Dry Lightning Chapter 3
Efrain hated his life. Every minute of it. He had known that before, but it was worse now. He could grasp at the life he'd had as a child now; he could at least remember that someone had taken a good life away from him and placed him in the slums of a land he knew nothing about with no memory and no one to take care of him. He hated that person, and he hated the life they had given to him. He continued tugging his cart vengefully over the rough ground towards the main living quarters of his master.
The man wanted to expand his mansion, and so he would, albeit at the cost of the blood and sweat of his slaves. They could rot, crowded together on the floor of a single room just so long as he had his splendor. It was careless. It was vile. And, according to the Head, the master was observing their daily progress and would not tolerate anything less than full speed. In the burning sun – which Efrain had not been able to cover again since the first day – no less. He didn't know why he couldn't do it, as the sense of magic still had not disappeared from his mind in the last three days. It was a constant companion to him, almost like an itch, but somehow less bothersome.
The cart ran over a stone and threatened to overturn. Efrain cursed and tensed all his muscles to pull it back on track. The path was too rough, and entirely unpaved. Something started to ooze down Efrain's tender back yet again. Despite his efforts, several small stones tumbled out.
"Hellfire!" he muttered again.
He heard a gasp from nearby. He turned and saw a beautiful woman, dressed in silk with her hair bound up carefully against the back of her head. She was slender and delicate, with pale features and slim hands and a sculpted face. She looked young – not too many years older than Efrain. He did not know who she was, had never seen her before, and could not fathom why she could be in a position to observe his labors. In any case, it would probably be best to pretend not to notice her. He knelt down and focused on collecting the fallen stones.
That was why he didn't see her moving until she tried to hand a stone to him. He jumped, dropping the two he was already carrying. He scrambled to pick them back up and tossed them in the cart. Then he nervously accepted the one the woman was offering, trying not to stare at her clean, white hands. He had hardly ever seen anything like them.
"What are you doing out her alone?" she asked. Even her voice was somehow clean and refined.
Efrain nearly jumped again. He was not accustomed to hearing women speak, at least not so confidently. Every single one that he knew was timid and shook when she was forced to speak. And with good reason. But this woman was clearly different.
"I-I could ask the same of you."
He hoped she wouldn't be offended by that brazen comment.
Instead, she smiled, which was another anomaly. "I wanted to take a walk."
You're allowed to do that? he wondered silently. Who was she? Perhaps some relation of his master, although he couldn't imagine the master approving of her walks. She was looking at him questioningly, and he realized she was still expecting an answer to her question. He tried to imagine why she cared. It didn't work.
"Jarod is in charge of us today. He allows some greater freedom than the others," Efrain answered.
If "freedom" was the right word for it. It was so ironic, talking about freedom while still a slave. He sighed, tossed the last of the stones into his cart and lifted it again, grimacing at the strain on his scabbed back and sore muscles. He took a step to move on, but the woman's voice stopped him.
"What happened to your back?" Efrain stared at her blankly. She gestured at him. "Your back?"
"I – uh – I broke from my position, and I was punished for it."
And I should move on, before I'm killed for talking to someone like you, he thought, shifting his weight nervously.
Her brow furrowed in displeasure. "I never understand how this works."
Although, Efrain guessed, she knew exactly how everything worked and she didn't approve of it. That idea alone was radical for someone in her position – or, at least, he assumed it was. He didn't have much experience with people of her status. It was a pity there was nothing she could do about his situation. He nodded towards his path.
"I'd better move on."
She nodded, still thinking, and watched him as he continued on his path. He could only hope he hadn't been distracted for too long already. Jarod was more lenient than most of the other drivers, especially the Head, but he was far less than kind. And the last thing Efrain needed was another flogging or beating. He trudged onwards, struggling to maintain his cart. It was the fourth he'd brought so far that day, and he was fast losing his energy.
