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It feels like nothing you do could ever be enough.
Even if you defeat the King, it won’t be soon enough. Families have already been separated as they fled in panic. Crops have already been frozen at the wrong time of year. Buildings have already been destroyed by unprecedented droves of sadnesses.
Maybe someone more competent would have found the orbs faster or figured out a way past the gates without them, kept everyone calm and defeated the King before things got this bad. But all Vaugarde has is you; you and the only person — no, two people now — who were brave or foolish enough to offer their help.
You do what you can to make up for it. You spend long days traveling, camping on the road just to get that extra hour of walking in instead of stopping for the evening when you reach a village. You read books on battle craft, and spar with Isabeau. When you need to stop to resupply, you help the people around you in any way you can. None of it is enough.
By now, your reputation precedes you, and being recognized by strangers with desperate hope in their eyes is almost worse than the days when you had to explain yourself each time and beg for assistance. To be honest, you prefer fighting sadnesses out on the road over either. At least then you can channel your fear into adrenaline, instead of being stuck in conversation, trying to appear calmly confident as you stew in your own missteps and inherent flaws.
The person whose home you’re staying in tonight is taller than you, maybe even taller than Isabeau, and you felt so small with them looking down at you as they offered to sleep in the barn so you could have the best bed in the house.
You felt even smaller when they dropped to their knees at your feet, explaining that their only child had been apprenticing in one of the cities that was struck first, before people even knew to be scared. They told you that they prayed every day for your success. They confided in you that they’d been considering finding a fresh wave of the Curse to walk into themself, before they heard that the Change God’s Chosen was going to defeat the King and reverse it, and decided that their daughter would be furious to wake up and learn that her favorite cows had been left without anyone to care for them.
You ignore the way their expectations settle in your chest like something physical, something that leaves your lungs without enough room to inflate. You force yourself to say the same things you always say, inadequate as they always are. Some of the phrasing you took straight from the pages of The Cursing of Château Castle, and you hope more fervently than ever before that this person hasn’t read the series, or at least hasn’t memorized the same parts that you have.
You’re the only reason they didn’t freeze themself on purpose. If you fail, they’ll be as good as dead anyway.
And you’re quoting crabbing Château at them because you have no idea what else to say because you weren’t Chosen, not by the Change God, and The Head Housemaiden should’ve chosen someone else.
Isabeau comes to your rescue, like always. As soon as you’re done saying your usual bit, he offers to help with the farm, and once the homeowner has led him away to whatever needs doing, you finally sit down. Your body immediately sinks into the plush couch, but it takes longer to try to convince your stiff limbs to actually relax into it. Talking to people may be scarier than fighting sadnesses, but you wish your nervous system would get the memo that it’s not actually a fight! Without your meds, any problem feels like it could be the death of you. You shake out your hands, trying to dissipate the craft energy that tingles, ready, at your finger tips.
Eventually, Madame Odile sits down in the armchair across from you.
“Mirabelle,” she says. “How are you holding up?”
She doesn’t say it like a pleasantry; she says it like she’s getting straight to the point.
You answer, “Fine!” before you’ve even really thought about it.
Odile sighs. “No, you aren’t. Try again.”
You cringe. Odile’s disappointment makes you feel like a kid again, like you’re struggling to catch up on skills you should already have, like she has an idea of who you should be and you’re not meeting it. What will you do if she realizes how incompetent you are and leaves?
“It’s fine,” you insist. “It’s not a big deal, I don’t want to bother you with it.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one who asked.”
You fail to stifle a nervous giggle. “No, really, I… It doesn’t matter! Everyone is counting on me, so I gotta stay focused on what matters!”
“Hm. If everyone is counting on you, it seems that you matter quite a bit.”
You wince as a hangnail tears a little too deep under your teeth, and shove your hand under your leg so you won’t keep biting at it.
“Yes,” Odile continues, “our quest is important. And that’s why it’s important that we take care of ourselves.”
