Hush, Hushabye

[shosen]

"It's everything we always wanted!" my mother says, looking at the papers in front of her, oblivious to the fact that she has never once bothered to find out what I want. "We'll have the wedding in the spring, oh it will be wonderful!" She stands, the rustling of paper changing to the rattling of metal as the parchment becomes a string of light chains hanging down from her hands. I back away as she holds them out to me, feeling resistance for only a moment before the door behind me flies open and I fall.

The Inn floor is hard, and there's ale everywhere because I dropped the tray when I fell. People are still calling out orders and the Innkeeper is yelling at me again, even though I'd told him I hadn't ever done this before. I want to scream back, want to cry, but I don't. I just crawl to my knees and pick up the broken mugs, because I've already sold everything I took with me when I left, and I need some money if I'm ever going to get any farther than this sea-side dump of a town. Broken pottery weighs down my hands, feeling heavier than the rocks my father had cleared from the last field, and I stagger to my feet, ignoring the orders as I move, so slowly, to the kitchen and push open the door.

I walk into the cathedral, smoothing out the pristine white robes I'd recently earned. There's a young man waiting, his arm bent at an odd angle, pain on his face. His eyes are pleading when I approach, and I make the simple appeal, feel the warmth, and watch as light surrounds his arm and fades to leave it healthy and whole, and it's gratitude in his eyes now, which I like more than anything else. He's saying something, but I don't understand because the words are gibberish, and then they're not even words.

Because he isn't healthy and whole anymore. The gratitude is gone from the now-dead eyes, skin pale and diseased and the Light won't come, no matter what I do, but I can still cause him pain. And I do, over and over, striking out in panic, because he's not the only one. They're all like this, all of them, because nothing we did made a bit of difference. Nothing, except this, striking out, striking them down, and please, oh please stay dead this time. Movement behind me, and I lash out again, but it's a person this time, live and hurting. The priest who brought me here and I hate him forever. More so when he strikes back at me with more force than necessary to subdue a frightened, angry, shattered acolyte, and for the first time I feel how the Light that warmed me can burn.

Sakti's burning and her soul is in a crystal in my hand. There's still fighting around me, Thokdok hitting the troggs, who cry out in guttural tones that I can hardly hear because it sounds like my ears are packed with wool. I'm just standing on the edge, watching the flaming liquid trying to consume the body of my friend. Standing on the edge when it only takes one little step and I too can fall.

I sink beneath the water when I hit the surface and I shudder, too much swimming, always too much. Hate the feeling of liquid closing in around me, covering, cloying, choking, even with the magic that I know should keep me safe. Safe, floating in the midst of the oppressive force around me, stasis. I kick towards the surface with gangly, too-heavy legs, reach the edge and pull myself out. Watch the water drip onto the stone floor, draining from the heavy robes and leaving them stained black.

Black, like the charred body on Faranell's work table. They're cutting away the linen cloth I wrapped around Sakti, and she's not even remotely better because I didn't reach Avenhar in time. Faranell's watching me, hand wrapped around a leash that stretches across the room to the collar on my neck. It’s made of black leather, but it feels heavier than the thick, grey chains that wind themselves around my body. He doesn't tug on the leash, though. He just holds out his hand for the crystal in mine. "Bring it here," he says, his tone coaxing, slimy with false promise, "we're going to make her just like you." And I know why he isn't using the leash, because for one overpowering moment, the need to see just how it's done is so strong that I'm taking the first step towards him all on my own.

I wake to the sounds of drums and the sensation of the swinging hammock. I cling to the sides and stop moving, which is apparently enough to keep it from spilling me onto the floor beside Slootom. I'm in Revantusk, my first trip since those lost days, and right now, I hate this place more than anywhere except the Apothecarium.