#sidusignes

Zelda had to stop. Had to, because there was no other choice. Had to, because her legs, aching and heavy, and her feet, burning, throbbing, couldn’t take her any further. They almost gave out on her. Almost. When she took another step forward, she felt the way her thighs trembled under her weight. The last of her strength fell to dust. She reached out for the wall to brace herself; other arm cradling the baby wrapped against her chest, hand covering her head in case she fell. That she might hurt her daughter was the only thing which kept that from happening. “Marielle --” Panic in her voice. A tremor went through her. Evie must have felt it because she started stirring, whining. “I need you to take her,” she said. “P--please. Shit.”

Zelda thrusts the shovel’s sharp tip into the soil and pushes on its handle with the full weight of her body, sinking the blade, as deep as it will go, into the dirt. She grinds it down in a half circle, loosening the patch of earth she is planning to use to grow sweet potatoes. Then she forces the thistle out with a strong heave. The roots snap. She feels the spade’s cutting edge sever the tough roots from the bed, loosening then tearing as she heaves the shovel out. The soil erupts, the thistle crowning the mound. She grabs the ugly, purple weed, with all its ragged roots, in triumph, and dumps it into the wheelbarrow next to her like she’s shooting a basketball through its net. 

It’s October, it isn’t warm out, but she’s sweating as she stands and rests against the shovel with a heavy breath. She pinches the fingers of a stained gardening glove and pulls it off, wiping at her forehead and looking over at the house. Sometimes she can see her wife in the kitchen window, making a cup of tea or sitting at the kitchen table with the cat. They spent a lot of time in that kitchen together. It was probably Zelda’s favourite spot in the whole entire house, save for their bedroom, that is. 

It was an odd room. Not too big, not too small. With so many things to look at she could hardly decide where to start. One of the walls seemed entirely made up of books. And everywhere Rachel looked she noticed the framed pictures, the paintings, the plants; all of the quirky ornaments. Wedged between two armchairs was a side table in the shape of a funny looking cat, upon which sat two coasters, a television remote, and -- a pot of Play-Doh? A perfect mismatch of stuff. Rachel kind of liked it. It felt... cosy. It felt lived in.

Only it felt like she was intruding. Or at the very least like she was in the way. So she tried making herself as small as she possibly could, pressed into the corner of the room as she watched the two women discuss where best to put the air mattress. There was only one place suitable for it, really, but the two seemed so lost in their own conversation that she didn’t want to interrupt. Eventually, Marielle’s wife, Zelda, dragged the coffee table to the side of the room. The bed was rolled out across the rug, in front of the log burner.

“Oh yeah -- fits perfectly.” Zelda said, her hands on her hips. “Just needs inflating.” The woman looked at Rachel with such kind eyes that Rachel could hardly stand it.

Then, a cat appeared. Bumped the side of her calf with its head. It wore a collar with a bell on it, which jingled as it weaved itself between her ankles; purring loudly. Rachel glanced down at it, half unsure of it, and when she looked up again she noticed a dog, too. Sitting in the doorway. Head tilted curiously up at her. He was a big, blonde, dopey looking thing which reminded her of Marielle’s wife. How funny. 

“Have you got it? Mind your footing,” Zelda says, keeping a supportive grip on Marielle’s forearm as Marielle climbs into the attic. “And your head.” She glances behind her at the precarious floorboards before stepping back to make room for her wife, offering her free hand for Marielle to grab, in case she needs it. 

Nobody said anything for a while. Dagny, whose large arms were folded across her chest, looked lost, like she was slowly trying to piece together the conversation. Next to Dagny sat Chapman, with a hand to the blonde lump’s thigh. Vera’s head was lowered into her papers, shrewd eyes scrutinising each word with full-bore accuracy. The leader of the Citadel had heard Scarlett, but, for some reason, ignored her. 

The only noise which could be heard came from Zelda, of course. Her chair squeaked each time she reclined it. She tapped her feet against the carpet, drummed her pen against the table’s edge. One corner of her chair kept knocking into Alice’s, which in turn gave a repetitive thud. She stared at the crates of beer with a pursed smile, one that did not touch her exhausted eyes, and eventually shook her head. “Maybe another night,” she replied when no one else spoke, and it seemed then that everyone wanted to speak, like she had broken some unstated, awkward silence. 

It was Vera, quiet, placid Vera, whose voice managed to win out over the rest. “They have a plan,” she said. “A plan that has been who knows how long in the making. But so far they have executed each step perfectly.” Vera’s cool, amber eyes went to Marielle. “Almost perfectly,” she rectified, then continued. “But the point is still that they have a plan. And we do not.” That annoyed her more than anything, to be unawares. To know nothing at all. Vera did not know how to handle it. “They know all of our weaknesses. All of our strengths...”

