The Icon Unbound

Chapter Four, Part A - The Icon

So, now we go have a look at what happen's when a person so young become's an Icon. It's not pretty. This was a very tough chapter to write. Though she has gained experience, and she was always an old soul, Mirrah is still very much a confused child. She is bound, so she can't express that confusion any way but inward. Please enjoy my lovelies, and leave me lots of feedback and a vote! --Elizabeth, UPDATED 4/28/2017

It hurt.

The Icon grasped her stomach with one arm as she sipped a strong tea, choked it down, hoping that she could get the pain under control by the time her guests arrived. The herbs in the hot water were strong enough to stiffen her tongue, but she tilted her head back and forced it down, before she choked. She needed to be able to hold herself up before she had to face Saiph again.

Powdered goldenroot, basil, flax, and ginger, with a healthy dash of willow bark scalded her throat again as she took the last bitter sip. Once the medicine took effect, it would buy her a few hours to talk with her guests, perhaps even a walk with them back into town, before even its potent ingredients failed.

Another stab of pain almost doubled her over and she gritted her teeth, counting the seconds untill it passed, squeezing the cup until her fingers hurt. The sharp ache radiated in her lower back and stomach, twisting until she could hardly breathe.

The Icon fastened her eyes on the delicate timepiece on the counter and watched the hands, willing them to circle, willing the medicine to do its job.

Nadir nudged her shoulder with his hard, narrow snout. She looked down at him, trying to clear her face of all expression. His silver eyes looked up at her with something very like human concern in their depths. She could almost see his disappointment too. He had so wanted her to last, and she might be the shortest-lived Icon in history.

"And that's my stupid, selfish fault, isn't it?" She tried to laugh but it sounded forced even to her own ears. Giving up the pretense, she turned to the mirror and examined herself with a critical eye. Outwardly, no one would sense her condition. The veils would make sure of that. No one had seen her bare skin since she put on her first veil eight months after her investiture.

Allowing them to assume that she was normal helped her pretend that it was.

No one could predict the effect the sacrifice would have on an Icon. Each experience, recorded and witnessed by Nadir, was different. No one had known, least of all herself, what to expect when an Icon was made at so young an age. None of her predecessors had been strong, but none this frail either. She was so thin, and small, each bone and sinew delineated clearly beneath her flesh. Even a few children had more weight that she did, and more height as well.

She put a hand on the cold glass of the mirror.

All Icons had skin as cold as snow. After all, they had no heart to make them warm and flush. In no record had an Icon skin that glowed, oh so gently, in the darkness. Hers did. Despite everything she told her people about why she wore her veils, her strange skin had been the most prominent reason.

All Icons were suffered bouts of melancholy, but no previous Icon suffered from such regular, crippling pain. It started as a small, a dull ache. Spots of blood on the sheets, a little more fatigue than usual. Five days out of every thirty, she told the people of Waterwall that she entered seclusion for prayer and meditation.

The truth wasn't nearly so pretty.

If travelers on the mountain hadn't been so rare, she would have waited until a more opportune time to open the gate. But pilgrims rarely came near the waterwall, and by the time more wandered close enough, it might be too late.