"Hmm. Good as time as any to go see him."
Abel gently brushed Ysabelle off his lap. He kept his jacket carefully folded up, creating a perfect nest for her to nuzzle her cheek in. He stared at her for a few moments, ensuring that his movements hadn't stirred her. Seeing how she didn't so much as twitch and hearing her light snoring, he sighed. He looked around, ensuring to himself that nothing could be lurking about in the veil beyond the fire's light. That nothing could be eyeing the child and marking her as helpless, vulnerable prey. Though, he didn't know why he did so. He wouldn't be back for long. Or at least, to her and the world around them, it would be practically incomprehensible. He just hoped that the noise he would have to make wouldn't wake her.
He placed his knuckle and thumb against his bottom rib and closed his eyes.
"This is now bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh; I call upon he who was born from the dust of the ground and was breathed into his nostrils the breath of life—he who gave witness to all things."
Crack.
Abel winced slightly, reflexively wanting to take deep breaths to staunch the pain but stopped himself. Breathing deeper wouldn't help his cracked rib. He turned around, looking at the fire to see that the flames had ceased their dance atop the bark and sticks. He looked up at the starry night to see a distant comet frozen in place.
"You called?"
Standing behind Abel was a man. His tone was perfectly flat, save for the slight pitch switch at the end, giving it the impression of a question.
He was a few inches taller than him. He smelled of dust and sweat, but he was clean of either one. A lock of white hair curved itself from the left to the right just above his brows. His attire was composed of a snow-white jacket. It resembled a parka, but instead of fur, the hood was lined with leaves, shrubs, and bits of moss. He bore a stoic frown on his face as if weighed by duty. His eyes were covered by a pair of shaded glasses, alleging him to be blind.
But he wasn't.
Despite his eyes being hazed by a thick, blood-red cloud of viscous fluid behind the darkened lens of his glasses, he could see—he could see everything. Everything that was and is.
From the wailing cries of a child's birth to the last whimper of an elder's passing, from the first sin to the latest miracle, he gave or would be a spectator to it. He gave no judgment for that was not his place, his duty, his nature. He saw and gave witness; nothing more and nothing less.
"I see you've been doing well." Abel commented with his cheerful smile. The other sighed.
"Abel, please. For once, can you simply say the truth of the matter on your mind?"
Abel's smile quickly turned to a slanted frown. His joyous mood now soured.
"You're awfully blunt today," he muttered.
"Should I not be?" the other retorted. "You don't call unless you want something from me."
Abel shifted his shoulders slightly. He hated being scolded, and he hated for the blunt truth to be told so boldly to his face. Though, he didn't know which felt worse to him at the moment.
He didn't like how blunt (almost curt) the other's words were. So simple, but it cracked him wide open. He felt vulnerable, exposed. He felt as though he had lost control. He detested the feeling.
"I thought you preferred to be left well enough alone."
His silver tongue once again quipped, hiding any discomfort he may have felt. However, the other knew fully well the intent behind his words but was gracious enough to not spur Abel's agitation further.
"Oh, I do. But I also don't like being used like this, Abel."
Abel took a deep breath.
Say it. Just say it. Why is it so damn hard to say?
"...sorry."
"Mmm," the other hummed with a smile. "Better."
How rare it was for Abel to apologize. Seemed as though it was a sweet treat. The other would certainly savor it.
"Now where's my sorry for the cracked rib?"
Yet again, jesting for comfort.
"You'll heal just fine without my apology," the other half-laughed.
"I'd heal a lot fast with it, Adam."
Adam raised a slight brow but quickly chalked up Abel's comment to pettiness. So childish.
"Oh well," Adam shrugged. "Now, what is it you want?"
Abel sighed as his fists tightened.
"I want to remember."
He took a deep breath.
"I want to see it again."
Adam raised a brow. Abel stopped him before he could ask.
"No, not the star I'm going to confront. The other one. The one that came before."
Adam's lips tightened slightly. Did he wish to see it? He would not deny Abel his request, though he could not help but feel pity and weariness. Why is it that he wanted to see it? Why is it that both he and the brother he loathed induced such pain upon themselves? For one, it was simply within his nature. For the other, that was something more contentious, moot.
