Font Formatting:
>You still get nightmares
>Even at twelve-years-old, an age where birds are supposed to outgrow their fear of sleep, you continue to wake up squawking and screaming, your nest of blankets torn to ribbons by your thrashing, a puddle of sweat deeper than lake Kilkri beneath you
>Filling in your dream journal every morning has become less ritual, and more exhausting repetition these past few weeks
>The same tired words in different variations find their way onto the pages of a journal that once kept record of flight through the clouds; fighting off harvesters with your friends in seminary; time spent with minn and daka
>All of the tangled script and exhausted penmanship leads back to the same stupid words:
>‘Another nightmare and I couldn’t tell.’
>Normally when you encounter a nightmare, you’re lucid enough to disarm it – turn a demon with a bayonet charging at you into a pot of flowers, soar above your problems on black wings
>That sort of stuff
>It’s pretty easy for you, not to brag
>But lately…
>Your nightmares have taken on a more… surreal quality
>Is authentic the word?
>See, your garden-variety dreams always wear a thin veneer of reality, like a performer in a badly made festival mask Surprisingly, almost every single bird you’ve met so far, waking or dreaming, struggled in dreams
>None of them could tell they were dreaming
>They simply accepted the mask as it was presented to them, good or not
>Given your ‘condition,’ you have a unique opportunity to flip the mask around, examine it, and exchange it for something else
>A few weeks ago – before you got your family evicted from Ohm – the nightmares began
>Nightmares that reached out and choked the air from your tender throat until you saw black stars, and woke up gasping
>Nightmares where the pain didn’t never woke you up, like it ordinarily does
>Nightmares so close to reality even YOU struggled to tell apart from your waking reality
>You sigh as you plod forward, apprehension dragging your otherwise nimble stride to a limping march
>The night brings up a cold wind from the city, fluttering through the suburbs out east and north-east, the wake of the storm throwing a wet breeze against your feathers as you walk
>Clouds roll over the sky like a slabs of bruised concrete
>It smells like ozone again; like the promise of another rain shower
“This,” you mutter to yourself, “is another nightmare. It has to be.”
>The gray little vulca matches your strides, her angular face and blue eyes pointed up at as she trots
>You throw a sly glance over your shoulder – just for a second
>Two shadows lumber behind you at a distance – one tall and lean, an orange scarf wrapped around his neck
>The other is of shorter stature; more of a stocky, hardier build, his helmet-shadow obscuring his face
>The tall one has his weapon slung against his back
>The stockier one wields his
> You hear the crunch of their boots smashing gravel in to the asphalt
>Little flickers of their conversation reach your ears; flints and fragments of a foreign tongue that only make a little sense
>“After we take what belongs to God from these dirty fucking animals, I’m going back to base camp – with or without you. Harvesters and anomalies be damned.”
>“C’mon, Rich, can’t you look at this and say we’re doing a good deed? God rewards those who do good with steady aim, you know.”
>The shorter Zealot chuckles sarcastically
“Sure, ‘good deed.’ We’re returning a lost heretic to her heretic family.”
“Exactly! I knew you’d see the good we’re doing.”
>“So we can rob them blind.”
>There’s a slight pause as the Foxer jaws for a response
>“Well… it’s ‘good’ for us, and good for the kid. We get return their relics to the Lord, come home big heroes, and they get their kid back.” Ben quips at last. “Also, if there were harvesters around, Lucy and Elia would know well ahead of time. This is a simple scare and steal operation. No harvesters, and no killing.”
>The other demon issues a single grunt in response, and no more is said for a while
>You, Elia, overhear all of this and understand only a few of the words spoken
>You pretend not to be listening . You stare down at the map as you walk, blue eyes fixed on dad’s penmanship
>His heavy hand drew the wet ink in fat, wet circles
>It’s funny how you appreciate the more personal details of life – such as the way your father writes or draws – only when they’re about to be ripped away from you
>Everything in your body wants to revolt against what you’re doing here right now, and spew that revulsion out of your beak
>But it’s your diseased little mind that holds your stomach in check
>No amount of gut-spinning nausea could get you to stop moving forward right now, because moving forward means you live split second longer
>So even if it extends your timeline a second or two more, the coward deep within your very soul marches on
>And you are… a coward
>A sudden gust of wind lifts a feather from your arm, sending it drifting into a wet current of air
>It flutters away behind you; a black butterfly lifting its wings
>You hardly pay attention to the loose feather – that sort of thing happens all the time with corvid
>Your eyes are glued to the map, so you don’t notice when one of the demons creeps up behind you
>“Here, you dropped this,” he says, voice practically right up against your ear holes
>You cheep in surprise, nearly stumbling forward, talons catching on some holes in the asphalt
>Momentum guide you forward
>But Ancestor’s grace helps you keep sure footing, an ability of all crows
>You turn to see the Foxer – Ben – with his arm extended towards you
>In his hand, pinched between his thumb and index finger like a blade of grass, is a short black feather
>A playful smile glows on his features, visible to you only through lightened vision
>With slight apprehension, you pluck the feather from his hand and hold up against the clouded skies, as if you were blessing a small, dark part of you
>Ben ruffles the feathers at the top of your head, chuckling to himself when he sees you examining your own feather
>“Just messing with ya, kid. Don’t look too hard into it,” he says, his words an utter mystery to you as he trots ahead, continuing down the gloomy highway by his lonesome,
>He whistles something that sounds like a hymn of some kind
>It was thirty seconds at most, but it felt like an hour watching Ben walk down the barren road
>He pauses and turn to you, nothing more than a thin silhouette, his Foxer’s scarf tugging at his neck, no more than a simple thread from this distance
>A sharp, beckoning whistle hits your ears, forcing you to wince in pain
>Lucy swiftly turns tail and starts to trot down the highway herself, making her way towards the demon who she is bound to
>You watch this for a bit, enjoying the strange amount of leeway the Foxer gives yo-
>A sharp, gasping pain in your upper back lurches you forward, sending you stumbling forward
>Again you find footing; enough to stay upright
>When you turn, you see the other demon you’re traveling with – the Cree – lording over you, the butt of his rifle raised high, ready to beat you with it once more
>“Keep it moving, heretic,” he says with a coarse snarl. “Ben might have his priorities crossed because you’re a damned kid, but me?”
>“I know what you are…”
>He lowers his arms just a little as he brings his face close to your shaking beak
>A hateful grin spreads across his, his lips curling upwards in total apathy towards your life or safety
>“You’re an abomination is what you are. Do you know what that word means?”
