Those Who Would Not Be Gods

1. Loss: Edith

-Three years ago-

Her shadow swirled around her like dropped ink blossoms in water. Shapeless tendrils slid over the floor. The whorls and bumps of the wooden floor stood out in sharp relief, full of nooks and crannies for Edith to get lost in. Eyes shut, her shadow was her only way to see, to feel, to know. She twined up four tall pillars, brushed the flat surface where they met. A chair. She searched on. Across the room, ribbon-thin filaments found a crack and sunk inside. They expanded instantly as they met more shadow, the feedback too much for her to handle. Strange shapes of all sizes, sharp edges and rounded orbs and—the cabinets, she realized. The cabinets, and all their plates and bowls.

She reached out with a tendril to pick up one of the cups. Her shadow didn't respond. Swallowed by the larger shadow of the cabinet, hers had lost its shape and purpose. She bit her lip and furrowed her brows, focusing all her magic on the cabinet. An ache started up in the back of her head, warning her: too much, too far. Edith pressed her lips together and pushed. A little further. 

Slowly, a tendril reformed and wrapped itself around the cup. She bit her lip and focused, forced herself to only feel the cup, the chip on its lip, the grain of the pottery, the way it swung, heavy end down, as she lifted it. It felt like a thousand pounds. Her shadow trembled under the weight. The rest of the cabinet pushed against her focus, begged her to play with its shadow, too. How close am I to the plates? She didn't want to chip them when she set the cup down.

Her shadow faltered. The cup slipped halfway out of her grip and rattled against the door. Startled, Edith snapped back to the cup and tightened her focus. Just the cup. Its weight, its whorl, its texture. Her grip tightened, and the cup steadied

Edith rubbed her nose and scowled. Her magic had never been this weak. It was the war. The war, and her mother.

What if they see? What if they take you away? Edith, you're too young. You're not yet twelve.

She pouted and curled the tendrils tighter, squeezing the unseen cup. I'm old enough. Nearly twelve. Griffon is fighting, and he's not even a year older. I can fight. I can even use magic! If anyone can help defend Ardeu, it's me.

The door flew open. Edith jumped and slammed her hand down. Her shadow retreated. With a hollow, high tock, the cup struck the floor. She winced, then slowly looked up. Her mother stood in the doorway. Her eyes were fierce, and Edith tensed. She knows I was using magic.

"Room. Now," her mother snapped. "Under the bed. Don't move until I get you."

Edith opened her mouth, but the way her mother's eyes blazed told her not to ask questions. She shut it and darted into her room. Quickly, she squirmed under the bed, disturbing dust bunnies. Her mother closed the door behind her quietly, as if she was afraid to make a sound.

The bedroom latch didn't catch. The door slid open. Edith held her breath and stared out at the kitchen. What's going on?

Every line of her mother's body stood out. Her teeth and fists were clenched. She glanced toward the door, then back toward the kitchen, took a step, paused and stopped herself, turned to the door again. What's she so afraid of? Edith shivered, though she didn't know why.

A heavy knock rattled the door in its frame. Even tucked safely under the bed, Edith jolted with surprise.

Her mother opened the door an inch. Edith couldn't make out what was said, only the muffled sound of conversation. Her mother shook her head once, twice, each motion sharp and measured. Then someone shoved her aside and threw the door wide open.