I'm going to leave. I am going to escape. I am going to escape. I am not going to die here. I will not die here. I will not die here.
Those words became his mantra. They were the rhythm to which his heart beat, and the beat to which he moved. Those words were the only things that gave him the strength to keep moving and breathing. If not for them, he might have dropped the cart and waited for Jarod to find him and beat him to death trying to make him stand. Or perhaps – except for those words – he might have tried to avoid that pain by looking for a stone with a sharp enough edge to slit his wrists. But Efrain could not afford to die without answers. That was all that mattered to him.
He staggered back to the mansion and started to unload the cart, sorting the stones by size. The larger ones would be used as the main bricks for the walls, and the smaller ones would be used to plug gaps between those. There were also the ones that were altogether too rough or the wrong size to be used for building. Those he dropped into a different pile. He noticed his hands shaking as he lifted the stones from the cart. His eyes were heavy and his throat was so dry he thought it might catch fire. He knelt to set down one of the larger stones and did not get up immediately. He blinked, letting his eyes stay shut for a second longer than normal.
"Get up, boy!" Jarod called.
Efrain wanted to obey him, but his muscles were not keen to move. He stayed still. Jarod told him to get up again, and he tried to stand. His legs and core were screaming against the motion. Just as he was about to stand upright, something hard and round collided with his ribcage, and he fell backwards. He caught himself on his arm and winced at the force of impact.
"I told you to get up," Jarod said coolly. The butt of the lance he always carried was leveled at Efrain's stomach.
Efrain scrambled as fast as his body would allow him, trying to stand up this time before Jarod had time to hit him. He could tell by the look on Jarod's face that he had barely managed it. Still, if it had been the Head, it would have been far too late.
"My apologies, sir," he said, bowing his head.
Jarod observed him emotionlessly. "Just don't let it happen again."
"Yes, sir."
He nodded curtly and returned to the rest of the slaves. Efrain took a deep breath, which seemed to grate on his parched throat, and continued with his work. As he continued, his movements grew to be less and less and conscious. They were increasingly mechanical; they were less the result of his intentions and more because that was simply what he had been doing for the last hour, two hours, three. He could not say whether or not he was in pain. He knew vaguely that he was exhausted, but he didn't think of it. Even his hatred faded into the back of his mind. He only kept moving on with his work. It was always like this if he could make it past the point of exhaustion, where it seemed impossible that he could do anything other than drop. If he made it past that point, then nothing could stir him from his work except one of the drivers or an extraordinarily strange event. More than half his life in slavery had made him capable of acting as an efficient, mindless servant.
The only time in the rest of the day he was aware of anything was when he noticed the woman observing him from around the corner of the mansion. She was just peering out, eyes and a nose and a wisp of brown hair that had pulled free. But he was sure it was the same woman, and she was fixated on him, as if trying to work out the exact purpose of his being. He remembered how she had asked about the lash marks on his back, and how she had not liked his answer – neither liked nor exactly understood. Perhaps she was trying to figure out why Efrain was a slave at all at the same time he wondered why a noblewoman should be concerned about a slave boy. But if that were so, Efrain knew the answer to neither musing. Then, as he continued to work, his focus slipped away from her and she became just another facet of the background.
Efrain stumbled into the barracks much later, after the sun had gone down. A few steps after he entered, his legs gave out and he fell. He did not have the strength to brace himself against the fall. He fell against his whole side, knocking his head against the ground. Then he lay where he fell, staring at the blurred floor, not caring about anything. He did not care about the pain. His hunger meant nothing to him. He did not even care that he was dying. Something in the back of his head told him that he probably should, that he still had something to live for, and that just hours ago he had promised himself not to give in until he had fulfilled his goals. But all of that paled in comparison to the single image of the floor, how cold it was, and the straining beats of his heart that pulsed through him. He had no strength left.
He felt a pair of hands hoist him upwards into a sitting position and rest him against its owner's shoulder. It didn't matter. He just kept looking straight ahead. The hands shook him lightly. He didn't react. They shook him again.
