Arc 6: They Who Run

6 – 1

“It matters not how the waters reach. They'll never catch the wind.”

-Merigold Thresh

- - -

The shattered, crumbling corpse of the Alderwood Fishery lay where it once stood tall and now falls to pieces: right on the very shore of Lake Viara. Its roof, once two-stories high, now spreads across the floor below in a sprawl of huge, blackened timbers. The jagged, broken ends spearing through wood and earth with ease, each driven deep by the force of their own weight. Some had crushed the fishing boats that bobbed at rest in the pair of berths the roof once sheltered, tangling in sailcloth, net, and wire to sink ever deeper into the soft, accomodating silt of the lakebed. The crates that had been full of salted fish and left to cure were burned away. What they left behind were ashen hills of scale, bone, and metal that clung to where they were lumped with such tenacity that they had to be scraped away with the blades of shovels.

“Mind your step,” I warn Edith, as we leave behind the spectacle of Harlan's scolding. Though much has been cleared in the days since the fire's drowning, much remains. It's been a handful of minutes since we arrived, and in that time I've counted just as many upturned nails and screws, each one waiting to bite deeply into the arch of an incautious foot. Though I picked up all of those, starting a collection of cold, sooty metal in my palm, there must be more I haven't seen.

Edith hums and stops, looking up at the fishery wall. Broken and breaking, it still rises high enough to cast a shadow over us. The second floor is gone, all that remains to show its existence are the stumpy fingers of wooden steps set into this wall. They start just above the ground and stop half an arm's length or so above my head. She hums again as she tracks their ascent with her gaze. I follow her lead, and we stand in silence for a moment with the echoes of scolding and poorly-hidden laughter around us. She asks, “What are we lookings for?”

I shrug and turn to look at the berths, with their slowly sinking piles of debris. How hard is it to build a boat? To stitch a sail, or weave a net? Will whoever owned that boat be able to get back out on the waters? Will they even want to? “Something strange,” I answer.

The furrow of her brow deepens. “Strange hows?”

“I don't know,” I say. Frustration starts to bubble up my throat. It makes me want to snap the ends off my words, stomp, and shout. I swallow it, back down to my belly where it burbles and turns to heat. “Something...that doesn't fit, or make sense.”

“And ye thinks yer gonna finds this here?” Doubt in her crossed arms. In me, too.

Some of that heat escapes and rises into my tongue. “I just said I don't know!” It comes out fast and loud, sure to draw a curious eye from those around us. Edith's eyes go wide as she's struck by my words. “I'm just – I'm here, and I'm looking! The least you could do is –”

Steel-gray eyes narrow and flash, their knife's edge keen. Feet plant, shoulders round. The fire on my tongue is in my blood. “–is what?!” she interrupts. If she means to argue, I'll gladly oblige. “Help? M'here, aren't I's? Looking 'round right besides ye, aren't I? Waste o' time to be's looking here.”

“Oh, is that so?” Sarcasm lays sour on my tongue as I speak, anger's spice following behind. The realization that she's right is a distant one, pushed away by the release of this. This place is a ruin. All that's left behind are bones. Nothing more will be found here. “And where would you suggest we search?”

“Wouldn't.” she growls, voice a grind of stone low in her throat. “Better uses o' our times than that. Spirit wants ye to find somethings? Maybe it ought to have tolds ye what 'fore sending ye off.”

My eyes start to prickle and burn. Hot, bitter frustration threatens to spill out. “I know!” My voice is hoarse, my throat thick. I sniffle as I breathe in. I'll not cry. Not here, not for this. I seal my lips into a thin line and swallow the knot that strangled my words. There's nothing else for me to say. She's right. It damn well should have. Now, I argue with one of my closest and only friends.

I turn away. Look at the lake, out at the blue-deep waters. The wind's strong enough out there to break choppy, spray-capped little waves across the surface. Further out, white sails gleam in the autumn sun's blessed light, the ships they're masted to little more than brown smudges. Has word reached the rest of the Lakeshore Towns? Do their denizens know of Valdenwood's burning?

I watch their merry track from right to left until I feel a small, strong hand touch the small of my back. The sounds of work are picking up behind us. We must have been shouting, or near-to it, at the end. “It really should've tolds ye where to look,” she says quietly. My lips curl up, just at the corner, and I snort.

