2019.01.21 - Battle Aftermath 4: The Burden of Power (Cutscene)

*Following the Siege of Rowanwood, Myrtle Snow imparts some guidance to Cordelia Goode, the recently ascended supreme of the Grand Coven.*

January 1st, Year Unknown; Evening

Rowanwood

### Rowanwood House - Makeshift Infirmary

*This spacious room occupies the southeast corner of the first floor, the walls paneled in mahogany and the ceiling high and carved to resemble various romping mythical creatures. Columns stand at intervals along the walls, looking like oak trees that grew up through the floor, their bare branches twisting up into the ceiling. The floors are rosy marble veined with gold. Light fixtures include various standing candelabra and sconces that resemble gas lamps, but most of the east and south walls are occupied by broad, tall windows that let in plenty of natural light by day and are covered with heavy silk damask curtains by night.*

*Much of the floor space is open, ready to be used for work or play, while thick, ornate rugs are scattered about. Piles of decorative pillows here and there encourage one to sit on the floor, while elegant furniture of carved oak with velvet cushions offers a more traditional alternative. Perhaps the most striking element of the room is the fireplace, which resembles a pair of trees growing up along the western wall, their branches twining together to form the mantelpiece.*

*This room has been converted into a makeshift trauma center. The furniture has been pushed to the sides and cleared away, and beds and pallets have been set up for those with light injuries that need tending. The seriously wounded and those in recovery have been taken to their own rooms, where can be tended or rest in privacy. But, for the moment, this area looks like nothing so much as a witch's triage center.*

The infirmary is quiet, its population slowly, gradually reduced over the passage of time. The potent healers assembled have worked their magic or their more mundane miracles. But all of it has its toll, even if only in fatigue.

Cordelia Goode sits next to a table that doesn't strictly belong in this room, stacked with bottles and phials of a wide variety. Some are empty, others are full, and most have some quantity of liquid in them between those two states.

The blonde woman sits, dressed all in black, hair finally let down after all that work. Between her hands, she cradles a still-steaming cup of tea, from which she's had exactly one-half of a sip, and no more. She stares down at the surface of the drink, mesmerized by the play of low light caught on it.

When Myrtle Snow steps into the room, there's no greeting offered, no acknowledgement of her presence. Myrtle continues gracefully to the table, stopping in front of the other woman and clasping her gloved hands before her.

"Little bird," she murmurs, conscious of the resting and recuperating little distance from them, "you've hardly touched your tea. Did you need a biscuit? Or perhaps some bread. Or if you prefer, we could partake in alternative palate enhancement. I have a magnificent piece of glass, you know, practically an *objet d'art* -- or really, it is an *objet d'art*. It was created by an artiste after all, an original." She smirks, gesturing to illustrate her words with one hand, the other settling onto her hip. "Though I'm certain glass wasn't the only thing he knew how to blow professionally." But the smirk fades, and it's replaced with a pursing of the lips and a motion of both eyebrows. "Artists are so underappreciated. Underpaid, too. Unless they're overpaid. But when Andy Warhol did it, it was a statement! Now it's just..." she waves the hand as if banishing smoke from the air, "PR and spin and worst of all, *buzz*. I can't abide it."

A response finally comes from Cordelia. "Myrtle." It's soft, barely audible, and her voice cracks even with the single word spoken.

Of course, Myrtle's attention goes to her instantly, her tangent set aside.

"I shouldn't...be here. I shouldn't be...this." Cordelia lifts a hand and then lets it drop to her leg. She joins the other again to hold her cup, but only to lift it onto the tabletop and leave it there. After falling silent again, ostensibly in thought, she seems to come to some decision and gets to her feet.

Myrtle moves with a gentle grace, the hand on her hip moving to rest on the surface of the table, with her other reaching out to stroke the blonde's cheek, then under her chin. "But you are. Shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't -- these things aren't important. I could stand here all day trying to tell you that it was meant to be--"

For those seconds, Cordelia was comforted, calmed, perhaps even something approaching serene. But with every further word offered, she becomes steadily more visibly tense. "It wasn't!" She immediately catches herself, hearing her own loudness. "It wasn't," she restates, in a softer tone. "I was just there. I was physically close, that's all."

"She gave you this gift." Myrtle makes a flourish in the air. "I was going to say, I could tell you it was meant to be, but I don't know. No one knows. It's magic. Who can say if it would've gone to someone else, if things had gone differently? If Fiona had spent her days here in Rowanwood, like she enjoyed, minding the duties of the Supreme... perhaps it would have gone to any of the students here. Perhaps even to myself. Can you imagine? Once upon a time, I wanted to be the Supreme, when I was young and the world was fresh."

There's a touch of dry wit in her words, accompanied by the slightest of smirks. "But that wasn't how things went. So I made the most of a situation, and given, it wasn't the best in the world. But it is what we have. Now. Now is what we have. Now might be all that we have. We have to make the best of it."

A spark flashes defiant in Cordelia's eyes, but a second later, her strength crumbles and the tears roll freely down her cheeks. She practically falls forward into Myrtle, and the older woman catches her and wraps both arms around her, stroking her blonde hair, limp and dirty from all of everything that has kept her from tending to her own needs.

Cordelia shakes, sobbing silently, muffling herself, clinging to her friend and fellow witch, her mentor and anchor. Her confidant. And she knows that there's nothing more to be said. There's nothing that can be said, at this point. What's done is done. What's happened has happened. She knows above all that Myrtle is completely right: she must make the best of a bad situation. She has to be the Supreme. She has to figure out how the Supreme is going to fight the threat and protect the coven.

But for now, Cordelia knows it may be the last opportunity she has to be vulnerable. To be fragile, to cry, to show any weakness. The words of her mother echo in her head. She's heard them so many times, and now she has to cling to them, to the memories and the things that mean something. And maybe it will be enough.