"Efrain!" Zylen called. "Efrain!"
He blinked slowly at the sound of the voice. It was concerned, he realized dimly. It was concerned for him. Zylen kept calling to him, pausing after each time to wait for a response. Efrain blinked again, and the world cleared somewhat. Some of the other slaves were looking at him with mild concern or interest – more likely the latter – and the rest weren't paying attention at all. The death of a slave was not an uncommon occurrence here. Sometimes it happened like this, with a body giving out at the end of one too many days of abuse and starvation. Other times it happened in the middle of the night, unnoticed until daybreak when the man would fail to stand with the others. Efrain had even watched many die at the hands of the drivers. That was usually the result of too severe a beating, but not always. Efrain himself would just be one more; albeit one that had always been constant and that had been there when most of them had arrived. Even so, it wouldn't take them long to forget. A few days, maybe. Perhaps a month or two at the most. Zylen would probably remember, but he would be the only one. Efrain swallowed, but it hurt to swallow.
"I'm going to die," he whispered. His hoarse voice was barely audible.
Zylen stopped calling his name.
"I don't want to die." He wasn't sure if that was true or not.
"You're not going to die. You're just a kid," Zylen said.
Efrain was not sure how those two things were related. "I don't want to live. I don't."
Not like this.
"Don't say that. That's nonsense. You only need something to eat and drink, and some sleep. You'll be all right after that."
Efrain looked at him without speaking. He wished he could believe his only friend. But they both knew that wasn't true. Eight years of slavery, and two years before that of living in the streets and slums, had taken their toll on Efrain. One night of rest would not be able to fix that. If he didn't get out soon, he would never leave. Even his bones would be interred inside the walls of the Compound forever. But how could he escape when he was almost too weak to move? And if he did escape, how would he survive outside, with no food and no shelter? There was only one thing that Efrain wanted, and in a matter of days, it had slipped beyond his grasp. It was hopeless, and really, it had always been hopeless. He had been a fool for believing himself.
Zylen helped Efrain to eat and drink, but Efrain had no appetite. He was starving, he mused, and he did not want to eat. The woman was right about one thing: this made no sense. He lay down and looked up at the cold stone ceiling. Efrain did not participate in their nightly ritual, and Zylen did not ask him to. So Efrain closed his eyes and let everything fall away.
And as he slipped into the darkness, one sentence clawed its way back up. I never understand how this works. Then, in his dreams, a woman screamed.
Eremiel was frustrated, not that that was unusual. The strange part was that she was not currently angry with her father. Only a lingering resentment for his…being…remained of their last argument. He hadn't bothered her again since the day of their last argument. The problem was that, on the ocean, it was too difficult to judge distances. When they had spotted land, she had thought it would only be a couple days until they reached it. By the time of her argument with her father, it had already been more than a few, and he had told her it would be a few more before they reached it. Even now, they were still supposed to be a day from the shore, and she could even make out a river fading into a tree line. She was sick of being cooped up on the ship. The other children were getting impatient as well, and she could tell that they were not alone. Even the other elves, with all their hundreds of years of built-up patience, were starting to feel cooped up.
Sometimes she suspected, though, that they had slowed down to prolong their landing. Out on the ocean, they could feel safe as long as supplies lasted. Nothing had bothered them here. But on land, there was no telling what lay waiting. She wasn't sure if her people were more afraid of the Warfarers or new creatures like the Sluaghya that might prey on them. Personally, Eremiel herself felt that she was more afraid of starving out at sea in plain view of land.
She leaned over the side of the ship and sighed deeply. The sea raced by beneath them, but when she looked up, the shore appeared to be no closer than before. Lafián appeared beside Eremiel and looked sideways at her young friend.
"What ails you, Erél?"
