The first time, she'd run. America had tried to play it cool, but she'd run, a child eager for a new toy. This time she wanted to run as well, but it was beyond her strength right now. The gap where Styker had been left her staggering under the weight of her wounds and the jarring absence of his voice, no longer there to drawl quiet reassurances.

The girl left Konstantin at the entry and slowly made her way down into the little room, leaning heavily against the wall, Styker's tablet cradled carefully in her hands. Before, she'd touched and inspected nearly every glowing symbol, curious and intrigued by the array of strange magic rocks and what they may have to offer her. This time she simply sat, half-falling, in the center of the floor, and silently tried to cast her mind out far enough that the weapon could reach back.

the scythe, beatiful and glowing with terrible purpose, crashing down and agony agony agony the afterimage of a black, birdlike shadow burned into her eyes for a brief split second and agony agony agony

No, that was not a thought to use here, in this place. Leave it, we'll heal.

the claws dug in and it burned but she could burn she could burn until she was ash and she could rise again she could handle this she could

stop

No, she'd been wrong then, because she couldn't burn like that, not alone. Not while ignoring the part of her that protected and healed her and made sure she could rise again. Not while relying on some runic thing to save her and not her own weapon. It had been an arrogance and she held that moment back, though the thread of apology remained.

We've lost a spar. We'll get stonger.

We've lost another spar. We'll learn, we'll get stronger.

We've lost again. Every loss is another lesson, we'll get stronger.

We've lost.

We've lost.

We're going to get better, always better. Keep going.

It was frustrating, even when she could turn a loss into a small victory, even when there a significant lesson to be learned, or it ended on a sweet note. America hated to lose. It was a constant battle of ego and vanity versus a practical mind and bone deep honesty. In the end it came down to patience, and for the really, truly important things, she could work and she could wait. At the very least, she had not been alone. Need filtered through, need for the voice that made sure losing didn't become a source of bitterness that poisoned her to this place, her peers, herself.

America put as much of herself and the importance of Styker into her thoughts and quieted all the rest until the only other thing was the rythm of her heart, thrumming steadily within. It took a long, long time, but eventually it was matched not by the war drums and fanfair of the first time, but by the strong, gentle beat of wings, beating over again until it matched her.

They ran over mud and earth swiftly soaring across the ground until there was no ground, only storm-filled sky that lifted them high, high above anything that tried to anchor them, hold them back.

It'll burn again, we'll always burn and it'll hurt, ghoul. We're gonna heal but we'll be hurt time and again.

Yeah.

But it'll be worth it.

It'll always be worth it.