Chapter 8 - The Road of Trials
"So… cold…"
George gaped at the snowy slopes ahead of them, which seemed out of place compared to the steaming pools he and Callie had left not long before. Just over the lip of the ridgeline, the wind gusted across a rolling decline that sprawled across the gap between the mountain he had been charged to climb and the next nearest, a shallow valley that was largely shrouded in shadow by the steep peak. This softly-arching hillside was painted in soft-packed white, the gusts stirring up translucent sheets of gleaming powder that drifted listlessly before settling once more. Every step seemed to drag down the temperature as they advanced towards the line of slushy snow that marked the edge of the region, and the wind tugged at George's clothes with an intensity that he hadn't experienced yet on his journey up the mountain, excepting the updraft that had risen from underneath the bridge they had just crossed over to reach this forsaken, pristine snowfield.
"It is pretty, though, right?" George asked, turning with a grin to look over at Callie. To his surprise, she was looking down sullenly, her arms clasped around her frame tightly with her wings shielding her naked stomach. He could see her shivering, and she had lost her previous exuberance. "Oh, I get it! Lizards are bad with the cold!"
"Stuuupid!" Callie snarled, kicking his rear with her taloned foot. "Not lizard! Wyvern!" She paused as a particularly energetic shiver wracked her slim body. "Not used to… walking here. Flying isn't so cold…"
"Why is it so cold here, anyways?" George asked, looking around in curiosity as they began to tramp through the ankle-deep snow. "This place shouldn't be able to have snow here at this time of year, especially this far from the summit."
"Don't know," Callie grumbled petulantly. "Maybe snow ladies."
"'Snow ladies'?" George asked, looking back to Callie as she trudged along. They had turned southeast towards the slate-gray cliffs now that they had crossed the ravine, and their route would only skirt the majority of the rolling snowy slopes, but rocky tors along the ridge that bordered the crevasse would make it harder for them to skirt the snow-coated region, forcing them instead to turn towards more even, albeit slippery, footing. That shift in direction left them headed into the snow, which George was ready for - though he wondered about his companion. "What are they?"
"Snow. Ladies," Callie replied petulantly, as if that explanation was sufficient to clear up the matter. She huffed dramatically, her head beginning to hang between her drooping shoulders. "This is their tarry-torry. They…" She paused, interrupted by a yawn that forced her mouth to gape wide for a moment. Blinking, she took a moment to remember what she had been saying before pressing on. "They don't like outsiders. But they made a deal with me for… ice. For my meat… thingie." Her head was beginning to sway as she trudged along, as if she were struggling to stay away. "Locker. But no lock…? Cave. Hole." George's eyes were wide as he noticed her sudden drowsiness, and he stepped closer to support her as one drastic sway nearly tipped her over. "Sleeeeepy…"
"Hey, wake up. Callie, wake-" A sudden gust of wind blasted them, but the chill running down George's spine had little to do with the air that felt like it had pierced through his clothing. In just the past moments while he had been distracted by Callie's abrupt lethargy, the sun had been cloaked by a thickening haze of snow. The wind whipped stinging specks against George's cheeks as he lunged forward to catch Callie as she slumped forward, and as he carefully lowered her to the snowy ground he could hear her snoring softly in his ear. He raced to pull his blankets from his pack to wrap her exposed skin with, cocooning her limp body as quickly as he could, hoping the warmth might bring her back to wakefulness. Only when he had her completely wrapped, save for her face - slack and content in carefree slumber - did he glance up to recognize how badly his own situation had decayed. The late afternoon sun was all but consumed now by a forceful, dancing blanket of gray that had consumed everything around him, making it seem like night had come hours early. The startling snowstorm was enough to make George worried for his own welfare, but his fears ran deeper than that - this was no natural occurrence, and with Callie unconscious at his feet, he had to be ready to deal with it on his own.
As George drew his sword from his waist, the whirling snow began to slow. He could see, coming from his left, a disruption in the howling winds - like the body of a person moving up a current, something was bending the wind around itself as it approached them, untouched by the storm's fury. He turned to face that direction, stooped against the wind as it battered him from every direction unpredictably - until, as the column of calm neared him, the wind stopped. At the least, it died down around George, Callie, and the newcomer - they now stood at the eye of the storm of wind-blown ice, a beam of orange sunlight breaking through the haze to spotlight the confrontation.
"Well, well…" The voice was cold and sharp, high-toned and ringing. "What do we have here?" George eyed the woman warily. She was short, though that was little reassurance, as she carried herself with a dancer's confidence and an assassin's precision, despite her strange, pillar-like legs. She was surprisingly youthful, despite the danger in her eyes - the effect was exacerbated by the long twintails descending from the sides of her head, and the slimness of her body. Her skin was beyond pale: her flesh was a soft blue, darkening to plum at her lips, while her eyes were as icy-cold as his own. Her long hair, the tails trailing past her knees, was also a shimmering blue that shifted to purple by its ends, the whole length shimmering in the sunlight like the first crust of ice on a lake. Completing her monotone nature was her brief ensemble, a brassiere and panties of a midnight blue fringed by gleaming snow-crystal patterns, with similar shapes decorating her exposed outer thighs. She wore no shoes, nor could she - her legs tapered into spikes of ice beyond her knees, though this did not seem to slow her as she sauntered towards him, diffidently inspecting the icy gleam of the nails decorating her long, tapered fingers. Her frigid gaze speared into George once more. "An intruder, stealing through our territory without announcing themselves? How disrespectful."