"Boredom, I suppose you could say. I just wish that we might reach the shore. I'd like to set my feet on dry land, and look around me and see colors other than blue. Earth to sky, out on the ocean, all that can be seen is blue. And if I look too long, it starts to hurt my eyes."
Lafián laughed softly. "I see. But what should happen if, at shore, we find all too much excitement once again?"
"Then I suppose," Eremiel said with a smile, "I shall complain about that, too."
Her companion laughed again. "I'm sure you're teaching wonderful habits to your small friend."
"Cyran? He's learning how to speak the ancient language, that's all. It's the habits he's teaching me that you ought to worry about," Eremiel corrected.
"And how can that little one influence you? The rest of us have tried for the fourteen years since your birth, with no measurable success. Come, tell me his secret."
Eremiel flashed a mischievous grin. "He speaks very informally."
Lafián looked at her and sighed exaggeratedly deeply. "Tell me this is not part of some new plot to exasperate your father."
"Now you see why I'm anxious to get off this ship." Lafián opened her mouth, no doubt to chide Eremiel, but Eremiel continued quickly, "No, there's no plan as of yet. I like speaking it informally, and as we are currently speaking in the ancient language, you know that I am not lying."
"You lied, more or less, but a moment ago, Erél," Lafián reminded her.
"I deceived you. But if I say very clearly that I have no plan to exasperate my father, then I cannot possibly have a plan to exasperate my father."
Lafián looked uneasy. "No, I suppose not."
It was Eremiel's turn to laugh. "You sound like my mother always did. She never quite believed that no one among us could lie in the ancient language. She used to say that even if no one had found a way to do it yet, that did not mean it was impossible."
"If memory serves," Lafián added, "she once said that about many things, including the possibility of unaided flight."
"That does not mean she didn't believe it."
"That's…very true," Lafián said, giving up.
"You know I could not have said it if I did not believe that it was true."
Just as Lafián was about to reply, Utiradien touched Eremiel's shoulder. She turned quickly, as she was unaccustomed to anyone sneaking up on her. She was usually too alert with her magic.
"Erél," her father said, "you must dine with us tonight."
"Must I?" Utiradien sighed, expecting another one of their long, heated, disrespectful arguments, no doubt. Instead, Eremiel only said, "When will you expect me?"
"In one hour, promptly." He waited for a smart remark, and seemed pleasantly surprised when it didn't come. "There are important matters I wish for you and my advisors to consider before we reach the shore tomorrow."
"I might consider it, depending on the matter," Eremiel warned.
"You will consider them carefully, or your opinion will not matter. Is that what you want, Erél?"
Eremiel frowned. "No. I'll be at supper in an hour."
"Good. Until then, Erél. Good day, Lafián."
Lafián eyed Eremiel suspiciously. "That was perhaps the most respect I have ever seen you show the king, and that frightens me."
"As I said, Lafián, there is no plan," Eremiel said seriously.
After supper, Eremiel and her father's four closest advisors sat back and waited for him to speak. He looked at them for a long moment, and then took a long drink of wine and a very deep breath.
"As you know," he said, "we will soon arrive at this new land. As of yet, we have seen no indication of habitation, but I expect everyone to show due caution when we reach the shore." He looked pointedly at Eremiel, who suppressed a sigh and nodded. "But I have a dilemma. Our choices are to disembark at once and set up camp in this new land. If we do this, the children and our injured will potentially be endangered by any threats that may exist here. Alternatively, I could bring a small landing party to shore. We will investigate this land for life of any kind, as well as nutrients. We will be on our guard at all times. The danger of this, however, is that we may be cut off from the ship, during which time any threat could prey on either our party or those remaining on the ship. I assume we will set a certain amount of time after which the ship would either depart or send out another party to search for us. I would seek each of your opinions on the matter."
Laerä was first, as usual. "I would advocate that you choose a small party who will scout and report back to you. It would be more prudent if Your Lordship did not approach the shore until we can ascertain that it is safe for you to do so."