“A-A-Abomination?” you parrot back, beak trembling
>There’s a word that has meaning to you, even if you don’t understand entirely
>It means something bad to the humans… but what?
>“Some transgression saw you exiled, little girl. Birds don’t usually cast out their own unless they have good reason to. And whether it’s you who spits in God’s design, or one of your little family members… It doesn’t matter to me.”
>He stands back up to his full, towering height, engulfing your form with his hatred of you, your mom, your dad, your kin…
>…you get the picture
>The Zealot’s teeth ram together as he speaks, as if your fragile neck were between his jaws
>“You’re nothing but thieves, wolves, and whores, the whole lot of you! And tonight… tonight I will see to it that the Lord’s will is done here.”
>Instead of responding to whatever he just said, you peer up into shadowed features, searching the darkness across his face for his eyes
>Normally you can gleam someone’s intentions with a look in their eyes
>But this demon
>It’s like he has no eyes
>Only shadow; his ground to nothing by pulverizing darkness
>“Now move.”
“Skaa… no?” is all you can say
>The zealot thrusts the weapon forward, the metal flashings ricocheting off your hollow cheekbone
>“I said, MOVE!”
>A flush of iron and salt fills your mouth as stumble onto the wet asphalt
>It’s only by Ancestor’s grace that you manage to plant one hand down on the asphalt, which keeps you from going face first
>After a stunned moment, tou turn around, jaw RINGING with pain like a struck bell
>The Cree no longer has his rifle raised to strike you
>It’s in his arms
>His trembling, pale finger strokes the trigger, as if it is precious to him, as if he’s looking for any excuse to turn his weapon upon you
>“Heretics seldom get a third chance, let alone a second. But I assure you, this is to be your last. Now MOVE. GO!”
>You scramble back onto your feet, trying to ignore the bruise swelling beneath the feathers of your left cheek
>Or the blood in your mouth, which you swallow down in disgusted gulps
>Don’t need to know English to gleam that you’re close to exhausting this demon’s patience
>You turn tail – quite literally – and begin plodding down the highway, only once sneaking a glance up from the map to see the Foxer already far ahead of you
>He’s a small line of shadow in your gifted vision; off to the side of the highway
>You can still hear him whistle his hymn over the crunch of the Cree’s boots behind you
>Smashing gravel into particulate
>Trampling everything beneath him
>You approach a slight fork in the road – an off-ramp, where ‘I-twenty-five’ branches
>There are two roads here
>The main highway – a two-lane strip of asphalt partially overrun with weeds – and an off-ramp on the right to the right, flanked by a wall of trees
>There’s a big metal sign, with lettering nearly faded – one that you caught when you were leaving camp
>You don’t know what any of the words on the sign mean
>‘Picnic Area’
>‘Restrooms’
>But one particular word on the metal sign jumps out like a flare in the night
>And your heart flutters up into your throat, straining to escape with all the velocity of a scream
>‘Rest Stop’
>Your face drains of blood, and you pause, practically vibrating with a heady cocktail of guilt and fear flush within your veins
>Ancestors…
>You did it. You really lead the demons back to mom and dad
>Now what?
>“Oi, kid”
>You stifle a scared chirp, as your head snaps to the right
>a copse of massive, overgrown willows and sage brush has grown into a small forest of sorts, encircling the rest stop
>Ben then emerges from the dark, crouching, right as the Cree joins in behind you, huffing a little from having to keep up with your nimble stride
>“Come here, come here,” he says in a badly whispered shout
>You crook your head a bit, feeling your jaw idly with one hand as it throbs with pain
>He wants you to…
>Umm….
>“Genaii nechi! Elia! genaii nechi,”
>Oh!
>‘Come here’
>You tuck the map back in your back pocket and start towards Ben, the Zealot close behind you, his heavy boots stumbling in the dark against the muddy soil and wet grass
>The Cree’s breath is labored, and he utters strange words that might be curses
>He follows close behind, like a Foxer using his service animal
>Finally, you break into the treeline with ease, ducking beneath the drooping branches of willow trees so tall that your neck strains when you try to find their top branches
>Taking your gloved talon in his own hands, Ben guides you to a small clearing in the trees
>You can hear Richard shattering branches behind you as he crashes through the leaves and brush to join you, huffing and red in the face
>Unless daka and minn are completely deaf, there’s almost no chance they haven’t heard you in these trees
>It’s a few yards to the asphalt parking lot, and a few more after that to the squat, gray building that comprises the ‘rest stop’ where you left all your things
>Where your parents are no doubt waiting for your triumphant return, arms laden with bundles of dry sticks and crispy leaves
>You hope that their off-handed mentioning of their time spent as rantaa deenos – wall jumpers, outlaws, treasure hunters – means they can hear how LOUD these demons are in the brush
>You hope
>“Can we get on with this? We’re well into the wicked hours of the night,” Richard says, setting his rucksack down against the knotted trunk of a prairie aspen. “I’d like to get back to base camp soon, if you don’t mind. It looks like the rain is back.”
>“We’ll be safe and dry soon, so long as we stay true to the plan,” Ben says, feeding a plain, brass-tipped bullet into his chemical rifle. He flashes a confident smile at his comrade, who does not return the gesture
>Ben carries on, ignoring your worried, pleading look as he arms himself
>“The plan is simple, flawless even. Only God Himself could craft a better course of action,” Ben says, smiling at you, his brown eyes fixed to your own
>“We scare the fear of God into her parents – point our guns at them, start shouting and knocking stuff over. Things of that nature. And then we take their relics and leave them with their daughter.”
>There’s silence as ben waits for something – applause, a whistle, a clap on the back – from his comrade
>Nothing
>The Cree simply grunts in acknowledgment
>“Let’s get on with this,” the Cree says, loading his chemical rifle with a red-tipped bullet when Ben’s not looking
>But you see it
>And he sees you looking
>Your jaw starts working in earnest, squawking without words – just panic
>You don’t know what they’re saying, but you don’t like how they’re loading their weapons, your parents just a few hundred yards down the road
>Distraction
>You need something to throw them off, to forestall the inevitable
>Looking for a distraction, you swing your head on a swivel surveying the small forest clearing
>Maybe there’s something here in this copse of trees!? Something only you and the fox can dete-
>The fox?
>Where did the fox go?
“V-Vulca?” you say suddenly. Your eyes flick over to the Foxer. “Ves nii vulca?”
>You make a show of looking around
“Nii vulca nechi?” you say again, lost, desperately hoping your words break through years of apathetic studying and a programmed disdain for your kind
>“Vulca…” Ben repeats thoughtfully, humming the words of your kin
>“Oh! You mean Lucy? My fox?
