First Fix, First Loss

Turns out, the Choken process does not happen overnight. I stay with Martha at all times, keeping a close eye on her, even if she finds it a bit strange.

“We were just attacked, Martha.” I say softly to her, as we settle on a shared bedroom at Yusuke’s bedroom, when she comments on my behavior. “And the glittering hero seems to think I did it. So don’t fault me for guarding closer what’s dear to me.”

Martha smiles at that.

“You’ve been through a lot recently. You shouldn’t have to worry about my old bones…”

“Nonsense.” I cut her off, sitting on my bed. “You took care of me when I needed it. So let me take care of you for a change, huh?”

And that was it. We both laid on our beds, turned off the lights, and Martha went to sleep. Right now, I could hear her deep breathing, and the occasional cough that raked through her body. And that, in turn, made me unable to sleep, all my nerves on fire.

I sit up on my bed, too restless to keep laying down - I had to come up with something, anything, to help Martha. To make the Choken progress stop. I look at my hands, remembering the feeling of when I tried to write in the diary, how my fingers tingled with barely contained energy. How my written words glowed for a second. I knew what that was - I wrote. Not on myself, obviously, but on Dalylah.

The discovery of magical aptitude.

Dalylah had fire magic. She was, after all, the one who accidentally started the fire that Elias was killed in. The fire she almost died in. The reason why she feared fire so much - maybe even still fears it.

I flex my fingers, trying to evoke the sparks again, willing myself to do something to save the life of the first person to receive me in this new world with open arms. Nothing happens. I sigh, frustrated, and reach under my pillow for the diary I did accidentally bring with me. I start to fiddle with it, trying to distract my brain from the creeping anxiety that I can feel coming my way, when I feel it.

Just a slight bump under the front cover’s backside, barely noticeable. I frown and trace it, trying to make sense of what it is, but can’t seem to make heads or tails out of it. So, I do the most sensible thing and grab a letter opener from the drawer on the bedside table and rip it open.

A golden pen falls softly out of it and onto my lap, like it was waiting for me all along. Like it was meant to be mine. I gasp softly, and slowly reach out to it, feeling almost like the golden feather is calling me. Then, when I touch it, my vision goes blank, and I hear a voice in my head.

“Ah… Is this working? It’s been some time since I had a Chosen…”

I knew that voice. It was the only one that comforted me after I… Died? Maybe?

“Failure?” I ask, incredulous. First, because I was sure I couldn’t move a muscle - how was it possible that I talked? And second, because how the hell was the Goddess talking to me?

“I’m talking to you via a peculiar method. See, we can talk to our chosen on occasion, when the timing is right and the spark is there, but I won’t bother you with the details. And yes, I can hear what you speak, because you’re not really speaking at all? Your consciousness was transferred here for a brief period. But! I shouldn’t waste anymore time.” A ball of golden appeared in front of me, and I realized I was the same, albeit smaller. We were both floating in an endless sea of white, with nothing around us. Failure floated herself in front of me, bringing my attention back to her. “Focus, Aya. You finally found the gift I left you.”

“The pen?” I ask, incredulous.

“Well, in a manner of speaking. I was talking more about the magic, but your magic won’t work without an appropriate magical artifact, so I gave that to you as well. However… That is one of the few God Relics that exist in this world, so you should be careful with that.”

“God relics?” I ask, feeling more confused than I should as the author of said world. Failure chuckles at me.

“You don’t know them because you never got to that point, I gather, but there are a few relics around the world that were created by the Gods. Each of us have the chance to create one, and I never got a chance to create mine, not until you came, so… Two birds, one stone type of deal. A chosen and a relic at the same time! That’s rare indeed!” She says, twirling around in happiness.

“…Is that why the other pen broke when I tried?” I ask, softly. She stops for a second.

“Well, yes. Your magic is a rare one - few people have it, and not one of them really knows they have it. They usually just become famous authors, though, creating whole new worlds as easy as breathing but never really knowing they have the ability to change the world around them. And yes, before you ask, that is exactly what you can do. However!” Her ball of light expands, preparing to give a grand warning. “You know that magic comes with a cost. Most people exchange their vital energy to use said magic, but the more powerful the magic, the more energy used. However, in special cases, something more is warranted.”

“Like the demon lord and his altered features.” I say, my mind clicking. “He gave up his humanity to be what he is.”

“Yes! Even if he is, by all means, the most accomplished magic user this world has ever seen.”

“Then… What do I need to give up in order to alter reality?”

Failure shrinks, and floats level to me.

“Have you ever heard the saying that, whenever an author writes something, they put a piece of themselves in it? That story becomes, essentially, a piece of their souls?” She asks, her voice soft. I try to nod, but remember I’m just a floating ball of light right now.

“Yeah.” I say, instead.

“That is true for your memories as well. Each thing you lived and experienced helped you build what is… Well… You. It all becomes part of your soul.”

“So… It needs a part of my soul.” I say, a mix of dread and resignation floating in my chest. “My memories?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Can I choose them?”

“I don’t think so, Aya. I’m sorry. In order to save what you hold dear now… You have to let go of what you once held dear too.” Her voice fades a bit, unnaturally.

“Failure?” I ask, worried.

