"What do I do?"

"..."

 

"Good night, Arthur,” Estelle’s voice was cold and dead and small, but no less painful despite it. “Sleep well, alright?”

Then, without being able to do anything, I watched my best friend in the entire world turn around and disappear into the freezing dark. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My hand reached from me side, before falling limp halfway, the action aborted by the memory of her flinching away. I stared, slack-jawed, not really seeing, the image of my friend walking into the dark, playing over and over, and my legs stuck in place, preventing me from following her. 

My breath frosted in front of me. I stared into the dark like a statue, even as the moon fully rose, and the lamp lights grew brighter. I didn’t know what to do. How— or what— I felt out of place, like the moment I’d watched as Elle had fell and fell through the clouds and into the dark. The night I almost thought I lost her. I couldn’t stop thinking about it— both moments, how they seemed so similar, yet so far. I wasn’t pacing in a hospital lobby, I wasn’t beside Clara, I didn’t have my friend slung over my shoulder. It wasn’t that night again, Elle wasn’t here, stuck in some bed.

Elle wasn’t here. I stared at nothing. Elle isn’t here. Elle left. She left. Why. She’s angry. Why. She’s upset. Why. Why. Why.  

Anything I could think of— stuff like I should be going home and mom must be worried about me, seemed to register, but still my feet stayed stuck in the snow. Everything that I knew I should’ve been doing did nothing to make me move. My lips were chapped, my tongue cold and limp, and my throat dry and tight. I couldn’t feel my hands.

After what felt like ages, my stupor ended, as if I’d come out of a trance, finally coming to terms that I needed to move, or else I really would get sick. Numb, feeling like a watcher inside my own body, I chose a direction and began walking. Walking always helped me think. But I couldn’t do any thinking— my thoughts felt as if they were stumbling over jagged glass, still replaying the moment in time where Elle left. 

I walked and walked and walked, the snow crunching beneath me, my breath trailing behind me, my gaze locked to the ground. I couldn’t feel my feet. My shoes were too thin for this weather. I kept walking somewhere. I didn’t know where. Walking wasn’t helping. I still saw her turning around and leaving in my head, I still heard her yelling and sobbing and falling apart. I couldn’t get the image out of my head, or get myself to look at it any closer. Walking made me feel like my thoughts were stray birds. They always flew away when I got close to them.

I stopped, twisted my head and finally looked up. Sitting helped, sometimes. Maybe I should sit. Was there a bench? 

No, there was no bench. Instead, buildings crowded me like a weathered forest despite their orderly and strict placement, side-by-side. Unadorned. Uninspired. Unimaginative— words Elle would use to describe the city we grew up in. Another pang of hurt flooded my heart. My gaze moved to my sides for a bench, despite the fact that I knew there’d be a cliff and more buildings. There were no gaps between the buildings to my right, no dark alleys for me to find a place to sit, just me and my thoughts on the edge of a cliff, stuck walking beneath an endless row of cold amber lights. 

To my left, off the cliff and deeper into the city far below. Spires— Tisalin towers. This was familiar. I knew where I was.

I swallowed, picking a direction without really thinking. I tried to stop thinking until I got where I wanted to go. Walking made it worse— made everything worse at the moment. Every step left a footprint, every footprint in the snow brought back the image of Elle walking into the dark, a trail of footprints behind her. Focusing on keeping one step in front of the other, instead of looking at my feet helped. 

I kept walking, until my feet brought me before a high, ice-crusted iron door. ‘The Silver Flower Mausoleum’ engraved on a pale plaque. It was also closed. I pushed the doors open with a creaking whine. They were never locked. There was never any need to. People generally respected the dead enough that vandalism wasn’t a concern.

Without needing to think about it, my feet carried me into the warmed and empty halls lined with hundreds of names I’d read before. I arrived at the back, where the first names of the memorial were held. I didn’t bother tiptoeing or sneaking around— no one was around anyway, and anyone who was generally minded their own business. 

Despite Elle’s impression that I was too altruistic for my own good, I knew that the wars had been ugly. Everyone had lost someone or another. I arrived before a long black plaque that extended from one end of the building to the other. There were a pile of flowers left a distance away, red flowers left at the foot of the wall. My eyes found the name I’d become accustomed to looking towards. 

Joseph Berchon Laurent— Estelle’s father, and my main role model.

My hand traced the lettering carved into the cold marble. I wasn’t really sure what I was doing. My thoughts felt like a mirror shattered at my feet that I couldn’t pick together. I didn’t even know why I was here— habit? I came here sometimes, but why now? I also couldn’t understand the way Elle had acted tonight— sure, I’d known that something had been bothering her, but I had trusted…

Why did you never say anything, if you knew something was wrong? Why did you keep telling me it was okay? The echo of Estelle’s voice whimpered.

