cascade | kotlc

34. The Goodbye Which Will Be Said

more angst, be warned

- F. K, meanwhile

"If you want to come," Sophie said quietly from the doorway, "the planting is tomorrow. For... you know."

After those words, she stopped and waited.

Faye stares at her hand, inhaling the smell of burning cinders as the Ace of Spades in her palm smolders with electrical power. There are so many volts surging through that sheet of silver, she does not know if it will explode in her face and blast her to smithereens.

Fitz's planting. Surely June would be there, surrounded by her dearest friends and dearest sister and her mom and dad. Surely there would come people, of all ages and fames and everything, all there to mourn the hero's death.

Surely they will weep, until their tear ducts run dry and their cheeks are nothing but water. Surely they will scream out in rage, curse the Neverseen for their treacheries, "I knew they were up to no good!" "Who was it, who did this?" "The persecutor will die!" "Don't let them escape!"

Surely, they will blame her.

No, she cannot go, she cannot bear the eyes of the people upon her, more intense than all the thunderbolts in the sky. She cannot bear the stares, the gazes, the roaring and clamoring of the crowd, it is your fault, so you will be punished; the sinner is brought to her knees by justice, and it is a victory.

She can imagine how her own friends would react, what fit of anger may take over June, and perhaps she would draw her gun and the bullet would come ricocheting; and she knows she cannot deflect that shot.

It would hit her dead center, perhaps, blast into her chest and shatter her ribs, and she would sink to her knees, and perhaps the people would even celebrate as June fired another shot, then another, and stood over her sagging self, and June's lips would instictinvely curve up, and then Faye would only see the barrel of her pistol; gunshot, and then she would only feel the beating of her heart, slowly fading in a decrescendo, until, beat, beat, and it fell still and died.

No, she cannot go to the planting. The people may hate her more, but they already did, and frankly, she was used to it.

"No," she murmurs to Sophie. "Go... go away."

Sophie's eyes drop to the ground. "Are you sure?"

Yes, Faye could see what would happen; the crowd would approach her, silent but rumbling, a thundercloud brewing a massive storm, and they would be armed, of course, any sane elf these days were armed with a melder; and although she was a Charger she certainly could not take those pressurized blasts to her chest, and she would fall, paralyzed, and then her muscles would shrivel and the overflow of electricity would permanently damage her.

"They hate me now," she mumbled miserably. "I- I'm sorry. I want to go, don't get me wrong, but... I don't- I don't- I can't. It's my fault. They'll- she'll- blame me. For him. I don't- I don't know. I'm... so- sorry."

Her lips stinged of static, and her eyes were blurring.

"It's not your fault," Sophie whispered.

"Stop. You- you know it's- my fault. I... I let him go, June- June blames me, it's my fault, I- why- can't- I don't- know. I'm..." She sighed, curling up into her own ball. "Please go."

The silver knife. The vial of soporidine. The Ace of Spades, so dangerously close to her wrist, to that vein, and yet she still cannot make the move.

Sophie's eyes are wide, as if she is listening to her thoughts.

The thought, the panic, the pain, though she did not inflict the pain. The regret, the frustration, the annoyance, the drumming of her heart.