The Sun Chronicles: The Power of Silence
A Penguins of Madagascar Fanfiction Novel
Cudabear
Disclaimer: This is the second book in a series, and as such, it is strongly recommended that you read the first book before continuing. It is called "The Sun Chronicles: The Speed of Darkness." Continuing without doing so may result in confusion, as this book takes place after the events of that book.
The Power of Silence
Prologue
HIS HOME IS WARM.
He likes the warmth. He snuggles his beak into his chest, curls up into a little ball. Occasionally a cold wave travels through him and he shivers, pulling his body closer into itself. He doesn't like the cold. The cold waves grow more omnipresent as he drifts in and out of sleep, locking his eyes tight, trying to go back to the warmth.
The warmth makes him feel comfortable and safe. The cold makes him feel scared and alone. He doesn't like those feelings. They make the world around him seem dark and forboding; quiet and terrifying. The penguin shivers again, wishing that the cold would just go away. He wants the warmth.
He realizes that he's grown awfully big for his home. He finds it hard to pull his legs and flippers away from its icy-cold edges. Each time he drifts into sleep he is awoken by more cold shivers; traveling up his appendages and chilling his core. Why is it so cold? He doesn't like the cold. Where did the warmth go?
He shivers again, though this time it is more violent. He suddenly grows fearful for the first time; maybe the cold is encroaching into his home, kicking him out. Maybe it was time to leave and find a new home. He had been here for a while already. As long as he could remember. Maybe this home had run out of warmth and he needed to find a new one. Something not so cold.
He feels a sudden burst of clostrophobia run through him, and he finds it hard to breath. Yes, the cold is kicking him out of his home. He needs to get out, get away from the cold; head for warmth. He likes the warmth. He wants the warmth. Acting quickly and empowered by his new need to escape, he jabs his foot forward. It contacts with the wall and leaves a noticible crack.
Yes, there must be warmth outside of this stupid house. He wants it. He smashes his foot forward again and the wall in front of him splits before his eyes. He shields them immediately as a pure white light greets his face. He gasps as his eyes burn even through his flippers and eyelids. He wonders if the light is the warmth he is looking for.
He is proven wrong, however, as something entirely unexpected caresses his beak. Something dark, brooding; evil for all he cares. It was nothing like the cold he had shivered against only a few moments ago. This cold was deeper, piercing his fluffy feathers and making him wish he hadn't broken his home open. He pulls his flippers into himself, shivering intensely. The cold was taking all of the warmth away. Why?
His home breaks open further as a powerful wind pushes it from the outside. He doesn't like the wind, it carries the cold. He cracks his eyes open again, but immediately snaps them shut. It was far too bright for him to see anything. He wishes he could be near the light. He knows it is going to be warmer than here.
He runs his flippers over his body, trying to find a warm position. It was futile, though; only more cold greets him as he rolls out onto the snow. He shudders as the icy crystals weave themselves between his down feathers, pressing themselves closer to his skin. He hates the snow. It is working with the cold. He wants the warmth to come and take away the snow and the cold.
He shakily pulls himself to his feet, still unable to open his eyes. The wind comes again and nearly knocks him over. The cold, the wind, the snow. They are all out to get him, he knows it. He wants nothing more than to crawl back into his home and curl back up into his ball. He is stupid for leaving it. He wants the warmth again, and to hear the voice that has kept him company for as long as he can remember.
The voice he loves to hear. It sung him lullabies; told him how much it loved him. It was a sweet, soothing, caring voice. Each time it graced his ears, he was filled with comfort. Sort of like how he was when he was warm.
Now, however, no voice greets his ears. It is silent. Silent and cold. He suddenly realizes that he hates the silence more than the cold. He wishes the voice would call his name. What was his name, anyway?
He shivers in place as the cold begins to grow painful on his skin. He wonders why his soft feathers don't shield him from the icy wind very well. He struggles a few steps forward through the snow, until he finds warmth again. He runs his flippers over it as he bumps into it. It's large, and very warm. He likes the warmth.
Finding a nook between the warm mass and the snow below him, he snuggles in. It is warm here, and he likes it. He feels some satisfaction seep into his heart as he realizes just how quiet it still is. Where could that voice be? He wants to hear it sing to him again. He likes when it sings.
Shielded from the cold, he rubs his eyes with his flippers. All he ever remembers seeing is blackness in front of himself, but maybe now he could make out what was around him. He cracks his eyes open a little. It doesn't hurt anymore, but he still shields his face from the glare of the snow.
In front of him he sees a cracked eggshell, its ivory pieces strewn about by the wind. Had that been his home? The one he just broke out of? Maybe he could repair it, he thought. It didn't look too bad. He returns his attention to the mass he had huddled into, wondering what it could be.
An empty face greets him as he turns his head. A penguin, but he doesn't know that. Its clear, green eyes are blank, staring at the broken egg. Its beak is ajar, and a scarlet liquid is seeping out of it and onto the ground. He turns his head further, running a flipper through the thick feathers behind him. There he finds more of the scarlet liquid flowing from the penguin's body, running down his flippers.
It was warm, but he was terrified. He likes the warmth, though. It confused him as the blood continued to run over his flipper. He didn't like the cold, why would something warm fill him with fear? Had this creature been the source of the voice? He hopes not. He really wishes the voice would sing to him now.
He follows the penguin's body with his eyes, tracing its slender frame. His eyes come to rest of its blank green ones again, and he shudders. He isn't cold, though. He had never seen this creature before, yet he is filled with a great sadness as he looks on at it. He feels connected to it. Almost as if its eyes were supposed to be the first thing to greet him upon escaping his old home. It isn't fair. Why is this creature leaking blood onto the snow? Why isn't it singing for him?
He gasps suddenly as he his taken up quickly by another penguin. It's moving quickly as he is brought back into contact with the icy air. He wants immediately to go back to the dead penguin, wishing with all of his heart that he would be taken away from the cold again. The penguin carrying him seems to acknowledge this as she wraps him tightly with her flippers, pushing his head down into her warm feathers.
Warmth. He likes warmth.
She reaches a strange structure. It is much different than his old egg home he notices as she walks through its ruined doorway. The place is a ruin, but it makes no difference to him. He likes it here. It is warm, and it is not quiet.
His ears are finally greeted by something other than the silence, and he is thankful for it. It is not the singing he was expecting though, instead it is very deep, commanding. Like nothing he had ever heard before. It made him feel uncomfortable and he pushes his head deeper into her feathers.
"Have you found someone?" it says.
"Yes, just this one," the one carrying him responds.
An entire city dead, and the only survivor is a child?" it wonders.
She seems shaky for a moment. He can hear it in her breathing, his face pressed tightly to her chest. "Something terrible happened here," she says.
"The question is, what? We've never been on good ground with the Penguin City, but we'd never wish this," the deep voice answers.
"This little guy was lucky. He was about to freeze to death when I found him. He was snuggled up with his mother," she explains.
"His Mother? Where is she?"
"She's dead, like the others," his new caretaker explains, continuing to sound uneasy.
Silence envelops the room for a while. He doesn't like the silence. It reminds him too much of his old home. He finds that he would rather be there than here. He wishes suddenly that he never kicked it open in the first place. Maybe then the cold would have just left him alone.
The penguin carrying him waddles over to a corner of the room and sits down. He clutches her feathers tightly, not wanting to look around at the voices sounding around him. She gently touches the bottom of his beak, bringing his tiny face to look into her eyes.
Purple. Beautiful.