There are so many things to purchase in the market. 

Even very basic things have pointless designs on them. Fireplace poker with a twisted handle. Bags and clothes with embroidery. Trinkets to wear on the body, bracelets and necklaces. All in materials that are pleasant against the skin, that are comforting to touch. She finds herself feeling the texture of a cotton shirt for longer than she really should. 

Fripperies, all of it... 

The thought doesn't quite settle in her head. 

It's better, this color, this variety. It's more vibrant, in the ways different kinds of pain can be vibrant. There's meaning to each piece. Even buying something unornamented is a statement here. 

Everything is made so well. Things are symmetrical, sturdy. Better for their purposes. 

The purpose of it all is to bring her pleasure...

She has the sense that she is brushing up against something far bigger than her, something she could have known, or should have known. 

It's terrifying. 

She moves on from the market and keeps going.

She sees Ember in sparks and flashes. Moments of appreciation, quickly smothered each time.

She's learning.

There is more city to explore. 

She finds herself on the docks, looking out at the ships. 

The white-sheeted schooners and fishing boats, all lined up in a row. 

Every one of them has so much personality. There are names painted on half of them. Who names a boat? Who cares about a name enough to paint it on? 

The harsh, racous cries of seagulls overhead startle her, for a moment. But they... 

She kind of likes them. 

There are too many likeable things about this island. It's honestly overwhelming. She's never had to hold her defenses so firmly before.

She doesn't care about any of it. She doesn't.

You poor thing. You're trying so hard, but it's impossible.

Ember goes back to her inn. She passes a woman in a dress with a pattern of poppies on it, and a man with a beaver-skin cap smoking a pipe, and a dozen other folk doing things that make no sense to her. 

It's constant. Now that she knows how to see it she can't help it. 

She goes back up to her room.

She sits, straight-backed, in the center of the room. Her legs burn from all the walking. It helps. 

She has control over herself. 

She has control over herself. 

She won't break. 

She won't... 

She looks down at her own clothing, the ragged grey wool that clings close to her body. There's no lining on the inside. It scratches with every motion. 

... It's familiar. 

It makes her feel at home. 

Fuck, not even the things she brought with her from Nidal are safe. 

Not even her own body is safe now. 

Because of that woman.

Isn't her struggling delicious?

Yes, but not in the way you mean it.

She breaks. 

She's broken before. As a child. Years and years ago, when she was first lamed. Children break, it's what they do. 

She sits on the hard floor and cries, ugly uncontrolled tears that stain her cheeks and shirt.

She doesn't want this but she can't stop it.

She's still mine. Can't you see the damage that's been done?

You don't understand, and you never will.

She shucks the damn scratchy clothes. All of them. It hurts, pulling them off over her scarred body, but she rids herself of them. 

She lays down on the soft bed and pulls the covers over herself. 

She is going to suffer for this, but right now, she doesn't care. 

Isn't she just the most pathetic little thing?

She's not pathetic. You're just cruel.

Oh, that was a compliment. I like when they break.

I like when they get back up again. 

We are not the same, you and I.

Yes. You're weaker. You only pretend to enjoy it for different reasons. You love pain. You exult in it. You're every inch as cruel as me, you just claim to have good reasons for it. 

You'll lose, and every person you care about will suffer in hell, and you will enjoy it. 

If you really think that, you don't know me at all.

Eventually the tears pass, and Ember falls deeply asleep.

Rest well.

Ember wakes in the morning in the too-soft bed. 

Her legs ache. Her skull pounds.

She shoves off the blankets with an ugh of disgust and sits up. She rubs her scarred face with her four-fingered hands. 

She can't believe she was so weak. What was she doing. 

She roots in her raggedly-stitched pouch and gets out her knife. It's dull; she has no sharpening stones for it. 

She kneels on the hard floor in a stress position for her already-burning legs and she starts to cut at her thigh. 

She knows how to do this without risking permanent damage. And the pain is immensely clarifying. 

She feels relieved to have her leg back when it was injured before. As if it cannot be lamed again. As if it matters. 

Pain is the only constant in the world. She knows that. 

She will lose it again. 

She cuts herself, and accepts it. 

Her old barriers settle again, reassuringly solid. 

It's all frippery. None of it is real. Only the pain is real.

Blood runs down her thigh and pools on the floor.

Eventually she is herself again. She bandages the wound and moves. There is a pained hitch in her step again; she takes up her cane again. It's familiar.

She puts on her wool clothes, goes downstairs to the inn kitchen, and has gruel for breakfast. It is cheap. Efficient. Flavours are frippery. 

Ember has faded greatly from Sunaira's awareness again. 

She doesn't have the budget to push further. All she can do is hope.

She has a mission. She has designs to publish.

If Kumi will not help her with that, she will do it herself. There are pencils and paper available in the market.

She goes to the one stall she needs, buys exactly the materials she wants, and returns to the inn. There is a desk. She stands, leans over it, and sketches. 

I see her, Sunaira. She's sketching her scarification designs.

Thank you.