4 – 9

This is a nightmare.

Valdenwood burns.

Tears well in my narrowed, stinging eyes as the fiercely searing wind blows. I press my palm, scraped and aching from the climb, to the thin-pressed line of my mouth. The burn, in its gluttony, has taken so very much. Those thin, knobbly piers where fathers and sons fished in a transparent effort to spend time together; gone. The sandy beach and its safe shallows, given shade by the boardwalks above, and where play and laughter could be found; gone. That small, distant place near to a tree, where a lost and a magi spent a quiet hour; gone.

That would be damage enough, all those lost moments enough to mourn, but the fire's greed is great, and its hunger insatiable. There is still so much more for it to feed on. It will spread and feast until every last scrap of Valdenwood has been consumed, until there is nothing left to sustain it, and only then will it allow itself to gutter out. This will happen, unless it is stopped. Unless we stop it.

Can we, though? The fire is so much larger than I, even in the depths of my fear, had imagined. Not here, where the efforts of the firefighters have seen the most success and where the fire's advance has been brought to a near-halt, but to the north. If there ever was an effort made in that part of town, it failed well before I came back. There, the smoke rises thickest into the air, the fire burns brightest and highest, and the roaring comes the loudest. What can the three of us, even with Clarke's plan and the lake so cruelly close, do against that?

Small, sturdy fingers wrap around my wrist. Their grip is strong and coarsened by callouses given by harsh soaps and rough cloths. I tear my eyes away from the nightmare unfurling across the north of Valdenwood and look down and to my side, where Edith stands. She stares with her steel-gray eyes open wide. Tears stream clean tracks down the grime on her cheeks as she watches her home burn. I turn my hand in her grasp so that I can grip her wrist in turn. I'm not sure I mean to comfort her, or myself. I hold her as tightly as she does me, which finally pulls her away from that awful and hypnotic sight.

I see the size of what we're up against register. There, in the shine of her eyes, I see that same seed of doubt and despondence take root in her heart. Then I see her crush it. She settles, steadies in a way that I envy and don't understand. How can she be sure? We are three, with only one of us a magi, with a plan concocted in a washroom not ten minutes past! How can she be sure it will work?!

Realization strikes with a gust of searing wind. She can't be. She isn't. She crushes that seed beneath her determined heel and she has no way to know if she's right to. I am Royah. I'm from nowhere, and call it home. She isn't. Edith will see this mad plan enacted, because she knows what will happen if it isn't. It's right there, in eyes like steel. She nods, no more than a jerk of her chin. I'm here, she says with that nod and the grip of her calloused fingers, with you. I think she means to reassure me, to give me some small measure of comfort, and the corners of my mouth quirk upwards. I had meant to do that for her. Perhaps I can give it to Clarke, instead.

Oh, Clarke.

There is a sour, fragile feeling in her blue, blue eyes. I see it in the tight balls of her fists at her sides and the bitter twist of her mouth. I name it envy, and it has no right to befoul her so. Not here, now, or ever. I go to her, dragging Edith along by our clasped wrists as I do. That short gap, which to Clarke's mind must seem a vast canyon, closes in a scramble across the rough, dried-out shingles of the roof. Without thought, I curl my free hand at the back of her neck and pull her to me. Our brows touch, her cool skin touching mine. Her eyes are wide, and close. I am here, my eyes say to hers, I am with you.

For a moment, there is only this.

Just a moment.

Then, Edith wraps her strong, calloused fingers around Clarke's balled fist. The ice, dimly reflective of the firelight, ignites with its own cold, ice-blue light. It burns more furious and bright than I've ever seen, washing a cool, soothing stillness over us all. A shiver travels from where Clarke and I are joined through my body and into Edith's. A second, stronger one follows quickly. Blue eyes gather up and reflect the ice's light. Sure, steady determination grounds a third shiver, the strongest yet, before it can unbalance me.

With her glowing eyes, Clarke asks, are you ready?

I answer in the curl of my hand on her neck, I am.

I am, Edith answers, in the grasp of our wrists.

On that roof where once stood three, now stands one.

- - -

Edith becomes Zira, Zira becomes Edith, and Clarke has to contend with a great deal of confusion as two minds – bodies, hearts, souls – collide with her own. We were not ready, not really, and we flail about wildly in each other's thoughts, colliding with memories significant and insignificant alike. It seems that Edith, or perhaps Zira, has harbored a talent and passion for art. Images of drawings and paintings of increasing beauty, showing scenes of nature and people, cross our thoughts. What follows is a feeling of violation, of a secret unwillingly shared, and a swelling of this-isn't-the-times-or-places-for-this, which Zira, or maybe Edith, agrees is true.

It is then revealed that either Zira or Edith knows full well what it is about Clarke that confuses, intrigues, and befuddles them. The revelation of that, with its nature as secret or not unknown, ignites such a strong feeling of embarassment and shame that it causes us to align. In mutual agreement and desire to move far and quickly away from this, we do truly become one.