One by one, the advisors went down the line. Each of them suggested the landing party in some form. Some wanted the party to be skilled at stealth to avoid detection. Laerä argued then that if someone were to detect them, it was already too late to avoid it. The party should be skilled at both combat and politics in the event that they should come across the Warfarers. In that event, they could skillfully navigate the fraught waters, and in the event that politics were to fail, they could fight. Others thought that Utiradien should accompany the party, as he was the leader and ought to take part in any and all negotiations that might take place. Not one of them, however, advocated that they go to the shore as one group. When they all finished, there was silence. Eremiel waited for her father to make a ruling, but he didn't. After a few moments, she realized that they were all looking at her. She jumped a little.
"Father?" she asked uncertainly.
He nodded slightly. "I wish to hear your opinion, Erél."
Her lips parted in surprise. "You do?"
His advisors smiled. Two of them chuckled under their breath, which Eremiel heard quite clearly. She herself was so taken aback that she needed a few moments to think about her response. All of the elves around her waited patiently as she considered the matter.
Finally, she decided, "You should take a small group ashore as a landing party, but you should also take some of the children with you." She paused for a moment as she thought about how to explain her reasoning without making it sound as if she were just eager to get to shore. "They should be elven youth, in case we run into other elves. If they are anything like we are, they value children and would be more hesitant to harm the group if there were children among us. It would be unacceptable. The others that you take should be skilled in combat but foremost good politicians and clever planners. That's what I think."
Laerä raised his eyebrows and nodded approvingly. "Eremiel Drӧttningu takes much after you, sire. She is wise beyond her years." To the others, he said, "The princess speaks sense – what think you of this plan?"
Arana, the only mother among Utiradien's advisors, voiced her concerns. "I understand well the reasoning behind our young princess's words, but I would advise due caution in the event that the youth accompany us to the shore. I do not have the same faith as the rest of you in the Warfarers unwillingness to harm a child."
Utiradien reminded her, "In that war, though it was a bloody civil war, no elven child was harmed by either side. Though others were disputed, we upheld that law above all else."
"Laerä," she urged, "surely you must think this through again. You remember what happened to – "
"I remember it well," he said darkly. "But Lord Utiradien speaks true, and young Eremiel speaks with sense. I support this plan."
"Is there anything else, Erél?" her father said.
"No, sir…except that I wish to go ashore."
There was silence again. Stunned, waiting silence, with all eyes turned to measure Utiradien's reaction. He, too, was silent for a long moment.
When he spoke, all he said was, "No, Erél."
"You yourself said no child of an elf was harmed in the War of Bloodlines."
"Yes, but Erél, if…"
"If you believe that children might be harmed, then it would be selfish of you to hold me back. And do not say that it is to preserve the bloodline. My uncle still lives."
Laerä cautioned, "Yet the war was over those with bloodlines like that of your mother. Although you are a child, if the Warfarers were to know of your blood, it might not matter."
"My mother is dead," Eremiel said softly. "How are they to know?"
The next day, around midday, Eremiel was in a boat with her father and ten others, rowing to shore from where the ship had dropped anchor. Laerä was with them, of course, and Lafián and Arana was well. Arana had insisted on being included so that she could watch over the children and protect them in the worst case scenario. There were only three children, however: Eremiel, Lafián, and a boy called Ildan who was several years older than Lafián. Eremiel figured that with nine elven adults around them, they were probably pretty safe.
"What do you suppose is out there?" Ildan asked almost idly.
"Probably some humans, at least," Eremiel decided. "So far this land looks like a good place to live."
By now, she could see farther into the tree line. The stream twisted into it gently, and the wood was green and lush. The undergrowth was thick, but not too thick to move in, she didn't think, and it looked cool and inviting. Unless there were some sort of horrific beast which she had seen no sign of, she found it hard to believe that no one lived there. There must be someone. Soon, she realized, the woods would be in range of her magic, and she could use sound to find out whether or not there was anyone immediately waiting for them.
