Chapter 15: Interlude IV

Valhera sat in her bed, face half-lit by the haunting dance of hearth-fire. She had grown pensive, quiet, as she often had throughout her tale, taking her time to gather what words to express next.

“There are many things I learned during my first season in Khaldara,” she said, pulling her blanket tighter around her chest. “That experience in the darkwood was… my first lesson, I suppose. It cemented something that I had realized in Gazmere, standing over that open grave.”

She inspected her crooked hand, tracing its bumps and bends. “I learned that anything… anyone can touch the world, for good or for ill. That there is power in simple moments, power in remembering them. The life I led… it was a salve to that little girl, even though my life had been simple, recent events notwithstanding. Quiet moments… we may not realize how much they change us. They are subtle, and they take their time. But that does not mean they are any less powerful.”

Ithana contemplated all the time she spent simply holding her infant son. She could spend hours watching his little eyes, stroking his hair. Rather than reply, she dipped her head.

“The idea isn’t without complications,” Valhera continued. “It is as Azareth said. I cannot fix the world. I allowed one stray her rest, and yet… there are legions of undead roaming Khaldara and Elthysia alike.”

“And yet, for that stray, your mercy was the world.”

“I know.” Valhera watched the fire. “And, later, that would be the thing to give me strength to carry on. But that is a tale for a later time. For now… I suppose I was learning that there is power in sorrow. In… laying out your wounds. Letting them breathe. Allowing others to see your quiet moments, to partake and participate. My father had loved me, but… this was a truth he’d struggled with. It was something I’d had to learn for myself. The undead cannot be conquered by steel wills and iron fists, but… by faint hearts and open arms.”

The voice in her head made itself known. “Is that why you tell this story?”

“I don’t know,” she said, biting her tongue as she realized she’d spoken aloud. “I don’t know what it is. Catharsis… peace, from sorrow. It seems backward, and yet… I can’t overstate its power. It’s something I’m not sure I could have appreciated without the scars on my back. The… obstacles I’d encountered at every stage of life.”

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“Loss of one thing begets gratitude for another,” Ithana said. “In the same way, there is comfort found in pain.”

Valhera massaged her palm, where her black mark snaked into its folds. Her trespasser spoke.

“By the same measure, suffering begets suffering. When pain is too familiar, it becomes the thing you seek.”

She unconsciously curled her lip. “Don’t tell me you’re nursing a newfound sense of sympathy.”

“Contrary. You have been prey to terrible things. And now… you seek those things. You inflict those things. You can lay here and ruminate all day, but that doesn’t change that you have been broken. That anger alone… drives your current action.”

“You’re fucking judging me for wanting revenge.”

The voice briefly laughed. “I am saying that I understand. That perhaps you are only a servant of your own nature.”

Valhera sighed deeply. She watched the fire for a long while, thoughts swimming through a mixture of sorrow, regret, outrage.

“I can talk about these things all day,” she said slowly. “I remember them. Remember realizing their truth, and yet… today, after all that’s transpired, it’s as if they’ve been forgotten. I remember finding my faith, and yet… even now, it is lost.”

“Then capture it,” Ithana said. “Allow it to change you, now, as it changed you, then.”

“Can it be that easy?”

“Never.”

Ithana’s mouth spread in a reassuring smile. “It can.”

Valhera weighed the two voices against each other. And, somewhere in her mind, she saw the other things she’d discovered on her way. The lessons taught by companions, by enemies, by the world’s simple indifference. And, if even for a moment, she allowed herself a flicker of that which was lost.

But that spark, bright and lively, could only be short-lived. There was much yet unspoken, in her tale. Experience, more than words, was a teacher. And there was a world crumbling around her, despite every ounce of what she had had.

And yet, that spark had flashed. Short-lived, but… even the shortest lives leave their stain.

Rather than agree with either voice, she only grunted, looking once more to the flames.