9 – 7

The bramble-beast is dying. Its might, once enough to tear a horse's head from its neck and hurl a wagon-wheel sized boulder through a wall of solid wood, is gone. Now, it struggles to stay upright; leaning heavily on a single, too-long arm while the other paws pointlessly at the sword aflame that impales its body through.

The blade was my doing. The fire, Clarke's. The finishing blow, ours.

The burning spreads. It finds eager fuel in the foul and oozing discharge from the many cuts Milo left behind. Seedling sprouts of golden flame burst from that fertile soil. The sizzle-scorch of this slow and awful death is all the sound there is to fill the grim and wary silence. The bramble-beast no longer screams. It hasn't, since that first and glorious shriek. It staggers as the fire climbs, balance going and strength gone. There's no more lashing of vicious talons or biting of jagged teeth. No more playful cruelty or wicked games. No more but the end.

There's no pity in any part of me, but there is something pitiful in how it falls to the ground and stays there, never to rise again. A wry and bitter smile finds a corner of my mouth to start in. It's almost exactly in the center of the unfinished circle, the one we had meant so grandly to turn into a wall of flame to protect us and hem the bramble-beast in. I'm near its curve, having backed away when the steel's heat rose too high to bear. All this drywood, laid in line and waiting for a spark. Warmth on my body and golden light in my periphery.

It hurts from head-down to bend. Scuffed, tender palms dislike the rough scrape of wood. With both hands filled, I'd have to make a scoop of my folded arms to carry more. I'm not all that certain I can carry any more. Fuel in hand, I limp as near as I dare to the still and burning bramble-beast. There's no blue flame at the heart of the blaze, just the misshapen form I hate and dread.

No. No pity, not from me. I just want it to be over. Underhand toss the pieces in, hear them spit and crackle into light. Watch a bit, wait, and then go back for more. Two pieces at a time, I'll send this thing to whatever hell awaits it. A few spears of moonlight break through the sky's shield of clouds. Good. I hope He's watching. I hope He sees His favored son burn.

On my way back for my third pair of two, there's someone waiting for me. Lavinia has done what I cannot and taken up an armful of drywood. She meets my look with reddened eyes and a lift to her tear-stained face, as if daring me to stop her. The wry smile on my mouth loses some bitterness. She'll be carrying me along by the time we're done.

It's strange. The fire rises, but it doesn't spread. With the heat it's putting off, all the cold and damp keeping the grass from catching should have heated and dried away. More wood lands with a clatter. It's hard to see the bramble-beast's body. Need to squint near-to closing my eyes just to catch glimpse of it. The unfinished circle falls further and further apart. The flames dance high, burn bright, and still do not spread. I'd think more of it, had I any will to.

I drift into Lavinia for the last trip back. There's only a few pieces left. She catches me and keeps me upright with her arm around my waist. Mine, she lifts around her shoulders. She's not as small as I remember. Must've grown during the fight. Blood from the broken scab on my back slides down onto her arm. I feel surprise jerk through her, and hear her gasp when she looks. “You're hurt!” she exclaims, “Zira, you're hurt bad!” I grunt. What am I to say? Everyone is hurt.

My legs start to give on the last few steps. At the sudden shift in balance, Lavinia staggers, which means we both stagger. We almost fall before she gets me seated on the ground. Kind of her, not to let me drop. It'd be a long way down, given how tall we both are. Be another hurt, and I've no room for one more. I sit where I was put and watch the fire dance. No smoke, which is strange, but plenty of sparks and embers. They leap up into the night sky and shine like little stars.

Lavinia wanders off. She tells me not to move first. I wave a hand to tell her I'm going nowhere, and there she goes. Circles around the fire and out of sight. It's hard to hear over the roar, but it sounds like she's talking to someone. Sounds like they're talking back. Sounds a little bit like Milo.

The fire is beautiful. It's warm. I'm safe. Water falls on my hands, sliding through the crevasses of my fingers. Rain? No, too warm to be. I reach up to my cheek and feel the track beneath my fingertips. Tears, then. Why, though? I'm safe. The bramble-beast is dead, its corpse burning in the fire's heart.

It's all my hurts, is why. Has to be. Now's the best time to feel them all, so I do. Every last one, inside and out.

Goddess above, but I am tired.