>You nod in earnest, as the other demon merely looks on in hatred
“Vul-ca!”
>“Lucy’s out scouting the area around the rest stop. It’s all procedure – she goes on ahead of me to ensure there’s nothing nasty lurking about, and we go when she comes bac-”
>The Foxer never completes his explanation of his carefully laid-out plan
>A lone gunshot crackles through the blustery nigh air, ringing out into the night like thunder stroke
>The concussive blast pierces your sensitive eardrums leaving a violent, glass-like hum in its wake
>You clap your talons over your ear holes, eyes clenched shut in trained response
>The two demons – resting against a titanous aspen’s white trunk – instantly drop into a crouch, the Zealot clutching his chemical rifle, his helmet close against his skull, as if under artillery fire
>And then you hear something that splits your eyes wide with raw pulses of fear, the thought of betrayal and failure now kicking at the sides of your skull, where the Zealot struck you
>The unmistakable timbre of your mother, the softness of her voice boiling with terror
>“YOU FUCKING MISSED! HOW COULD YOU MISS!? IT WAS RIGHT THERE!”
>And then your father’s voice rushes to meet minn’s, booming loud enough for even the demons to hear
>“Don’t just stand there shrieking like a hatchling at me, for Ancestor’s sake! Hand me another round from the bag already!”
>“I’m trying! Which pocke did you put the bullets in? All of these are FILLED with junk!”
>“Flap on the top; should already be opened. Hand me as many as you can. Oh for fuck sake, where did that little bastard go?!”
>“I think I saw it go behind the building… Matia, this vulca is too clever to be of the land, and Elia has yet to return… oh my heart worries. Did you see a collar or a tag on that the vulca?”
>“THERE IT IS!” your dad cries in a sudden flurry, ignoring mom
>Another unseen crack of his rifle forces you to clap your ears shut again
>Oh
>Oh no
>Oh FUC-
>“Are they aiming at us or something!?” Ben hisses again, looking at you for an interpretation to a question you barely understand. “I’ve got no idea what they’re saying out there!”
>“Who gives a damn what they’re saying!” Richard cuts in, charging to the edge of the trees as he fixes his bayonet. “They’re armed, and that’s plenty for me! C’mon, Foxer, do your duty and return fire!”
>In a panic – as if you were about to disarm him – you stumble through the undergrowth, chasing the larger Zealot, trying to anchor your talons in his back to slow him down
>Ben follows in a snap, crashing through the willow’s drooping branches
>You burst from the treeline like a fledgling deer, trailing behind the Cree, who stands at a halt, crouched into a firing position
>But you’re not paying attention to the Zealot – at least not initially
>You can clearly see the rest stop – a neat square of shattered asphalt dominated by low, gray, concrete building
>And you see mom and dad, as clear as day in your gifted eyes, their dark shapes moving in tandem towards the rest stop itself
>Dad has the rifle socketed against this shoulder as he sprints, and mom is tight behind him
>They move in a practiced, coordinated unit, two of body, one of mind
>Then
>In a panicked blur, a small shape – low to the asphalt – emerges from the opposite end of the rest stop
>Its little gray legs churn wildly beneath underneath its body as it bounds across the parking lot
>A small, dark shape
>With a bushy tail
>Beaming right towards you
>Ben skitters up next to you, his chest heaving with exhaustion, bloodstream flush with adrenaline
>His scarf hangs like a loose, oblong rag across his neck. He scours the darkness for any signs of heretics
>Or, you know
>His service fox?
>“THERE! MATIA! RIGHT THERE!” you hear Denica squawk
>She stops to point with an outstretched talon at Lucy, who bounds bounds in zigzags towards you
>Mom squawks something at Matia, and stops to point again
>You hear the the Zealot to your right murmur something beneath the other demon’s range of hearing
>But now below yours
>“Perfect. Just hold still for me, heretic.”
>You look over
>The Cree trains his rifle on what he must think is your mother’s shape – a small, stationary shadow in the dark of night
>You open your mouth to squawk at him, to demand that he stop
>And you reach for him, your juvenile talons cloying for his arms
>You want so badly to rip into his flesh, grab him by the elbow, pull his aim down, or to the side, or something
>Anything to make him miss his shot
>But your hesitation costs you again
>There’s a spray of liquid fire from the tip of his rifle; a blossom of orange and crimson blooming from the weapon’s super-heated barrel
>The red-tipped incendiary round scorches through the damp night air…
>…aimed right at your mom
>You clamp your gloved talons over your ear holes, immobilized by the piercing noise, a sound like daggers driven into your ears
>You think the report is the loudest thing your young ears have ever heard
>Behind the pink of your eyelids you fight angry, frustrated tears
>Well…
>You did it
>You failed, bird
>What’s worse is that you betrayed your own kin in the process
>Your own flesh and feathers
>Like you always knew you would
>Minn is surely dead, her body no doubt dropping in a light heap, soaked in rain and sweat, watering the asphalt with her blood
>If she’s not burning to death
>Daka is next, likely killed with the weight of the trust he put in his daughter still hanging over him
>You’ve been nothing but a burden to them your whole life; a millstone around their necks
>And now you’re their undoing, too
>At least it’ll be quick
>You hope
>The ringing in your ear, like a chorus of locusts, stretches for what feels like hours
>In reality, a fraction of a second passes until you remove your palms from your ears and look up, too worried about mom and dad
>Instead of relief or sorrow, you squawk in surprise
>Your parents are both alive, dark-feathered crows fleeing from a tide flickering tide of liquid fire that slowly washes across rest stop,
>Liquid fire crawls over over rusted and derelict automobiles like river water crawling up the banks
>Behind your parents, the rest stop – though largely concrete – goes up an alchemical blaze, tongues of flame arcing high into the sky
>And then
>It’s bright
>It’s very bright, in fact
>The darkness that once cloaked your kin in secrecy evaporates in an explosive flash
>Your parents skid to a stop, already approaching the edge of the treeline…
>…where they now catch sight of the demons firing upon them
>And again
>Nobody moves
>In fact there’s a bizarre silence that settles over the whole affair, punctuated only by the crackling flames incinerating the rest stop behind your parents, its structure in mid-collapse
>Two groups
>Diametrically opposed
>No more than twenty or so feet apart from each other
>A bullet crosses gaps wider than that in the span of time it takes your heart muscles to contract and pulse
>Your parents – ragged from the chase – look like they haven’t spotted you yet as you hide behind the larger demon
>They watch the demons with tense stares, blue eyes fixed on the Cree, his weapon lowered – loaded or not, you can’t recall
>Ben can only stare back at your parents in what must be disbelief, the flames of war dancing in his honey-brown eyes
>He’s not even holding his rifle
>Bah, to harvesters with him. Your mind is a blur now that you see mom and dad…
>….not filled with bullets, or burning to death like some kind of vagrant but to the torch
>Alive
>Breathing hard, ragged breath
>That fact alone forces relieved tears from your eyes
>You…
>…you need your mom and dad right now
>Sniffling, you’re about to slink out from behind the cover of the demons, when you feel something tugging at your pant legs
>Distracted by your parents, neither the Foxer nor Zealot notice Lucy snuck up behind them,
>She pulls anxiously on your clothes
>As if she’s…
>…trying to get you to follow her?
