Lilliana Whitedawn

Little Glass Vial

She stumbled into her apartment, post-Cakes.

The night had been going so well, and...the circle of Tarts at Fancy Cakes reminded her of being on the Barge. Of crew laughing, and partying, and gossiping. Their friendship was a beautiful thing to witness, even as it cut old wounds deeper, watching this in a place full of so many ghosts for her.

And then a man came to sheepishly apologize to the Tarts; for lashing out, and walking away. For acting out without talking to someone first. The horned blonde about choked, her blood going cold as she watched.

It was her. Sobbing to Iloam. Crying, begging. How many times had she fucked up? How had she let it get so bad? 

She chimed in. Told him to back it up - that the refusal of some of those people to accept his apology wouldn’t change until he did, and proved it. And then she started drinking, because sometimes you wait too late to change.

Sometimes there’s a hole in your soul that nothing can fill - only numb, for a time. How many times had she been that person? That bullheaded young person whose outburst had ruined a night, and set people against her?

Long fingers scrabbled at the wood of her nightstand, like claws as she struggled to see through the tears - there was mana in there; vials of it, crystals imbued with it; enough to quiet her mind, and make the world hazy for a time, take her elsewhere. No more pain, just for a bit...but it took so much these days.

She sank into the bed, blurred vision turned down to the little glass vial - so easy, she’d learned to tap mana as a child. But in this room, those ghosts haunted her - wasn’t she trying to get better? 

Her knee bounced, and eyes heavy with both tears and fel flitted about the room - landing on the set of paladin’s armor in gold and white, still imbued with Light from herself, from years ago. The sound that emanated from deep in her throat was an almost animalistic keen; feelings incapable of being expressed any other way. Dead, she was dead. No Light for her. She’d killed herself. That’s what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To die? Not to live like this, alone - slave to hunger, to need, to whatever it took to scratch the itch.

And now she was...what? A curse to those whom she’d loved. An exile from her own family, her crew. Outside, looking in; going through the motions.

Across the room, the vial burst against the wall - concentrated magical essence dissipating into the air almost instantly, as the blonde pressed palms to her temples, rocking on the edge of the bed as sobs wracked her form.

She slid to her knees, forehead - and horns - pressed to the carpet, “I’m so sorry.”

Being sober meant feeling all those things that hurt so deeply - and sticking to sobriety even when you were alone. When it mattered. Easy to smile and laugh and put the bottle, vials, crystals, and lines aside when things were going well. But saying no when you hurt...when you were alone, and no one would know...

The blonde who swaggered in the public eye curled in on herself, shivering until sleep claimed her on the floor of her apartment. Some day, the pain would lessen. Some day, she wouldn’t need the drugs...but she had to start somewhere.