Had my trust in her to let me know if something bothered her been misplaced? Should I have insisted on trying to work out her problems, even if she didn’t want to tell me? 

It felt like everything I tried to comfort her with had actually harmed her— but I still had no idea what about it was wrong. Did she even want to stay friends? Should I stop trying to see her, so as to not accidentally harm her?

At that thought, my throat tightened and my vision blurred. My hand fell back to my side.

No. No. I didn’t want that. 

So how would I fix this? How could I tell her how sorry I was? How could I make it up to her, if she hated the way I’d acted up to this point? Could I even fix something like this? Was it… was it worth trying to reach out to her again and again, if she didn’t want anything to do with me anymore? 

What is Elle to me? 

We’d been friends for over a decade, we’d gone through our entrances exams together, we’d gone through the aftermath of the Coup together— we’d both lost family— we’d… we’d been together for so long that she’d practically become family, over the years— like an uncertain, incredibly competent, but ultimately younger sister, no matter how mature she tried to act. And…

And I loved her, beyond a shadow of a doubt, like the waves loved the shore, like the way dawn crested the horizon each morning. 

I thought that she was the same as me— that she was happy with how we were, that she enjoyed being with me in the same way I did with her… but maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe she didn’t like me all that much, maybe she’d just been my friend all these years so she could discard me when her Oath was done.

Would I hate her, if that were the case?

Nausea threatened to spill my dinner across the floor, and I swallowed, uncomfortable. I stagged back, bracing against the wall. 

No, I wouldn’t hate her. I couldn’t. But… would I prioritize her over myself? Did I want her to be happy? Even if it came at the cost of myself?

I didn’t want to leave her, but I wanted her to be happy— if that happiness came at my own, what was I supposed to do? What was the right thing to do…?

I didn’t…

“… I don’t know what to do…” my voice quietly croaked, unprompted. 

Then why don’t you say everything you know about it? Lay it all out. 

Estelle had told me that, once, when we were younger. She’d tilted up her glasses, only flicking her eyes up from her book to assess my expression, before staring back down at her book. If you’d like, she muttered off-handedly, but even I knew at that young age it was her way of expressing affection, you can tell me about it. I’ve been told I’m a good listener. 

The memory made me ache, and I rubbed at my eyes. 

I had explained such stupid stuff to her, things like what do I do when those kids make fun of me? Or, Mom said I should always treat people with kindness, or Clara’s mad at me, what should I do? And she would quickly respond with something so simple, but made so much sense— why should you care about what they think? Your mom’s right… have you tried talking to Clara about what’s upsetting her? 

In my eyes, Elle had always seemed the smartest out of everyone I knew, like she had everything together and knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. But I knew that wasn’t true, on some level. I thought back to the last major events of our lives.

She hadn’t wanted us to get kidnapped— I was pretty sure. The look of panic and pain on her face when we fought Patches and Scabs had been the last thing I’d seen before getting knocked out. Then, we’d woken up somewhere, tied up and struggling. Elle looked like she was scared, at that time. I hadn’t brought it up at the time, since even thought she looked scared, it looked as if she was thinking. 

Then, when I’d tried to reach out to her after we escaped, she’d pushed me away, shaking and struggling to breathe, an unfocused look in her eyes. She’d settled, after she’d recognized it was me— and I knew there was a problem then, but I had been so focused on her being okay that I thought that afterwards, when everyone was fine, that it’d be okay.

Of course, I tried to visit her the days after, but the doctors and nurses just kept turning me away, saying that she was still recovering, which worried me to no end. Words could not describe the relief I felt when the hospital staff had told me she’d been discharged, and the further relief that had bloomed in my chest when I saw her in her at her house, sitting and scowling like nothing had ever happened. I thought everything had been okay then— we were both okay, no one was harmed, and she’d been acting like she normally had— she was angry at me, but… but we were okay, at least, I thought so, up until she began crying in the carriage.

I’d calmed her down, then, but the incident had left me worried— sure, she’d cried a couple of times over the years we’d known each other, but almost never as badly as that time in the carriage. I thought things had been fine after she admitted to what was bothering her, and we both resolved to do better for one another— but maybe it was more complicated than that? Like parts in a whole?

Should I have known that there was something else bothering her? 

When we’d been younger, I’d remembered waking up one night to use the bathroom, and accidentally nearly stumbling in on Estelle— who had thrown up and been softly crying. The light was barely bright enough for me to see in— and despite everything, I couldn’t bring myself to walk in and comfort her. The scene had felt like something I shouldn’t had seen. My friend had looked fine the next morning, but I didn’t bring it up at breakfast, either. 

Should I have done something different? Did I just say I trusted her to tell me— and use it as an excuse not to try to reach out? I didn’t know, even all these years later. All I knew now was that Elle was upset, presumably at me, and the Warden, about things that we both said or did. 