"Very well. But are you not the Storyteller? Why is that you call upon me to see it?"
Say it, Abel. Pride be damned.
Abel gulped down any last bits of childish ego within him and spat out his words.
"I… I want someone to be with me… when I see it."
Adam approached Abel and placed a hand on his shoulder. Abel averted his eyes, not wanting to see the condolence in Adam's smile.
He didn't want it. He didn't want pity. Even after stifling his pride, he still had enough self-worth to not accept such cheap empathy.
Adam placed his hand over Abel's eyes, creating a soft but wrinkled veil of darkness. Abel stiffened slightly, not at the sensation of the touch; but at what it entailed. But he would endure it. He had to. It was his mistake. His blunder. One of his great sins. But in that moment of unveiled vulnerability, he would find the strength to do what was necessary.
.
.
.
Ysabelle quietly stirred as her eyes meekly fluttered open. For a moment, she wondered why her cheek felt so cozy; and why it smelled of poppies and coffee. She had never smelled either before, but she inexplicably knew their scents as soon as they passed her nostrils.
She squinted in search of Abel. It was odd how she did so out of curiosity instead of fear. Somewhere within her, she knew that he wouldn't have left her alone, and better yet, with his jacket. He wouldn't abandon her. He made a promise.
Though her vision was still blurred by the lingering effects of her siesta, she made out the silhouette of a figure just on the edge of the campfire's light.
"Abel?"
The figure did not have, having its back towards her. Perhaps she was too quiet.
"Abel?"
She called once more, this time a little louder. The figure still did not move.
Mustering a bit of strength, Ysabelle stood up, bundled the jacket into her hands, and began to make her way to the figure. Her steps made barely any sound as she shifted forward.
Stip-step. Stip-step.
Now within arm's reach of the figure, she could safely make out its profile, ensuring that it was Abel. She reached out and gently tugged on his sleeve.
He turned his neck around slowly. Almost too slowly. It looked odd to Ysabelle. His movements were rigid and stiff. If his neck could creak, it would be letting out a nearly intolerable high-pitched wince. But as Ysabelle's eyes met his, she could see that his face still had a smile. He bent down to greet her.
"Sorry," he said flippantly. "My head was in the clouds."
Ysabelle gave a blank look. Clouds? What clouds?
She brushed it off. She still felt tired and didn't want to expend the extra energy on thinking. But as she continued to stare, she could make out familiar, faint streaks on Abel's cheeks.
"Why were you crying?"
Abel blinked. Then blinked again. His fingers came up to his face, feeling the wet streaks on his face.
"I… I'm not exactly sure," he said with a quivering half-laugh.
He was crying? Why? When was the last time he cried? It had been so long that it nearly didn't register to him why his cheeks were wet. When had he cried before? Oh, that's right, he remembers now.
But before the memory could fully manifest itself, he felt another hand on his cheek. Ysabelle reached up and softly brushed her fingers along his face. His skin felt cold, but the tears were warm. She wasn't entirely sure why she did it. He just looked so sad. She couldn't help herself. Abel didn't stop her. Instead, he closed his eyes and accepted her kindness.
Neither said a word. Only the cackles of the dying fire behind them rung out in the air. So small, so soft, so kind—her touch.
.
.
.
The two resumed their trek once again. Only this time, they walked side by side, hand in hand. Neither had said a word since their campfire break, but both felt that the silence was just fine. They had made their way onto a crude dirt path that trailed through a field of dead grass. Suddenly an ear-piercing buzz ripped through the air. Ysabelle let go of Abel's hand to cover her ears from the horrible sound. Abel clenched his teeth, feeling them tingle at the irritating sound.
Insects.
Though specs in size, they moved together as one, forming a dark cloud with their multiplicities. They swarmed as a hive mind—the antithesis of idiosyncrasy.
Abel recognized them. Arkaitz.
They hovered just in front of the pair, blocking them from going any further.
"Yoooooou Mythiiiiiichichicic," they chattered, their voices sounding like fingernails clawing at a chalkboard. "Yooooooou do not belong hereeeeeeeee."