>…
>Why would she do that?
>For a split second you almost do follow her when she bolts for the treeline
>That has to mean something, right?
>But instead, you remain rooted in-place
>You wipe away your tears and snot with the sleeve of the sweater mom made for you
>You’ve had enough adventure
>And enough weakness
“Enough cowardice from you, Elia. This ends now,” you whisper to yourself, like a spontaneous prayer for courage
>Enough is enough
>It was your carelessness that got you caught
>It was your lie that tipped the demons off about your parents
>And your cowardice that led them to the camp
>So no, you’re not going to slink away into the dark and damp, taking shelter among the leaves of fall
>Even if Lucy IS staring a hole into you right now to do just that
>You turn heel and emerge from behind the pair of humans, standing just to the left of the Zealot, who can only side-eye you, unable to take his eyes off the armed ‘heretics’ that are your parents
“Minn! Daka!” you cheep
>Matia keeps his eyes fixed on Richard, his weapon ready
>It’s as if he can’t hear you, his flame-shadow stretching out towards you, almost touch your own shadow
>But mom – mom hears your weak voice through it all
>She breaks focus on the Zealot, her soft blue eyes falling on your little body, the gray sweater she made for you caked in mud, damp with rainwater and sweat
>Stretched thin from the strain of the evening
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2U3P1T6Wa6k&list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S&index=25
>“Elia?” Denica gasps, “Elia, by the Ancestors… that cannot be my daughter, can it?”
>Just hearing her voice, even if it’s scoured with smoke and ash, is enough to harden a lump in your throat
>Breaths come in shallow pulls of air as you try not to break into sobs
“Minn…” you say in a weak, almost pleading voice
>You hear dad whisper something. “Denica, don’t take your eyes off the demons…”
>“Little feather, we thought we’d never see you again…” mom continues
>“Denica…” your father hisses again, eyes fixed on the Zealot
>You can barely restrain your sobs any longer as tears cut down your beak, your, legs moving you forward unconsciously towards your parents
“I-I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” is all your choked sobs will allow
>‘I’m sorry’
>To see the relief wash over her when your blue eyes meet for the fist time in what feels like years… you know there’s no need to apologize
>The way she lets out a long, worried sigh – one she’s been holding since you left…
>…the way her familiar features wrinkle up into an exhausted, relieved smile
>“But to know you’re safe is all the blessings I can ask for.”
>It makes all the hurt go away
>After all of the things you’ve been through, you’ve finally realized something:
>Home isn’t a place behind the safety of walls, or the shelter of a roof
>Home is people who love you for who you are
>And they ask of you nothing in return
>So yeah…
>You’re home
>“Denica!” is the last thing dad says to his wife
>A gunshot rings out
>A report cleaner than struck silver
>And gone in the space between heartbeats
>You duck on instinct, the bullet’s high-pitched shriek in your ears, smothering all sound…
>…smothering what you think is an anguished squawk
>And when your eyes ease open in the wake of the gunshot…
>…you see Denica…
>Minn
>Mom
>…crumpled in a heap, face-down on the asphalt, a spray of black feathers gently falling down upon her, like dark snowflakes
“Minn!” you scream
>Your little legs start forward, guided by an unconscious, primal urge to return to the side of the woman who loved and nurtured you for twelve long years
>You only get so far when another gunshot drowns out your anguished, guilty cry
>Dad swiftly returns fire, a feral howl booming from his throat as his cheap, beaten chemical rifle blossoms with fire
>You look to see if he hit of one of the demons, your ears ringing
>You hope it’s the Zealot
>No such luck
>Dad’s bullet whistles into the treeline, sending Lucy into a terrified frenzy
>The demons take off, banking hard to the right, aiming for cover and to avoid the alchemical fire creeping forward
>They look like they’re running for a derelict automobile
>The Zealot strafes as he moves, aiming his weapon at you…
>…and then your father
>The Cree squeezes a round off, which forces dad to drop into a crouch
>He then rises from his crouched position, socketing the rifle firmly against his shoulder
>He racks the bolt, slides in another round and-
>His blue eyes flick over to the still body of his wife
>And then to you, who can only stare at mom’s unmoving form with shock
>“ELIA!” dad barks
>You tear your eyes from the hypnotizing sight of mom’s body
>He chambers the round with a fluid motion, drawing from a well-kept ammo pouch now on his hip
“D-Daka!” you stammer, the heat from the alchemical fire now warming your feathers. “I think mom needs help-”
>“RUN!” he screams at you, eyes widening in paternal concern. z
“B-But… minn… I can help…”
>Dad is no longer asking you to run
>He demands it with ever fiber of his being
>His soul screams at you: leave
“Take the map and GO! RUN, NOW!”
>There’s so much pain, heavy in his voice
>And anger…
>…so much bottled up that it spills from his eyes when he looks at you
>Your body takes a few unconscious step back
>You take one last look at minn’s body, a familiar slip of shadows and feathers in a tan jacket and olive-colored trousers
>Ensconced in a pool of her own blood
>Feathers floating in a crimson lake
>And you burn that memory into your psyche, stamp it onto your temporal lobe
>This way you’ll never forget – not even in dreams – what evil the demons are capable of
>You can hear the demons screaming at each other in their bastard tongue from behind their meager cover
“Richard. for God’s sake! What the FUCK was that? That wasn’t apart of the plan!”
>You break for the treeline behind you, tiny legs working to carry you towards the shadowed embrace of Purgatory’s untamed wilds
>Lucy emerges from the underbrush, her tail flickering at your approach
>She cuts a few small yips in excitement
>Your legs burn, packed with lactic acid and agonizing fear
>Your chest hurts from your frightened heart throwing itself against your ribs
>Your eyes are wide and scared, because if you close them… even for a moment…
>…you see your minn’s body, still dressed in the clothes she put on that morning when you all left camp
>The lifeless body of your mother
>Surrounded by a thin lake of blo-
>Another gunshot crackles through the night air
>It’s so close that you’re certain that at any moment you’re going to feel something jump up and bite you in the back; a punch so forceful it’ll send your little body pitching forward with a spray of black feathers and blood going up in a puff
>But instead of dying, death, and a return to the Ancestors in the sky, you slide into the wet brush, sweater catching on jagged branches and thorny brier
>Without hesitation, Lucy clamps down on your thin leg as if she had the strength you carry you off herself
>Perhaps back to her master
>Or perhaps somewhere else entirely?