Three minds; bodies, hearts, and souls, bound together by a single purpose. We feel the pulse of that icy, pale star as it resonates with all the power we have to muster. It's wondrous and terrifying in equal parts. It – no, we – feel powerful. As if we could step out into the air and rise up into the sky, becoming one of those distant, silver-soft stars. As if we could turn the choked, strangling air to a light, perfumed breeze that smelled of our favorite flowers. As if we could reach out to the flame, of which we are well and truly hateful, and in a single expression of will put it out.

No, that wasn't the plan. We may have been wrong about our power, but we weren't about the complexities of controlling flame. Perhaps we could do it, overwhelm its brutal, gluttonous strength with our own. Perhaps we want to test ourselves against it and see where we stand in comparison.

Perhaps that would end in failure, and worse: death.

The lake, then. Our eyes close, glittering blue frost curling on our lashes. We wrap our bodies in a sphere of protection. The hot wind, the choking smoke, the searing ash, none of it will touch us until it fades. We have dealt with that enough. Using a sense that we did and didn't know we had, much less how to use, we reach out across our embattled home. There is Harlan, seated with his back to the Rest's bar and a blood-spotted handkerchief in his hand. There is Agnes, corralling those still outside and bringing them indoors. There is the boy who yelled at us, told us to flee, who we know is Michael Alderwood.

Past that, out over the waters. We reach for it, and are enveloped, so soft and gently welcoming, that the reveal of its full vastness sends us staggering. Miles and miles of trackless expanse, untouched by even the bravest of ship captains. Islands, small and obscured, hide in banks of fog and graydawn mist. Beneath the surface, sinking for hundreds of feet, is a frigid, crushing depth without light, where only the largest and most dangerous beasts dare swim. Its currents eddy and whorl, crafting waves that roll away beneath us.

It is alive, this lake, in a somnolent, placid way. Aware of us and our presence, yet not roused enough to act it any way. Is there a mind somewhere, dreaming in the dark? If we woke it, would it help us?

We dare not. Even in its careful welcome and sleepy awareness, its power drove us to our knees. Fully woken, its full attention may very well destroy our minds and leave our bodies as hollow shells; living, yet empty. Best to let it sleep. Our thoughts turn to our task, and the best way to complete it. We have one chance, one choice. Whatever that may be, it has to work. If it doesn't, Valdenwood is lost. Our home is lost, and it won't be the fire's fault, but our own.

Rain, then? No. Too complicated, moreso than controlling flame, and we don't know the results of making a mistake. Maybe nothing will happen, or maybe we will create a storm that doesn't blow itself out, that rains and rains until the whole of the Timberland is drowning.

A wave? We could do that. Simpler, certainly, than making rain. The means and method are already in place. All we would have to do is enhance them, drive them to greater heights until a tide of suitable volume and height was driven inward to drown the fire. The danger in this is with the wind. We would need to give it the strength of a gale, and such wind could feed what we're trying to destroy.

The simplest solution may well be the best, for all that it'll hurt like every accursed, moonlit hell. We lift up water, as much of it as we can bear, and carry it over to the worst of the fire. Then, we drop it. What it lacks in elegance it makes up for in absence of dangers to our home. If we fail at this, we can simply try again, lashing our backs to the bone until we get it right.

With that morbid notion, we choose. We gather our power until the silver-trimmed star burns with it, until the air protecting our bodies coats the roof in frost, until the very air hums with magic. With the very fiber of our beings struggling to contain the power we've conjured, we begin. We were right.

It hurts like hell.

Coda

“Mothers of stone...”

Been a long times since Agnes prayed. Been no needs for it. When she lefts home an' all she knews, with way-too-little and way-too-youngs, didn't speaks a single prayer. Knew what she wanteds, an' set abouts makin' it happens. Where's need for gods or prayers in that? 'Sides, turned out fine. Found herself a place to runs and a family to fills her heart. Didn't pray when she's was birthin', either. Shouted a bunch, sure, spat curses fast as her mouth could moves. Nor when she became a gran, when her childs put her child in Agnes' arms. Cried? Betcha. Pray?

No.

Last time's she prayed's the same time she saw her child last. Was smaller'n she ought. Still. Empty. Saw her given back to the stone, in the olds way, like she asked. Prayed then. Cried, too. Longs ago, that was. Those hurts scarred overs well. Since then, been no reason for her to pray.

Prays now, though. All the family she's left in the worlds is up on her own roof. Takings her place in that fool plans them two idiot girls came up withs. Tryin' to save the town. She's seen it built once already's. Could see it done agains, no problem. Lose that girl? No. No. Can't. Not strongs enough. Not enough strengths in the world, her to survive that.

Too old, Agnes is, and knows it. Right nows, hates it. Can barely stays standin', and hates it. Hurts all over, an' hates that too. Let it works, she prays. If someone's gotta go, lets it be me. Don't takes anyone else. Just me. I'm old an' tired. Lets it be me. Please. Please.

Sees somethin' then, draws her rights outta her prayer. Big, wobbly ball o' somethin' just floatin' through the air. Big as the buildin's she's sittin' in, it is. Jaw drops when it reflects light from the flame, way water does. Proof of prayers getting' answers, afloat above the fire.

Big, wide, an' toothy grins crosses Agnes' face. Girls've done it. Done it.

Ball drops. Fire dies.

Mothers of stone.