Polaris is a room full of gemstones. In a cleft of crystal, Mossie sits and ponders her predicament.

She'd returned home, and suddenly the crystals seemed a sign from the caves themselves, clear as day.

There's stones here, so surely she'd find the stone that she needed here. It'd take time, and she'd be alone with her thoughts, which never ended well.

But this time would be different. Definitely.

Of course, her magic fails to respond with even a little pulse. But that's fine. Great, actually. Fucking fantastic.

Mossie's claws sheathe and unsheathe as she tries to calm her racing heart. If she was a super cool rock that had a potentially super cool kid hiding inside, where would she be?

She clambers up to the top of the crystal she's hidden in, and tries again.

There's a pulse! Mossie can see it in her mind's eye, clear as day. She scrambles down from the crystal, and her claws lose grip on the smooth stone in her haste. She plummets with a startled yowl, thudding onto the hard stone with a smack that chases the air from her lungs. She sits up woozily.

Clearly this is a sign. The caves don't want her to take this one.

So she tries again.

Another pulse, just as strong as the last!

This time, it's coming from the direction of the Spire. It looms bright and crackly in the distance. The black cracks in the brilliance, as dark as her own stone, call to her with some alien hunger.

Her vision swims, the Spire hazy in twos in the distance. It tugs and burns in her belly, pulling her closer.

The stone. She'd been searching for a stone...right?

Mossie's heart thuds frantically, trying to claw its way free from her ribcage.

Stones. Right. That's what she was doing.

In the back of her mind, Mossie recognizes that something's not quite right. That her brain's unraveling just a tad, like when she's experimented with Dust Moths.

But she hasn't tasted any recently.

She thinks.

Fuck.

She's gotta find the stone.

She feels it, pulsing-- and the other one she'd sensed. But louder, she can feel the hammering of her heart. Her lungs can't hold any air. The ground's swimming--no, it's melting.

She's melting.

Is that a thing? Melting when you've casted too much magic?

Fuck. She needs to breathe.

She can't--

Fucking shit.

Mossie's legs buckle, and she falls to the ground, catching her breath.

Or, well. She tries to catch her breath, anyway.

Then she catches a flash of white fur marred by red in the corner of her gaze.

Mossie's on her paws in an instant, a startled shriek tearing itself from her throat. She scrambles upwards, abandoning her resting place, and almost immediately trips.

He's coming for me he's Here he's going to--

She bolts upwards, towards the Spire. She has to get the stone, and another, and another. They'll protect her.

She finds the first stone buried in a loose scattering of pebbles, a barely-safe distance away from the Spire, and takes it in her fur. The other she sensed before, by the river. To hell with the caves, she needs it.

Her lungs sear with agony as she runs, but she can't stop. He will Catch Her, break her neck in his teeth, He'll--

She finds the second.

They're not good enough. Never good enough.

She focuses harder.

Her magic fails her. Everything fails her. Everyone fails her.

She stands on the riverbank, pretending she can't smell the cloying stench of blood invading her nostrils.

It's coming from Him. Or is it--from her?

The fur on her muzzle is matted with something hot and sticky. She glances down by mistake, and her paws are coated with a lurid red slick. She screams, screams and screams till her throat's raw and aching, and plunges herself into the river.

The cold shock clears her mind, if only for a heartbeat. Paddling back to the bank, she heaves herself out of the water, shaking off the excess water. But she wonders...maybe she'll find a good enough stone in there?

She does feel a pulse, but it's miniscule. Barely worth touching.

So she curls up, shivering, sopping wet tail covering her eyes.

Maybe if she can't see him, he'll go away.

And suddenly, the whole situation strikes her as dreadfully ironic. Hilarious, if you turned it over in your brain the right way. Had she not gone through the same strife to bring her first child into the world? It's fitting, History doesn't often repeat, but sometimes it rhymes.

She drifts off to an uneasy sleep...

And uneasier dreams.

"Mama," her son rasps, eyes blank and dull. But his gaze is still piercing, sharply accusing. His torn throat oozes blackish blood, falling to some abyss far below.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

"Why have you forsaken me, Mama?" he asks, ears pinned against his tiny head. "It didn't have to be this way. If only you'd stayed..."


Mossie's ears lay flat against her head. "What're you talking about?"


He just stares at her for a momentary silence that stretches on into infinity. Judging.

"I think you know," he says, and Mossie awakens with a screech.

God, Mossie wishes her brain wasn't so fucking stupid.

Her son is dead. His stone is nestled in her fur. Soon, if she can stop fucking delaying, she'll give it to the Collector and seal the deal. She can't--won't--believe anything else.

The cold's only intensified since she awoke, her fur still annoyingly damp. When she reluctantly pushes herself to her paws, her legs nearly buckle, but she makes it up.

Once she finds a worthy stone, this will all be over.