>Or maybe she’s just trying to hurt you?
>She’s a servant of the demons, after all
“Let go, you feathering rat!”
>You swat her away with a talon, but before you can escape, another exchange of gunfire forces you to roll onto your stomach, beak down in the dirt , gloved hands on top of your head
>BAM
>And another
>BAM
>A cry of anger from dad forces your eyes open
>You watch as he strafes left, right, backwards and forwards, reloading as he moves, taking a firing stance, and plinking shots into an abandoned automobile where the demons have taken cover
>Daka moves closer and closer to the demon’s cover as he fires
>The demons return the favor – one of them jumps up from behind the car to squeeze off a round
>You can’t tell which demon is shooting at your dad
>You’ve yet to see the Vulcada leave his safety
>You did however see the Zealot gun down your defenseless mother
>Matia seems to dance around the hail bullets that the demons sling at him, his wrapped talons skirting the edge of the the alchemical flame’s reach as slides left
>Twirling and spinning with grace
>A lake of slow-rolling fire that pushes him towards the body of his wife
>Dad is a small bird, like you, and your mother
>Crow are usually only a little over five feet tall at their maximum
>But dad’s shadow is fifty feet tall against the surface of the parking lot, traced in a flame
>A fierce, grating caw booms out of his chest
>CAW
>CAW
>CAW
>An enraged battle cry from Matia
>But it’s not just a war cry, either
>It’s a scream of pain as well
>Pain
>BAM
>Pain for the love of his life, lying dead in a puddle of her own blood, buried beneath but a handful of feathers
>Pain
>BAM
>Pain for his daughter, imperiled by his decisions, her life in the hands of the locus of evil
>He cries out in anguish as keeps towards the derelict automobile on the other side of the parking lot
>He racks the bolt-action back and slides in round after round, unloading what remains of his small ammo supply into the car, hoping with all the hatred for humanity in his heart that one of the rounds pierces the steel frame of the automobile and finds its mark
>“This one is for my daughter!” he squawks
>BAM
>BAM
>The bullets plink off the automobile with a metallic zing, and you can see the demons shifting nervously behind their cover
>The Cree fixes his a knife to the end of his rifle
>“And this one is for my wife, YOU FUCKING BASTARDS!” Matia shrieks
>BAM
>Another shot just barely misses the Vulcada’s head
>Lucy makes another go at dragging you away with her twenty-pound frame
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvbENiRwczc&list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S&index=26
>You allow Lucy to tear at your legs; your heartbeat thunders in your chest as you watch in slow motion…
>…dad circles around the car, chemical rifle at the ready…
>…talon resting on the trigger as…
>…the Zealot emerges from his blown cover…
>…he’s low, hunched over, charging your father…
>…a hateful scream booms in the Zealot’s chest…
>…and…
>…with only a little ground to cover…
>…as Matia takes quick aim, squinting down the sights….
>…as dad’s gun – barely functional when it was given to him by Ohm as a wanderer’s gift…
>…clicks with a misfire…
>…the zealot closes the gap…
>…he collides with your dad, who hasn’t enough time to dodge…
>…and he drives his bayonet into your father’s chest…
>…skewering the man who loved you…
>…who nurtured you in life…
>…who protected you, even now…
>…who believed in your every dream…
>…lifting as the small crow off the ground with the end of his bayonet
>…like an offering to his evil god
>This is a nightmare
>THUMP
>It HAS to be a nightmare
>THUMP
>This is one of those dreams that tricks you into thinking it’s reality
>THUMP
>You slam your eyes shut, certain that when they open again
>THUMP
>None of this…
>THUMP
>…will have ever happened
>THUMP
>But when your eyes open?
>Dad is still suspended some feet in the air by the Zealot’s bayonet, a dark puddle of blood gathering like storms beneath his talons
>THUMP
>He is struggles…
>THUMP
>Arms flailing just a little
>THUMP
>And finally
>THUMP
>Dad’s head drops low, beak close to his chest
>THUMP
>And you can’t quite see it from the safety of the trees…
>….but his eyes flutter shut
>And right about there is when you hear what you think is the low moan of thunder in the black skies above
>The promise of rain condensing itself into droplets of water
>Which glance off your beak
>THUMP
>And another heavy droplet
>THUMP
>And another
>THUMP
>Until the skies open up, and a cold shower of rain washes this sad strip of Purgatory
>THUMP
>Wow, that thunder sure is… consistent…
>And getting closer?
>The Zealot lowers his rifle
>Matia’s body – a blue overcoat, a white collared shirt, brown trousers – slides backwards, completely limp
>It makes little noise as it thumps off the asphalt, all the weight of a feathered pillow
>THUMP
>“Daka…?” your is voice confused, as if you can’t parse what you see before you
>As if your mind – in shock – refuses to embrace the notion that dad won’t just get right back up
>THUMP
>He’s… not going to get up
>THUMP
>And nobody will ever call you little feather ever again
>And you aren’t dreaming
>THUMP
>And there’s this prevailing sense…
>THUMP
>…that this…
>…is all your fault…
>THUMP
>Ben emerges from cover
>THUMP
>You duck into the brush and watch under the cover of thick foliage and thorny brambles, too scared of ending up like your father to go any further
>THUMP
>Coward
>The younger Vulcada storms towards his comrade, who now stands above your father’s body, admiring how effortless and easy it was to drive his bayonet into the heretic’s ribs
>How light the bird felt as he raised him against the night sky, like a bleeding flag
>THUMP
>“God’s grace is with me tonight!,” the Zealot shouts, overjoyed, boots lightly kicking at Matia’s lifeless form. “I thought the bird had me dead to rights! I swear, when he came ‘round the side of our cover, I knew someone had to do something-”
>“Richard…” the Foxer seethes, still stomping forward
>THUMP
>Ben shucks his leather gloves, whipping them to the ground, his whole body trembling with rage
>The sharpening wind yanks at his orange and white scarf, which trails behind him as he strides forward, a comet’s tail wrapped around his neck
>THUMP
>“That misfire on the bird’s part – tell me that wasn’t some kind of divine intervention right there!”
