#chiele

Footfalls echoed softly down the stone corridors of the former cloister. Most of the wreckage had been cleared from this level, the last vestiges of chaos relocated to other floors. Somewhere upstairs people celebrated victory and settled in to argue over the “what next?” that inevitably came in the wake of battle. But here, in the halls where novice conscripts once cried themselves to sleep, space was set aside to heal - and mourn.

The footsteps faltered; there came the thump of a hand being braced against a wall. Chiele steadied herself and looked down to see what she had tripped over.

No, not what. Who.

“Citra! I didn’t see you down there. Why are you sitting on the floor? And what are you wearing?”

The huddled figure looked up from her seat on the stones. “Oh. Sorry. This just seemed…like a good place to sit.” Her dark gaze returned to the floor, but not before Chiele saw the puffy red swelling around her eyes and nose. It was the only spot of color on her; against the waxy hue of her skin Citra’s dark hair was a shadow. An enormous grey sweater shrouded her frame, blending with the stone until she was barely visible.

Chiele crouched down next to her eerily colorless friend. “Citra? Why are you wearing that? I’m sure we can find something more to your taste.” The other girl’s silence was as unsettling as her sudden wardrobe change. Citra was usually a peacock when it came to the color of her clothes and she seldom stopped talking. She spoke at last, reluctantly.

“The sweater is…was Gair’s. He gave it to me after he pulled me out of the Sea the first time we met. He said it would keep me warm, protect me from the wind. Just like he’s always protected me. Oh, hag’s whiskers, Chiele, it’s all my fault! Everything he did was to keep me safe. Maybe if I had tried to do the same thing for him just once…” she broke off, choking on a sob.

“You think holding back would have changed things? If the two of you hadn’t come here…Citra, we couldn’t have done this without you. Gair knew what he was doing.”

“That’s the worst part! He knew what he was doing, but I didn’t. If I had been more careful, he wouldn't be…”

“Stop beating yourself up, Citra! He wouldn’t want that. I don’t think he’d be pleased to see you sitting out here on the floor, either. Have you gone in to see him?”

Citra sniffled and wiped her face on the too-long sweater sleeve. The scratchy wool made her eyes redder, but it carried whiffs of sheep, seawater, and smoke. The scents swirled together and added up to Gair. Her Gair, who was always there for her when she needed him. Gair, who lay in a bed on the other side of the door, while she, Citra, cried in the hallway.

“Not yet. How can I, after everything?”