A/N: Here is what will probably be the last chapter of Flight of Death. Some things may seem slightly odd, but I will be writing a sizeable epilogue to tie off most strands and leave a satisfying conclusion. Firstly, I'm hugely sorry for not updating sooner. My end of year exam week is coming up, and it has been coupled with several GCSE exams, 2 concerts, preparation for the London MCM Expo this month, etc, etc. All I can do is apologise. Secondly, as always, thanks to my reviewers for gracing my humble story with their praise and criticism. Thirdly, let us get on with the story!

A Violation

The electric crackle of hasty magecraft. The white light. The sudden wind. And then…the silence. The bodies were a dark blot on the red-brown barren ground, providing a contrast that was rare on the unforgiving, enduring slopes of the ground outside Turbansk. A little further away there was fertile land, upon which farmers owned vineyards; the soil was good for wine, and Turbansk was famous for its alcohol as well as for its virtues as a School. There, cool breezes swathed the ground, keeping it from drying out. But here, the air was still and hot as the wasteland which it bordered, and no errant winds played with the strands of black hair splayed on the harsh ground. All was quiet. No animals inhabited this patch of barren land, and no footsteps could be felt or heard to disturb the ancient rocks, or the unconquerable heat, or the motionless figures. Apart from the sudden fall of the people, there had been no change in the landscape all day. No; all month. Nothing in this space under the cliff ever changed. And it never would. It would just keep existing until the end of time and beyond, one of those places which no one cares about, which no one ever notices, but which exists, peacefully, unheralded, all the same.

This was the place. She knew it. Here she would find...what, exactly? And then Ela's heart dropped through her stomach. A sort of morbid slowness affected her senses, forcing her to walk ever more laboriously, dragging her steps towards the two bodies lying prone on the floor of the valley. Too far away from them to see their identities, she knew with a sickening certainty who the smaller figure was. Yet why was it sickening to her? Just why did…it matter to her whether he lived or died? He was, after all, just an ignorant foreigner she had met by the roadside. However, as she edged forward, she knew this was not the case – that perhaps she had been deluding herself to think it, that there must be some kind of connection between them. For why would she have a vision of the death of a complete stranger if they were not tied together by something more than happenstance?

At that moment, a huge mass swerved, tilting into the momentum like a horse, around the bend of the rock on the opposite side to Ela, and crashed across the ground, landing beside the heap of bodies. His impact sent a wave of vaporised sweat towards Ela…the man had run here, too. The back of her neck prickled uncomfortably as she realised the similarity to her own condition. Could he also have seen the body fall in an unbidden vision, against that terrible backdrop of clay-dust cliff and cornflower sky? Indeed, who was he? Ela had always known that men meant danger, especially strong ones like this specimen, and especially to a young girl like herself. Everyone always told her so. "Stay away from danger, and the danger will not pursue you of its own accord. What is not done is not regretted." Just now, however, even this pre-instilled, almost paralysing sense of fear took a back seat to her overwhelming desire to know. Really know…what had happened here, and who had plummeted to their deaths. And maybe even a sense of grief, although she could not tell the cause. Forcing her limbs into a stilted trot, she neared the dark heap as the heavy man let out a howl of piercing pain and woe. The cry of someone who has lost a reason to live. And as the man let his pain be known, it seemed to Ela that he was joined by other voices. That of a man, hoarse, rough, and utterly deathly. Of a woman, a rich, raw sound that echoed off the cliff. And a lesser one, somewhere in between the two in pitch; quieter, and yet still very much there. Almost like the location itself, in fact. Powerful, if only by its existence, but very much obscure. Unreal in a way not many things ever are: like a girl who sits in the corner of a room, dressed like everyone else, reading a book and never venturing an opinion on anything, seeming always to be there and yet never fully recognising itself.

"So, how is everything at home?"

"Oh, not so well. I suppose you could say that my parents are displeased with my decision."

"But why? This is one of the noblest establishments in the city. No, in the Suderain! Surely they cannot disapprove of your work here?"