>The Cree turns to face Ben, grinning
>THUMP
“Now all we have do is find the kid- ”
>“…you stupid, crooked, son of a BITCH!” the Foxer screams, chest raw
>You don’t know what those words mean, but you don’t need to know
>THUMP
>Ben explains his position with his fist
>THUMP
>The Foxer’s arm reels backwards with a suddenness
>THUMP
>And then he swings for the fences
>Ben’s fist collides with the Zealot’s upper jaw – about where Richard hit you, actually
>There’s an audible PIFF as his knuckles collide with solid bone
>Richard goes stumbling backwards; a grunt of pain spilling from his clenched jaw, his boots slipping on the asphalt, nearly stumbling onto your father’s body
>Ben roars, his angered shriek louder than a harvester’s. “Shooting the heretics wasn’t in the plan! We had them OUTGUNNED and OUTMATCHED! Any person – human or heretic – would know they weren’t going to win! THINK FOR A SECOND, YOU DEMENTED FUCK!”
>Despite the body-shaking force of Ben’s swing, the Zealot does manage to keep upright
>Lucy no longer tries to pull you deeper into the brush
>She’s appears besides you, standing, tail erect, trembling like a leaf, her stammering jaw working with some kind of frenzied yell, but dying in her little throat
>Richard straightens himself up, helmet-shadow a mask of darkness across his features. “Sucker-punching an armed Zealot, five, maybe six miles from any help? Might as well shoot you myself, Foxer. But for you…” He pauses to spit a crimson mouthful of blood onto your father’s corpse. “…I think I’d like to use my hands.”
>With that, he lunges forward at Ben, his fingers snapping onto Ben’s collar, seizing him in-place
>Ben’s reaction time is meaningless, even if it is quite good, even for a human
>The Zealot throws his heavy fist into Ben’s face so hard
>And with such hatred
>That when the blow connects with his skull…
>…from the brambles and brush, a good fifty feet away…
>…you see Ben’s head rocket backwards…
>…the sheer force of the Zealot’s bruising punch sends the Vulcada spinning free…
>…he quickly loses his footing…
>… and collapses…
>…right next to the encroaching alchemical fire
>Lucy explodes from the treeline, racing towards her master, frenzied yips spilling out behind her
>THUMP
>Rain now falls in heavy sheets, the alchemical fire whimpering and hissing in protest
>You’re practically drenched already, but you can’t tear your blue eyes away from what you unfold in front of you
>The Zealot stomps towards Ben
>“All that kindness you’ve poisoned yourself with has lead to nothing but weakness…”
>THUMP
>Richard drives his boot into Ben’s side
>Ben yelps, his syllables slurred together as he fights off the pain and likely a serious concussion
>The Foxer attempts to will his body upwards, world spinning and swaying like he’s been at his flask all night
>“Sympathy for a heretic? I keep none. Neither does God. But you…”
>Another gut-churning kick into the stomach brings Ben down again, rasping
>“What if I told the brass what you tried to do here tonight, hmm? Save the lives of those dirty, foul heretics… assaulting your comrade in the line of duty?”
>THUMP
>Ben forces himself, back onto his feet, where he sways with concussed grace, an ever-spreading pool of incendiary fire inching towards him
>Their shadows dance on the trees behind them, taller than harvesters, and twice as violent
>THUMP
>“If you make it back to camp,” he says with a pained gasp, limping a half-circle around his former comrade. “Tell them I tired to do some good in an otherwise evil world.”
>THUMP
>Richard snorts with laughter as the two humans circle one another, your father’s body at the the center of their ring
>True, rib-sucking laughter
>“Oh I’ll tell them alright. I’ll tell them all about your refusal to do the Lord’s will. How you attacked your comrade. They’ll brand you and your little girlfriend as traitors…”
>He takes a huge swing at Ben once more, reaching over your father’s small, inconsequential body
>“…As HERETICS!”
>THUMP
>The Foxer makes a last-minute, labored shrug of his shoulders as his opponents fist punches through the space his head once occupied
>In response Ben throws a very concussed swing of his own at Richard
>THUMP
>A swing that is easily intercepted
>The Zealot swiftly draws the Foxer in close, like a child dragging a little doll around
>Richard’s knee collides with Ben’s stomach
>THUMP
>THUMP
>THUMP
>At that, you watch as Ben’s body sags, only held aloft by the much larger Zealot
>Richard lets the Vulcada collapse like an old, derelict building, falling face-first onto your dad’s body
>THUMP
>And then
>THUMP
>THUMP
>He turns the rasping Foxer over, onto his back – onto your dad’s small, rain-soaked body
>“Not much of a fighter, are you, heretic?” he sharps his syllables, as if they could cut Ben’s throat. “I knew you didn’t have it in you to do God’s. I knew from the moment you refused to shoot the girl.”
>You you watch from a helpless distance…
>…as Lucy breaks from the prairie grass, onto the asphalt…
>…as the Cree straddles the Foxer’s chest…
>…as the ground begins to quake with burgeoning tremors…
>…as Richard’s grubby hands snap onto the Foxer’s neck
>“And when I’ve dealt with you? I’m going to skewer the kid!” Richard seethes
>THUMP
>The sound sound of branches splintering, of massive tree trunks snapping and tumbling forward, fills the air
>Lucy’s back legs compress, mid-sprint…
>…as she launches herself into Richard’s face
>THUMP
>To the far right of the two sparring demons, through gaps in the pouring rain
>You see a huge shadow crash through the trees
>THUMP
>A lumbering, lanky shadow, obscured by century’s old overgrowth
>With cold white eyes like little stars
>THUMP
>The Zealot – defending his eyes and face from the claws of Lucy, takes one hand off Ben’s throat
>He bats away the service fox, sending her gray shape flying through the air with a pained yelp
>THUMP
>THUMP
>THUMP
>THUMP
>Lucy’s form ends up skittering across the parking lot
>But she manages to skate back onto her feet
>THUMP
>And she scrambles towards the pair again,, untrimmed claws scraping across the asphalt
>Until she abruptly skids to a halt, halfway between her dying master and… something emerging from the trees
>THUMP
>THUMP
>“That was a cute trick, Foxer!” the Zealot roars into the face of Ben, whose hands are wrapped around the Zealot’s arms, a desperate bid to pry them from his neck
>THUMP
>THUMP
>“It’s going to take an act of GOD to save you, not just some little fucking fox!”
