Fair, is fair, is fair—you tell yourself. You blame luck, and fate, and gods you don’t rightly believe in. You cry when you meet Imogen’s gaze—her eyes cracking open and spilling despair, her lips pressing tight enough that those animal soft whimpers are only high pitched noise. Barely human, sadly real.
You don’t know what to do, you don’t know who to save—until you do.
Heads, you save Laudna. Tails, you save Orym.
Glinting like a prayer answered as it spins edge over edge in the air; you track it with your eyes, you see the edges of images etched into the metal. Heads, tails—heads, tails—heads, tails. Over and over; who lives, and who dies.
You don’t know what to do—until you do.
You slap a hand over the outcome, you squeeze your eyes shut and lift it just enough that you can peek under your palm. See the outcome, see the promise. You blink hard, your lips pinch and your ears flatten back and bristle.
You’re not good, but you’re not bad—you’re wild, and chaotic, and free. You’re a stranger in a strange land, a visitor in the stories of others—even when your own comes calling. You’re sideways, and bright, and endlessly messy.
You’re fey—which means, inherently, you’re selfish.
Tucking the coin away, you exhale and open your eyes, pressing hands against Laudna you promise her you’ll find a way to save her. You whisper un-truths because they’re hazy and thick on your tongue. You don’t know if you can save her—though you will try.
You only know that the coin landed on heads, and in that moment you knew fate didn’t matter. Luck didn’t matter. And above all else, gods didn’t matter. What matters is that Orym is yours, as readily as the trinkets stuck in your fur and the half-truths in your heart. A piece of you that is kind, and strong, and forgives you all your outlandish flaws.
Orym is yours, and it wasn’t until fate—or luck, or gods—said he deserved to die that you decided the choice was already made in your heart long before you flipped a coin.
Orym—the answer was always Orym.
