Brennen
Idinnae think of Marsaili.
I dinnae think of my family.
I dinnae think at all.
I dive.
Before I can form a single thought, I’m fighting against the surge like there was never another option. My dàn ignite on their own. Courage first, burning along my spine, then endurance. Speed. Strength.
I fight against the current until I reach the stone Bea’s chain is embedded in.
Rising to the surface, I take a deep breath and dive back down, following the chain until my lungs burn.
I have to come up for air, but hold tight to the metal, refusing to let go.
My grip slips, and for a heartbeat, I lose the chain.
Terror claws its way up my throat as I dive toward it, my arms flailing around wildly until I find the metal links again.
The weight of it pulls at me, and water fills my mouth as I struggle against the muddy surge, my lungs seizing from the cold.
My rational mind tells me to go back, that Bea cannot die and I can, but my body refuses to listen, fighting and pulling until finally, my fingers brush skin.
Relief slams into me, more violent than the current dragging me under.
Gritting my teeth, I wrap my arms around Bea and pull her to the surface.
She's limp in my arms—dead weight. If not for my dàn of strength and endurance, I'm certain I would fail in making it back to shore.
I'm coughing up water by the time we make it to dry land, Bea’s chain barely long enough to reach outside the flooded valley, and I wonder how many times this has happened before.
I lay her down, searching for signs of life.
Her face is pale as un-dyed cotton, her lips blue.
Her chest does not rise and fall with breaths.
Unwanted panic rises in my chest. This should feel like a victory. It is, after all, what I came here for. But it doesnae.
It feels wrong.
“Washwoman,” I say, shaking her. “Bea!” She doesn't answer, and I press two fingers against the side of her neck, feeling for a heartbeat, but there is none.
It isn’t possible. The Washwoman cannae be killed.
And yet, she is dead.