And finally she updates! I am so sorry its taken so long, my life is beyond hectic at the moment. Whatever happens, I promise you all that I'm still interested in my story and I won't abandon it. And bare with me, I know not a lot is happeneing at the moment but its all building up to a glorious ending. The creature will stop lurking and actually do something evil soon. In the meantime, enjoy!!

Chapter Twenty One: Rise and Fall

Autumn. Season of change, of transition, of the state between certainties. For many days, while the world was adjusting, the weather was unsettled. Days of sunshine followed hours of rain. Misty mornings became frequent, turning the spider webs strewn all around the forest into glittering jewelled patterns spun amidst the hedgerows and trees. The wind would gather strength in an instant, and then fade just as quickly, playing endless games with leaves and twigs, and all things light and fragile. The earth became bare, then muddy, then all but disappeared underneath a blanket of yellow leaves and broken branches. It got near impossible for any creature to pass soundlessly between the trees; every footstep being announced with a sharp 'snap' or 'crunch'—some loud enough to send every small animal around scurrying into safe hiding places.

Chip became dimly aware that the land was quieter. The sounds of bird song that filled the air grew fainter as the singers left to seek warmer climes. The forest became empty as its many inhabitants settled underground for a long sleep. Even the trees seemed silent, as their colours shifted lazily from green to yellow and gold. When the leaves fell, the plants looked bare and lifeless, leaving sharp twigs that protruded and scraped and scratched whatever passed by.

He wore his cloak more often now, though it gave little protection against biting winds that sent it streaming behind his shoulders without warning and exposing his thinly-clothed limbs to the mercy of the elements.

His hair grew long over his shirt collar; so long that he had to tear some cloth from his cloak to tie it back out of his eyes. For that, at least, he was grateful, as it gave the back of his neck some defence. He gave up shaving for the same reason, merely swiping his knife at his face to trim it occasionally—a habit that earned him several tiny cuts all across his chin and neck.

He ate little and often. Thanks to Fauve's knowledge of edible plants and his ability to throw stones hard and fast, they never went hungry, although they were never full either.

The practicalities of living soon became less of a priority. Chip was learning fast as the days grew shorter and the more he learned, the more he practiced.

He started small and in familiar territory. As the nights became unbearably cold, so the need for firelight grew, and Chip had no problem making flame on demand. At first, he had to produce it from kindling—dead leaves, fallen branches, anything that was dry and readily available—and then he moved on to creating it from nothing but air. He became steadily more efficient at starting fires quickly and with minimal effort, and when he could eventually make fire just by thinking about it, he got bored and turned his attention to other pastimes. His lifelong hobby of wood-carving was his next victim. He no longer needed a knife, or even his hands. His eyes became his only tools as he whittled pieces of wood by spinning them around in front of his nose; faster and faster, until chips of wood flew everywhere, scattering themselves around the clearing. Soon, there were masses of tiny oak figurines nestling in piles of mulch everywhere one could look.

Of course, it didn't always go according to Chip's plans. One time, he lost his concentration and hit himself in the cheek with a very solid lump of wood. This had Fauve in fits of giggles for the rest of the afternoon. He wore an unsightly purple bruise daubed with hand-made astringent for days after that. Another time, the wood he was shaping into a rabbit exploded in mid-air, covering him and their wild nettle soup with tiny flakes of wood-dust. Fauve had insisted that the soup not be wasted, so they'd eaten it anyway, grimacing as the meal eroded their taste buds and coated their teeth with a strange paste. The taste of dry bark was still in Chip's mouth the following supper time.

Every mistake made him more determined. Every temporary concentration lapse made him increase his focus, and behind every spell, every action of magical origin was Fauve, suggesting numerous ideas and theories that she deemed relevant. It was her that came to the conclusion that Chip's powers were elemental. He seemed to have some sort of bond with everything natural—from the clouds in the sky to the dust on the ground. The more basic, the easier to control. While he could lift leaves into the air effortlessly and make them dance in front of Fauve's eyes, it took him several attempts to move her blanket—with its many manmade threads and dyes—from one end of the clearing to the other. He could pick berries by looking at them, but an attempt to pluck a spider from its web resulted in the poor creature being shot straight up into the sky like a bullet from a gun. It never did come down again.

As Chip's confidence grew, his sense of direction improved greatly. In the daylight hours, they rode steadily on the route that he guided them along using his instincts. Villages, towns, even cities passed them by like sudden flashes of life in a dying world. They seldom visited them and mingled only with people that were of use, such as farmers who knew the land and the seasons, or merchants who, after some persuasion, traded them bread or wine for bundles of freshly-picked herbs and hand-made ointments.

