Before ye read:

--Haha, it's been a long time. ;; Sorry if you've actually been reading this and wanting to know what's happened…lots of things happening, and not a lot of inspiration either. :P

--Please excuse any conventional errors in this, I haven't gone back over and checked it for any. Whee..

--O dang. I just saw that for some reason my brackets – the ones that designate when a dæmon talks – aren't showing up on FFN for some reason. Gaaaaahhh why!

Faller

Chapter 3

"And anyway, I have no need of help," Chiroru told Malarowa succinctly as he collided into her gloved hand and with that odd messy grace scrabbled over her folded fingers until he had composed himself into a noble, straight-backed pose. "The plants grow on their own, and the moon rises on its own, and time does not need someone to hurry it along."

Truth, Malarowa agreed reservedly, but you be neither of those things, and often even witches are needing of aid.

"Not this one," Chiroru protested coolly, setting her switch of cloudpine to lean against her side and running her other index finger down her dæmon's spine. A "Laugher," she liked to think of him, rather than the full "Laughing Falcon" – the latter was too long, such a mouthful of syllables, and anyway no one usually knew of what species she meant on those rare times when she introduced him. A "Laughing" Falcon? What in the world is that?

And then they would wonder, what sort of a witch has a falcon-dæmon that laughs?

She could care less, really, what they thought of her – but those were the thoughts that ran through their heads, and whether she cared was not going to stop that momentary onslaught of contemplation.

Malarowa turned his head as Chiroru brought her fingers away and began to preen his wing, nonchalantly. His colors were as odd as his name and his sound – mainly a vibrant yellow, his eyes were lined in a bandit's black mask, and his wings and tail were colored at their edges with the same ebony. His eyes were a dark brown, though they only appeared this color when the sun touched them, as it did now.

The sun. A tundra's sun – a sun that seemed to only give light, and no warmth. Of course, Chiroru knew nothing of "cold" – only warmth, much like one blind to color could only know black. Like the rest of her clan, she wore somewhat ragged clothing, though she took better care of her attire than most – a single-piece tunic, it was bunched and tied to her waist by a belt with a wooden clasp, and the thread that kept it together was the dull silver of use. The sleeves came to her elbows, and the skirt to her ankles; on her feet she wore the skin of some creature in the form of short boots, but now she took those off and stepped barefoot upon the snow, feeling it crumble wetly underneath her, her imprint left slightly and almost imperceptibly upon the white.

The boots were left behind her, one on its side, the spoor of her presence cast aside carelessly – but then, what need she to fear? There were few humans here, save the ones in the twin villages, and even those lay a ways toward the horizon. Her clan of witches, though she did not stay with them often, had long ago (in human terms) made peace with the other local clans, and anyway this was her own territory. The claimed lands of her clan, the one that she kept really only as a convenience – the sisters whose mere memory brought tangible pain to her chest, and in return that memory forced her away and awry across the other lands, exploring the collage of human civilizations further south.

But her poor dæmon, who did not like to travel as Chiroru, did not often accompany her…in fact, during the recent generation they had been apart, a distance that had torn at both of them but especially him, who needed her and wanted her by him always. But she, a self-proclaimed devil, she couldn't bring herself near him, to his purity, to taint him with her presence, no matter how much they were both starved for each other…

Even now, just walking, she had to fiercely shove away memories in order to keep her mind around him. And even pushing them back, she was thinking: This is wrong, why should I do this…this is my dæmon, my soul, my heart, my beloved…why do I think such thoughts, why am I so evil so as to break him and keep him away and cause him such pain…

She closed her eyes, brought a hand to her temple, and pressed – trying to smother the anguish before it reached her and she was forced to recognize it fully. Malarowa, sensing her distress as only he could, burbled and bowed, alternately lifting each talon in turn.

What be wrong?

"How could I be such an idiot?" Chiroru asked him in return. Malarowa tilted his head at her, then half-folded his wings, lifting them and then lowering them in a very recognizable gesture – a shrug.

You be not an idiot, 'Roru, Malarowa said patiently.

"I am," the witch muttered. "In so many ways."

Since he knew that they would argue forever if he did not at least accept a bit of her words, he did so. Truth, he began, oftentimes one can be an idiot. Mayhap this be a time. But it is only one time, and does not damn you into much other times.

"I will always and forever be an idiot," Chiroru declared into the horizon and immaculate emptiness about her. This time, rather than deeply pained, her voice was playful and teasing, she raised her hands into the air, and Malarowa chuckled and spread his wings, launching himself from her hand and spiraling into the sky.

Fly with me! he called to her, and his tone was so deliciously euphoric that Chiroru had to oblige, raising her cloudpine and mounting it like one would do a particularly slim horse. Worn by her use, as if she and the wood were one themselves, the switch tilted her back and rose high, then boosted itself forward and after the Laugher-dæmon in a parody of life-and-death chase.

