Worth The Shot

Icy Dread and Fierce Hope

Today's fanart is by @prisci_baleine ! They drew the scene from Sacrifice Play where Camilo takes the blame for y/n. :( I love the detailing on their clothes; especially Alma's dress! Camilo's curls look SO good, and his freckles are adorable!!! 

BACK TO THE STORY

Dolores, Bruno, and Antonio doubled over in pain, gasping and dropping to the ground.

This isn't a coincidence, you realized, helplessly staring as they choked in agony. They're the only ones here with gifts. What's happening to the miracle?

The attack lasted less than 20 seconds. Coughing, Bruno picked himself up. He tensed his shoulders as if anticipating sharp pain to seize him any second.

"What... what was that?" You frowned, concerned. "Is that a family thing? Has it happened before?"

"No, I don't know what that was," Dolores shakily shook her head, wobbling to her feet. Her knees collapsed, and she weakly lurched toward the ground. You lunged forward to help, but Mariano was faster. 

Mariano chivalrously slipped his hands underneath her arms, catching her thin frame from behind. Dolores' blush was a rose-colored cloud, dusting across her cheeks and nose. Her apple-red skirt fluidly spilled in waves on the floor. 

"Careful," Mariano quietly advised, supporting her with a baffled, oblivious smile. Righting herself, Dolores timidly nodded and scurried to stand beside Alma. 

"What if..." Bruno whispered, paling. He nervously fingered the frayed hem of his cloak as Alma impatiently tapped her foot. "I mean, this is just a guess and I'm probably wrong," he hesitated, and then croaked, "What if a gifted Madrigal just died?" 

A shocked silence enveloped the room like an blue coating of ice, crackling over your skin and freezing you numb. Alma's distraught eyes frostily glinted at Bruno. 

"I don't believe that," she angrily insisted, but her tightly clasped hands betrayed her panic. "Why would you put such ideas in our heads? In Antonio's head? No, Bruno. Nobody has died. Nothing is wrong with the miracle!" 

In the sullen quiet, the Madrigals shivered. Nobody believed her. She couldn't even believe herself. 

Who was it? The unspoken anguish writhed, thick in the air like slick, balmy snakes. Each Madrigal desperately prayed for who it wasn't, then immediately regretted implicitly wishing death on everyone else. 

"This... this doesn't change anything," Mirabel rallied, with dimmed optimism. She resolutely nudged her green glasses up her nose. "We should leave tonight. It will be easier to sneak out at dark."

"Who will go?" Felix objected, protectively draping an arm over Antonio's trembling shoulders. Antonio anxiously blinked up at Mirabel, clearly rattled from the ominous threat of death. "Antonio is not going, and that is final." 

"We need Dolores to go," Alma gravely drafted. "Mariano, Felix, and Augustin. (Y/n), you must go to guide them." 

A flaming string of fear slid down your throat, but you respectfully nodded. With heavy dread, you remembered how you and Camilo had lost direction in the disorienting tunnels. They would need a guide. 

"What about me?" Mirabel protested, disappointed. She'd fabricated the entire scheme to rescue the Madrigals. It was her plan, and she couldn't even help?

"You're too young. There's no point to you risking your life. They don't need you." Alma dismissively explained. A conflicted expression masked Mirabel's features, as she deliberated whether to appreciate that her abuela cared about her life, or to resent that she considered her worthless. 

"Casita," she eventually sighed with irritable confusion. "Can you find Pa's chisel and hammer?"

When the gleaming, steel tools scraped down Casita's wooden slide, Augustin commenced freeing your aching hands from their chains. He chewed on his lip, focusing on chipping away the solid moonstone.

"You shouldn't have to go back there," Augustin sympathetically condoled when the chains clanked to the ground, exposing your inflamed wrists. "We could talk Alma out of it." 

"The others have it worse," you shrugged. Gratefully stretching, you turned your hands in luxurious circles. Casita helpfully jumbled a wrinkly, yellow sleeping bag onto the floor for you. With hours until nightfall, why not indulge in your lost sleep? 

You wriggled into the silky cocoon, absentmindedly tracing a finger over its miniscule orange designs. Were you imagining the diamond-headed chameleons? You exhaled and snuggled into the sleeping bag. It's cool, cloth hug felt oddly comforting. 

Hang in there, you pleaded, glassily stargazing at the splintery, wood ceiling. In the soft, yellow sack, you felt a little closer to Camilo, as if a telepathic thread connected your thoughts. In your imagination, you blew your thoughts to him like rainbow-sheened bubbles. 

See you tonight. 

I miss you. I hope you're okay. 

I'm coming. Just a few more hours. I promise.

But could Camilo last that long?