Their windows hung like half-lidded eyes, staring down at the streets below, unaware and sleepy. In the far distance, catching the first orange-yellow rays of dawn, the palace sat like a malformed ball of broken spears, a cushion of needles among a mountainous nest of bricks and stone. Below, on the street, I saw Clara and Arthur walk out into the snow. Arthur, a mop of wavy brown hair and feathered red cloak, taking heavy steps besides Clara, who took his hands and said something. There was… some kind of expression on her face that I couldn’t decipher, and without another word, they parted ways.
The sound of a door opening snapped the silence, and a figure in a blue-green gown quietly made their way into the room, holding a basket. My gaze found theirs, and they perked up when they noticed me near the window. They stammered to explain, an expression I couldn’t see on their face, “I did not mean to disturb you. Your things, Lady Estelle.”
I wordlessly nodded and turned back to the window. Their reflection left the basket beside the bed, turned, and left me alone with a quiet click of the door.
What can I even do?
The answer was relatively simple. Many times before, when I was younger, I’d come to similar conclusions, driven into a corner by my own incompetence. Many times before, I arrived at the same destination. Namely, that I’d put off the problem some more, put my head down, and continue the same set of actions that drove me into that corner in the first place.
I guess, in some way, I deserved everything that came at me. It’s hard to feel pity for yourself when you know your problems are the result of your own actions, right?
Pretending that nothing fazed you only worked up until a certain point. After that point, all you’d be left with is everything you repressed. Those emotions dug up your worst thoughts, brandished your worst habits like a knife, and then hollowed you out as they left. Exhaustion filled that void. Exhaustion settled and goaded age-old routine back into practice.
I turned my head, slowly taking in the room again, following Talon’s long-time lesson. Not that I could make out much. Four blurry walls, ivory stone tiling, and a plain off-white ceiling created the rectangular confines of my hospital room. A white curtain set up beside the bed blocked off view of the door, giving some illusion of privacy. On the other side, probably a sink, and the door I couldn’t see. The table sat beside the bed, small and empty. The light above the bed had dimmed excess moonlight poured in. The entrances were the window and the door, which I couldn’t see. The window sat roughly fifty feet above the street. The room was empty of any potential weapons.
Any spell would be too much, I duly noted, and I don’t have my things.
Dimly, I registered that it would be, in fact, very bad if someone found that I had Vitrine crystals among my things, but I lacked the energy to care. I gazed back out at the city. Snow in the distance glimmered, sparkling in the first rays of dawn.
If I am caught and punished, then I deserve it for being stupid enough to be caught.
What will you do? The question rose again.
Again, my answer echoed into the silence. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
My gaze trailed back towards that ornate wooden box. My gaze found the small statue of Dumah in the corner of the room, overlooking everything. I swallowed, sighing, deciding.
Opportunity, I thought, looking at the Vitrine crystals. I still don’t know what to do, but an opportunity.