>THUMP
>And then
>THUMP
>A fifteen-foot shadow falls across the demons
>THUMP
>An involuntarily warning squawk escapes from your chest echoing across the parking lot
>THUMP
>Ignoring your cry, Richard peers down at his victim as he strangles the Foxer to death, the Foxer’s wild brown eyes flickering in his skull, looking for some means of escape
>And then the Vulcada’s eyes bulge in their sockets, split wide with… surprise?
>But these are not death throes
>There’s something behind the Zea-
>“H-Hey! What the fuck is- hey! HEY!””
>The Zealot rises into the air, plucked from atop the Vulcada
>You, Elia, watch as a fifteen-foot harvester – a juvenile by most standards – plucks the much larger Zealot off of Ben, like a child picking up a haycoin off the ground
>Thunder explodes across the prairie as forks of lightning split the sky
>Heavy sheets of cold rain cascade down, thrown left and right by the wind that shakes your cover
>The harvester squeezes Richard tight in one clawed hand
>And the Zealot thrashes to get free of the harvester’s grasp
>But the lanky, half-decomposed beast simply brings the Cree close to its mouth
>Its deer-like face splits open to reveal and slavering maw of broken teeth
>“NO! NO! NO!” Richard shrieks
>And that was the last thing you could make out from Richard, as the harvester’s jaw clamps shut on the Cree’s legs
>You turn away as the Zealot is consumed – not head first, either
>His screams carry across the rest stop in a violent, gory wind
>The sound of bones snapping is louder than thunder
>Richard screams of agony so resolute the Zealot’s voice cracks
>Until it sputters out
>And the only sound is the rain and the crunch of bone
>And the sound of panicked footsteps moving across the blacktop, and into the wet grass
>You see the Foxer – Ben – in a dead-sprint
>THUMP
>His arms churn and chug as his legs carry him with what little grace he as left onto the prairie buffer between certain death on the asphalt, and the perceived of the trees
>THUMP
>Lucy is way ahead of her master, heroically racing right for you
>THUMP
>And behind the two of them is a thin, mangy shadow, stretching into the night sky
>The alchemical fire has since gone out
>By the grace of lightning a sudden fork of light in the sky reveals the harvester
>Its pale eyes fixed in your direction – maybe on you? Maybe on the Foxer
>Its jaw drops open, revealing a mess of blood and gore, too simple to finish eating
>Because now, it sees a live meal
>THUMP
>THUMP
>Lucy is first into the treeline, a terrified gray streak who…
>…skids to a halt when she sees you…?
>The fox bounces over to you, as if she can’t believe you’re still here
>She yips in your face
“Go away, vulca! Go find your master!”
>Hearing and understanding none of your words, Lucy chomps on your leg, a valiant effort to pull you deeper into the foliage
“Go! Go! Shoo!” you have to swat Lucy away with your gloved talons
>She does not yield
>She only growls when you pitifully strike her
>THUMP
>THUMP
>Ben crashes through the treeline in a dead sprint, hurtling right past you, completely oblivious to how close he came to running you over
>You watch him clumsily run through a forest in the dark
>And he doesn’t get far
>THUMP
>Ben collides with the a young aspen tree, the blow sending him into a spin
>Where he crashes face-first into a wild rose bush
>THUMP
>Ow
>Surprisingly, the Foxer sits up with a start, as if immune to the pain, his panicked eyes darting around dark copse of trees
>He less-than-carefully untangles his scarf from the wild rose bush
>THUMP
>THUMP
>The ground quakes as the harvester’s heavy feet crush the ground underneath, leaving craters in the mud
>Leaves drop in huge clouds onto of you and around you; small animals like mice, squirrels, and birds scatter into the dark
>THUMP
>“Lucy!?” Ben, turns around, and desperately scanning the copse of trees, his inferior dark vision straining to find his service animal. “Lucy, we’re booking it, alright girl? Lucy!”
>THUMP
>“C’mon, let’s-”
>Lucy barks twice, a practiced signal
>THUMP
>Ben turns suddenly, and spots Lucy near the edge of the trees, next to… you…
>Lucy is planted next to you tail flickering proudly, like she found some kind of relic
>“Ska… sk-skaa… I- no…”
>Ben does not hesitate or stammer like you do
>“Elia?” he whispers in disbelief
>THUMP
>“Elia, you’re still here?”
>You don’t answer
>THUMP
>You shake your head to whatever this demon says
>You’re terrified that this nightmare won’t end
>That this demon will take you again at gunpoint, maybe back to his demon city… Enclave?
>Whatever it’s called
>There’s a momentary pause as the demon just… stares at you in surprise
>THUMP
>You shatter the silence left by the storm
>THUMP
>“Elia!” Ben’s voice is a concerned, strained rasp. “Elia get the fuck away from the tree line! Come here!”
“Nii!” you yell in exhausted, terrified squawk. “Nii! Nii!”
>No idea what he’s saying, and you don’t want to know
>Ben tries in vain to shush you, his voice coming out in a choked hiss
>THUMP
>“Keep it down for the love of God, Elia!”
>You don’t even attempt English, or to take a stab at what Ben is saying
>You want out of this nightmare
>You don’t want to go where he goes
>You want…
>THUMP
>You want…
>THUMP
>…to go back…
>…to leaves falling in reverse…
>…sun and moon…
>…dancing above…
>…as your father…
>…twirls you backwards in the kitchen of…
>…your childhood…
>…home…
>…a dress your family couldn’t…
>…afford…
>…looks perfect on you…
>…and mom’s gleeful laughter…
>…drowns….
>…in the rain…
>THUMP
>THUMP
>“Elia!” Ben shouts , no longer bother for stealth
>THUMP
>THUMP
>You don’t care what happens to you any more
>If the harvester eats you, at least the pain will be over
>THUMP
>THUMP
>THUMP
>What Ben does next though?
>You weren’t expecting that
>The Foxer stares past you, eyes wide in terror as the harvester bears down on the two of you
>And then, as the ground pulses and jumps all around you…
>…Ben swings his rifle into his hands
>Lucy returns to his side
>His gaze momentarily flicks down to you
>And for a second…
>…just a flash of a second, before the line between the nightmare and reality gets blurry
>The demon says something in a language you barely know, but whose words you understand as clear as a struck bell
>Because he sounds a lot like your dad right now
>“Take the map and GO! RUN, NOW!” Ben shouts at you
>And maybe it’s because he sounds like dad, flashes that same commanding look…
>…that you know what he’s trying to tell you
>‘Save yourself.’
