Celias Quest (2)-1 (1/2)

The fire blazed high into the night, and Celia enjoyed its warmth.

It was more in her mind than anything else, that she knew for a fact. She had no flesh to be warmed by it, though she did feel its warmth deep within her porcelain skin. And the heat leeched the moisture from her clothes and hair, which been dragged through the snow as she led the way up the mountainside to the highest part of the peak that wouldn't be lethal to her still-breathing comrades.

“So,” said the Muscle Wizaard, settling in next to her. “You look like you've got a lot on your mind.”

She glanced up at the large man. He'd started the hike up the mountain barechested, but Cagna had made him put on a crocheted sweater at some point. It was bright green with red stripes, and that combined with his red hat and loincloth made him look like one of the more northern varieties of elf. There was a kind in the far north that were said to specialize in toys, and he looked like the result of a liason between one of those and a frost giant.

“I wish I did,” Celia said, hugging her knees to her, then spreading out her skirt so that it would dry faster. “If I had more to think about, it wouldn't hurt so much. My mind wouldn't be stuck in one spot. All I'm thinking about right now is how I failed.”

“How we failed,” Said the Wizaard. “None of us got to the airship before it lifted off.”

“It was my fault. If I hadn't... I had to... you have to shout the activations or they don't work,” Celia rubbed her hands against her face, feeling porcelain clink together. “I didn't think they could reach us at that distance. I wanted to power up the armor and lead the way, and for everyone to follow while they focused fire on me. But I didn't communicate that, and once you're in the Steam Knight activation cycle you have to see it through or it fizzles.”

“So you couldn't tell us the plan, and we had to do what we thought was best. It's okay. That happens. It's like when you've got a good setup, and the other guy no-sells it.”

Celia blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh. Uh... it's wrestling words... things... terns? No wait, those are birds...”

“Terms?”

“THAT's it! Ohhhh yeaaah! Wrestling terms. So here's the thing, most wrestling is pretty simple unless both people are pretty evenly matched. But people don't pay to see wrestling unless it's a really good show. So when you know you're gonna get in the ring with another guy you try and talk to them beforehand, and work out a fun match for the crowd to follow. Really get them popping. Uh, that means excited and cheering and all.”

“I'm following you so far,” she said, dubiously.

“Yeah. And no selling is when you hit a guy with a flashy but weak move to make the crowd excited, but he acts like it didn't do anything at all. And yeah, most of the time it didn't, but you want the crowd to think it did, so they get excited. When he doesn't act hurt, then that's a no-sell. He's not selling it.”

“I'm still not sure what this had to do with the fight. Those cannonballs definitely would have hurt.”

“Yeah, but... uh, hang with me here. You don't always have the chance to talk to a guy before a fight. So you have to kind of read your partner, figure out how things should go, and wing it and hope he gives you good opportunities, and you catch all of his hits and play them up. Take a bump, I think that's called.”

“So I didn't read you well enough?”

“More like we didn't read you well enough. We didn't do enough talk beforehand, didn't have time to plan much, and you were using stuff we mostly didn't know about. So we improvised and it didn't work out.”

“I'd argue that it did,” Thomasi said, melting out of the shadows as he settled across the fire. “Your bear friend defused the situation without any serious bloodshed on either side.”

And oh, that was a roiling mass of emotions. Disappointment and shame and an undercurrent of anger, twisting inside her gut. She snapped her head aside, staring into the darkness past the tents.

“Oh no,” Thomasi said, standing and hurrying around to her. “I'm sorry. What did I say?”

“The truth,” Celia said, her voice thick, almost feeling like her throat was choking. Impossible without proper lungs, she thought, but here she was. “I was trusting Threadbare to follow my lead. But he didn't. He... he no-sold my hit.”

“I'm sorry,” Thomasi said, and she heard mud squish as he knelt next to her, saw a gloved hand on the periphery of her vision. “I didn't mean to stir up bad memories.”

“You didn't,” Celia said, her voice sharp. She hugged herself, ignored his hand.

“I'm sorry, but I think I did,” said the lanky man. “But we can talk about something else.”

“No. No,” Celia said, squeezing her eyes shut. “You did, damn it all. You're right. But that's a me problem, not a you problem. I need to be stronger. I can't get distracted by nonsense.”

She heard him shift, heard him sigh. “Bastien, could you give us five minutes please?”

“Sure thing, Tom.”

For someone so large, the Muscle Wizaard was light on his feet when he wanted to be, and she barely heard him as he moved away.

“You're not on a good path,” Thomasi said, in a low voice. “And I'd like to talk about that, if that's all right with you.”

“I know it's a bad path,” Celia said. “We almost got blown to smithereens, and we failed our first attempt. We need a win here, and soon, or morale will suffer more than it already has.”

“No, not that,” Thomasi said. “I mean that you're struggling with a death wish, and I'm going to guess that's been going on for a rather long time.”

Celia's eyes snapped open, and she swiveled her head to stare at him.

His face was somber and sad. “Can we talk about that?” Thomasi asked. “I'll understand if the answer is 'no.' It's hardly my place to demand anything, least of all this.”

Celia searched herself, tried to find the answer. But her intuition was silent. Threadbare had tried this several times, with more vague words, and more caution. And he'd always backed down whenever she told him that now wasn't the time, or that there was nothing he could do.

But Threadbare was family. This man, what was he? What did it matter if she answered, and the truth hurt him? There was no chance he was connected to the source of the problem, no chance he could feel in any way responsible.

No consequences if he thought her weak, or unhappy.

“We can talk about it,” Celia said, her voice subdued and soft. “Ask.”

Thomasi nodded, and looked toward the fire. Just as she thought he'd decided against asking her anything, he looked back to her and said “Have you wished you were dead? Or wished you could go to sleep and not wake up?”

“I don't sleep. Not anymore.” She was hugging herself again, she realized, and forced her arms back to her sides. “And I don't think I've ever wished I was dead, but—” she stopped.