aconite:// a case study

def// a woody shrub with a bitter aromatic taste, used as an ingredient of vermouth and absinthe and in medicine.

// a state or source of bitterness or grief.

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Her head cracks against the church basement and she feels her entire body flutter in protest - her limbs flailing against the cobblestone as she tries to get up, to steady herself but she is breathless, bloody - unable to even see straight. So she endures the kicks to the ribcage, to her already wounded head until Kaisai stops and he leans down. “Your charity will be the end of you.” He says with scorn. Aconite doesn’t have to look up to know that he is smiling. Aconite knows he is right. Kaisai drags her by what remains of her hair back to her cell where she tries to gracefully pick herself up off the ground in front of her companions but barely succeeds.

 

There is Atticus, the war-torn half orc - half as old as he is scarred and then there is Rupert, the dragonborn boy who has barely seen ten winters. Then there is Aconite, sixteen and already worldweary. 

“My people say that happiness is something we make for ourselves,” Atticus says, pouring water into Aconite’s cupped hands. “Even in sorrow, we can make happiness.”

It’s ridiculous, as ridiculous as taking this dank, cobblestone water and pretending that it’s fresh rain but Atticus smiles down at Aconite. Aconite swallows compulsively and brings the water up to her cracked lips and drinks deep, ignoring the taste of rust and dust and death. The dragonborn child drinks up just as before. There are no windows, just brick and mortar that crumble to give away to more dirt. There is a door in which Aconite knows leads to a hallway that leads into other doors, into other empty rooms with bodies just as bent and bruised like their own. 

“You believe in something,” Aconite says, trying to force some authority into her voice, committed to this conversation as a means to distract herself from the hollow, faint sounds of screams and whips hitting bodies, “even when it’s impossible. That will ruin you.” She finds herself echoing Kaisai, and subconsciously, she shivers and folds a little more into herself. This world is not meant for kindness and hope, for people like Aconite and Atticus and Rupert, and it will suffocate it out of them. Aconite picks at the dirt under her nails in a weak attempt at nonchalance, that she is unmoved by her own dismissal of her survival. 

“Has believing in nothing made your own ruins any easier to bear?” Atticus keeps his gaze turned to Aconite as he gathers more dank water. Rupert sits between them, legs crossed and tail curled tight around the skin wrapped around his bones. 

Aconite freezes, a knot forming in her throat. Instinctively, she wants to snap back that it’s all that kept her alive since she was barely more than a girl, but--

“My happiness is small in a world of sorrow. But it is what keeps me.” There’s pain in Atticus’ voice as it cracks and something inside Aconite cracks too. The half orc slips an arm around the dragonborn boy who has begun to sob and Aconite suddenly wishes she knew how to comfort someone, that her own kindness hadn’t been taken from her. “One day...” Atticus reaches out, pauses only once when Aconite flinches at the thought of being touched, of being comforted. He reaches out anyway, olive toned hand smeared with dust and blood as it settles on Aconite’s shoulder. Up until now, Aconite had no idea that words could be so heavy until Atticus speaks up again, his gaze never breaking from her own.“One day, I hope you find your small happiness.”