Chapter Nine
For the next several days or so-- Magdalena had no way of keeping track of the time, nor did she particularly care to-- she didn't leave her room. She wouldn't have left her bed except, not even depressed and miserable, she hated feeling dirty, so would shower and use the bathroom when she needed to. Then, though, she would drift back to her room, curl up against the wall, and shut her eyes. It was too much trouble to do anything else, even eat, though her mother kept trying, leaving the best foods they had by her bed. Magdalena didn't even trouble herself to feel guilty when Mary took the plates back again, untouched, with at least some of the offered foodstuffs spoiled and now inedible. What was normally one of the greatest offenses in Zion and among freedom fighters, wasted food, didn't seem all that important now. Magdalena wasn't really sure what was important now. She didn't really think anything was; not anything she could think of, anyway. All she wanted was to be left alone, to her blankets and pillows, in the quiet and dark. For the first day or so, the headache assured that was all she got, for light stabbed at her eyes and noise rang in her ears. It faded, though, as time crawled by, and even though she didn't want noise and light, she could at least stand it again. Despite the disappearance of the physical pain, Magdalena still couldn't forget anything, so the mental pain didn't fade in the slightest. Over and over again she remembered it, every detail fresh and raw, from summons to realizing the egg was dead to her own chrome-mottled hatching dying in her arms. Never before had she been so close to death, not even when her shipmates were fighting Agents or the Sangreal was fleeing Sentinels, and never had death been so tragic. Half of her wanted to go back to when Derfergetz had told her about the dragons and their eggs, and refuse to hear it; the other half was horrified by the very thought of so shaming the dragons and their loss, as to want to never be a part of it. For whose loss was worse? The one who held the dying infant, or the one from whom the hatchling had come? Magdalena didn't know, and thinking about it only made her feel guilty. She didn't want to think that Cel and Key might have more reason to grieve; then she might have to stop, herself, and she just wasn't ready to face that yet. After the headache faded, however, Magdalena was no longer left alone all day. Her mother came in and read to her for hours at a time, sitting on a chair, not speaking except to speak aloud the words of old stories she had read to both her children when they were young, supposed passed down through the family since before the Machines, if that were even possible. Magdalena knew them all, from Bible and Shakespeare and Kipling, or written or told first by people who no one else would recognize their names anymore. She didn't want to listen, didn't want to be soothed, but she didn't bother to chase Mary away, either. Saul came in, too, about once a day, she guessed. He sat on the bed, touched her shoulders and stroked her hair, talked to her. He told her about Keshari, and how she was doing; gave her news, gossip really, from around Zion, probably trying to make her laugh; even pleaded with her to share whatever she felt, if not with him, than with Kerberos, the boy who had to be feeling the same way she did. He'd nearly bonded and lost the dragon, as well, after all, and if anyone would understand, he would. She never answered, hardly moved in response, but when he finally left again she would find that she'd leaked tears from closed eyes. Then the Sangreal docked again. Mary came in and told her, first, that it would be leaving again in three days, after the next temple gathering, and Magdalena was supposed to be going with it. She didn't care; she hadn't moved more than she had to in the past however many days it had been, and she wasn't intending to go anywhere anytime soon. The Sangreal had done without her for this long, it could last longer. Her mother had not been pleased with her lack of reaction, but hadn't said anything, merely gone back out into the living room of the small apartment and left her daughter alone, like she'd wanted. Saul said the same thing when he came later, with the same response: nothing. Then she heard the front door open at a polite knock, heard murmuring outside her room, and then the apartment felt suddenly a little bit fuller. It wasn't Saul's presence who brought that feeling, but no one else so far had come to visit her. "Don't be expecting much of a reaction," she heard her mother warn someone else. "I don't think she's said two words since it all happened." There was no answer, but that other someone came into the room, and sat down on the bed. Then, hesitant but hopeful, she heard, "Mnemonic?" It was automatic. "It's Magdalena." It came out as a whisper, her voice unused to speaking for what felt like years. Then, miracle of miracles, he did it. "Magdalena, then. Whatever you like, honey; I'll call you the Queen of Zion if you want." She'd already committed, already said something, so she might as well continue-- but on her own terms. Not moving away from the wall, not even opening her eyes, she murmured, "What are you doing here?" "Looking for you," Rain answered simply, and settled a hand on her shoulder, like Saul would. For a moment, she almost rolled over, almost touched it with her own hand, but then he said: "We heard, you know." They heard. Of course they'd heard. Only it wasn't at all like they thought it must be like, and they'd expect... something. Anything. Any expectations they had would fall on her, and she'd have to explain, to talk about it.... "Go away," she whispered. "Magdalena--" "Just... go away. I don't want to talk right now." "Can I come back later?" " ... I don't know, Rain. Please go." " .... All right, whatever you like...." He didn't sound like himself. He wasn't smiling, cheerful, carefree and careless. But he got up, moved away, and left first the room then, after a few words to Mary, the apartment. Magdalena wasn't sure whether she wanted to cry again or not, but since crying would still require effort, she ended up not. At least she was alone again-- "Magdalena." Or not. Mary stood in the doorway to the bedroom, she could tell, and she was not pleased. Magdalena didn't answer, just hunched her shoulders faintly, a physical sign that she was prepared to ignore whatever her mother said. She'd been ignoring her and Saul for days now, after all; once more wasn't going to be difficult. ::Magdalena Saint Clair, stop being a baby.:: That, however, was impossible to ignore. Magdalena's eyes flew open, and she stiffened with surprise. ::You are acting like a disgrace to your name, to lie around moping all day, for days on end, letting yourself waste away like this. You're hurting people who love you, and I will not stand for it any more.:: Then Mary was crossing the room, taking her shoulders, and sitting her up and turning her around on the bed. Her mouth was set in a thin line, her eyes hard. Magdalena blinked at her, then shrank back slightly at her expression. It drove home exactly how she'd been acting to see her calm, serene mother actually loose her temper. And she was right: she had been a baby... selfish, not to think that she wasn't worrying people, or that she was the only one who hurt; a coward, for hiding in her room instead of facing the world; and certainly rude to poor Saul and Rain. she wasn't usually someone to wallow like this-- certainly not to the point of not eating! It just... wasn't like her. "You're right, it's not," her mother said, rather than sent, now that she might actually listen to what she said. The steel had gone out of her, and now she just looked concerned. "Mags, you need to move on... I know it hurt, I know, but you can't keep doing this." Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, but she sniffed them back, looking down from those bright blue eyes staring back at her. "I just don't know what to do now," she said shakily, hugging her elbows. "You could start by getting up and eating something," Mary suggested seriously. "Then go from there." That... was probably a very good idea. So, trembling a little, she eased herself onto her feet and, with her mother's help, went out to do just that. |