Fair, is fair, is fairāyou tell yourself. You blame luck, and fate, and gods you donāt rightly believe in. You cry when you meet Imogenās gazeāher eyes cracking open and spilling despair, her lips pressing tight enough that those animal soft whimpers are only high pitched noise. Barely human, sadly real.
You donāt know what to do, you donāt know who to saveāuntil you do.
Heads, you save Laudna. Tails, you save Orym.
Glinting like a prayer answered as it spins edge over edge in the air; you track it with your eyes, you see the edges of images etched into the metal. Heads, tailsāheads, tailsāheads, tails. Over and over; who lives, and who dies.
You donāt know what to doāuntil you do.
You slap a hand over the outcome, you squeeze your eyes shut and lift it just enough that you can peek under your palm. See the outcome, see the promise. You blink hard, your lips pinch and your ears flatten back and bristle.
Youāre not good, but youāre not badāyouāre wild, and chaotic, and free. Youāre a stranger in a strange land, a visitor in the stories of othersāeven when your own comes calling. Youāre sideways, and bright, and endlessly messy.
Youāre feyāwhich means, inherently, youāre selfish.
Tucking the coin away, you exhale and open your eyes, pressing hands against Laudna you promise her youāll find a way to save her. You whisper un-truths because theyāre hazy and thick on your tongue. You donāt know if you can save herāthough you will try.
You only know that the coin landed on heads, and in that moment you knew fate didnāt matter. Luck didnāt matter. And above all else, gods didnāt matter. What matters is that Orym is yours, as readily as the trinkets stuck in your fur and the half-truths in your heart. A piece of you that is kind, and strong, and forgives you all your outlandish flaws.
Orym is yours, and it wasnāt until fateāor luck, or godsāsaid he deserved to die that you decided the choice was already made in your heart long before you flipped a coin.
Orymāthe answer was always Orym.