"I will fly with you," Chiroru called back to him happily, opening the link that went through both their mind and hearts and sharing her thoughts with his. He smiled at her, in that special link, and somehow that made all the difference – he wheeled back toward her, his curve wide and wings spread, and he rushed past her as she zoomed forward, the longest of his primaries brushing against her cheek.

Play with me! he cried. She laughed.

"I will play with you!"

He paused, and this time he said, in a much more subdued and serious tone: Stay with me.

She sighed, the switch coming to a stop. She raised her hand; Malarowa came to her, and she placed him close to her breast, where no true falcon would tolerate, and pressed him close, another hand over his side to encompass him in a small embrace.

"I cannot," she whispered, closing her eyes.

Since the three of them – or rather, the two of them – knew that he could not continue his work at the college without the keys to even open the door, Kaze awakened him early the next morning: his nap had stretched far beyond the lines he had thought it would extend, and with the spirit's help he managed to get ready for work. Bounding down the steps, Ailnekyra safe within his being, he ran towards the college but then took the deserted street that led towards the back door.

The drain in the middle of the road seemed now to be less foreboding, and when he kneeled down beside it and looked inside, he thought that he could see some faint light billowing up through the vents.

He sat back on his knees, closed his eyes, and strived for that meditative tranquility that set him, while in that special concentration, within alignment with his heart and therefore his precious Ailnekyra. The world around him seemed to gray and wrinkle around the edges, colors blurring, fading.

I'm not sure, Ailnekyra replied to his silent question: "What should I do now?" Maybe you should wait until the professors begin to come, and then ask them for help.

But the idea was only made for the sake of having an idea – of course he couldn't speak to the professors. That idea was preposterous: he may have been assigned to the college janitor position, but that did not necessarily mean that he was actually a part of the actual college.

He bent down on the street, again, peering into the darkness of the drain, the fingers of one hand wriggling down as if they were worms baiting a fish. All was still darkness, but at least this time he had thought to bring a small flashlight – taking it, he twisted it on and aimed it down. The flashlight had been a part of the house's emergency supplies – at full power and health, the intense white light was as wide as the flashlight itself, which was to say a diameter of about two fingers across. However, it wasn't as much help as he had thought it would be: the beam pierced only a little way down, and the light seemed to be engulfed by the shade, absorbed and dissipating until it seemed that the flashlight seemed to radiate no light at all. He knocked the bottom of the flashlight a few times, growling and trying to get it to work properly.

Wait! Ailnekyra said suddenly, making his heart skip a beat in her shock. He had been about to lift the flashlight away; now he jerked in surprise at her noise, and by some catastrophic turn of events the flashlight, thin and of metal, slipped through his fingers.

It clattered once on the drain, balancing precariously between the mesh of the drain, and as he fumbled to quickly catch it before it fell the slightest brush of his fingers pushed it over completely.

"K'dros," he swore viciously, under his breath, quickly putting his eye close to the drain to watch it fall. "That's the second damn thing I've lost down this stupid –"

Shut up! Ailnekyra shouted fiercely, and her tone forced his mouth closed. Through the same eyes, they watched as the last glimmer of silver caught the morning sunlight before falling down into darkness.

He hissed through his teeth and slammed his head on the ground. Losing that flashlight meant that he would have to register for a new one, which would require a detailed, printed explanation of why he needed a new one, which would require him to tell of the lost keys and therefore record, forever and in articulate words, why he was an irresponsible employee, and then he might never find a new –

Did you hear that? Ailnekyra asked, her voice the slimmest whisper of a breeze at the edge of his mind.

"No…" he said slowly, and he winced as something shifted inside – felt quite like an organ had been pushed out of place, and she hissed in his mind.

You're infernally loud, that's why you don't hear! Ailnekyra hissed. Now hush!

He knew that she could feel him submitting, so said nothing further, not even in his mind; and, at the silent and unsaid beckoning of his heart, he bent down closer to the drain, setting his head against the mesh and crouching like a cat at the hole of a mole. After a long while with no credible observations, he began to feel undeniably idiotic, and was about to stand again when Ailnekyra said, firmly, Go inside the college and get something that will open this. There is something down there…

"Like what?" he asked.

I've no clue. Now go, before you need to get to work, Ailnekyra instructed, and he returned to the drain a several minutes later, a tool clutched in his left hand – he couldn't recall its name, nor, in fact, did he know how to use it; but he had seen something like this being used before on a rare occasion when a Micelta had lost a slim pistol down a storm drain, and figured that if he could remember…

Holding the side of the tool that he presumed was the base, he took the strong band of elastic and stretched it from the head of the thing to a hook near his hands. The head itself seemed to be a blunt, two-pronged claw, like a crowbar or a metal snake's tongue. There was a lever built to the bottom of the tool, which – when toggled – would invoke some internal mechanism that would draw the hook with the elastic back and, in turn, yank the head of the tool backward and, with it, whatever the head was placed under. It was really just a very complicated launching mechanism, and in a moment he had made sense of it and then slid it underneath a bolt of the drain and pulled the lever.