    “Dagny has no weakness,” Dagny cut in, expression suddenly ashen. Everyone turned their heads and looked at her. No one said anything. Not even Zelda, who was remembering Dagny’s fear of fire, said anything in response.

Tell me why you followed me and what made you stay.

It was by chance that her boat found itself in the eye of Poseidon’s rage. He took its bow and stern in his strong hands and tore the vessel in two, scattering the bodies of the crew like grain for the birds. Aphrodite watched as the waters claimed her daughter’s body, and with terror in her heart she raced from her seat on Olympus to plead with the sea God who loved her most of all. She found him on his throne and fell before him, placing one hand upon his great knee and reaching to take his chin with her fingers. She implored him to save her daughter’s life, and because he loved Aphrodite dearly he listened and went immediately to rescue Zelda, the daughter of the goddess of love and beauty. Gathering the young woman in his great arms, Poseidon cast her body from the depths of his waters and lay her gently upon the shores of the Island of Chiros, on a bed of sea foam, and she slept there peacefully, unscathed and undying, as though the storm had all been a terrible dream…

She was roused awake by a woman’s voice, but when she opened her eyes she found that she was alone. She lay in the cool, wet sand in a daze, confused, until the ocean rushed upon her in a flood of saltwater, and she started in shock, and pulled herself to her hands and knees with a ragged breath in. At once the air filled her lungs and the life she had almost lost rushed back into her. Blindly she groped her way up the beach until her hands met with the hot, dry sands, where she stayed, palms and knees burning, until her heart calmed.

Spitting the sand and grit from her mouth, she got to her feet and looked around. Somehow she had been spared, but she did not know where she was, or how she would return home. She had lain unconscious in the sun long enough that her skin was raw to the touch, shoulders as red and glowing as a hot poker. She was thirsty, and sun burnt, and needed to find shelter or she would die. So she wandered into the forest, dripping in sand and saltwater, and prayed that this was not the will of some spurned God who desired to see her suffer.

At the first sound of trickling water she gave out a small cry. Tears would have fallen from her eyes had she any to spare. She rushed onwards, following the musical notes of running fresh water like a sailor maddened by the beautiful song of a Siren. She burst through the canopy into the opening, and was greeted by a glorious spring, so clear that she could see herself reflected in its surface.

Right away she dropped to her knees and stooped eagerly over the water’s edge, scooping the water into her palms and slurping greedily, unawares of her surroundings. She splashed the cold water onto the back of her burning neck, and washed the sweat from her face and chest, and would have laughed aloud at her luck had she not looked across the pool and met the black eyes of a vicious guard dog.

@sidusignes

Good people don’t run away and leave other people to die. Good people stay. Good people try to help. Zelda hid her face in her hands and lowered herself forward, groaning. “What is wrong with me?” She felt ashamed, she felt pathetic. She felt useless. “I ran, I just ran.” Coward. “I didn’t help, I just ran.” Everyone would hate her for it! They would never trust her again. She couldn’t face them. Even Marielle. It was worse with Marielle. How was she supposed to be able to protect Marielle and Evie if all she could do in the face of danger was run away? Zelda’s hands trembled. In the dark of her palms, she screwed up her face in fear and cried. 

“God, no,” she groaned. “No.” Images flashed across the backs of her eyelids. Gunfire. Screams. Blood. Bodies. Johannes Earl’s yellow teeth. Marielle. Marielle dead. Evie, crying. Alone, alone. Her skin was on fire. Somebody was stabbing her heart, over and over. When she tried to breathe, the air felt trapped half way into her lungs. She sucked and sucked but she couldn’t breathe! So she sat up straight, gripping her knees with her shaky hands. Stop. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about all of it. You idiot! Why? Why are you thinking about it? What’s wrong with you? Stop. 

Between her short gasps of breath, she flinched, repulsed, and rocked gently back and forth, squeezing her eyes shut again. The panic swelled, then shrank back like the tide. Eventually, she had calmed enough to speak. “I’m not a good person, Marielle,” she whispered, snot nosed. Her cheeks stained with tears. “I don’t know why I did it. I j -- just -- I just...” Ran. Her bottom lip trembled. She still wouldn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t stand to look at Marielle. She was too scared of what she might see. “They almost died because of me. If it hadn’t been for Dagny...” Things could have been much, much worse. It was her fault.