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Chariot allowed herself only a single spell after her last show — a spell to dye her hair blue. As she sat in the snow, curled up, staring blankly at the ground, nobody noticed the disgraced performer as they walked by.
Chariot dared not look up, for fear that the dark gray blanket of clouds was already gone, and she would see and recall in perfect detail that horrible mistake, the arrow she loosed with all of her panic and doubt and Dream Fuel Spirit and everything that the Sh- no, the Claimh Solais, saw and rejected. She was not at all worthy, the Wand made clear. It was only fair that she should act accordingly. Not that there was any point in keeping up formalities, as it had long since crumbled in her hands, in front of the smallest audience she'd had since Croix tried to help her.
Chariot pulled her legs tighter in as she realized that the moon would always be there, every single night, now with a fresh wound of her doing. Very few people would know the details, but everyone would see it, and that was more than enough. Everyone knew her now, not as a performer and bringer of joys, but as a nervous, selfish wreck who sacrificed everything, especially that which was not hers, just to lose it all. And if not that, then as a mere impulsive force from which no pristine thing could return unscathed.
Her nails dug deeper into her palms. Maybe, she fantasized, she should have gone bigger, pulled more from herself and the crowd, and tore all the stars from their place, so that none of them could ever bother anyone again. Maybe, if they were gone earlier, the Claimh Solais would have never found her, and Croix would still be by her side, as that super-talented mage who still made the time to help a bumbling amateur like her. Now, she was the spiteful, envious inventor that pushed her closer to the edge, but more than that, she was just another thing that slipped through Chariot's fingers.
Chariot's ears perked up as an audience member walked by, talking about waking up in front of a stage, with no memory of the past few hours, attributing it to excessive drunkenness. She wondered, instead, if Croix had anything to do with their amnesia. It would only make sense. Chariot would always screw up, and that mage, that girl would always be there to save the day, to remind her of her believing heart. More words, Chariot mused, that she had no right to say anymore. After all, Croix did most of the believing.
Croix was wrong, Chariot lamented, to believe in her. Croix was right, that someone else could have freed the world-altering magic. And Chariot couldn't decide which was worse.