Startled, Ysabelle looked up to Abel, only to see his face had entirely changed. He had mandibles on each side of his cheeks. His skin was glossed over and shone as though his skin was now composed of chitin. Two antennae dangled from his forehead that twitched. He scanned the cloud, his eyes compounded, his vision multiplied.
The sight of Abel's new appearance startled Ysabelle, but despite his new and admittedly frightening appearance, he was still Abel. She grasped his open hand once again, after feeling her own growing cold.
"I am hereeeeee because I have died hereeeeeee."
Abel responded in the same manner as they did. His mouth chattered and clicked as he finished his
Chack. Clack. Clack. Chack. Clack. Clack.
The bugs swarmed and swirled violently around them. Creating a storm of insects and larvaeand leaving them in the eye of it.
"You walkukukuku into certain dooooommm and deathhhhh."
Abel squeezed Ysabelle's hand. Firmly but gently, affirming to her what she already knew. That he would keep her safe.
"That has yet to be seeeeeeeeeen."
Having said all that they wanted to say, the swarm dispersed and fled the fields, knowing full well of the chaos their planet was soon to be plunged into. They did not know where to go. All they had ever known was Keilah. But every basic instinct within them cried out to escape—to flee and fear for their very existence.
Ysabelle looked at Abel and blinked. When her eyes reopened, she could see that Abel was back to normal. Or at least; what was most normal to her.
"Why did you look so… different?"
Her tone had slight traces of fear in it. It was natural as he transmogrified so suddenly. He silently chided himself for startling her.
"It was to better speak with them," he responded casually, factually.
"Then why didn't you change for me?"
Abel smiled at her.
"Would you have liked it if I had changed?"
Ysabelle thought about it for a moment before shaking her head.
"No."
Abel laughed at her answer. Not that he mocked her; he just found the short and honest of her answer to be comical.
He began to walk once again, Ysabelle's hand in his. She trailed behind him by a few paces, now wary and heedful. The trail slowly began to slither through the fields with a certain serpent-like suggestion as the two continued their trek. Every so often, Ysabelle would look out to the dead fields. On the third look she took, she could see traces of ash and soot. What terrified her about them was that the gray and blackened powders left vestiges that resembled humanoid figures. Abel didn't seem to notice them, or at least; chose it best to ignore them. The latter was more likely.
Soon after came the light. Pools and puddles of pure starlight sprinkled themselves around the field. Some gleamed and glimmered while others spit and spat out their light, catching fire to the dead vegetation around them. They were all different colors. Red, orange, yellow, green, white, blue. They were so mesmerizing, scarily so. Not wanting to drag Abel's hand behind, Ysabelle kept pace with him and chose to not stare for too long.
They were getting close. Abel deduced that their destination was just beyond the field.
Turn back! his instincts screamed at him.
He would if he could. Truly, if he could make like the Arkaitz and flee from this place, he would do so gladly and without thought.
Turn back! Turn back!
Quiet.
Instinct was a burden that jeopardized the objective. And so, he stifled his supposed weakness and pressed forward.
Was he afraid? Yes.
Did that matter? No.
Turn back! Turn back! Turn back—
Can't. Look. The stars are already coming out.
It was too late. Abel sharpened his gaze to see specks and traces of light in the distance. They grew larger in size as they made their way to the pair. Abel gently squeezed Ysabelle's hand, telling her that they didn't need to press any further.
The steady beatings of Ysabelle's pulse that came from her hand seemed to lull him. His mind raced as thousands upon thousands of thoughts flooded his mind, muddling it in an opus of maddening intelligence and ideas.
What if he didn't save the star? Would he have been here then to save the child? No, then the child would have never been brought to this place. But if she was never brought here, then the two would never have met. And if he had just—
He's doing it again. He's pining for something that could have been. But 'ifs' did not bear any weight on reality, and there would be no point in deluding himself in fantasies. Just before the stars met them, a soft voice rang out in his mind.
"Go," it whispered. "I will be watching."
The voice that spoke would give no judgment for that was not its place, its duty, its nature. It would give witness; nothing more and nothing less. Abel didn't know whether that gave him solace or not.
