Timeline: a Wings of Fire fanfiction (COMPLETED)

15.

Darkstalker

Whiteout and I haven't talked as much as we used to, since I moved out. I tell myself that's all it is. That all siblings drift apart a little.

Clearsight would probably say it has to do with Father's suicide. But it doesn't, I swear. He doesn't get to affect me like that. Whiteout and Mother--no.

No. I refuse to spend any more time thinking about this.

Anyway. I still swing by my old childhood house sometimes, to check in on Mother. Usually, Mother is home, and Whiteout is holed up inside her room, like she has been, ever since it happened.

This time, she opens the door, eyes a little bloodshot, with deep bags that look almost like bruises.

I wonder with a brief flash of rage, when the last time she slept was.

"Hello, Blizzard," she says calmly. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," I say, voice thick with--something. Even I can't tell what it is, exactly. I pull my wing around her. "The sunset's beautiful, right?"

"You're getting married," she says, rather than responding. Her mind shifts a little, threads of orange and gold slipping through the aching silver grief and the heavy grey guilt.

"Yeah. I am. The wedding's in a couple weeks."

"She listens so wonderfully."

I smile a little. "She does. It's one of my favourite things about her, actually."

"But you aren't as good at listening," Whiteout continues. "Not the same attention to detail. Or patience. But she sees it all, doesn't she?"

There's a second of mournful silence.

"You'll never forget me, right?" Whiteout whispers, eyes gleaming in the fading light.

I place my talon on hers. "Of course not. You're my sister. I'll always love you."

"So did the snow."

"That's different, Whiteout--"

"I was not willing to let him hurt me in order to save himself—"

"Whiteout, he was like quicksand, okay? You can't feed quicksand. You can't make it stop sucking. You can't pull other dragons out of it. You can just get away as fast as you can. I know, I was in his head. It's not your fault."

"He was ice, and I did nothing when he said he needed melting—"

My talons clench. He has no right-- "Whiteout."

"Rosemary," she whispers softly, pinching her arm and closing her eyes, as though trying to focus on how much it must hurt. I feel like throwing up.

"Whiteout. He was... he was long gone. It's not our fault, and it's not something we can do anything about. It's just... something we have to live with."

Cold winter wind bites into our scales. I doubt my sister is even listening. Her voice is thick as she buries her head in her talons and whispers, "He cut his own throat..."

I pull her into my wings, rocking her back and forth like a small child, trying my best to be soothing. "Shhh... It's okay. It's okay. You're going to be okay."

Whiteout doesn't respond. Her eyes are glassy. A small keen of pain slips out her throat.

"It's not your fault he died, Whiteout."

Tears pool in her eyes. one slips down her cheek, soundlessly.

"My talons are stained now. Look." She holds out her talons demonstratively. They're covered in crusty blue paint.

"That's just—"

"They're covered in him, Darkstalker. And it doesn't matter what you say. I will never get it out of me."

She turns away.

"Whiteout--"

But even I can tell, from the pulsing, heavy weight of her mind that she isn't listening.

***

"She's never finding out about him," I hiss furiously.

"What do you mean?" Clearsight says, looking up from her pile of scrolls, heaped across the dining table. Even though I'm pretty sure she knows perfectly well what I'm talking about.

"Our daughter." I meet her eyes, lightning flashing in my gaze. "Never." I slam a cupboard door closed, making all the jars inside rattle, clanking against each other.

Clearsight looks a little taken aback. "Darkstalker, are you okay? Did something happen at your house..."

"I'm fine," I snap.

"Well, you're not acting fine," Clearsight sighs.

I stomp down the hallway. She springs up, following me. "And we're going to call her Shadowhunter," I add, growling.

"What?"

"Because I never want to watch this happen to someone else." I hate my voice for going thick, but I can't stop it any longer.

"Darkstalker, wait—" Clearsight calls out desperately.

I slam the door shut behind me, leaning against it, breathing heavily.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.