"I-I'm j-just p-p-passing through," George tried to reassure her, his words chopped by his chattering teeth. Though the wind had stopped, the temperature had plummeted at her approach, and he had to stop himself from chafing his hands to keep them warm since one of them held his sword. "I mean no-"
"Oh, I don't care," the lady cut him off, smiling cruelly and rolling her eyes. "The lizard has our permission to gather snow for her home, not escort vagrants across our lands. This is the sacred grounds of our young queen Verglace, and we shall not tolerate the impertinent trespasses of malodorous vagabonds like you." She offered a thin-lipped smile at his scowl. "But perhaps you could plead your case to my mother… once you have been suitably disarmed."
"Not going to happen," George replied, trying to keep the shivers wracking his body from forcing the blade of his sword to shake erratically. "I'm on a quest, and I mean no harm to you or your kindred. Just let me go on through, and you will never see me again."
"While that doesn't sound terrible - not seeing you, that is," she replied, once more disinterestedly studying the ice-thin edge of her fingernails, "I would hate to set the precedent that any brute with a drawn blade can just stroll by my watch willy-nilly. So… would you like to come peacefully, or…?" The ice-crack edge of her smile let George know which of the options she preferred.
"I'd prefer to pass by peacefully. Only the last part of that is negotiable." His heart thundering in his chest, George lifted his sword between them, the edge gleaming like the facets of her frozen legs and decorations. "Stand down."
Her answer was a throaty chuckle. He watched, shocked, as she lifted from the ground, her legs growing rapidly longer. The newer addition to the tapered cone of her legs was a sharp blade, and within the ice that comprised her lower limbs, shapes appeared to burn with a deep indigo light. Even seeing those forms made George's blood thicken with chill, and the wind howled into action, gusting around him with tornadic intensity. Despite her added height, the frozen woman shifted easily atop her stilt-like legs, stretching her arms behind her back as if warming up for exercise. Her eyes danced as she smirked down at him. "It's a shame, really - you're not my type at all. But I can give you to my sisters and watch them fight over you; that could be amusing for me." Tapping her scythe-tipped legs against the ground, she leaned down, tensing. "So… try to put up a decent fight?"
George started to reply, but she sprang - not just towards him, but upwards, twisting in the air. As she descended, she whirled her legs downward, one stabbing towards the earth, the other slicing the air between them. George dove backwards, out of the way, but the blade never came near him - instead, the cut was fast enough to blast the snow ahead of her into a wall of loose-packed grit that slammed George, sprawling him onto his backside. The air rang out with the sound of the woman's laughter as she stalked towards him, her spider-like stilted gait even over the snowy ground. George rolled desperately to the side as she kicked once more, both legs one after the other, and again a wave of air ripped vertically through the place he had been laying upon, parting the snow upon the ground like a plow. Skidding up onto his knee, George held his sword in front of him, and lunged towards her, his feet sliding and crunching against the snow, but with another mocking laugh she vaulted backwards into the windwall, and forth a moment he could see the glow of the marks within her legs before they, too, faded into the whirling gale. George tried to see where Callie was laying - the blasts of wind had been safely away from her - but already he found himself lost in the tempest, his sense of direction scrubbed clean by the wind.
The wind roared around George, disorienting and battering him, but he fought to focus. He had lost sight of her, which meant she would likely strike from an unexpected direction… The scream of air made him surge forward as another vertical blast came from his side, and then another, horizontal and angled upwards, caught him and threw him bodily aside. He scrambled to his feet, glaring into the chaotic scree stirred up by the winds - he couldn't even hear her footsteps, with those blades slipping smoothly into the snow, while he crunched and floundered like a beached fish.
'I have to take the fight to her. She can wear me down, attacking from range; my only chance is to close and unbalance her.' George heard the sound and moved, diving to the snow as another vicious arc of wind yanked at the back of his pack as it passed over him. Frantically pedaling his feet against the snow, he charged in the direction it had come from, seeing her dark silhouette in the gyrating winds. He could see the gleam of light off her legs, her smile - and, with a pirouette worthy of a dancer, she sent a tight column of rotating snow and small stones roaring straight at him, sending him sprawling to the side.
