1.
The strangest thing about the Blackwagon—
No. Speak truly, Pamitha, you tell yourself:
The hardest thing about the Blackwagon is how it flies. Ti’zo darts alongside it, and you wish you could join him in the air, but your wings no longer carry you. You soar freely during the Rites, bolstered by the Reader’s power; but when you travel the Downside, your wings are still clipped.
(You never tell a soul, but you think the Reader knows; they are too kind, and give you too much space as you sit on the Blackwagon’s tail and stare wistfully at the clouds.)
2.
The Reader tells you to plunge into the Pyre, so you do, spinning over Ignarius’ desperate lunge.
There is a brief heat, then an endless coolness, and you rest. It’s hard to tell how long you stay in the Pyre before the Orb is quenched once more, but it feels like no time at all before you Return from the quiet nothingness.
(If Sandra and the Beyonders live there, you think—watching Rukey bounce across the field, Orb shining brightly above him as he moves faster than Pfrumta’s bog-slick aura can catch—it’s no wonder they’re so grumpy and distant.)
3.
“Do you want to be Liberated?” the Reader asks you, as you methodically preen your wings after an ugly Rite against the Chastity.
You shrug, uneasy. “That isn’t my choice.” Your hidden wing-claws tremble and catch against your feathers. “And others are certainly deserving.”
“Do you think you aren’t deserving?”
“Does it matter?”
The Reader places their hand on your shoulder, and it feels— the only word you can think is heavy. They say, softly, “You are no less deserving than any other Nightwing, Pamitha.”
After they leave you sit, frozen, waiting for the feeling of their touch to fade.
4.
You don’t return to the Commonwealth.
The Reader keeps offering you the choice, and you hesitate every time. You can’t see their face, but you feel their disappointment as first you turn away, then they turn to another Nightwing. (Hedwyn. Jodariel. Volfred. Even Oralech, at the end.)
You stand, stiff, feathers pinned close to your body, and pretend your heart doesn’t shatter every time you see a friend (even a righteous foe) enter the Shimmer-Pool adorned in the Scribes’ own robes. The Reader and the other Nightwings stand beside you as you watch, inscribing the Liberated’s face in your heart.
5.
“Sister,” you say, because that is all there is to say.
The Rites are over. You are both here, wing-clipped and angry, but perhaps—
(Perhaps this time she will not turn away. Perhaps this time you will be able to work through it. Perhaps this time you can remember how close you once were.)
Tamitha does not turn from where she has shrouded herself, nor does she speak.
You close your eyes and turn, bones heavy as they should never be. Enough, you tell yourself. Give it up for lost.
And then—
“Sister,” you hear her say.
And you smile.