6 – 4

The focus of conversation shifts. Edith, Clarke, and Agnes are deciding on the best way to inform the knights of Fort Tanner that not only have the Windrunners seem to have returned, but also that they started the fire that nearly destroyed Valdenwood. Edith's notion, that a missive and the torn-ragged scrap of cloth in my hand will be enough, is one her grandmother shares. Clarke's opinion seems to have been formed at least in part by Agnes' reaction to my discovery, for she thinks that it would be best if someone took the message to the Fort personally. She looks to me for validation, which she would otherwise find, and easily.

Here and now, there's none to be found. I am up to my waist in a mire of indecision, caught between the desire to uphold my people's tradition and the urge to complete a spirit-given task. It seems a simple choice to make, and I should think it is one. Yet here I sit beneath a clear and cloudless day, in clear sight of the goddess as She bathes the late afternoon with warmth and light. I am sinking, failing and having failed to choose. I see hurt flash in Clarke's eyes. Now the stench of guilt layers thick over the muck.

This is not a test. My belly twists into a knot, the damp itch of my clothes drags unpleasantly on my skin. It's a torment, a punishment, given by the accursed moon for the failures that have thus far illustrated my walked and walking road. I close my eyes and curse Him from the depths of my troubled heart. I hear Agnes murmur something to her granddaughter and leave, saying nothing to Clarke or myself.

If I were to open my eyes and look, what would I see in the gazes of those who remain? In steel-gray and open-sky blue, what feeling would be there as they look at me? By my silence, I've hurt Clarke. It may be that I've done so badly enough that she's no longer willing to associate with me. I dare not think of what I've done to the fragile, growing attraction she has for me, planted like seeds in a garden. Have I soured the ground?

In Edith, I know not what I'd find. Maybe it would be nothing beyond patience, a supporting wait for me to discover what it is I mean to do next. Maybe it's the opposite, and she can longer bear sitting around and waiting for an indecisive and foolish coward to know her own mind. Most likely, I should think there'd be a kind of bemusement, a puzzled twist of her mouth in the face of continuing what she considers a matter settled.

I won't know, for either, until I look. It takes more courage than I thought. Somehow I missed Clarke's hand leaving my hip, her arm sliding from my waist, as she pulled away from me. She's not far gone, less than a foot of space between us on the bench. It seems like miles. Seems I'm right, at least in part. Something bitter settles into the corner of my mouth and pulls my lips into a small, wry quirk. I don't want to see if the hurt I caused is still there.

I'm only half right. Edith is looking at us with a kind of bemusement, along with no small amount of impatience. There's something else beneath it, just there in how she looks me over and takes me in. It's a concern, I should think, but I don't know what about. Not until she asks me, “Ye alright? Lookings fairly troubled, there. Shouldn't ye be happy's?”

I feel the weight of Clarke's gaze on my face. My own, I keep on Edith. “I...” I say, and how I struggle to find the right words. In the end, it all just spills out; words tumbling end-to-end from my mouth in a confessional deluge. I find that I can't look at anything but the tabletop, where my hands are wrapped around each other, the scrap of cloth trapped between my sweating palms. I finish it by pushing these last words past the knot in my throat. They come out hoarse, and true. “I – I don't know what to do.”

From my side comes a sound, a gentle breath in of sudden understanding. The bench beneath my rocks in place as she scoots closer to me. Her hand touches my face, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “Will you look at me, Zira?” Clarke asks. Her voice is soft, rousing a stab of pain in my heart. I do, and she is so close.

“I don't...” I whisper. My eyes blur and burn, and I close them hard. I'll not spill a single tear. I won't. Clarke's other hand slides into my damp hair. Her nails scrape shivers across my scalp as she cups the back of my head in her palm. She presses our brows together, as I once did to her. Is it the same promise?

“I know,” she answers, breath warm on my face, just as quiet as I. There's weight in those small words. “I know.”

She loosens the knot in my throat, enough for me to ask, “How do – how am I – how?”

She says nothing and holds me tighter, closer, enough that our noses touch. It's answer enough. Edith, across the table, says nothing. She watches, that I feel, but does nothing. I resent her for it. That sour feeling pools on my tongue and I clench my teeth against the urge to snap and snarl at her, to demand from her anything beyond 'that ye done, as far as I'm concerned'.

I breathe in, drawing deep of the autumn afternoon's cool air and the smell of Clarke's ink-dark spill of hair. I do it once more and again, until I can open my eyes. The smile that greets me is a small glimmer in open-sky blue. My lips curl upward.