What else did I know? 

I knew that the topics of her parents wasn’t something that she had moved past, but I thought it’d just been that: in the past, something that if we never brought it up, it’d just fade into the background. At least, that’s how it was for my mom and I, about dad, but I hadn’t known him very well…

I also knew that the final nail tonight had been the dinner talk with the Warden— whose behavior throughout the entire night had completely confused me. I expected her to be noble— polite and hero-like like the stories had always made her out to be— She’d saved an entire garrison of troops, once! … but she’d been the opposite, the Warden had been mean— really mean. She’d spat insults and chewed with her mouth open and came to the appointment late. It was as confusing and it’d been absurd. I’d caught myself wondering if the stories about her had been true.

And Elle… she’d become so hostile, formal and cold and also ignoring my questions, but I’d heard the edge of panic in her voice as she spoke to the Warden. Then the Warden had said something that was totally going too far— and then Elle had left in a fit of anger. When I’d stumbled up to go after her, looking confused between both her and the Warden, who’d begun to look amused, my confusion had morphed into anger. Then, when I’d been about to leave, the Gilded Cage’s smile turned genuine and satisfied, before telling me she had great hopes for the two of us, and an assignment would be sent later down the line. 

I’d left quickly, chasing after Estelle— thinking all the while through everything 

I’d known she didn’t like to talk about her problems, and I respected that and trusted her to communicate when she was ready— but had that been the wrong thing to do? I knew that everything the Warden had said had bothered her, even if she didn’t want to admit it. I knew, but I thought it’d be okay— I trusted her to be able to communicate with me. 

Then, she’d imploded, sobbing and babbling and trying to convince herself things were okay, and rejecting any of my attempts at trying to comfort her. 

Stop trying to comfort me, still echoed in my head like a gunshot. Especially not in that tone. 

And then I hadn’t known what to say next, and with each of her sob’s my heart broke a little more.

I wanted to try— I really did— beyond anything else in the world, I wanted to be there for her. I thought I’d done a good job at being by her side all these years— respected her boundaries, been there when she needed someone to talk to (even if she never wanted to admit it)— had it been wrong? Should I have done something different— tried to care for her in some way that she didn’t hate? In some way that she didn’t have to ask for? Would she even be okay with that? 

What would that even look like? If giving advice and lending an open ear hadn’t been her way of showing affection, then why had she done that for me all these years? Even if it was her way of caring, what advice could I even lend her? Would she even like advice, if I gave it to her?

What did love look like, to Elle?

I… I don’t know. It took me a heartbeat to realize the croaking voice had been my own, so weak and warbled with tears that I didn’t recognize it. I miss her. 

And I couldn’t see her. I didn’t even know if she wanted to see me, anymore. I wanted to be there for her, but I didn’t know how to meaningfully show her that I cared. I couldn’t even be there for her when she needed it— even worse, I’d somehow hurt her instead. Estelle had been crying towards the end of our conversation, her usually reserved and sharp expression had crumbled, washed away in a torrent of tears that had left her sobbing and muttering about how everything had been fine, that there’d been nothing for me to worry about. When I had stepped closer— she had flinched, and it was then when I truly realized that this thing that happened— it had broken a decade of shared history together.

The person who stood across from me who had once been my friend had seemed like a complete stranger to me.

Despite that, she was still a stranger I wanted to love— but how did I say I love you, without words? Without actions?

I turned, halfway to opening my mouth— halfway to ask my best friend in the world, What do I do? Before I caught myself. She wasn’t here, and she was the last person who would be willing to answer me right now. Despair roiled like nausea in my chest, and I slowly sank against the cool marble wall. Thick tears dripped down my cheek, and I buried my head in my hands. I couldn’t stop shaking, my throat closing up. I sniffed, drying as many of my cold tears onto the sleeves of my suit— another gift Elle had given me, and another thing that I couldn’t repay her for. Each time I shifted, moving to dry my eyes, my muscles would feel as if acid coursed through them. Everything everywhere hurt.

Who could I ask, if not Elle? A small voice whispered, some part of me tinged with Elle’s solemn practicality over the years. It reminded me of her. I’d been separated from Elle before— we weren’t always hanging around each other— but I felt her absence like a sword in my side. I swallowed the lump in my throat, focusing on answering. 

Clara? Mom? They’d give good advice. 

Anyone else?

No. Everyone else I could think of, I wasn’t comfortable talking about this topic (A part of me knew that Elle would be okay with talking to either of them, too— even if she hated Clara). I wiped the last of my tears off my face, getting to my feet— I can ask them both, if I’m going home. 

I quickly left the mausoleum, beginning the long trek into the snow that would take me home— and hopefully, a way forward.