“Our time is almost over, Aya. But remember this: my blessing is not about preventing losses. It’s about surviving them.” She says, her voice getting further and further away until, suddenly, I’m back in my body. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes back to the darkness of the room, and look at the quill pen in hand.

Its weight is negligible compared to other pens, and the feather end is soft as silk when I touch it. It truly is a special tool, I think, as I feel the sheer potential of my magic thrumming underneath my fingers. I grip it tight, when I start to hear taps on the window - raindrops.

I get up and slowly walk to the window, peering outside. Half of the city is on fire, and the small drizzle of rain is not helping much with it. By my side, I hear Martha cough again, the same ripping paper sound escaping her lips. I shiver, my eyes passing by her sleeping form before falling back to the pen in my hand.

It glitters softly in the fire light.

I gulp hard.

My hands itch with magic.

“Not prevent loss, but survive it.” I say to myself, before I quickly turn and grab the diary I left at my bed. I open it almost in a frenzy, quickly turning the pages till I find a blank one.

Martha coughs again.

I don’t hear it.

Instead, all I can feel is the vibrations of my magic under my skin, begging to come out. And, in that instant, I know - I’ve always failed. But not this time. No, this time… This time I will fix it.

The pen in my hand heats up, becoming almost unbearable to hold. I put it to the paper, and can feel it sucking everything out of me. Can feel myself merging with it, my intent becoming alive through it. It doesn’t need any ink - my magic, my vital energy feeds it, forming a golden line that doesn’t bleed.

And so, I write.

“Martha lives.” I murmur as I write. “The Choken processes around me stop. Lysteria doesn’t suffer any more losses because of it. The rain around us gets heavier, and quell the fires in the village. And this… This nightmare ends now.”

The golden lines flow neatly into the paper as I hear a lullaby in my ears. A song my mother used to sing to me when I got scared at night. Something I held dear once. The song starts to slowly fade - first a note, then another. I try to hold on to it, try to remember, but the pen in my hand gets so hot it blisters my palm. So I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let go.

Then, all at once, the song stops and the golden bursts. I open my eyes again to see the lines flowing out of the diary, getting to Martha and covering her in glittering light. Some of the lines flow out, under the door. Some go outside. The rain stops for a second, before coming down heavier, forming a barrier of glittering white. All around me, the golden lines work their magic, as the words become written in only plain black ink. I feel my energy leaving me as they work, and, right when I’m about to pass out, I hear the gasp of someone breathing again coming from Martha.

I look at her as I breathe hard, triumphant. Then, I let myself pass out on my bed.

I wake up the next day with lots of noise coming from downstairs. I groan, and look up, just in time to see Martha entering the room again.

“Aya, dear! Good morning.”

I eye her, accessing her health.

“Good morning… How are you feeling? You had a pretty bad cough last night.”

She smiles, and waves me off.

“It was just the smoke. I’m totally fine today! Not even a single cough. And speaking of smoke… Last night it rained so much that the fires were put out. Wonderful, right?”

I nod slowly, trying to keep to myself that I was the one that caused it. Alas, my expression betrays me again, because Martha smiles.

“Yes, I know. It’s been years since we had a proper rainstorm, so it is strange. The folks downstairs can stop talking about it, and about how it seems that a few other people were also affected by the smoke and ash but are totally fine now.”

I raise my eyebrows - they probably were in the middle of becoming Choken too.

“How many?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“About ten or so. But it seems like the rain cleared the air, dear, so you don’t need to worry about it. Oh, and Yusuke also said that the fires didn’t reach our places, so we can go back as soon as Dalylah clears out the streets. Isn’t it wonderful?”

I nod, taking a deep breath. I did it. I saved eleven lives, maybe more. For once… I did not fail. But what was the price I paid? I look at Martha as she busies herself with straightening out her bedsheets, looking like a mother hen, when it hits me full in the guts.

I can’t remember my mother’s voice.

The thought hits me like a blade between the ribs. I gasp, clutching the sheets so hard my knuckles burn white. I close my eyes, waiting, begging, for the sound to come. A lullaby, a word, anything.

Nothing.

Just silence, deafening silence where she used to live inside me.

I try to picture her face, but the lines blur like ink drowned in water. What did she work with? What was her smell? Did she ever take care of me like Martha did? Was she warm? Did she sing to me? Did she ever hold me in her arms?

I stumble out of the room before Martha can notice the cracks splitting me apart. Tears blur my vision of the hallway, hot and unrelenting, and by the time I reach the bathroom I’m already shaking. I slam the door shut, twist the lock with trembling fingers, and slide down against the wood until the cold tiles meet my legs.

The sobs come fast, tearing out of me like something feral.

I saved them. I saved eleven lives. I saved her. And yet…

In exchange, I lost the only voice that ever sang me to sleep.

The silence presses in from all sides, heavier than any fire or monster. I bury my face in my hands, terrified of what else I can forget.

How much of myself can I lose before I stop being me? What if… What if, by the end of it all, I’m nothing but a hollow shell?

My whole body trembles against the cold floor. The certainty of who I am, the only thing I’ve ever relied on, slips like sand through my fingers. What if I forget that too?

But then, Failure’s words rise again, louder than my panic, louder than the silence.

It’s not about preventing losses.

It’s about surviving them.