4. Vireth #4
I reach for what I need without haste and without secrecy, because there’s no need for either.
I pluck a heel of still-warm bread and shove it into my pack.
Marta deliberately looks the other way as a wedge of hard cheese disappears beneath a fold of cloth.
Suddenly, on the table by the door, there’s a small pile of traveling goods that wasn’t there before: a parcel of dried herbs, a packet of dried fruits, a few strips of smoked meat and salty dried fish, a tiny pot of honey, and a small twist of salt wrapped in paper.
I tuck each item into my pack, well aware that the tears now gathering in my eyes come from the tender care of these hard-working women.
I have been loved here in small, practical ways—a bowl set aside, a joke shared, a knife pressed into my hand without ceremony—and it suddenly occurs to me that I’m not leaving because I was never wanted.
I’m leaving because being wanted in pieces is no longer enough.
The truth is I should have left years ago, when I realized that despite enduring the sideways glances and disgusted whispers, despite my attempts to be patient, kind, useful, palatable…
that Hollowmire might eventually accept me, or at the very least, accommodate my differences.
For a time I told myself I was taking the high road, exhibiting remarkable moral strength and honorable fortitude in the face of adversity.
But really, I was enduring petty torments and slicing off pieces of myself, and numbing the parts that remained.
This afternoon, when Mother chose to lock my door out of some misplaced sense of protectiveness rather than trust my judgment, something in me finally understood what I have refused to admit—Hollowmire will always try to define me in ways that make me less threatening to its comfort.
If my powers are growing—moreso now than they ever did when I was younger and more biddable—then mayhap that isn’t a sign of corruption or destruction, but of growth. Perhaps I’m not unraveling, so much as I am… becoming.
What that is, I cannot yet say.
The postern gate resists and I shove it open with more force than is strictly necessary. The iron latch scrapes loudly, a harsh, unladylike sound that feels deeply satisfying.
Outside, the bog stretches wide beneath a low ceiling of sunset-golden fog, reeds standing up out of the black and green water like porcupine quills. The air is sharp with peat and tannic brine, cool enough to sting my lungs. The forest beyond the bog beckons me.
Then a loud shout sounds from the main hall—swiftly followed by another.
Ah, so they have discovered my absence.
I pause, suddenly overcome with the thought of my mother standing in my empty chamber, taking in the open lock, upturned drawers, and the abandoned bed.
I do love her, just as I love my father and all my sisters, even beneath our petty squabbles—even when they drive me mad.
Perhaps that has always been the most inconvenient truth of my life—that I love fiercely in a place that prefers gentler attachments.
But love is not obedience.
And if this prophecy is real—if there’s something in me that could unmake what I cherish—then ignorance won’t save anyone. It certainly won’t save me.
I adjust the straps of the pack, settling the weight of the book more firmly against my back, and step onto the road beyond the walls.
The mud and mosses cling to my boots as though the earth itself would prefer I stay where I have always been.
Behind me, the castle rises in silhouette against the sunset, its towers sharp against the pink and golden-orange canvas of sky with its scrape of violet clouds, its windows flickering with movement.
For forty years I have waited for someone to tell me who I am allowed to be. Today, I am finished waiting.
Whether the Blight Mother is my fate or my doom, I am going to determine the shape of it myself. I refuse to let anyone else decide who I am allowed to be anymore. And I won’t be contained for the comfort of those who fear what does not bend easily in their hands.
My plans might not be well thought out at this point, but they are mine nonetheless.
From here, I can hear the cry of alarm rise up from the castle, undoubtedly because they have checked all the usual places where the little rot-tainted one would scurry off to and found them lacking. And yet… I don’t hurry.
Now that I am outside, swaddled in the cool embrace of the bog mists, I find a sense of peace I’ve longed to achieve.
It is a peace that only arrives when you accept what your instincts have been trying to tell you for so long.
It is time for a change, Vireth. It is time to find everything you’ve been missing—everything you’ve been wanting.
Find the fortune teller. Understand the prophecy. Make peace, perhaps, with the Blight Mother. Apologize for nothing.
I walk towards the bog, into uncertainty, into whatever waits beyond the treacherous pools, and for the first time in my life, the uncertainty feels less frightening than the life I have left behind.