SHRAP. Khissshh – SHRAP.

He was sent backward with the force of the tool, and winced as he fell straight on his bottom, Ailnekyra hissing in protest and embarrassment. But at least the thing had worked – the edge of the drain that the tool had been focused under had lifted.

"K'dros," he muttered darkly, and Ailnekyra reprimanded him wordlessly and forced him up to try again. He went through the whole process six more times, until the drain cover had been completely un-attached from the storm drain; and then he moved the cover aside, careful not to make a noise. He wiped his hands together, trying to clean them from the mildew and moisture that had rubbed off from the cover; then he moved back to the drain, senses heightened by the fact that Micelta might be nearby.

He looked down.

"There's nothing here!" he cried out, a little more loudly than he intended, volume fueled by pure exasperation. "What the hell did you –"

What do you mean, nothing? Ailnekyra hissed. Down on your belly, man, and look.

He took another cautious look around, then swept the ground with a hand and came down on his belly, taking care not to muss his uniform too much. He looked down.

"I still don't see anything."

No, no…there's something, Ailnekyra insisted. Look down lower.

"'Kyra," he said, sitting up, his pose and tone that of exasperation. "You're hallucinating, and we need to get to work. Now, I need to replace this cover before the Micelta…"

And t hat was when the storm drain hissed, softly – and a blast of frigid air wheezed upward and almost threw him down. In response to this unexpected event, he gasped and stepped backward, but only managed to bang his heel against the drain-cover. It clanged and shook like a wounded animal, and with a sudden aural clarity he heard a shout and footsteps – the Micelta, coming to get him.

Idiot! Ailnekyra shrieked inside his mind, but she was more stricken with fear than anger. His heart seized with her fear; it was as if she had tightened her coils around his heart, blood seeping. Run, run!

"We'll never make it," he gasped, frozen in place. If they caught him, if they saw him using his employment irresponsibly…he knew what would happen. The Micelta were ruthless; they would take away his job, then lower his reputation so it would be hard to take any other work…impossible, really, since no one wanted to assign someone that had been in trouble with the law. If for some reason anything went wrong with the Micelta, anyone related would be blamed: if, for instance, a child had been killed, the blame would explode like a sensitive bombshell. The fragments would lay everywhere, on everyone, for doing some sort of wrong – the siblings, for not watching; the parents, for not being protective enough; the builders of the road, for not ensuring that it was absolutely safe; the passerby, for not being observant enough…and so on, and so forth. In this way everyone was touched with crime, even he himself; and in this way it gave everyone reason to believe they were not worthy to become one of the law, however far-fetched the reason why.

But if it were witnessed, with a Micelta's own eyes, that one had definitely done something wrong – such as manipulating your position to take off a drain-cover to retrieve an item you should not have lost – then he…he could be liable to be labeled "irresponsible" for the rest of his meager life. And the rest of his life was too long a time to spend in entire poverty, without even the privileges to manifest Ailnekyra to comfort him…how could he, after all, if he had no property and therefore no personal space to call his own, away from the Public?

Run, you great idiot! Ailnekyra urged; and when he still did nothing, she squeezed his heart tighter and attempted to take over his body herself, her essence invading his nervous system and beginning to slap lances of pain against his leg. With a yelp that coincided with the cobra's aggravated hiss (after all, she was hurt as well) he jerked into movement just as the slim snowy muzzle of a Micelta dog peeked over a corner.

Movement, to be sure – one that was quickened by the simple force of gravity, which took advantage of his poor footing and clasped him like a demon, dragging him down to the bowels of hell. But rather than hell, this was only a drain; and he screamed in shock and fear, Ailnekyra's hiss striving also to escape his throat as the gray morning skies of home shrank as quickly as a cheap wool sweater. Inconceivably, he was falling for a much longer distance than would have been proper for the length of a water drainage, and as he tried to look down to sight the ground he blinked at the sight of it – for it was purely white, as blinding as the soul of the sun blazing into his retinas so that it lingered in his vision even as his eyes closed.

The wind rushing all about him was smothering him, pressing so harshly into his nostrils that he couldn't take a breath; and an unbelievable cold was taking him in an embrace as final and frigid as death.

An eternity observed him fall, and when he landed he screamed in the pure pain of it, of both legs shattering on impact and the added mixture of euphoria and misery as Ailnekyra was ripped away from him in agony, splattering to the ground in a quicksilver frame that writhed and glowed like a tentacle severed from a giant golden octopus. Finally she settled, the glow fading and her tawny hues emerging through the radiance – but she lay still, too still for his comfort, the heat and energy sucked from her body and leaving her little more than a limp, scaled sleeve.

But it was a blessing, at least – because as the darkness came to reap her of her consciousness, it came for him as well, covering his eyes and numbing his body, clinching his pain and feeling until even the brilliant white and its ghostly cold faded away into nothing.