34. Elena #4
She raises her half-filled glass anyway and takes a slow sip. “Solves some things.”
I sigh loudly. “Look. I can manipulate the surroundings, the people present, but if something appeared in what you saw, it had to come from somewhere.”
I know that isn’t entirely true. It’s something I keep telling myself when I question whether this new gift is one I should even possess.
I’m starting to wonder if everything the stone has bestowed upon me at this point are even gifts.
Maybe these abilities never were.
At first, having the ability to see past and future events seems harmless. An opportunity to do good. Change events that could bring harm to others, and yes, prevent any further destruction for those I love and care about, too.
Then there are the subtle nudges that come with my gifts. You don’t need to be angry anymore. It’s time to let go. You’ll trust me. I told myself it was no different than persuasion, no different than choosing the right words or thing to do at the right time.
Except… I shouldn’t need any of it to tell me what to do or say.
The memory of it sits heavy in my chest, the way Clara’s expression softened despite not wanting it too when we were in the woods with Ruslan.
The way the tension drained from her shoulders like a switch had been flipped.
The way her eyes lost that sharpness, that questioning edge, and years of turmoil from betrayal and loss, settling into something… easier.
My stomach twists.
Because that’s the part I don’t say out loud, not even to myself, most days. It isn’t just about helping. It’s knowing that I have a powerful ability to control and bend people into thinking and doing what I want. No matter how I dress it up, at the end of the day, it’s about control.
I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers to my temple as if I can hold the thoughts in place, keep them from unraveling too far.
I keep telling myself that I am willing to use this ability because if Oksana or Wendell is about to make a choice that will hurt people, really hurt them, then what am I supposed to do? Stand by and let it happen, so I don’t cross a line?
If I can stop what is about to potentially happen next before it even starts… if I can prevent any further grief that allows others to breathe safely again… can I be ok with it even if it might be wrong?
Because I already know the answer isn’t simple.
I know it will likely bring consequences that I don’t know if I am ready or able to deal with yet.
A hollow feeling settles in my ribs.
I tell myself when the alternative is worse than taking away someone’s consent, then it’s easy to believe the justification is enough, as long as the outcome matters.
But intention doesn’t erase impact.
And somewhere, beneath all the careful reasoning and quiet excuses, there’s a question I can’t quite silence: If someone changed my thoughts without asking, if they reached inside my mind and rewrote how I felt, what I believed, what I chose? Would I still be me?
I press my lips together, something unsteady building in my chest.
So, what does that make me?
I don’t know how much longer I can pretend I’m standing on the right side of it.
She scoffs. “The Russian. Really?”
I lift one shoulder, shaking away my thoughts. “Your feelings. Not mine.”
“There are no feelings,” she snaps.
“If you ask me,” I hedge mildly, “you’re not angry that they exist.”
Her eyes flash.
“You’re angry they snuck up on you.”
“He’s arrogant,” she fumes. “Rude. And convinced I need someone to boss me around.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Sounds a lot like my husband. Maybe that’s why the two of you get along so well.”
“You’re making it very difficult to want to help you,” she mutters.
I lean back in my seat again. “You didn’t come over here because you thought I’d tell you what you wanted to hear.”
“I don’t like the Russian,” she insists.
“Maybe not intentionally,” I reply calmly. “But there’s something there.” I tap my temple. “And I don’t need abilities to see that.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “I want you to make it stop. Go back and… undo whatever it was you showed me.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have that ability.” Then I smile slightly. “But as you said, if there’s nothing there, whatever’s bothering you should fade eventually.”
She snatches the canteen back from my hand. “Or,” she mutters while pouring another drink, “nothing a little alcohol can’t fix.”
She drains the glass and stands.
I let her.
She’s halfway past me when I speak again. “Maybe when this mission is over,” I propose softly, “you’ll realize your priorities have changed.”
Clara pauses. For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then she shakes her head. “I’ve only ever been good at one thing.”
Her gaze drifts across the cabin.
Alexei and Ruslan are still leaning over the table together, deep in conversation. At that exact moment, Ruslan looks up.
Their eyes meet.
Clara looks away instantly.
She turns back to me; her expression once again carved from stone. “Nothing,” she huffs flatly, “and no one will change that.”
Then she walks away before I can answer.