"I just hope that they are peaceful," Ildan answered tiredly. "I wish to find a new home here. You're right, Eremiel Drӧttningu – it looks pleasant here."
"We will know soon," Laerä reminded them.
After that, they rowed quietly towards the shore. The only sounds audible were the rush of the paddles through the water and the occasional chirp or squawk of a bird. Eremiel pulled her oar in time with the others. One, two, one two. Then, without telling anyone, she sent her magic out to the shore. For a moment, there was nothing out of the ordinary, and Eremiel thought they were alone. Then –
Eremiel heard voices. Soft voices, perhaps of a man and a woman. They were too soft for her to make out what they were saying. Just a little closer and she would be able to hear the words, too. Still, it was enough for her to know someone was on the shore, maybe even waiting for them.
"Father," she said. He looked back expectantly. "There are people in the trees. I can hear them."
The entire group looked at her and then at the tree line. Arana seemed particularly alarmed. Utiradien asked, "What are they saying?"
"I can't tell yet. I need to get closer. Can't you just use a spell?"
"It's too easy for them to notice my brand of magic. It may well be that they are expecting it, whereas they are not expecting your methods. I myself find that I am unable to detect your magic in use, and I often expect it."
He flashed her a half-joking dirty look. She smiled in reply and marveled at how remarkably well they were suddenly getting along. Maybe the stress of the whole situation had finally gotten to them and they would start hating each other again after things calmed down. If they ever calmed down. She pulled the oar again – her arms were starting to ache, as most of the others were much stronger than she was, and she was trying to keep up with them.
Eremiel's ears pricked up as she heard a word she recognized, albeit in a strange accent – adurna. She pieced together the rest of the sentence as something along the lines of, "They're coming slowly across the water."
The next sentence, in the female elf's – for she was definitely an elf – voice was clearer. "It's almost as if they are afraid to come to shore."
The male elf answered, "Perhaps they fear that they might find us, or rather, what they think we might be."
"Then should we fear them; their unpredictability?"
"No. Be cautious, but let us not fear."
Eremiel caught her father's attention again.
"Yes, Erél?" he asked.
"I can hear them now. They wonder about us – things like if we are afraid and why we are not traveling faster. They sound curious, but not unfriendly."
"Good," Utiradien said distractedly, "good. Who are they?"
"They are elves, but they don't seem to consider us to be enemies. One that I can hear is female, and the other is male."
"Are there others with them?"
"Not that I can hear, but the others might just be silent. I can't tell."
"Thank you, Erél. You've done well."
"I've…" She stopped. She couldn't remember the last time her father had praised her for something. She thought a little harder and decided that it must have been when she had last danced for him, a year or two ago.
"Sir," pursued Laerä, "is it safe to proceed, then?"
"It is impossible to tell, but nonetheless, it is necessary."
And that was all they said. Eremiel tried to listen again, but the other elves had fallen silent as well. Instead, she tried to imagine who they might be and what they might look like. The elves of Aloníria had three hair colors with small variations in the tones. The majority of them had bright red hair like fire. The next most common was yellow-white hair like starlight, and then only the nobility had raven black hair. Their eyes ranged across all the colors from ocean blue to deep, earthen brown to silver and everything in between. The only color that was not very common was green. She assumed that these elves were similar, but their accents were so strange to her that she couldn't help but imagine that they looked strange as well.
At long last, the boat ran aground. The company hesitated for several long moments, and then disembarked warily. Eremiel stepped close to her father and swallowed hard. Then she listened again as they approached the trees. When she focused very hard, she could hear the almost inaudible sound of the elves breathing. She separated out the sounds and started to count. Fifteen.
Her father's mind was closed, in case the other group should try an attack, so she drew the number on the back of his hand and hoped he understood her. He seemed to, as he reached back and tapped her hand by way of a thank you.
