Water

You try your best. You really do. Even when she isn’t watching.

You suck in a deep breath through your teeth, and dip your claws into the water in the bowl. You used to light candles to help you focus, but you started to wonder if they only made things worse. The windows are open wide, letting in cool, wet mountain air. A gentle rain patters the ground outside, perhaps a blessing, perhaps a taunt.

You draw your hand out of the basin, slowly. The water slips through your fingers, as a passing thought drags your mind down. You grit your teeth, briefly flattening your ears against your head and trying your best to let it pass and remember what’s at hand. When you are alone again, you dip your hand deeper into the water, making sure to breathe steadily, stand still, and feel the way it flows against you.

You draw your hand out of the water, and to your surprise, the water reaches out for you, seeking your hand in the form of a little vortex. You keep it as steady as you can, and for this moment, and this moment alone, you are in the present, calm but excited about the little control you’ve worked so hard to claim. The water flows with you.

Another thought drifts into the flow, but though you acknowledge it, you are able to keep yourself centered and let it pass. It feels so good to let them go. The water shakes, but quickly steadies again, and starts to wind delicately through your fingers, as if embracing your control. You keep lifting your hand, until almost all of the water begins to pull away from the bowl.

But another thought comes down the stream. And another. Steadily, patches of ash start to choke the stream you’ve only just opened in your soul, and an ominous, if familiar, red glow overtakes all.

The water starts to shudder and tremble, and the vortex grows more intense, less stable. You clench your jaw, no longer able to manage the thoughts and instead resorting to trying to just choke down the bile creeping into your mind. It is fruitless. The water begins to boil.

The futility of it all is setting in again. A sense of duty overrides your rational thought, urging you to an impossible goal that you know you cannot pursue as long as you are playing around with this stupid WATER. The flow you'd achieved slows, suffocating with ash and the charred remains of homes and loved ones.

The boiling water whirls violently, a reflection of your mind. The flames rise. You are trying so hard to quell them, but you are a lone fireman confronting a wildfire. Those knights are still alive. Your coven is not. You are wasting time. You are denying them the vengeance they deserve. Denying yourself. Unforgivable. The smell of smoke fills your lungs, and pours from your nose with each sharp exhale.

The water explodes out of the bowl, which itself bursts into flames, though safe atop its stone pedestal. You saw it coming, and were at least quick enough to duck, but little searing droplets still sting you for your failure as you cower in the face of the flames.

Panting, the panic and rage both well up in you. Embers glimmer in the air about you. It’s hard to breathe, when the stench of soot won’t leave you. As you take your arms down, and look up at the flame, the outline of The Branch rests faintly within.

Is it too late…?