I choose.

- - -

Clarke releases me, fingers trailing down my cheek and the line of my jaw, nails dragging against my scalp and the knots in my drying tangle of hair. I catch her hand in my own as she lowers it, giving thanks in a soft press of palms. That smile in her eyes moves to her mouth, leaving behind some mix of satisfaction with herself and pride in me. I say, “I think – Clarke's right. Someone should go to the Fort.”

Edith eyes the lack of space between myself and Clarke. There's something wistful in her manner, some small amount of envy as well. She says, “And I supposes yer volunteerings?”

I swallow. The knot in my throat may be gone, but some thorny remnant of it still seeks to choke me. What I manage to answer with is, “I am.” Both she and Clarke know what it costs me. In as little time as it takes to speak two words, I've turned my back on my people. I've brought shame to the lessons of my mother, her mother, and myself. My choice is made, spoken into the world beneath the goddess' watchful eye. Will I ever know if I chose rightly? I clear the last of the thorn from my throat. “I'll do it.” I say. “I'll go.”

Clarke's palm slides into mine. Our fingers entwine, sending a warm rush up into my heart. From the corner of my eye, I see a band of pink cross her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, so the feeling must be similar for her. Neither she nor Edith say anything about what I'm turning my back to. For that, they have my love. It pulls at my mouth until I smile widely and foolishly at them both. The band of pink on Clarke deepens and darkens into a red that runs a thrill through my silly heart. Edith rolls her eyes fondly, a twitch in the corner of her mouth.

Then it's gone, and she's laying her palms flat against the table. “Right,” she says, “it's two days by carts to Amberdusk, and from there another half-day's walk ups to the Fort. First thing's yer needing is a carts heading that ways. Foods, of course, Gran'll stuff yer packs. Tents, maybes,” she muses, dropping her chin into her palm. I press my lips into a thin line to hide my amusement. Clarke does no such thing. “I'll have to sees if one can be scrounged ups.”

She goes on, and on occasion allows the rest of us to contribute. As the time rolls away and the sun sinks to Her evening rest, people begin to gather in the town square. Sweating, tremble-armed hammerers and sawyers walking next to soot-stained barrowmen. Carters with tack draped over their shoulders trail behind, having stopped to put their lathered mules, horses, and donkeys into a well-earned bag of feed. By the steady flow of baskets and buckets from the lake, it looks like fish for dinner. Already the scaling and gutting begins, children and adult alike wielding keen blades with sure fingers.

Not a single eel, though. I take care to look at each fresh catch as it's brought in, make sure with my own eyes. If that takes me away from paying attention to my friends for a time, it's a price I'm willing to pay. Once I'm satisfied that I won't be consuming any slime-covered, needle-toothed, water-worms for dinner, I turn back to see a very poorly-concealed look of amusement on Edith's face. In front of that, and the flush of embarassment on my own, I can only ask, “What?”

She shakes her head and pretends at innocence. All well and good, though I should think she'd have more success if I couldn't see her true feeling writ large across her face. “Nothing,” she says, for which I give her a withering look. Confronted with its power, she relents. “Yer particulars about yer foods, is all.”

“And why shouldn't she be?” Clarke comes to my defense. Though, it is lessened somewhat by the waver of laughter in her voice, held well in check. “A whole meal might be ruined! I can't think of anything more terrible.”

Neither can I, which is why I was looking in the first place. Even so, I know when fun is being had at my expense. I'm an eldest sibling. I narrow my eyes at the pair of them in turn. First Edith, then Clarke. They both look over-proud of their own wit. “You're not funny,” I say, as a upward twitch settles into the corner of my mouth.

Edith presses her lips into a thin, pale line and shakes her head. I suppose it's possible she disagrees, but I should think she isn't. Knowing when someone else is right is one of her highest qualities. “Nothing funny's about it's, being honest.” she eventually says, proving me right.

“Not at all,” Clarke agrees from my side. I roll my eyes and give up. The sly smile that's been waiting for its chance to do so spreads across my lips. While there's little about my sensible dislike of eels that's openly humorous, we still find some amount of laughter to share between the three of us. Maybe, it's from the loose giddiness of moving past all that strong, heavy feeling from before. Maybe, it's from knowing that tonight's meal may be one of the last we share together for some time, and that we should find whatever pleasure in it that we can.

Or, perhaps, it simply is that comical.