In Other Words, Pol

Violet:

Even in late summer, the Wallow was wet.

Violet kept her maps close to her chest, stepping over a puddle. She strode past the short buildings of the outer rings, eyeing the storm clouds. Hopefully, it wouldn’t rain before she made it to the command room. Really, she was lucky the drizzle had stopped so early. The yellow of False Day had barely faded. Normally, it rained for weeks after a Storm Moons.

Violet passed the Nest, resisting the urge to pop in for a greeting. She would have loved a couple warm words. But she had to hurry, after all. Her mum needed the right maps. There were not many people outside. Although the Porcusinelli’s numbers had grown recently, many were inside. No one knew when it would rain.

Then, she saw someone very obviously sneaking along the edge of the Nest. Intricate scars. Blue dress. Red eye patch. Young face. Dark hair with white streaks. Cane in hand. Tambouras slung on her back.

In other words, Pol.

She was walking in the opposite direction.

Violet approached her, boots squelching in the mud, “Where are you going?”

Pol didn’t stop, “The Drunk Rabbit.”

Violet quickened her pace, catching up with her, “No.”

Pol quickened her own pace, pulling ahead, “Don’t you have maps to draw or something?”

Violet matched her steps, “Don’t you think Mina would disapprove of this?”

“I’m not bleeding anymore, Vi.”

“Still.”

“I can handle myself,” she continued, “You should know that by now.”

“Last time you couldn’t,” Violet snapped.

Pol slowed for a moment, then regained her speed, “That wasn’t my fault.”

Her voice had taken an uncharacteristic edge.

Violet took a breath, “But it still–”

“I know, Vi. I was there.”

And you weren’t.

Pol didn’t need to say the words for Violet to hear them. They were the words that kept her awake at night. The words that had whispered their way into her mind when she’d seen Pol that day. Bleeding too much. Ammon carrying her, bleeding himself. They were the words that had broken into her numbness when Pol didn’t wake up that first day. Or the next.

“I won’t let you go.”

Pol said nothing, just kept walking. Violet grabbed her arm.

Pol flinched. Violet let go.

“Please just stay.”

Pol stopped, “I can’t, Vi, I have to sing.”

“But what if you’re not ready?”

Pol shook her head, “I have to.”

Violet sighed, “I’ll go with you, then.”

Pol shook her head again, “I’m going alone.”

“No. You aren’t,” Violet argued, “Bad things happen to you when you’re alone.”

“Vi.”

“I’m going with you, tomorrow.”

Violet really did need to get those maps to her mum. Before the rain started, preferably. She could imagine dropping a pile of sopping wet paper on her desk, the ink seeping through the paper and the precisely drawn pencil lines smudging.

“It has to be today.”

“Why?”

Pol hesitated for a long moment.

Violet spoke again, “I promise–”

“Don’t promise,” her voice broke.

Why?

“I’ll come with you, tomorrow,” Violet restated, “Just wait for me, alright?”

Pol’s grip tightened on her cane, “Alright.”

Violet smiled, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you tonight.”

Polyxena:

Even in late summer, the Wallow was wet.

Polyxena carefully avoided the puddles as she snuck away from the Nest. Her cane made little circular indents in the mud. She missed her old painted one. The carvings Ammon had made. It was a shame the Actillions had taken it. She wasn’t used to this new one. At least it was a good leg day.

Her tambouras was slung on her back. She eyed the grey storm clouds, glad the rain had stopped. Of course, there was no guarantee it wouldn’t start sprinkling again. False Day had only been a week ago. Really, it didn’t matter to Polyxena. After all, today was the day she would sing again. For the first time in a month.

Polyxena heard someone squelching through the mud.

“Where are you going?”

Vi.

No.

She kept walking, “The Drunk Rabbit.”

Vi walked alongside her, “No.”

Pol quickened her own steps, pulling ahead, “Don’t you have maps to draw or something?”

Why was she always too busy to talk, but just free enough to act like an old mother ewe?

Vi matched her steps, “Don’t you think Mina would disapprove of this?”

Probably. Polyxena was sure everyone in the group would disapprove of this. Except maybe Penn. He understood the way music could make a person feel. Free. Real. Understood. Besides, she had been healing.

“I’m not bleeding anymore, Vi.”

“Still.”

“I can handle myself,” she continued, “You should know that by now.”

It was true. In Polyxena’s seventeen years of life, she’d endured more than many did in their lives. Most of the time by sheer coincidence. And she had survived.

“Last time you couldn’t,” Vi snapped.

Polyxena slowed for a moment. She could have. She could have. If only Ammon hadn’t been there.

She regained her speed, “That wasn’t my fault.”

If Ammon hadn’t been there. Polyxena could have lied. She could have made it out. She could have had a choice of some sort.

Vi took a breath, “But it still–”

“I know, Vi. I was there.”

Polyxena had been there for every moment. Every scream that had somehow been her own. The pain which she owed no one. The healing and breaking and healing of her skin. And Ammon sobbing. Before she was released and slipped into unconsciousness. He should have left her.

“I won’t let you go.”

That sounded like something Perikles would say. She kept walking.

Vi grabbed her arm. Though the touch was gentle, it hurt. Polyxena flinched. Vi let go.

“Please just stay.”

That really reminded her of her brother. When was the last time she’d written him? Before the scars, of course. She didn’t know how to tell him about the scars. She didn’t know how to tell him he was right. How to tell him he was wrong.

Polyxena stopped, “I can’t, Vi, I have to sing.”

“But what if you’re not ready?”

She shook her head, “I have to.”

Vi sighed, “I’ll go with you, then.”

Polyxena shook her head again, “I’m going alone.”

“No. You aren’t,” Violet argued, “Bad things happen to you when you’re alone.”

Bad things happened no matter what. Safety in companionship was an illusion. One far too easy to believe.

“Vi.”

“I’m going with you, tomorrow.”

“It has to be today.”

“Why?”

It had been too long. Far too long. Polyxena hadn’t sung since that day. Had barely even hummed. Perhaps it was because she was scared. She had lost something that day. Perhaps, she didn’t want to admit she was scared. If she waited any longer, would she never regain her courage?

Vi spoke again, “I promise–”

“Don’t promise,” her voice broke.

Polyxena couldn’t bear those words once more. Not when Ammon had promised. Not when he’d said he wouldn’t leave her alone. And it had doomed them. It had taken her eye. It had torn her skin. It had left her broken. Because promises were chains.

“I’ll come with you, tomorrow,” Vi restated, “Just wait for me, alright?”

Polyxena’s grip tightened on her cane, “Alright.”

Maybe she could wait. Maybe it was right to wait. It still felt wrong.

Vi smiled, “I’ll see you tonight.”

Polyxena nodded, “See you tonight.”

She reentered the bunkrooms, and sat on her bed for a while. The day went on as normal, and she did not sing.

The next day, was a bad leg day.

A terrible leg day.

And the rain had started in earnest.