- - -

Someone's coming our way, their steps light and tentative. The knot in my throat trails an acid-sting behind on its way down. From the corner of my aching eye I see Edith look over her shoulder and give a tiny shake of her head. The footsteps stop. I don't want to look. Not yet. The waning embers of that bitter heat in my blood still glow and crackle. I can't name why, but the sight of the lake, with its little waves and cheerful blue, helps to cool them faster. Maybe it's the memory of when I touched it with a sense that was not touch and felt its mind, the slow currents of its gentle, inexorable thoughts, press against my own. Maybe it's the simplicity of the sight, so far removed from the complexity of all this.

Or maybe it's just beautiful.

Edith steps away, trailing her hand across the small of my back as she goes. I breathe in deep and push the heels of my palms into my aching eyes before letting it out. It was wrong of me to speak to her so, to let my confusion and frustration get the better of me. I blink the spots from my eyes and look down at the sodden pile of sinking debris that was once a whole, floating fishing boat. Half of it remains above the gentle lap of small waves, while the sight of the rest is obscured by the ripples in the clear surface. Truly, a tangled mess of things.

Clarke starts the quiet talk between her and Edith by asking, concern and growing worry clear, “What was that about?”

So it was Clarke. That's almost worse than a stranger. I'm not attracted to a stranger, nor do I have much a care that they think well of me. Now, and once again, I must add embarassment to my feelings. Edith answers, “Lost our tempers a touch, is all's.” There's regret on her tongue, which is both odd and sensible. Odd, because she has already given her apology. Sensible, for it takes two to argue.

“Yes, obviously,” Clarke says, dry and sarcastic. It's not a new sound from her, but one I've not heard in a while. How she makes it sound so good is a mystery. “But about what?” I watch the gnarled sailcloth billow below the rippling surface in the push-and-pull of those little waves. Edith explains herself, and me along with it. With the embers cooled and the heat gone, it's very clear how much we made sows of ourselves. When it's done, all Clarke can seem to say is, reluctantly, “Well, you...you do have a point.”

I smile wryly and crouch to trail my fingertips through the water. The ripples I make clash with those of the waves, splashing up little teardrops at the places they clash.

That's when I see it.

A scrap of cloth, so much smaller than the sail it hides beneath. Dark where the canvas is pale, and torn ragged where the other is wholly intact. I narrow my eyes to better see as Edith says, “I knows,” and sounds just a touch smug about it. Does the light decieve my eyes, or is there some design embroidered on my little scrap?

I'm going to find out. Sit down to start unlacing my boots, pull them off to roll down my socks and stuff them in the now-empty heels. My feet are in the water when Clarke asks, “Zira? Wh – what are you doing?”

Look up. Both she and Edith have near-identical of confusion and growing worry on their faces. Behind them, people are back at it with the demolition and clearing. Harlan's back to leaning against his cart and pretending he's well enough to be out. I jerk my chin at the water, hands braced to drop myself in. “There's something down there,” Meet their eyes to say, “Something strange.”

“Oh.” says Clarke, as realization dawns.

“Oh?” says Edith, doubtful brow lifting.

I hum my affirmative and, with a bracing breath, drop into the water. It's cold, clingingly so. My dress, scratchy and sodden, tangles in my legs as I sink. My feet touch the soft, sliding silt of the lakebed before I thought.

In fact.

I stand up, breaching the surface, water up to my chin. Push the flattened mass of hair out of my eyes and look up at a much closer Clarke and Edith. Smile at them, sheepish and cold. “It's – it's shallower than I thought.” I confess.

Edith laughs. “Oh, is that so's?” I nod, and she laughs again. Clarke, mercifully, does not. I see in her eyes and the thin press of her lips how hard she is trying not to. I roll my eyes at them both and take another breath. There's a scrap of cloth somewhere near my feet. It's mine, and I'm going to get it. Back under I go.

It takes two attempts. The silt I kick up with all my rooting around only confuses the issue, but eventually I slap the ragged scrap of cloth onto the wooden floor and heft myself out. It's blue, made darker by its time in the water. The tear is along the top edge, leaving the sides and bottom even. There is in fact a design; a looping whorl of wind rising high over cresting waves. Is this it? What the spirit wanted me to find? If so, why? Further, what does it mean?