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annwfynThere are moments in every life when your world changes.
Count them.
One. The afternoon that you hear the screaming of the children playing at the front of the warren as the Escari arrive. The splintering of wood as the door is kicked in. And suddenly you can never go home again.
Two. The instant when the guard grunts as you smash a piece of wood into the back of his head. He drops to the ground unmoving, and you did that. You killed a man. You are not the same person you were before.
Three. The morning after you broke free, leaving two husbands – smart, good men – dead behind you. You sit on a bridge watching the water of the stream freeze beneath you. You are not a water elementalist anymore. That part of you is frozen.
Four. The day you stand in a market surrounded by your family – your new family – the family you’ve built. Not a proper Cinnean family, but a family in conscience, in hope, in the fight to make things better. You look around and two are gone. You don’t know why. You should have known why. But you know that this family is dying too.
These are the moments that you realize that death isn’t instant, doesn’t come all at once. Death comes in breathes, in snatches, in fragments. Death comes as you lose a tiny bit of yourself, trickling out in fragments, coming once and once again.
Breathe in, Trudy. Because there are other moments too.
Count them.
One. The demon raises his sword to cut you down. You could fight back. You should fight back. But then you won’t be you anymore. You drop the sword and open your arms. Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen, after all.
Two. You know that doesn’t make you weak. You still pick up the staff. You still fight to defend the people you’re with. You’ve got Mags and Gidget to worry about after all. But there’s a difference between protecting and just killing.
Three. You are talking to Bob, who, let’s face it, is probably a monster. Almost certainly a monster. Yeah, he’s a bastard. But you talk to him. You say “you make that choice. Every day. You are a monster today but you don’t have to be”.
Four. You see the ocean rise up before you. Turns out you’re going to live another day. And yeah, there will be hell to pay tomorrow. It’s a bad sign when a mission turns into half the resistance trying to kill the other half. But you’ll make it through. And fuck anyone who says you’re weak, who says you don’t understand the way things have to be. That’s bullshit and you know it.
You lift your face to the sun and start to say the words you thought you’d left behind.
“Mother Annata, source of grace.
“Hear your lost daughter. Hear my prayer.”
Who said the world changing was a bad thing, after all?
Count them.
One. The afternoon that you hear the screaming of the children playing at the front of the warren as the Escari arrive. The splintering of wood as the door is kicked in. And suddenly you can never go home again.
Two. The instant when the guard grunts as you smash a piece of wood into the back of his head. He drops to the ground unmoving, and you did that. You killed a man. You are not the same person you were before.
Three. The morning after you broke free, leaving two husbands – smart, good men – dead behind you. You sit on a bridge watching the water of the stream freeze beneath you. You are not a water elementalist anymore. That part of you is frozen.
Four. The day you stand in a market surrounded by your family – your new family – the family you’ve built. Not a proper Cinnean family, but a family in conscience, in hope, in the fight to make things better. You look around and two are gone. You don’t know why. You should have known why. But you know that this family is dying too.
These are the moments that you realize that death isn’t instant, doesn’t come all at once. Death comes in breathes, in snatches, in fragments. Death comes as you lose a tiny bit of yourself, trickling out in fragments, coming once and once again.
Breathe in, Trudy. Because there are other moments too.
Count them.
One. The demon raises his sword to cut you down. You could fight back. You should fight back. But then you won’t be you anymore. You drop the sword and open your arms. Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen, after all.
Two. You know that doesn’t make you weak. You still pick up the staff. You still fight to defend the people you’re with. You’ve got Mags and Gidget to worry about after all. But there’s a difference between protecting and just killing.
Three. You are talking to Bob, who, let’s face it, is probably a monster. Almost certainly a monster. Yeah, he’s a bastard. But you talk to him. You say “you make that choice. Every day. You are a monster today but you don’t have to be”.
Four. You see the ocean rise up before you. Turns out you’re going to live another day. And yeah, there will be hell to pay tomorrow. It’s a bad sign when a mission turns into half the resistance trying to kill the other half. But you’ll make it through. And fuck anyone who says you’re weak, who says you don’t understand the way things have to be. That’s bullshit and you know it.
You lift your face to the sun and start to say the words you thought you’d left behind.
“Mother Annata, source of grace.
“Hear your lost daughter. Hear my prayer.”
Who said the world changing was a bad thing, after all?
