The gate winked shut and darkness rushed in. Her head was spinning, from knowledge or blood-loss she couldn’t be sure. A step forward, a wobble; the room lurched and she crashed against the wall. Pain flared. She sunk to the floor, pulling herself together piece by piece until she was fairly sure she could stand. The a’dam slipped from her grasp with a melodic clink, unnoticed. Her hand rested heavily on the door handle, turned, opened, and her eyes adjusted to the gloom without.
Early morning light pierced gaps in the drapes, still drawn. Her rooms were cold, and she didn’t have the energy to bring light to the hearth or the ensconced candles. Familiar shadows of furniture loomed, her things strewn about in quaint idleness, unchanged from the day she had left. She was having trouble keeping her balance, blinked her eyes in quick succession to clear her head. Knowing she was finally safe – finally home – tempted her muscles to give in on her, but she couldn’t rest yet.
She fumbled through various drawers, looking for something to bring light to the dimness, found nothing, and so settled for tugging the curtains back from the grand windows. Outside, the sun spread gold fingers over an ordinary day. Servants and a few white-clad novices milled about in the grounds below, the earliest of the early risers already scurrying about their business. More wooziness hit her, and she turned away.
It took her some time to find a mirror; lacking much vanity, there were not many in her rooms, aside from those that had been part of the furnishings when she moved in. She shied from her own image, turning so that she could view the gory mess of her arm. The blood had congealed, sticking her torn flesh and the tatters of her sleeve together. She peeled it off painfully, and shrugged the garment from her shoulders, admitting silently to herself that the addition of maid would have made the effort considerably easier as she struggled to ease it over her hips with the aid of only one arm, and that with her already scarred hand. Eventually she was able to step out of the material pooled at her feet, fingering the sore skin while investigating its image in the mirror.
It would need Healing, unless she was willing to bear another scar. All Accepted learned herb-lore, and there were books she could use to assist cleaning and sewing the lesion closed, if she could reach where it sat on her shoulder.
She was trying to concentrate, to ease the tide behind her eyes, but suddenly realised there were tears on her cheeks. She stared at herself, at that escaped weakness glistening in the dawn-light, and then brushed them away. More spilled in their wake, pooling on her lashes faster than she could wipe them from her cheeks. Emotion stirred dangerously, until she relented, pressing her hand over her face. Behind the curve of her palm the tears flowed unrelenting. Her sobs were so quiet, barely even there, but Malaika had not shed tears in years – had never felt so out of control.
She turned away from her reflection, unwilling to witness her own distress. There was no relief in the release, just a profound outpouring of sadness that flared then died to a simmer when eventually the tears slowed and stopped. After control returned, she brushed her hand over her head, pushing back the strands of silk-black hair stuck to the clammy remains of her grief. She sniffed, breathed deep, looked up at the ceiling. She couldn’t even be sure what had made her cry; Chakai and all the pain, old and new, bundled up with his memory? The damane she had killed, with a weave she had promised herself she would never use again? The sister she had sought to save, only to find she was a leash-holder and nothing akin to the memory she had cherished her whole life through?
My life has crumbled before, and I have rebuilt it. And she was stronger now. Not without her flaws, but still stronger. The throbbing in her arm brought her back to the physical world, and the chill that pebbled the flesh beneath her shift. She could not go to the infirmary in this state – was at loath to see anyone at all in this state – but it was necessary. She would wash her face, cool the remains of the tears from her cheeks, then she would change her shift and find a robe that would allow comfortable access to her wound without compromising her modesty. Then she would get to work.
Once those things were completed, the methodical routine of it like a balm to her distress, Malaika settled into her favourite chair. Her eyelids felt like they had weights on their lashes, and she relented to letting them drift shut over her swollen eyes. Sleep beckoned a seductive escape from the dark nest of thought and regret squirming like tangled thorns in her mind. Her arm felt cold like it no longer even belonged to her, the pain so hot it was like ice in her skin. The limb was heavy, dragging her down, down, down, and it was a moment before she realised her dreams were invading reality.
Early morning light pierced gaps in the drapes, still drawn. Her rooms were cold, and she didn’t have the energy to bring light to the hearth or the ensconced candles. Familiar shadows of furniture loomed, her things strewn about in quaint idleness, unchanged from the day she had left. She was having trouble keeping her balance, blinked her eyes in quick succession to clear her head. Knowing she was finally safe – finally home – tempted her muscles to give in on her, but she couldn’t rest yet.
She fumbled through various drawers, looking for something to bring light to the dimness, found nothing, and so settled for tugging the curtains back from the grand windows. Outside, the sun spread gold fingers over an ordinary day. Servants and a few white-clad novices milled about in the grounds below, the earliest of the early risers already scurrying about their business. More wooziness hit her, and she turned away.
It took her some time to find a mirror; lacking much vanity, there were not many in her rooms, aside from those that had been part of the furnishings when she moved in. She shied from her own image, turning so that she could view the gory mess of her arm. The blood had congealed, sticking her torn flesh and the tatters of her sleeve together. She peeled it off painfully, and shrugged the garment from her shoulders, admitting silently to herself that the addition of maid would have made the effort considerably easier as she struggled to ease it over her hips with the aid of only one arm, and that with her already scarred hand. Eventually she was able to step out of the material pooled at her feet, fingering the sore skin while investigating its image in the mirror.
It would need Healing, unless she was willing to bear another scar. All Accepted learned herb-lore, and there were books she could use to assist cleaning and sewing the lesion closed, if she could reach where it sat on her shoulder.
She was trying to concentrate, to ease the tide behind her eyes, but suddenly realised there were tears on her cheeks. She stared at herself, at that escaped weakness glistening in the dawn-light, and then brushed them away. More spilled in their wake, pooling on her lashes faster than she could wipe them from her cheeks. Emotion stirred dangerously, until she relented, pressing her hand over her face. Behind the curve of her palm the tears flowed unrelenting. Her sobs were so quiet, barely even there, but Malaika had not shed tears in years – had never felt so out of control.
She turned away from her reflection, unwilling to witness her own distress. There was no relief in the release, just a profound outpouring of sadness that flared then died to a simmer when eventually the tears slowed and stopped. After control returned, she brushed her hand over her head, pushing back the strands of silk-black hair stuck to the clammy remains of her grief. She sniffed, breathed deep, looked up at the ceiling. She couldn’t even be sure what had made her cry; Chakai and all the pain, old and new, bundled up with his memory? The damane she had killed, with a weave she had promised herself she would never use again? The sister she had sought to save, only to find she was a leash-holder and nothing akin to the memory she had cherished her whole life through?
My life has crumbled before, and I have rebuilt it. And she was stronger now. Not without her flaws, but still stronger. The throbbing in her arm brought her back to the physical world, and the chill that pebbled the flesh beneath her shift. She could not go to the infirmary in this state – was at loath to see anyone at all in this state – but it was necessary. She would wash her face, cool the remains of the tears from her cheeks, then she would change her shift and find a robe that would allow comfortable access to her wound without compromising her modesty. Then she would get to work.
Once those things were completed, the methodical routine of it like a balm to her distress, Malaika settled into her favourite chair. Her eyelids felt like they had weights on their lashes, and she relented to letting them drift shut over her swollen eyes. Sleep beckoned a seductive escape from the dark nest of thought and regret squirming like tangled thorns in her mind. Her arm felt cold like it no longer even belonged to her, the pain so hot it was like ice in her skin. The limb was heavy, dragging her down, down, down, and it was a moment before she realised her dreams were invading reality.
![[Image: cherry-blosson.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/cherry-blosson.png)