Yet a final choice, a final decision, lay before her.
A choice with no way back.
First she had to find him, convince him, and hope he was still fit to work. Rumors had a lot to say about his condition, but the ounce of pragmatism left in the fyrette told her that the nature of a rumor was to remain false until it was verified. He would always agree to help her, she knew.
The decision had been taken long ago, and had only been delayed too long. The decision to let him operate, to let him experiment on her what, in the memory of homins, had never been attempted or succeeded. If he succeeded, it could be a gigantic step forward for research and science, for the healing of irreparable damage. Perhaps it would open up hope for curing goo intoxicants, those whose seed of life had been affected, by operating as close to it as possible. If he succeeded, she could regain the use of her arm, maybe her eye.
If he failed, at worst, she'd die. A terrible loss, she chuckled to herself. To die, for good, to finish that kitin's work. In any case, the homins of the New Lands are running to their doom, unaware of what awaits them if the Citadelle passage gives way. Might as well die first and avoid having to watch it happen without being able to do anything about it, she thought, as it would rid everyone of his pesky, annoying presence. No one dared tell her what a burden she had become, dependent and unbearable. Everyone avoided offending her at all costs, avoiding being unpleasant with her. Those false voices, oh, you're looking good today, Eeri, here, have another byrh, but shut up, don't grumble too much. Or maybe they just couldn't see. Azazor, Lyren, Kyriann, the drakani, and the others, all had far too much to do to notice or admit that she was slowly sinking into loneliness and madness. Or maybe she was good at hiding it. Or maybe they were all doing it on purpose, to push her over the edge. Or maybe they just didn't care; they had too much to do with their two arms.
Wixarika, by slapping her on the night of the wedding, had shown her that she was perhaps the only one who still had a little hope, the hope that she would pull herself together, that she would break out of her destructive spiral.
She shook her head, still on that beach. Hope was futile. It was too late for her. She didn't want to go on like this, in denial, in immobility. She couldn't go on watching others do what she'd dreamed of doing.
Regain mobility or die. To become sawdust and tree again, to become matter, water and dust again.
Or to be able to move again.
One or the other, without compromise.
She had to find Maze'Yum, one last time.
A choice with no way back.
First she had to find him, convince him, and hope he was still fit to work. Rumors had a lot to say about his condition, but the ounce of pragmatism left in the fyrette told her that the nature of a rumor was to remain false until it was verified. He would always agree to help her, she knew.
The decision had been taken long ago, and had only been delayed too long. The decision to let him operate, to let him experiment on her what, in the memory of homins, had never been attempted or succeeded. If he succeeded, it could be a gigantic step forward for research and science, for the healing of irreparable damage. Perhaps it would open up hope for curing goo intoxicants, those whose seed of life had been affected, by operating as close to it as possible. If he succeeded, she could regain the use of her arm, maybe her eye.
If he failed, at worst, she'd die. A terrible loss, she chuckled to herself. To die, for good, to finish that kitin's work. In any case, the homins of the New Lands are running to their doom, unaware of what awaits them if the Citadelle passage gives way. Might as well die first and avoid having to watch it happen without being able to do anything about it, she thought, as it would rid everyone of his pesky, annoying presence. No one dared tell her what a burden she had become, dependent and unbearable. Everyone avoided offending her at all costs, avoiding being unpleasant with her. Those false voices, oh, you're looking good today, Eeri, here, have another byrh, but shut up, don't grumble too much. Or maybe they just couldn't see. Azazor, Lyren, Kyriann, the drakani, and the others, all had far too much to do to notice or admit that she was slowly sinking into loneliness and madness. Or maybe she was good at hiding it. Or maybe they were all doing it on purpose, to push her over the edge. Or maybe they just didn't care; they had too much to do with their two arms.
Wixarika, by slapping her on the night of the wedding, had shown her that she was perhaps the only one who still had a little hope, the hope that she would pull herself together, that she would break out of her destructive spiral.
She shook her head, still on that beach. Hope was futile. It was too late for her. She didn't want to go on like this, in denial, in immobility. She couldn't go on watching others do what she'd dreamed of doing.
Regain mobility or die. To become sawdust and tree again, to become matter, water and dust again.
Or to be able to move again.
One or the other, without compromise.
She had to find Maze'Yum, one last time.
---
Eeri"Quand on a le nez trop près de la bouteille, on ne voit plus le bar"