- - -

A while passes, and I'm not sure of its length. Such a thing as loose and distant as that is of no importance to me. It's hard to keep my eyes open. Harder still to stay awake. I have to, though, until the pyre goes out. Have to be certain, or I'll never sleep a peaceful night again.

It's taking its time about it, though I suppose there is a great deal to burn. Still no smoke in the air, nor any spread. The fire stays right where it began which, while obliging, is more than passing strange. Maybe it's down to how it started: from the pale star in a piece of ice's heart. Those flames of pale blue are now gone, but maybe the rest remembers the intent behind the magic that gave it life.

Maybe it's the sun. Though She slumbers 'til dawn, maybe there is a part of Her in every golden fire, and that part knows what's needed and sometimes, sometimes obliges. I never did get my knife back. So maybe we're just lucky, and that's all there is to it. I'm cold, bruised, and bleeding. Adelaide is on the edge of death, her family not a dozen strides behind, and their home a splintered ruin. I don't know how they're going to get that stone out. I don't know how Clarke is.

Not luck, then.

My eyes ache. I close them, for only a moment. When I open them again, the pyre is lower. Not gone, but going. On the far side of it, Milo staggers to his feet, Adelaide held in his arms. He trembles with the effort of it, in arm and shoulder. She is as I last saw her; having neither changed for better or worse. Clarke and Lavinia stand on either side of him, each of them ready to catch any stumble he should make. His stride is solid and sure-footed as he carries his wife home. Their daughter goes with him, holding Adelaide's hand between both her own.

Clarke, though, she comes to me. She looks like I feel, though without a single injury to mar her. Kneels at my side, hand fluttering and unsure above my shoulder before she lets it land with a gentle touch. Her fingers are long and cool on torn cloth and heated skin. In her eyes is something, some feeling or mix of many that I struggle to put to name. Relief, yes, and also triumph, but there is guilt, too. Worry. Blame. Others. “We should go inside,” she says, and it is a hoarse whisper given quietly. I want to, but what of the pyre? “It'll keep burning,” she reassures me, “you don't need to watch.”

I do, though. I won't be sure otherwise. I mean to tell her that, but what instead I say is, “I'm sorry.” I don't know what for, just that I feel it. With the whole of my heart, I am sorry indeed. She doesn't answer, though tries to several times. Eventually she takes me in her arms and pulls my brow into the curve of her neck. I breathe her in, and she holds me. Shivers run through her, so finely hidden I wouldn't know without being able to feel them. “Are you all right?” I breathe the question against her neck.

She swallows. I feel that, too. Breathes in, short and sharp, bracing herself to lie. She does, and says, “Yes. I'm all right.”

I've no laughter in me, so I snort instead. “No, you're not. None of us are.”

A moment passes, wherein she struggles to decide: keep lying and insist, or stop and admit. It's a physical thing, tension in the line of her shoulders. It stays after she chooses, as if it costs her something to confess, “You're right.”

I lift up my hand. It's dirt-stained and bleeding, and I seem to have torn a nail from its bed. Slide it up the side of her neck and let it curl at the back. She sighs and kisses my hair. The pyre burns lower and lower still. “We should go inside,” I say. She smiles against my brow and calls me a brat. Helps me rise to my feet and leads me back down the torchlit path. They're little more than guttering embers by now.

The steps seem as tall and imposing as the Icewalls to the east. Somehow, I conquer them. The door was left open, and inside I can hear Milo and Lavinia talking. Before I go in, I give one last look to the fire. To the misshapen corpse at its heart.

Fuck you, bramble-beast. We won.

Coda

Adelaide Thorngage woke up. Heavy eyes struggled to open. When they do, she sees her daughter curled against her side, her husband in a chair nearby. Both alive. Both asleep. They're filthy and hurt, and her heart fills with such relief and love that it feels strained at the seams. She traces the curve of her little girl's ear, again and again, until it wakes her up. Her own eyes blink up at her, slow and bleary like Milo. “Mom?”

Adelaide smiles and nods. Words are beyond her, and not needed besides. Lavinia's face transforms into delight, joy, and relief. There's love, too, enough to light up the sky. She reaches up, hand trembling, and touches Adelaide's face. As if she doesn't want to believe it's real. Lavinia says again, “Mom...”

Tears fill their eyes. They shed them together, and the sound of it wakes Milo. He joins them, head bowed over them as if in prayer. His lips move against her temple. He is praying, over and over again.

Thank you, he breathes, O, blessed Goddess, thank you!