do you know what you are?
“Can I have them?”, she starts forward.
“Sure… one second”, he drops them, pulls out a flint and steel before she can move.
Click. Woosh.
The gifts are burning. Their souls are burning. Ramsey is there. Flint and steel in hand and the gifts are burning. Water still dripping from his hair from his dip in the river. Drip. Drip. Drip. Into the fire. It evaporates with a sizzle but the fire doesn’t go out. Etoile freezes, mind blank. Tries to run forward but doesn’t move. The gifts are burning and she is frozen in time. As if fire burning had stolen the oxygen from the air, from her lungs, and left the world stagnant. If she squints, she thinks she can see Fiacre’s monocle amidst the flames, the golden metal going red hot. The glass shatters, shards flying from the flames. She thinks one flicks past her face, if it leaves a mark, she can’t feel it. The air is hot. The fire is burning but she is frozen. Numb. It’s so cold. Maya is yelling and so is Chort. The fire goes out, leaving a charred mass of metal, ashes, and other miscellaneous things. Things that once held the essence of the Catalysts. The fire is gone and Etoile can breathe again. She slips back into her skin. Allows herself to think. It feels like a frost.
She wants to find a way to undo it. To fix it. This has always been her first thought. Etoile is a healer. Though her hands are stained red, the perpetual crust of blood under her nails stems more from patching wounds than creating them. Her cracked fingers are far more familiar with the coarse cotton of bandages than the splintered wood of shields, they know the slim head of a needle more than the cold steel of a sword. Etoile is not a fighter. She is a healer. Through it all, she has tried to do good and received nothing but pain in return. She does not know if she can be a healer anymore. She slips out of this skin. Allows herself to mourn. It feels like a storm.
She wants to sink into herself. To fall to the ground. This is her second thought. Etoile is no longer a healer. Her hands are still stained red but she doesn’t quite know what to do with them anymore. Her fingers itch for something to hold, something to remember them by, but there is nothing. It has burned. It lies in front of her in a pile of ashes. She has nothing. Etoile is not a healer. She is a mourner. This is not productive. She does not think she should be a mourner right now. She slips out of this skin. Allows herself to rage. It feels like a hurricane.
She wants to scream to the heavens. To yell of injustice. This is her third thought. Etoile is no longer a mourner. She doesn’t quite know what she is anymore. Her hands twitch at her sides. They itch now for the cold steel of a sword, forgetting the once comforting feel of a needle. Ramsey is gone now but he’ll be back. She will not allow him to hurt her anymore. She snaps back to her body. Allows herself to be. It feels like freedom.
She knows what she is now. No longer a healer. No longer a mourner. Etoile is an omen.
