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[Cezanne Abella]

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“You burn plague.”

Arahim’s words rang in her ears over and over again, unsettling Cezanne as she did that which no one else seemed willing or able to do. Every man Eclyse had hired for the job had abandoned his post by the second day, and it had fallen to the women to clear away the damage that woman had wrought. Eclyse helped, when she was not tending the Countess in Moonglow, or business in Ashencrosse. And in the meantime, the rains had ravaged what the fire had not, and everything here in the camp smelled like wet, human death and scorched skin.

Ash settles, and compresses, smothers, tracks. Not like snow which covers and makes things new. Quite the opposite, it fills every crevice and makes filthy that which was not before. Ash carries on the soles of shoes and spreads the spectre of death into new places, where life still clings desperately to the grasses and wildflowers, despite weeks of frost, and bitter winds. And where life fills a theatre with revelry and song.

The sounds here in the camp echoed the curse that had fallen over it. Here a footstep, there a sigh, all reminders of those who died here a fiery and violent death. An occasional wind carried a cry – sometimes child, sometimes mother. Whether pained and slipping away to the plague, or having life ripped from their throats by fire, she could not know. But the cries prickled her skin and gave her pause to shiver each time.

The camp here was broken. Anguished. Marked by madness. Filled with ghosts who did not know how or why they were here any more than she did. And each time she cleared away debris, scooped away ash, it seemed as though it returned tenfold. The job had become mindless, and she tried hard to close her mind to the pleas, the screams, and the desperate, raking fingers of those beyond the veil who clawed at her and begged for peace in this place of torment.

No More…

Cezanne stood and retreated to the gate, face smudged with soot, ash and dirt beneath her fingernails, some torn and bleeding life into the death of the ashes. She heard the wails of those left to wander the accursed camp, and she turned back, calling out to them. The bitter wind tore the words from her mouth and carried them, she hoped, beyond the veil.

“I will do what I can. I’m sorry – know only that the one who did this to you, suffers too. Please take comfort in the knowledge that I will not forsake you. I will find someone – some way – to fix what has been broken. I will do everything that I can to help you find the peace you so desperately desire. The peace you deserve.” Cezanne turned and left the sounds of unrest behind her, her mind racing as she climbed the stairs of the theatre, tracking death to her chamber door. Pausing with her hand on the latch, she sighed deeply, took off her shoes, and went inside.