The Burning
- O -
"Micaiah, are you all right?"
Sothe approached Micaiah swiftly and quietly, his hand drifting away from the hilt of his dagger the way it only did when he was near her. She stood alone by the stone rail, looking up at the moon as she seemed to do every night since the king's new campaign began.
When Micaiah did not answer, Sothe repeated himself.
"I'm all right, Sothe."
"You aren't," Sothe said. "I can tell."
She did not turn to face him; in fact, Sothe couldn't remember a time when she could look him in the eye for more than a second without looking away suddenly, as though guilty, as though the sight of him seared her.
"What I think..." Micaiah shook her head. "What I feel does not matter."
"Tell him," Sothe said, his teeth on edge. "Tell him we'll not—you'll not stand for this. What he's doing. What he's making you do..."
"What I do," Micaiah said, every word strong and separate on her tongue, "is my choice, and my burden to bear."
The Maiden rolled down her sleeve and glanced at her mark. Under the moonlight it seemed to glow, alive with light shone down from a place far, far away.
"Why?" Sothe asked, already knowing the answer, already knowing that his words were worthless, that nothing he said or did could make any difference. The wind rushed by, cold and metallic and loud as a wolf's whistle. His fingers dug into his palms. Invisible by his side he held his fists, red and raw with the cold.
"Sometimes I feel like it's burning," Micaiah said softly, once the wind had eased. She stared down at her brand. "Scalding me. Like it's going to spread and set me ablaze. Every night, I worry I'm going to wake up like from a dream and find everything in flames."
"I can feel their anger and their pain. I can feel them hate me, despise me. I can feel it in my blood, that they're calling, they're calling for me to pay for what I've done. And all I can do is answer."