Then, before the sun finished setting on the horizon, they set off again, usually managing to traverse a few miles before it became to dark to go on safely.

Chip's new trick, after he'd mastered the basics of combustion, was to conjure a small ball of light that sprung from his palm like a firefly and hovered above them as they rode. It lasted as long as Chip's energy did and faded as he tired.

Their nights were mainly spent talking and staring at the inky-black sky as it twinkled above them. They spoke of many things, not just magic or herbalism—their lives, for instance, before they'd met, the people they knew, the places they'd been, the worst thing that had ever happened to them—and the best. Raisse featured prominently in most of Chip's contributions. He had, after all, spent most of his life either running away from her or running around after her. Fauve listened intently as he listed her likes and her dislikes, and then all the things he either liked or disliked about her, He smiled at many of the memories, frowned at more than a few. With others, a strange ambivalence crept over him, as though he could not be sure how he felt about that particular event or the time when such and such happened. Often, he would pause and everything around them seemed to stop, as though he had the whole world as his audience. Chip journeyed back and back in his mind. Christmases floated past like dreams, festivals came and went—his whole life was played out before him like a chapter in a book, and the more he thought about it, the more he knew that the chapter was ending.

It was this sense of closure that enabled him to sit, propped up against a gnarled tree trunk one crisp winter's evening, and tell Fauve about the past that he was not a part of. About his mother, what he knew of her, and how he felt lost not knowing who he really was. About the locket—and at this point, he produced it from its hiding place in his bag—and how it was his only link to his identity. After this was all over, he said, he planned to journey to England and not leave until he'd explored every possibility, followed every trail and spoken to everyone called Dudley or who knew a Dudley until he had answers.

Fauve was the perfect listener. Her eyes never left his own, she smiled when he did and was the very image of sympathy when it was required. He found it so easy to tell her everything and then more he talked, the better he felt. He only stopped when he saw her stifle a yawn behind a pale and delicate hand.

"I'm sorry," he said, with a weary smile. "You should have shut me up hours ago."

"Don't fret so. I am yawning from tiredness, not boredom." She paused and glanced around the clearing. "It gets dark so quickly now."

Chip nodded in agreement. He could hardly remember summer's evenings when it was still light after dinner. It seemed so long ago.

"I had a brother."

Her revelation was not so dramatic, but it caused Chip to shift his gaze from the fire smoke to her eyes. She had not spoken much of her family, except for her mother and occasionally her father, though information about him was volunteered with reluctance and only when a particular action of his was directly relevant to a spell or her mother's cooking.

She did not continue at first, apparently happy to let the statement sink into the air between them. It was only when Chip asked that she spoke, and then it was not so much a question as a request for her to go on.

"You did?"

"I have not seen him for many years, and I don't remember him much. I was barely a toddler when we moved away. He was older than me…that is why he must have stayed when we left." She paused. "Anyhow, I know what it is like, I know the empty feeling; the feeling that you're incomplete."

She looked so sad as she said this that Chip felt an overwhelming desire to stride across the ground and hold her. Then, without warning, he thought of Raisse and felt guilt well up inside him, He never held her; never let her know that he cared. He had always been too afraid too, like if he touched her she would shatter into a thousand pieces. She always seemed so fragile, so untouchable, though she pretended she wasn't.

And now here he was with somebody else who needed him, who wanted to share, and he could not comfort her.

Or could he? They had a bond now, a link, and he'd opened up to her like no-one before. Maybe he did not have to make the same mistake again. Perhaps magic was not the only way he could better himself…

He stood up slowly, because his legs were stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. He walked the few steps over to where Fauve was now sitting with her head on her knees, her knees pulled tight to her chest. He dropped down beside her and awkwardly put his arm around her shoulders. They were narrower than he expected, leaving most of his forearm dangling somewhere near her chest. She leant into him without a sound and his hand found hers.

"I know," he whispered, so low that his voice was almost carried away by the breeze. "Maybe one day I'll find my family and you'll find your brother, and we'll both have a happy ending. We'll even invite each other over for Christmas dinner."

He felt her laugh gently into his chest and then turn her head to stare at the fire again.

"You have to find your princess first," she breathed into the firelight.

"We're close now," he said, and he knew it was true. They were near her, yet still distant, like they were each on one side of a wall searching for a gate. The mirror had ceased to be useful, offering nothing but darkness when he looked into it, but there was a feeling in his gut that could not be denied.

Just a little bit more…just a little bit further…

The woman at his side stirred and he felt her hair tickle his throat. She rested her head on his shoulder and his skin grew warmer as she breathed gently against it. They were both asleep before they realised, propped up beside one another like books on a shelf.

In the shadows cast by the fire, the creature watched the sleeping figures silently, its eyes dancing with the flames.