EVIE
I want your midnights
Micah alerts her quietly when Deimos arrives. Already focused in on another throw, she doesn't turn her attention away until her knife lands, and by then his voice reaches her. The delicate bubble of distraction and composure pops the moment she turns to see him smiling her way. Blinking back sudden wetness in her eyes that is born more from upset than sorrow, Evie exhales shakily. It's difficult sometimes to find a middle ground between woman and Warden. What is worthy of levelheaded, objective reporting, and what is worthy of hot cheeks and ranting admissions of inadequacy? Where does Evie find her place within The Evergreen?
"No," she spits emphatically, voice cracking traitorously. Her knuckles bleed white around one of her knives. "That was some of the worst cooperation I've ever seen, and it could have killed any of us." Her free hand bunches in the hem of his shirt that she's wearing, and though the knife in her other hand doesn't waver, this one trembles. "I was on the front lines of the war, Deimos. I'm their fucking Warden. And I was relegated to medic while trying to give orders." The forwardness of her venom is a flimsy distraction from the hurt beneath it.
Evie knows healers have never been and will never be appreciated enough. That magic rings and magic shields wielded by fighters who can't even gauge the severity of wounds in themself or others will always be seen as a perfect solution. How many have died because combatants didn't realize one wounded man would die faster than another? How many could have died today if she hadn't? "What's the use of power if you can't wield it effectively? What's the use of pride if it fucking kills you?!" A garbled shriek of frustration tears out from grit teeth, and she whirls and throws her knife violently. Unsurprisingly, it half-sticks at an insufficient angle and then clatters to the ground, and Evie drops her head into her hands as a sob sticks in her throat with a choked sound and burns there.
