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I should intervene.
But I want to see where this ends.
Alana’s eyes flash with something so familiar I feel it strike me in my gut. Rage. Power.
She looms over Maura, who stares up at her as if she always expected this moment and is resigned to what’s about to happen. The purple smoke thickens, swirling around Alana’s feet and creeping towards the elder fae. Maura’s eyes widen but she says nothing. She just stares, almost daring Alana to take it too far.
I want to see Alana reclaim what this evil old witch took from her.
But I also know what will happen if Alana loses control.
I’ve been there, and I can’t let it happen.
I won’t let Alana’s rage consume her, no matter how justified it may be.
This isn’t her.
It might be me, but it is not her.
I put a firm hand on her shoulder. She flinches at my touch, her gaze never leaving Maura. “Alana,” I command, “if you let anger control you, it’s a slippery slope.”
For a moment, she remains rigid, her magic crackling along her wings and intensifying. Then, slowly, she turns to face me. I expect to see pain and confusion, and perhaps it’s there somewhere, but mostly what I see is anger. “She?—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “But this isn’t the way, and it isn’t safe here.”
Alana’s shoulders sag, and the purple smoke begins to dissipate. She nods, closing her eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re right,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the nearby flames. “I just...”
She walks past Maura towards the centre of the camp. Remnants of tents and the bodies of her kin scatter the ground.
I want to comfort her. In this moment, the desire to pull her into my arms, my wings wrapping around her in a protective embrace, is almost too much to bear.
But that is not what we are to each other.
She will not bury her face in my chest, her body shaking with silent sobs as I stroke her hair. That is not what we do.
She might forget occasionally, but she hates me and everything I have done. And I hate her for making me want to be something other than what I am.
“It’s not your fault,” is all I manage to say. “You couldn’t have known.”
I stand beside her, and feel my wings droop. They are tired. I am tired.
Behind us, Maura has risen to her feet and is now sitting on a tree trunk, leaning forward onto her knees, not speaking.
Alana seems lost in her own thoughts. I can almost see them flitting across her face. Until a faint sound catches her attention.
I hear it too.
It’s coming from nearby, a moan that sounds like someone in pain.
Alana spins around, her brow furrowed in concern. “Did you hear that?”
I nod, and together we move towards the source of the noise. There, amidst the smouldering ruins, lies a Leafborne fae. Tree branches are covering their body, but they move beneath the debris and moan again.
Alana gasps, dropping to her knees beside them, and pulls aside the foliage. “Pen?” She sweeps a hand across his brow and leans down, holding her cheek over his mouth.
“He’s breathing.” She looks up at me. “We have to help him.”
I turn to Maura, who is standing a few paces away now with her hands on her hips. She’s watching us warily, her earlier animosity replaced by a grim determination.