As they were about to step into the trees, the female elf's voice commanded, "Letta!"
They complied, and the other group stepped out from where they were hiding amidst the trees. They were tall, but no taller than the adults among Eremiel's company. They all had black hair or hair like starlight, with more having the latter. Their features were fair and not dissimilar to the elves of Aloníria. But, Eremiel noticed, the female elf, who appeared to be the leader of the company, had deep green eyes. She had never seen eyes quite like that before.
"Where do you hail from?" she asked.
Utiradien replied, "We come from Aloníria, across the sea and east from here. Our home was invaded and we had no choice but to flee."
The elf and the male she had ostensibly been talking to shared a look as if they had already known this.
"Then you come peacefully?" the male elf questioned.
"If you accept us with equal peace," Utiradien said.
"Our history anchors no animosity with you now?"
"Our history belongs in the past, and there it shall stay. We do not bring it with us. If you will have us, we would seek refuge with you. We have a few score of our people and nineteen human children from a nearby village. We are all that remains. I am Utiradien, king of a lost people. This is my daughter, Eremiel, and my first advisor, Laerä. Will you have us?"
The female elf considered it. "Let your current company come with us to Ellesméra, our home. We will discuss matters further there; you will tell us about yourselves and the circumstances that forced your departure from your homeland. In return, we shall inform you about our land and what has transpired since our people were last seen together – Ah, but I forget myself. I am called Arya Drӧttning. I am the queen of this people, and I will hear your story. Does this suit you, Lord Utiradien?"
"Quite well," he said with an incline of his head. "I will inform my people aboard the ship of your decision, and then we will be happy to accompany you."
Utiradien took a moment to contact the ship, and then they all allowed Arya's company to usher them forward. They followed a lightly treaded path that ran roughly parallel to the river. The air was cool beneath the cover of the trees. Eremiel took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back and forth to ease the ache growing there.
Both companies of elves were largely silent and nervous, exchanging only terse pleasantries back and forth with each other. Occasionally, one elf or another would have to ask for a word to be repeated, as the accents were so different and foreign to each other.
Once, Arya turned back to Eremiel, who promptly got lost in her green eyes. "Eremiel Drӧttningu, is it not? How old are you – you seem quite young?"
"Yes, milady," she replied carefully. She could feel her father's gaze on her, warning her not to reveal herself. "I am fourteen years old."
"So young," Arya mused. "We have not had a child as young as you in Ellesméra in many years."
And that was all.
As they continued onward, Eremiel fell deep inside herself. She still walked on alongside the others; still could have described the scenery if asked. But somehow, it had all faded, and she was fundamentally alone. It was peaceful.
I'm going to die.
She looked up and around but could not identify the speaker. It was a boy, perhaps around her age, who was perfectly fluent in the human tongue. A sharp pain jabbed her forehead. She reached up and touched it, but the pain did not subside.
I don't want to die.
The pain worsened. "You're not going to die," she mumbled back at the boy.
Her father looked at her. "What, Erél?"
"Nothing," she mumbled back.
He nodded, and they kept walking.
It's hopeless. I'm hopeless. It's over. It's over. It's over.
The world spun around Eremiel, and she stumbled. Her father reached out to steady her, but she knocked his hand away. She tried to reach out to the boy with her mind, but he was unreachable. But then, how could she hear him?
I don't want to die here. I don't. I…
Eremiel went hot, and then cold. She fell backward. Her father caught her in his arms and shouted her name. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Just as he lifted her against his chest, the world fell away into blackness.
Hello! It's been a very long, undisclosed amount of time since I last posted here, but suffice it to say my life's been very busy. However, high school is over and done with, so hopefully I'll have some more time now to work on all my stories. I'll have the summer, at least. In other news, my cat says hi. He meowed at the door until I let him in. He's very needy, but I love him anyway. I'll keep this short and just end with this: Review, follow, and favorite as you please!
Until next time,
Gael Drake