7. Lucina #2
My mouth snaps shut, and silence falls. “I’m sorry,” I spit out, unable to bear the quiet. “For what happened to your home.”
“Don’t ever apologize for something you aren’t responsible for,” the Dame snaps back. “It makes you look weak.”
I don’t reply. I don’t agree.
“Alright,” she begins, turning to face me fully. “Do you know how our magic works, Lucina?”
I exhale, my shoulders falling. “Nope.”
She flicks her pointed chin to the field before us.
“Solian magic works in the same way these flowers grow. Our bodies are the soil—ideal vessels for magic to thrive in. The power we inherit is water; it flows right alongside our blood. But it is the sun that we rely on the most. It is the energy source we draw from. It is how we replenish.” The Dame grabs my hand.
“When you Split, you inherit ancient power that has been reborn.” She unfolds my fingers, facing my palm up to the sky.
“Which means it’s untamed, impulsive, and reckless. Like a child. Do you feel it?”
“I did yesterday.” I thought it was anger.
“Let yourself feel it. Pull it to the surface.” She presses her pointer finger into the center of my palm. “Pull it here.”
I blink back at her for a moment, unsure how to even begin that process, but then that rumble starts up again, deep and guttural.
It’s an impending stampede barreling up through my lungs and my chest, scratching its way up my throat.
It twists and curls through my blood impatiently, bubbling like the start of a volcanic eruption.
“Good,” Delia says. “Do you feel in control of it?”
“Not at all,” I grit out.
“It’s controlling you, Lucina,” she says sharply, “and you can’t let it. Only you tell it what to do and where to go.”
My eyes slide shut. “And how am I supposed to do that?” Each word is more strained than the last, my arms and legs heavy with magic. Raw magic. It moves through me so fast that I can’t catch it.
“Talk to it. Treat it as you would any child. Teach it to listen.”
It’s not a child…it’s a wild beast.
But I don’t tell her that.
I keep my eyes shut, digging deep in my gut where that potent pool resides, the surface rippling and kicking up sparks—begging to be set free. I inhale sharply, then sever whatever’s keeping it contained.
And that is my first mistake.
Magic shoots up my spine, pulsing against the back of my throat, wanting to taste the air. It’s too much, too intense, and the well isn’t even empty. There’s more, much more, but nowhere for it to go.
My eyes shoot open, and I vomit in the grass.
Delia frowns, completely unfazed by the contents of my stomach being dumped at her feet. Then she says, “Again.”
I wipe my mouth and take a steady breath. This time, I try to focus on breathing as it bubbles up my spine. I try coaxing it out slowly, but the second I release my hold on it, the magic seizes control of my lungs, my hands, my feet—everything.
My eyes water, every muscle straining against the weight of it. “How…do I get it…. into my hands?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“This is your power, Lucina. Tell it where to go,” The Dame says as if it’s that easy. As if it isn’t taking everything in me not to implode under the weight of it all.
My head spins, and when I open my eyes, the world spins too—
I hurl up what’s left in my stomach.
The Dame watches me curiously now. “What does it feel like?”
I wipe more sweat off my forehead. “It feels like the sun itself is coming up my throat. It feels like I’m on fire.” Her navy eyes narrow. “Is that what it’s supposed to feel like?”
“The only ones that know how your magic feels are you and the ancestors that bore it before you.”
I stare back at her unblinking. “That doesn’t help me.”
“No, but practice will.” Delia relaxes her perfect posture, settling in as if she has nowhere else to be. “Again.”
My brain is mush when Delia finally lets me leave. Chiaros, the sun hasn’t even fully risen yet and I’m fucking exhausted. Again, again, again, it’s all she said. I’m convinced it’s the only word she knows.
By the time we’d finished, I’d managed one good try at maintaining control, and even that attempt ended with me dry heaving over the grass. My power feels like a parasite trying to rip its way out.
A stupid and childish thing—magic. I don’t understand the appeal.
I could have stayed in the shower for ages, the icy water cooling my flushed skin, but my stomach is growling loud enough for all of Pirn to hear.
I braid back my wet hair and step back out into the rising heat, the sun finding my shoulders in the heather grey tank top I’d pulled on—courtesy of Gemma.
Devon is waiting on the porch to escort me to breakfast, and he’s angry about it. Of course. “Still scowling, I see,” I observe in a tone that’s dead flat, and he huffs…like a bull…then stomps down the porch steps. “I don’t want this either, you know? To be babysat…I didn’t ask for this.”
