Journal Entry, Dated 09/02
Jasmine
Metadata
Reference Number: BICI/SSP/CRJ0402/011
Title: Journal Entry, Dated 09/02
Author: Jasmine
Date: Written approximately 09/02, Year 5607 A. o. W.
Extent: One journal entry, three pages long
09/02
Every time Blossom’s necklace taps against my collarbone, I jump. It isn’t as jarring as the first time I put on Mom’s wedding earring, though. Piercing my own ear was a terrible idea. It took ages to heal.
I wasn’t planning on wearing Blossom’s necklace. I thought I’d put it on when I scattered her ashes, then tuck it away in some box that I’d never be able to look at again. Maybe if I stayed, I’d do just that — stuff her life away into a box I kept out of sight.
But… it feels wrong to leave without her. If I’m leaving with a piece of Mom and a piece of Dad, then I need to leave with her, too. Mom’s earring. Dad’s favorite rope. Blossom’s necklace.
Spica’s last letter. I’m taking that, too. All our years together, and somehow her shitty little letter is the only thing I have to remember her by.
She’s not dead, but she’s gone. I’ll likely never see her again. Isn’t that close enough?
Warmth above and below, I wish she was leaving with me. We could sneak past my newfound guard and brave the aberrations together.
The villagers — fishers and seaglass-makers and their entire families — haven’t left me alone since they discovered Blossom died. My kitchen is covered in food they’ve made for me. Several offered to come in and clean up for me, but I refused every time. I didn’t want them taking her from me.
There were two fishers, trembling spears in hand, posted outside my front door. I haven’t gone to the lighthouse since scattering her ashes, and the fishers haven’t gone out to sea either, but I’m sure there’s someone prowling the lighthouse, making sure there’s no threat hiding within its walls.
They’re afraid. They think I can’t hear them muttering to each other outside, but I can. They want me to move to the lighthouse. It’ll be easier to protect me there, they say. Easier to trap me there, more like. With all the ghosts and with Blossom’s whispered songs I’ll never hear again.
They’ve convinced themselves an aberration somehow broke into the village and killed her. They just haven’t found the aberration yet, but they will. Better that than the alternative.
I know better. It wasn’t an aberration. Maybe I could have deluded myself into thinking it was an aberration too, if it wasn’t for what I found last night.
I finally tried to clean the blood out of the kitchen floor. Most of it had set, but maybe I could get the worst of the stain out, or at least ruin more of the floor so it all looked the same. So I poured a big bucket of hot water all over the floor. And as the water spread, I saw something glow on the ground, like embers in a fire.
I saw His Eternal Warmth’s Sigil. A Spark. And with it came that nauseating curl of magic — not exactly the same as what lives in the lighthouse, but I know magic anywhere.
I couldn’t sleep. I spent all night thinking about it.
What happened? Did Blossom receive a Spark? She was the right age to get one. I went to check the hearth. I hadn’t lit it since her death. And there, in the ashes, I saw it: the outline of His sigil. A true Spark.
It makes no sense. Sparks send you off to become an Undying Ember. Who in the world would kill someone chosen by the god-king? We aren’t the most religious of people, but no one would dare blaspheme against a chosen soul. You might as well off yourself before His Eternal Warmth can melt you down to nothing. Or worse, before His Undying Embers tear you limb from limb.
Spica always asked Malva about what it was like being an Ember. I don’t remember all of the questions she’d ask — there were too many — but I do remember what happens when someone chosen by the god-king dies. His Eternal Warmth’s magic returns to Him as their souls return to the forge.
Having His sigil appear twice made no sense. If that magic was meant to come from her burgeoning Spark, then it shouldn’t have lingered.
Someone left it behind. Someone using magic of their own.
What I saw in her blood wasn’t a Spark. It was a message. A declaration.
Some self-proclaimed acolyte decided that this little girl chosen by the god-king Himself couldn’t be allowed to live.
I don’t think it was Pina or Deodar. They hate being the only two Embers here. They’d jump at the chance for a third.
I can’t stop thinking: then who?
There are two roads in front of me. I know how the road I’ve always taken will end: with me trapped in the lighthouse, the villagers pushing me back in whenever I leave to keep me safe. Tripping over the brats I’ve birthed as they run around my feet. Children were never a pressing issue when there were two of us, and while the villagers are too polite to pressure me to continue Olea’s bloodline now, that won’t last for long. The only freedom I’ll get is choosing who gets the horror of being my spouse. They don’t have to be the father of my children. What matters is Olea’s blood, not my spouse’s.
And then, it’ll be work. Pulling ropes. Mopping floors. Throwing food to the flame. Choking on magic. And endless days where the wind whistles through the lighthouse in a forlorn echo of Blossom’s songs, haunting me until His Eternal Warmth finally grants me mercy and takes me too.
But there’s another world. And on that road is the truth behind Blossom’s murder. I can’t call this feeling justice. There’s no justice in any world that leaves little girls dead. It’s just something to cling to while my sorry lungs still draw breath.
This road will kill me, too, but at least my body won’t be forced to keep going long after my soul has already departed.
I found an old map in our cottage. I think it was an old gift from Spica’s Dad. The Tending Grounds are a few days’ east of Seabreeze Shoal. I don’t know much about it, besides that it’s an Undying Embers’ camp. If I need answers, I might as well start with the Embers.
So. That’s it. I’m leaving. Tomorrow when I go to tend to the lighthouse, I’ll prepare it to keep running for as long as possible. Then I’ll sneak out. The villagers may be guarding the front door, but they don’t know its secrets like I do. There’s always another way out.
Then I’ll creep down the cliffside, climb over the wall, and I’ll leave.
Dad would be disappointed. I know he would. He always said he was proud of our family legacy. What good was that pride if it couldn’t keep him from chasing after Mom on a pointless suicide mission? Why should I care when he left first?
I feel bad for the fishers. I do. They didn’t do anything wrong. But it’s all pointless without Blossom. Fuck my family legacy. Fuck Olea and her stupid promise. This duty is meaningless.
And most of all — fuck this awful, dingy, damp lighthouse. It’ll go dark when I die. What does it really matter if that happens in five days or fifty years? If His Eternal Warmth wants to keep its fires lit, He’ll find a fucking way.
I know it’s dangerous out there. Pina and Deodar have never let us go far past the village walls for a good reason. But what do I care? Fuck the aberrations. Let them come for me.
I’m not afraid.