Frostbite

Chapter Seventeen

Some nights Eira dreamed that she was running. Running after Cerin. It was like the games they'd played as children, except—in her dreams—the chase felt eternal. Sometimes, it was worse than running; when she reached out to touch him, he would fade to nothing beneath her grasping fingers. Most nights she awoke before she could catch him, but, that night, she did. However, for the first time, he didn't evanesce. Instead, he fell limp in her arms. Blood trickled out between ashen lips.  

She screamed, shrill and piercing.

Eira's eyes flew open. Sunlight shone between a gap in the shutters, casting a dim glow over the room.

"Only a dream," she whispered. Eira gasped the words out, her breathing erratic and panicked. "It was only a dream." She found herself saying that more often than not when she awoke these days.

The events of the night before crashed back to her. She'd managed to get herself into a notorious rebel group after a successful interview with their leader, Bran Darrow.

 Afterwards, she'd stumbled back to the inn (after getting lost several times) and fallen into a deep sleep as soon as she came into contact with her bed—something she hadn't done in months.

Eira checked the small clock mounted above the mantle. It was just after six o'clock. Her shift started at eight; she had plenty of time to spare. She surfaced from the warm, albeit creaky, bed and began to dress.

The dye in her hair had long since faded and her hair was a blondish colour, she realised after a quick look in the mirror—the first time in a while.

The roots had gone white, too. That was what she got for using her powers. If she'd withheld herself from bringing them out for long enough, then there was a likely chance her hair would have grown back in its original colour.

Eira sighed and left the room, picking up her small coin-sack as she passed. She couldn't risk being caught for something as easy to avert as her hair colour.

Outside, people were beginning to get up and about, setting up their shops and stalls for the Saturday market. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, and everything was cast in the pink and orange glow of dawn. It was pretty, but it was too early for her to appreciate anything properly.

She read a few pages of a book, sitting on a bench underneath an old oak tree as she waited for daily market to begin. She'd started to frequent the place whenever she needed some fresh air.

Eira surveyed the crowd that was beginning to gather around the main square. Men and women were erecting their stalls and placing their produce on tables within. There was everything—food, drink, clothes, medicine, tools. She and her parents—and later, her adoptive family—would come here every spring and autumn and buy supplies from the market. She could remember holding her mother's hand as she looked at everything there was to offer. Her mother would buy special cakes that they never usually bought and they would take them home and eat them after dinner as a treat.

It was strange to think that it had been nearly nine years since she'd seen her parents. How she'd almost forgotten them in everything that had happened. Or maybe, it was because she'd tried to forget them. 

Their faces were blurred most times she thought of them, nowadays. 

How was it that she'd had everything she'd loved torn away from her? Her parents. Her adoptive family. Her friend. What would be next? Her sanity?

When the large clock atop the church chimed seven, Eira left her spot under the tree and headed over to the market. She cast her depressing train of thought away and focused on the moment.