>He flushes past you, rifle at-hand, Lucy on his heels as he…
>…breaks through the branches and brush…
>…stands just out of arm’s reach the harvester…
>…raises his weapon at the creature’s head…
>… and with a flash of white lighting…
>Ben’s shadow stands fifty feet tall
>“C’mere, you son of a bitch!” he cries, his finger compressing the trigger
>The sound of gunfire this close is painful, but you can’t tear yourself away from what you’re witnessing
>The harvester flinches as the bullet glances off its skull,
>“C’mon, c’mon! Over here!” Ben says, moving laterally towards the right
>He strafes away from you, looses another shot into the harvester, and the n sprints towards the right of the parking lot, a bank of trees on the other side of the asphalt welcoming him with the promise of cover
>THUMP
>Lucy runs panicked, vicious circles around the harvester, clamping down on its heels when she can in a bid to slow it down
>THUMP
>The harvester’s glowing white eyes flicker as they turn away from you in the trees, and towards Ben
>The creature pursues
>And suddenly, you’re left alone in the shaking trees, the storm only just beginning to lighten, the clouds mostly spent
>The receding hum gunfire grows smaller and more distant
>The rain and wind, a steady chorus that brings the scent of black powder smoke, and mud to your nose, rattles the branches of the trees around you
>You stand up, shivering and soaked, with little energy left but to weakly brush yourself a bit
>You scrub away the tears that blur your vision
>Tears of confusion. Tears of pain. Tears of hopelessness
>These all condense in the corners of your eyes as you walk through the branches
>But you won’t cry – not now
>You’re not going to waste the chance that the demon is giving you
>‘Demon’
>It’s a strange word, isn’t it?
>If he gives his life for yours…
>…does that make him a demon still?
>The other human? Absolutely
>That human was tacitly evil
>A gunshot rings out, and Ben’s war cry follows
>“You’re nothing! NOTHING! What are you, twelve, eleven feet tall? You look like you’re barely four!”
>Another gunshot
>A pained roar echoes
>You start to search for the tree where the demons left their things – an aspen, if you can recall
>After a few quick seconds, you locate the lonely, white trunk of an aspen in a small clearing
>Two completely soaked rucksacks leaning together
>You don’t take any time to sort what you find in the packs, and you can’t carry them both anyway
>So you unload most of one pack and pile it into another – whatever it is, you’ll take you
>So you hobble off in the cold wind and rain, talons at last back on the torn asphalt road, taking only one final look at the rest stop as you pass
>The sound of foreign curses and gunfire rings in your ears
>You locate the small dark shapes of minn and daka on the asphalt
>And you turn away from the sight…
>…and you move down the road as fast as you can
>And then you’re eighteen-years-old again
“It is true that the night I came to Ciril, I came by myself. There is good reason for that.”
>You hesitate for a second, wondering if you should play THAT particular card
>To harvesters with it
>You play it
“My mother, father and I originally hail from Ohm. We were traveling merchants, but…”
>Another half-truth
“On our way to Ciril, we encountered some demons who thought we were carrying artifacts.”
>“To harvesters with them,” Gullen spits
>“One of the demons… he was a monster… It was by his hand my parents…” your gaze soften, eyes going distant as you trail off
>Gullen is not an emotionally unintelligent bird
>His eyes widen a bit, perhaps sensing he treads upon delicate ground
>“Sister, you- you need not unearth your pain for me-”
>Oh, you do. You have to punctuate this half-truth with an exclamation mark
>In crimson red
>So this question never comes up again
“The demons cornered my family. Minn and daka gave me a chance to escape, and… I took it.”
>A long silence follows
>Gullen shifts in his makeshit seat, uneasy with your words of tragedy and pain
>All he can muster is:
>“You’re not a coward, Elia,” Gullen leans forward
>His words are weak, like bullets glancing off rock
“If I am no coward, then why did I survive while they fought?”
>“It is because they fought for you, sister. Any of our kin would do the same – fight for our comrades, and family. You have done no wrong.”
>His words mean little to you right now
“I ran as far as I could, vanishing like a scared child. The demons could not follow me in the dark and in the rain,” you say as you jot that sad story shut. “And I ended up some days later.”
>Gullen doesn’t say anything for a little
>He studies the fire — not the food
>Tendrils of flame dance on the glassy surface of his yellow eyes
>Words come to him slowly, condensing on his tongue after what feels like hours of pensive thought
>How to broach something so delicate like the loss of parents?
>“Forgive me…” is what he says after a lengthy silence. “Ciril is no stranger to stories of families torn apart, but with the wounds still so fresh… we are wrong to treat you as we do.”
>You cock your head a bit and click your tongue
“Treat me as ‘you do’?” you parrot, using Gullen’s voice
>He nods slowly, not meeting your gaze, but watching the campfire dance
>“Your reputation in our flock precedes you, sister. Many of the other ravens – even me for a time – refuse to work with you.”
“My… reputation?” you say, sinking even lower inside yourself
>Gullen is not shy about his words. But, his well-meant honesty is pretty refreshing
>“They all think you are impulsive, clumsy, scattered, and weak. But I see now…”
>He looks at you, studying you for some time, sizing you up in the way his kind so often does with each other
>“I see a smart bird; a courageous bird; a comrade I would fight alongside.”
>His words… they make you feel little more than a fraud
>“I am sorry for what you have gone through,” he says
“It is alright,” you assure him, in a quick quiet voice, “I will heal. All things heal with time.”
>That’s a lie
>See, that all happened not a few months ago…
>But six years ago, right around the age of twelve
>Just days after you got your family banished for being a genetic freak
>You were in the middle of seminary when the guards pulled you out of instructions
>You were were learning about secrecy and stealth
>You didn’t even tell Gullen you were banished on grounds of being a freak – doraith, or an abomination as some humans might call you
>You’re sure he’d feel the same way the Quorum at Ohm did about your little ‘gift’
>The story of your parents deaths you deploy now to cover the fact that you were banished from your last flock for repeated failures; for putting the ‘wrong’ lives at risk one too many times
>And another flock almost had you executed
>You were banished from the one before, Rasp, and forced to lie your way around from city to city, flock to flock
>A vagrant
>A drifter
>A freak
>“I’ve lived in Ciril my whole life — my whole family, brothers and all. I count myself lucky to have always felt at home. I hope you find your home too, in Ciril, Elia,” Gullen says with a weak voice and a light smile
>This is his way of being kind
>Sometimes you have to let yourself believe in happy endings, even when you’ve got the evidence to prove otherwise
>Sometimes even if Ancestors prophesize doom, you have to believe they could be wrong
>“Food’s done,” Gullen says, not yet moved to take the meat off the fire
>He lets it char over, just a little, as the flames dance underneath
>When the two of you finish your meal you set off south-east towards Ciril
>You don’t arrive until dusk
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall