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Ór returns from the Ziggurat with her face paler than the snow. Elsie tries to comfort her with words of encouragement, but she just sits by the fire, staring at her cold hands, and hours pass in silence as the four of them try to avert their eyes from one another. She knows she should get to Charon’s Crossing before nightfall, but there is no strength left in her, and she stays motionless, legs curled underneath her, well into the evening.
And when Elsie and Eris disappear in the cabin, and only her and the Drifter remain under the vast ultramarine sky, she whispers:
“I’m afraid.”
He cocks his head, observing her from under a furred brow. She is still looking at her hands.
“It’s just a tool. Like a knife or a welder. You can use ‘em to build,” he chuckles faintly, “or I’m pretty sure there’re several ways you could kill someone with a welder.”
“A gun is a tool, too.” She raises her eyes to meet his. “But it’s not much for building.”
“Fine, Stasis is a gun and Light is a welder. What gives?”
Ór shakes her head, poking the dying flame with a stick. The radio screeches in broken eliskni, the only sound for many miles, but the signal is so poor she cannot make out the words.
“My Ghost called me Light,” she says eventually, and knows Drifter is watching her as she stares at the fire, “because it was all I had been back then. And now I’m not even that.”
Drifter sighs, and she wonders if he thinks it’s childish. She wonders if Eris has had the same doubts—or maybe she is simply happy to finally come out of the corner, to wield something, to be able to throw herself back into the battle? She wonders about Elsie’s sureness; her, who has seen just how much evil Darkness can cause, and yet still has so much confidence that this is the only way. She wonders what name her Ghost would give her today.
“You’re afraid you’ll lose yourself, yeah?” Drifter’s voice is surprisingly gentle, making her eyes flick back to him. “Trust me, it’s not Stasis that’d do this to you.”
“You’re still on about the Warlords. How they had the good pure Light and turned it into a force of destruction.”
He chuckles again and straightens, moving to sit on the ground next to her. His face is plunged in shadow, but eyes reflect the flickering flame.
“Listen. There’s a friend we have. Real pain to be around. Bossy and cranky, one eye extra. Plays around with magic of the nastiest species in this damn galaxy.” He gestures at the cabin behind them. “And ya know what? She’s still standing. Hive skull in hand, cryin’ liquid Darkness, makin’ portals pop out of thin air, and all’a that out of spite. And somehow she’s still on the good side.”
He pokes Ór gently in the chest.
“If anything’s gonna drag you down the dark path, it’s a lack of resolve. And Traveler’s balls, girl, you’re nothin’ if not annoyingly resolute.”