Coach: After winning the gold medal, you gave interviews, featured in columns, and became renowned among arcanists.
Coach: But so what?
Child: Mum, that's Charlotte's house! It's been so long since she—
Woman: Shh. Don't you go saying her name. She's a witch, understand?! A hag! It's written right there in her name!
Coach: No one is willing to speak your name. No one even dares walk past your house.
Coach: Your garden no longer blooms. Only weeds sprout from the mud and dirt.
Charlotte: So, then ...
Coach: Then, the war began.
Charlotte: War?
Coach: That's right. You haven't seen it yet, but you will.
Coach: Years ago, war destroyed your hometown, and you moved with your family to a new land.
Coach: On the surface, it seemed like a safe place. You believed what everyone said, firmly convinced that there would be no fighting there.
Charlotte: Isn't that a good thing?
Coach: I suppose you don't yet remember that day.
Charlotte: That day?
Coach: Yes, that day.
Coach: By modern measures, that day was far from a good one. The air was heavy with the stench of gunpowder after the military dropped bomb after bomb in the area, leaving debris and dust in their wake.
Coach: But luckily, your house was untouched, and you managed to survive the war.
Charlotte: Then what?
Coach: Look up.
The girl looks up. There is a shining golden sun before her. She gazes in disbelief, then rubs her eyes.
Charlotte: How come I can see the sun in the training room?
Coach: You saw a similar sun in the sky on that day, too.
Coach: That long-awaited peace seemed to finally be near. You hadn't heard the roaring of planes for a long while, and the desolate grasslands had started to show a hint of life.
Coach: So, on that stretch of scorched earth, you began to dance.
Coach: Eye of Day, Keeper of Balance. You are the Endless Well.
Charlotte: Healing Sulis, shining Sulis, holy Sulis, to us, you tell.
Coach: Do you remember the origins of the Floor Ritual?
Charlotte: Of course, I remember. Floor Rituals originate from ancient rituals. The shamans danced to avert strife, to implore Sulis's grace.
Charlotte: It was originally a dance for peace.
Coach: So you thought at that time.
Coach: You saw the glorious sun, the soil turning from lifeless to fertile, the tender green sprouts breaking through the earth.
Coach: That was the most successful dance of your life. For the first time, Sulis responded to your prayers. No one had ever done that at the Uluru Games before, not even you at your best.
Coach: You heard that sharp whistling for the first time—that sound that still haunts you in every nightmare, like Arachne cursed to forever make her web.
Coach: Soon, an incendiary bomb exploded beside you.
Charlotte: ...!
Coach: So you lost your leg as a result. It seems that, in the end, the gods never favored you.
Coach: Poor girl. Her beliefs have become a joke. If sacrificing everything yielded such results, it would be better if those so-called gods never even existed.
Coach: And it has caused you never-ending pain. How can one who no longer believes in the gods ever receive their favor again?
She sneers mockingly.
Charlotte: No. That's not true. Sulis is my friend.
Coach: You poor little thing.
Coach: Look at that medal hanging around your neck.
The girl lifts the medal to find a small dent in it.
Charlotte: ...!
Coach: Do you remember how this dent got here?
Charlotte: This isn't my medal! My medal would never have a dent like this in it!
Coach: After you lost your leg, you threw your medal away as hard as you could, cursing through tears that you'd never set eyes on it again.
Coach: Unfortunately, your curse didn't work.
Charlotte: ...
There's a knock at the door.
???: Hello? Is anyone there?
Charlotte: Who is it?
???: Ms. Willow? I've got this week's snails!
The voice is unfamiliar.
Coach: I'm here to say goodbye.
Charlotte: Why?
Coach: My snails have arrived. If I don't open the door, that little scamp will be kept waiting.
Coach: A minute, ten minutes, an hour ... That girl's mind is a mystery. Who knows how long she'll wait?
Coach: I need to answer the door.
Charlotte: Will I see you again?
Coach: If it were possible, I'd hope you never do.
She shakes her head and reveals a helpless smile.
Coach: But we will meet, Charlotte. Endings aren't always a matter of choice, nor can they be changed through will alone.
Coach: Now, the time has come to say goodbye. Take good care of this medal, won't you? Don't take your anger out on it.
She makes her way out of the room.
Her movement is stiff and awkward, and her leg makes a strange scraping sound as she walks. Yet, still, she holds her neck high, like a black swan gliding on the water.
Charlotte: ...
Willow: sigh
Flutterpage: Ms. Willow, here are the snails for this week!
The jar of snails is taken by a thin, gloved hand.
Willow: Your payment's in the letterbox by the door.
Willow: And ... thank you.
Flutterpage: Wow, Ms. Willow! What was it you said just now? Did you say "thank you"?!
Flutterpage: I ain't never heard you say that word before! Are you sure you're Ms. Willow?
Willow: ...
She places the snails on the table as usual, their soft heads gently emerging from their shells.
The weekly race begins, and after a long wait, the third snail is the first to reach the finish line.
Willow: The victor is ... Number 3.
Willow: You won.
She gathers the snail mucus and works it into a light yellow salve. This should suffice for the trip.
She prepares her luggage, reflecting on the many years since her last excursion.
Willow: Australia ... The sun is relentless there. I should probably bring a larger hat.
Willow: Still, I have a fair deal of lubricant remaining.
Willow: Oh, and there's this too.
She looks at the little box.
Within it lies the gleaming gold medal with the dent on one side.
Willow: ...
Flowers, applause, cheers, lubricant, the golden sun, and a thousand shadows.
She gently kisses the dented edge of the medal.
Willow: Good night, my friend.