He stomps some more, then his temper tantrum is interrupted by Gemma swinging open her cabin door so hard, it smacks against the wood siding. “Wait!” She rushes to lock her door in a sky-blue sundress, her honey blonde hair thrown up in a gold clip.
“What’s wrong with him?” Gemma asks as she approaches, eyes cast to a stoic Devon.
“Don’t know,” I shrug, “he’s giving me the silent treatment.” Devon’s eyes whip to mine. “What? You are.”
He gestures for us to walk, and if my stomach wasn’t in the process of eating itself, I might have pushed back on the silent order, but the sweet smells floating through camp have my mouth watering.
“How’d it go with the Dame?” Gemma asks as we pass the Banyan, finding our way through the herd of people making their way to the Tavern.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Gemma winces, “That bad?”
“I think I hate magic.” Her baby-blue eyes widen as if I offended her. “Sorry, I just don’t get it. It’s painful and overwhelming and—it just sucks.”
“It doesn’t suck; you just don’t understand it yet. It takes time.”
We ascend the wide steps of the Tavern, hand-painted rocking chairs set out along the wrap-around porch of all different shades and patterns. The smell of pancake batter and fresh coffee fills the air, funneling through the large wooden doors that are propped open.
My eyes widen when we step through the doorway. “You eat your meals here?” I ask Gemma, and she grins.
“Mhm, pretty cool, isn’t it?”
That’s one way to put it.
Large stained-glass windows line the walls, sunlight glittering through them, and down on the long wooden tables. Panes of sun rays and swirling stars, the moon and the sea, and…. the Matrons.
The three largest panes along the back wall stretch from the floor to the tall vaulted ceiling.
On the left is Aura, her Elysian Fields, a vibrant green in the foreground, while the image of her has been made of the brightest pieces of golden glass.
Her long waves of nearly white hair and pearl-colored eyes are piercing as the sun pours through them from behind the pane.
A halo of stars rests upon her brow, and the white robes she wears billow out around her.
In the middle is Vita—the Matron of Man. She’s depicted as usual, with two faces: one vile and one pure. One set of yellow serpentine eyes, and one set that shimmers in a liquid silver, reminding me of Delia’s robes.
Or the Captain’s eyes.
The sinister side of Vita is made of colorless glass, and her virtuous twin is made of a warm bronze, like the sun-kissed skin of a Sol. Vita is life and death, dreams and nightmares. She is a shriveled flower and a dying tree, as much as she’s the bud that blooms beside it.
The third pane sends a shiver up my spine.
Pyra—the Matron of the Damned. The keeper of rotten souls. Her planet is home to the passing spirits that Aura doesn’t claim, souls that aren’t worthy of eternity in the Elysian fields. Pyra keeps the savage minds and cold hearts. She keeps the unredeemable.
The image of her is made of glass shards in the deepest grey, blacks, and purples. Her long sheet of raven hair frames her pale skin, nothing but darkness in the sky she stands in front of.
“Don’t stare at Pyra too long or she’ll mark your soul as wicked,” Gemma taunts in my ear, and I jump.
“What a horrible thing to say.” I follow her to the back of the breakfast line, and Devon plants himself right behind me.
I pretend to ignore the lingering stares, wondering if I might always be a stranger here.
How does one even fit in with a community like this?
One that is war-torn and bonded through a shared trauma that I didn’t experience. I’m an outsider. I might always be.
“I had to pull you out of that trance; you were embarrassing me.”
I snort, inching forward with the line. Up ahead, people pile all kinds of food onto trays: eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, pastries…my stomach rumbles like thunder.
“So, I was thinking,” Gemma starts, handing me a tray as we near the start of the line. “You should wear that navy blue set I gave you to Selumira tonight. The top never stayed up on me, but I think you’ve got enough to fill it out—”
“What’s Selumira?”
“Ugh, I forget you don’t know things,” she says with a huff, piling on a hefty serving of fruit. “We celebrate it every month, on the full moon. There’s a fire, a live band, the best moonshine you’ve ever had—”
“Moonshine?”
“Yup, the Hearth witches make it.”
I ponder it for a moment, picking through the bacon in search of the burnt pieces.
I just don’t think I’m in the mood to celebrate anything…
I still don’t feel like I deserve it. “Will the Captain be there?” I ask, and when her brow arches knowingly, I wish I hadn’t. “It’s not like that,” I assure her.
Gemma’s eyes trail back to her food, our trays nearly full. “Sometimes he goes, sometimes he doesn’t. Just depends on what kind of mood he’s in.”