“I just…” You blink hard. Change, it would be so embarrassing if you cried in front of her. “All these people are going through so much, but they’re being so brave and continuing on because they have hope, hope in me, but—” but you weren’t even Chosen— “but just because my blessing lets me escape the curse doesn’t mean I can do anything else! The, the person this house belongs to, I don’t even remember their name, but they’re so sure I’m going to save their daughter, and… what if I can’t? What if I sleep in their bed and eat their food and, and accept their praise, and then… I can’t do it. Everyone is putting all their hope in me, but I’m just me! I can’t save everyone like some big hero from a story! And I’m dragging you and Isabeau on this hopeless quest with me, and—”
“Maybe you can’t do it,” Odile interrupts, and your heart drops out of your chest. “Maybe this is impossible. Maybe one of the orbs is lost at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe even if we do defeat the King, it won’t bring back the lands that were already cursed. Maybe we’ll make it to him and all die to his first attack. We should give up.”
You started crying at some point despite your best efforts, but your tears stop as you gape at her. “But— but if we give up then no one’s doing anything! We still have to try!”
She raises an eyebrow at you.
…
You groan and bury your face in your hands.
“Obviously we’re still going to try,” you grumble. “I didn’t say that I was giving up, just that… I’m not some perfect savior. I’m just me.”
It sounds silly when you sum it up like that. Of course you’re not perfect. If someone was perfect, they wouldn’t need to Change anymore, and Change is life itself. If the Change God did choose a savior, they wouldn’t choose someone who was already exactly what was needed; they would choose someone who could Change to rise to the challenge.
… You’re just not confident you can do that. You don’t know why Head Housemaiden Euphrasie blessed you, when you’ve barely changed at all during your time at Dormont’s House.
“We don’t know how this will turn out,” Odile says. “All we can do now is the things that we can do now. Put your effort into preparing to fight the King, instead of pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”
“But— everyone is counting on me!” you protest. “I have to give them hope. How would they react, if they knew…” You swallow and make yourself say it. “If they knew their savior was just as scared as they are?”
Odile sighs, and the pressure in your lungs squeezes, and your jittery heart cries, ‘This is it! This is when she realizes you’re not a real Chosen One, not even a real adult, just a stupid child who can’t do anything right!’
“Fine,” she says. “I don’t think it’s as important as the actual quest, but perform confidence in public, if you must. But you don’t have to perform for me.”
Your breath catches, frozen for a moment.
Sitting in the low armchair and leaning forward as she is, Odile’s eyes are level with yours. “I’m not here because you’re a perfect savior. I’m not here because you’re the only hope in my life. I’m here to do what I can to help, because this situation is shattered, and the whole thing shouldn’t be on any one person’s shoulders alone. Especially not someone so young, gems alive. It’s disgraceful, the things people put on you. Blessed or not, you’re a person. I may not be much help with whatever you’re feeling, but I, at least, won’t judge you for being a person around me.”
Your vision blurs a little, and you carefully wipe at your eyes.
“So let’s try that again,” she says, like the housemaiden a couple years older than you who taught you how to chop veggies without chopping your fingers off, making an all-day stew together because then it wouldn’t matter how long you took or what sizes all the pieces were. “How are you holding up?”
“I-I’m scared,” you admit, between big, teary breaths that fill your whole chest. “And I’m tired, I’m always up late practicing crafts or w-worrying and I’m so tired all the time. And I don’t— I don’t like when people treat me like that, like I’m more important than them b-because I’m blessed, like I’m someone they should w-worship and tell all their secrets to. I’m just Mirabelle. I just w-want to be just Mirabelle again.”
“Alright, Mirabelle.” Odile sounds as curt as ever, but something feels less sharp about it. You can’t tell if it’s her tone that changed, or you. “Sounds like you need some sleep, and some time out of the spotlight. Go nap in the guest room. I’ll cover for you during dinner.”
“O-okay.” Odile’s idea of ‘covering for you’ probably won’t be as gracious as you’d prefer, but you’re too tired to argue against an offer you desperately want to take. Maybe rest can be more important than playing Chosen One, just this once.
You peel yourself out of the perfectly you-sized indent in the couch, and go get some sleep.