The Ball Concludes

Astilbe stood there, in the moonlight that always seemed so prominent in the most pivotal moments of Yew’s life, and tried to process her story. He stared out into the autumn night, eyes unfocused. Yew knew it, Ulma’s disappearance was her fault and Astilbe was just trying to find a way to say that without admitting he was wrong. Astilbe hated having to retract his words after he just said them. Even so, he kept ahold of her hand; seemingly forgetting it wasn’t his own as he absently drew circles across her knuckles. Yew waited in the silence, unwilling to encourage his judgement of her more than she already had.

Yew was torn between watching the thoughts play out on his face and hiding away from them completely. It was one of the most nerve wracking things she ever experienced. Waiting, Yew had learned, is one of life’s great torments. Every beat of her heart brought her one second closer to the end of waiting, so she tried to focus on the sound of it stubbornly marching forward.

As for Astilbe, he was just trying to reconcile all the new things he learned with all that he already knew. For starters, he had never heard Yew hum any melody in particular; he wondered when she had stopped and why. Did she no longer find it comforting, or was she denying herself the comfort of it out of guilt? There were countless words he wanted to say and questions he wanted to ask, and yet the question that made its way to the surface was perhaps the least important to answer.

“That’s why you keep so much dried meat in your desk?” Astilbe wanted to smack himself a little for that, but it seemed to knock Yew out of the worry she had been gradually creasing into her skirt; so, it may not have been the absolute worst of follow-up questions.

“Yes?” Yew wasn’t sure why that mattered, he hadn’t said much at the time, but she supposed that it had been bothering him more than he let on. Astilbe released one of his hands from hers to rake it over his head; the action tugged a few stray hairs free from its braid as he dug his fingers into his scalp.

“Sorry, what I meant to ask was: you’re partially undead? But you can use light magic? I know I’ve seen you do it, doesn’t that hurt you?” He asked instead. Yew thought he was still focusing on the wrong information, but she humored him.

“Yes, and yes, and it does sting if I use too much, but I don’t use spells that require direct channeling often enough for it to matter,” she spoke as if there were nothing abnormal about it. Astilbe thought it was very like her to think those details weren’t that important; and maybe they weren’t, in the end. She was still the same Yew as before, but now he knew more about what shaped her. Maybe it was crazy, but he didn’t really care; not in a way that changed his opinion or feelings about her, anyway.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” She blinked at him, incredulous.

“Okay.” He nodded once, sharp and sure. “That aside, more importantly, it isn’t your fault, Yew.” He dipped down to catch the pale yellow of her eyes and urged her to understand. Her eyes skewed to the side, lips pressed tightly; Astilbe could tell she didn’t believe him. He said it again, “it wasn’t your fault.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, as if he could press belief into her. Of course, years of guilt wouldn’t resolve with the faith and reassurance of one person, but it was a start. Or, more aptly, an end; like the unraveling of a crocheted blanket, pulling loose from a single tail of yarn. Eventually, it would be a big messy pile and from there it could be repurposed into something better, or rewound into a ball and stored away. It didn’t have to stay as something ugly, unwanted, messy, or incomplete.

“Astilbe-” Yew tried to protest, but he cut her off.

“Yew, do you think I would lie to you about this?” He tried instead. She brought her hands up to wrap around his forearms and let them rest there, hanging loosely while she thought it through.

“...No,” she reluctantly admitted. But if she could trust him then where did that leave her? She had carried the guilt and blame for what happened for all this time; if, and only if, she were to let go of it, then what? If she isn’t to blame, then by default she would be just another victim. The idea of it felt so helpless. Being responsible was easier to stomach, for all that it tasted like ash on her tongue and sat like lead in her gut. Carrying extra weight was so much easier than learning to do without something that had always been there, and yet would never be again.

When you hold on to thorny brambles, the brambles also hold on to you.

Yew wasn’t sure that she could pull them out, even if she let go of them. They stuck into her heart, creating wounds, but also keeping them closed. Without them there would only be pain and gaping holes left behind. But to keep them meant she would never truly heal, either.

***

The rest of the ball was very pleasant. Yew and Astilbe moved on to lighter conversations, speculating about what the guild-master broke, as they had unanimously agreed he broke something important, and made guesses about how many more sponsors Salix and Viola would end up with. Partway through Astilbe had zipped around the room once for good measure, making sure to talk to his own patrons at a minimum. Yew stayed up on the second floor, watching different couples spin around to the music.

Tonight had been far more taxing exciting, than Yew had anticipated. She was sure that when she returned to her dorm she would collapse and sleep until tomorrow’s sun rose high in the sky. Reliving those memories had shaken her up to her core, but the way things had started to resettle made her think that not all painful experiences are also bad ones.

As this year’s ball draws to a close, Yew turns her thoughts to the future instead. She had a desert expedition to a mummy invested tomb to plan for; and a potentially volatile, suspiciously inert, chalice to destroy. Dame Leah’s other requests had been essentially effortless to fulfill, compared to how her task with the cup was coming along. Sending the mementos and surviving horse back to her family had been the work of a heart-wrenching afternoon; her family was local, as it turned out. But that nigh indestructible cup was wearing on her patience; she truly hoped her friends were correct about it being tied to the location somehow. If nothing else, maybe she could tie it to the end of her hook and use it as a bludgeon. If she kept hitting things with it, it might break eventually.