"I know, I know. Of course I tell them that, but…Papa always wished for me to marry someone rich and bring the family fortune. I may still do that, but I would also be working. And he disapproves of that. Obviously he intended my work as a seamstress's assistant to be only a distraction."

The owner of the first voice grunted, and then the other voice moved away. "I need to tend to Maerad. She's in an awful state. You probably know more than me of healing, but…well, you can see for yourself what the chances are."

"Yes. This may seem crude, but it may have been better had she died in her fall. At least by delaying the impact and shielding Hem, she saved her brother's life. She didn't waste her suicidal leap. But she has paid the price for it."

Hem opened his eyes slowly, relishing the delight of letting the sunlight filter slowly in to illuminate his mind and clean his intellect. Stretching lithely, like a wildcat after a long rest (like Zelika), he hit a warm hand that radiated affection just by its soft touch.

"Saliman?" he asked, sitting up.

The wise, funny eyes looked at him with relief from a face that definitely had grown a few additional folds and wrinkles since he had last seen it. Though the expression in his eyes was one of welcoming joy, Hem sensed a darkness there too. Saliman had always had a bit of dark tempering the ecstasy in his spirit, but, like the wrinkles, it had grown a fair bit. Knowing he was the cause saddened him, too, but the remorse was drowned by a growing sense of urgency from the conversation he had overheard.

"What's happened to Maerad?!" he asked, looking around the small, whitewashed ward feverishly, as if he might catch a sight of her somewhere there.

Saliman's face fell visibly. It was obvious to Hem that he had wanted to keep this part from him for short while, at least. "Do you really wish to know? I'm not sure I should tell you so soon. I do trust you, but the shock would probably be slightly too much while you're this frail..." His voice trailed away. Hem knew that it caused Saliman pain to be so condescending to him, but he did not care. He needed to find Maerad.

"Saliman, I need to know!" Hem leant forward, imploring Saliman wordlessly to tell him.

Saliman sighed. "Promise me you won't go rushing off to see her. She needs her rest," he said, though his knowledge of Hem's obstinacy told him that he would not heed his words. His loyalty to the boy forced him onwards, despite the fact that it would hurt them all. He owed it to him.

"Maerad seems to have been able to detect your peril. In a huge feat of magecraft, she was able to transport herself here in mind. Seeing your leap, she then managed to materialise bodily and fall with you. Such a thing should be impossible, but I suppose she has retained at least a few of her powers as the One. In the split second before you reached the ground, she activated a shield. It slowed your fall just enough that you didn't perish, but only suffered broken bones and a major head wound. Maerad was not so lucky. She took the brunt of the fall. She's in the intensive care ward, being treated by the best healers we have; she took a broken spine and cracks in the skull. Probably, she'll live; definitely, she will never be the same again. Brain damage and paralysis are probable."

Hem looked deep into those brown pools of sadness and empathy, and knew that it had to be true. But it couldn't be. Maerad was an unshakeable rock in his life. She couldn't die, or suffer so badly, because of something he had done. His own stupid melodramatic fantasies had led to something so unspeakably horrendous. Why had he done it? Why was the world so cruel? In stories, the depressed hero always died tragically, or recovered from his depression. They never lost more and more people who were important to them, until they ached to destroy everything, to enjoy the oblivion they had craved for so long, and had been unsuccessful in attaining. Who would be next? Saliman? Irc?

Slowly, Hem's eyes flooded over like a great river, sweeping away all he had ever known and loved. Inhibitions and knowledge were gone in a torrent of sheer madness. He lunged forward, unaware of anything other than the intent to kill, to end a life like his had been ended, though he was still living. Collapsing, too weak to stand or carry out a movement, he knelt on the hard, unforgiving floor, sobbing like a child and yet feeling more numb in some ways than ever.

A/N: Well, there it is. Please review! All will be explained next chapter, including Ela's relationship with Hem. REVIEW!