Chapter Text
It was the typical sight one would expect to see when they took their children to the Forum. Isalora leaned against a pillar; Icara weaved through them, a dancer with glistening blue wings. Not quite the blue of the sky, but…
Actually, the sky looked rather grey. Isalora stepped out from underneath an awning, holding a hand out. The first droplet of rain was hers.
She smiled: she’d always loved rain. It was beautiful, but some of the artists at the Forum began packing up their things and ducking for cover. She spotted Icara, sitting at a bench with her friends.
Her own legs felt a bit weak. She sat down, leaning her head against the pillar and staring up into the sky. A raindrop fell into her eye; she blinked it out rather unfazed. She was quite tired, actually. A nap would be nice, but she had to keep an eye on…
“Isalora!”
That was a Crow. The Crows were known for getting what they wanted, for taking things, for stealing. Mostly they used the skill as performing magicians; some even got positions as private investigators, and whenever something was stolen they would count on a Crow to get it back. In theory, of course, the Crows could get anything they wanted. They could probably find their way up to Phoenix status, if they wanted to.
But, of course, they didn’t. This Crow especially. He was nice, and she’d run into him a couple of times, but she could not recall his name at the moment.
He sat down beside her. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
She felt pale. She turned her head to look at him, an almost painful act, and forced her face into a smile.
“It’s probably just the rain,” she said. “If you’re not careful, you can catch a … a …”
“It’s not the rain,” said the Crow whose name she didn’t know. “You’ve been like this for a while. I’ve seen it. Healer Veralyn might be able to help.”
“Yes. Yes, maybe.” Her eyelids were heavy. “Thank you. What was your name?”
“My name?” The man blinked once, hard. He squinted at her. “Isalora, I’m your husband.”
What? She stared at him a moment, forcing the dizziness away. He was right. This was no Crow she was talking to. Had there ever been a Crow? This was a Swallow, and this was her husband.
Strange. Almost as though she were forgetting things.
“Are you alright?” asked Demetrace. “Should we go back?”
“How much money did you make?”
“That … doesn’t matter.” He looked off into the distance and waved. “Icara, we’re going home! Come here!”
And the girl was surprisingly less reluctant to leave than Isalora had thought she would be. Icara simply nodded, said goodbye to her friends, and walked over.
Walked! Not even flying! Icara usually took every opportunity there was to spread her wings. When she came closer, Isalora squinted at her. She was pale, too. There were bags under her eyes. She was smiling, though.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Then, she coughed.
–
It was fine, of course. Everything was fine. Every day, Isalora’s fingers weaved her hair into a braid as she studied herself in the mirror. She tried not to be too obvious about the bags under her eyes and her coughing, but on some things it could not be prevented.
She went through her hair with her comb one morning. Shaky fingers. Frail, weak. The comb clattered to the ground.
She heard a small gasp, and turned her head.
Icara was standing at the doorway, her hair down, her eyes a bit wet. She sneezed.
“Come in,” said Isalora (who really just wanted to go back to sleep; Demetrace wouldn’t let her, though, and he had said it with such a desperate finality that it had taken her aback).
Icara came in. Then she picked up the comb. She hesitated.
“Do you want me to do it?” she asked instead.
Isalora frowned. “What?”
Icara looked away. “Braid your hair, I mean.”
“Oh.” Isalora might have laughed it off a week earlier. She might have refused. But her hands were aching. Aching. “That would … that would be nice.”
Isalora rarely ever took help from anybody, so she supposed it made sense when Icara’s eyes widened. But, silently, the girl took Isalora’s hair in her hands and began to comb it.
It felt nice. Icara was silent.
She saw Demetrace at the doorway. He watched them for a moment, expressionless. Icara didn’t notice him. Isalora saw him as he walked away. She saw something clenched in his hand. It looked like a kind of stone. Maybe a type of amber.
It was pretty, she thought.
“Ow!”
“Sorry!” Icara gasped. “Did that hurt? I didn’t mean…”
Isalora raised a shaky palm and set it on Icara’s own. Her hand felt a bit strange, too. A bit more fragile, like a stone that could easily shatter.
“It’s okay,” Isalora assured her. And then as an afterthought, “Water.”
“Water? I can get you water …. if you need it?” Icara sounded so hesitant. It was very unlike her. Then she coughed a few times.
“Yes,” Isalora said. “That would be…”
And then
there was only
black.
-
“I’m sorry, I just don’t know how this could have happened.”
That was the voice of the healer. Isalora made herself listen, though mostly she could only hear her heartbeat, loud.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” That was Demetrace. He was almost louder than her heart. “You’re a healer! How can you not know what is wrong with my wife?”
“It’s just that we’ve never seen this level of—!” The healer sounded a bit jumpy. A bit nervous.
“Well, it’s right here! It’s happening!” A second voice, also male. “My wife is sick, dying probably, and all you can say is that you can’t see it?”
Huh. Why were both of the voices calling her their wife?
…Oh.
It was the same voice.
It was Demetrace.
It was who?
It was her husband. It was … it was …
“She’s awake!”
That was Icara. She would recognise that voice anywhere. That was her daughter.
“She is?”
Isalora forced her eyes open. “I’m fine.”
“She, uh, needs to get some rest,” said the healer. “Put her to sleep. Take some maticca leaf; it’s a painkiller.”
“I know what maticca leaf is,” Demetrace nearly spat.
“Right! Right. Well.”
The healer sent them off. Isalora could barely walk, so she leaned on Demetrace. Icara, who normally would have been flying, also stayed at her side. The two of them shared a smile.
Isalora saw something in the pocket of Demetrace’s work apron. It was a golden-brown colour, and it was glowing.