Growling deep in his chest, George picked himself off the ground again, spitting snow and grit from his mouth. This was getting him nowhere. "Want to give it up, little knight?" Her high voice cut through the howls of the wind. "My sisters will like you. They don't play as rough. But hurry, because 'frozen stiff' isn't the kind of 'stiff' that they'll like." His eyes searched the whirling air, looking for patterns in the current of snow, but it was all chaos, and her voice danced through the wind like a ghost's. "And your little wyvern friend - she might make a good decoration for the castle at this point, a nice new frozen statue…"
To George, the whirling gray and white took on a golden hue.
He crouched, his mind whirling. He couldn't see her through the snow, but could she see him? He couldn't move without crunching the snow underfoot, which would make him easier to find. The ground near him rose, and he thought he had seen low dark forms nearby - sure enough, one lunge later, and he was beside a low boulder, lowering his torso till his knee was all but parallel with the ground, his sword held out. Better to stalk than to be hunted, even if he had a disadvantage due to the cold…
"Oh? Trying to hide from me?" The voice drifted with the wind, and George fought the urge to look around wildly, knowing the motion would make him easier to spot. "Tired of our game already?" George tensed - she was close, but where…
"Found you." The whisper was an icy touch down his spine, and his eyes grew wide as he glanced to the side to see her there, her wickedly-gleeful smile right over his shoulder. He tried to react, but his blade was stuck, trapped between her fingers, a crystalline patina of icy rapidly expanding across the metal's gleaming surface, then coating the crossguard, his hand-!
He jerked forward, wrenching at the blade, and his hand shrieked pain at him, his naked flesh frozen to the wrapped wire of the hilt, his weapon now awkwardly fused to him. He rolled over as she towered above him, alien and triumphant, her eyes drawing the warmth from him like a sponge drinking up water. She stepped around the rock he had taken as his refuge, her blade-tipped legs stabbing the earth below her as she prowled forward. Her white teeth showed against her plum lips as she drew closer, savoring the flavor of her impending victory, ready to devour his defeat. He had to act, now!
George lunged, swinging his sword forward in a desperate slash, not at her body but at her legs. Predictably, she parried with one, meeting the blade with one of her own, but staggering forward as she met less resistance than she expected. The collision of ice and steel ended in her favor as George's loose, overhand grip meant that the clash ripped the sword from his hand, tearing away small patches of skin frozen to the wire of the hilt. Patches of snow bloomed crimson as George threw himself away from her as she regained her balance, his freed blade clattering to the ground while he reached behind him for his bow, and then for one of the only arrows that hadn't been spilled from his quiver. Predictably, the frigid woman leapt into the air and somersaulted, lost in the whirling wind, but he had seen where she had leapt, and that meant he knew the direction she would land in.
He nocked his arrow, his blood already freezing to the bowstring as he drew, and the arrowhead he guided in her direction flared to golden life.
He could remember Callie's scream, as he broke his arrow and pulled it from her wing-
The glow faded, but still, as he loosed, a golden shimmer darted into the tempest, denying the wind's reign by its straight flight - and, with a 'woomph' of shocking power drowning out most of a feminine scream, George was sent sprawling back as the air cleared ahead of him, the storm blasted away by a shockwave. He sat up, shaking his head to clear it - what had caused that explosion? - but he noticed instantly that the raging storm had broken, the careening winds wandering off and away, like water poured over an anthill, or a crowd disappointed at the end of a performance. In its absence, the air was clear once more, and the sudden silence made his numbed ears ache.
George stood weakly, his bow still held low and ready, and he stumbled forward, blinking against the sudden glare of sunlight off the tousled snow. A few steps brought him to the place where the eruption of power had been, the snow blasted clear of the stone below, and in the center of it, she lay still. For a moment, his throat was thick - but he could hear her groan, and she scrabbled at the ground, trying to force herself to sit. One of her bladed extensions was gone, and the leg above sported deep fractures in the ice that comprised it, while the blade of the other leg had snapped off partway, and the purple glow within had almost faded away. She pushed herself up halfway, but froze in place as she saw him, the glowing arrow trained at her breast, the look in his eyes.
George stared at the woman who had fought him, threatened to kidnap him. He ached, and the pain gave him clarity.
The arrowhead's glow flickered, a fading gasp, and George deliberately lowered his bow, glaring at the snow lady as he straightened. The ice-blue of his eyes made her shiver, and his own smile was bereft of warmth. "I hope you found the fun you were looking for." And, with that, he turned his back to her, leaving her on the ground, stopping only to collect his sword where it stained the snow with his own blood.
She watched him go, her mouth open, her eyes full of anger, fear, and shame, before flopping back with a deep groan. She could hear him walk away, his footsteps heavy on the snow. Soon enough, she was alone, and left to dread her long limping walk back to her mother's castle empty-handed.
Callie yawned, long and wide, and she snuggled into the warmth of the blankets. The constant swaying made it so hard for her to open her eyes, even as warm as she was, but her head was bobbing to and fro uncomfortably, and she tried to press it against the nearest warm surface. Surely it wouldn't hurt to doze for a while more…
"Wake up, dumb lizard."
"No."
George huffed as he scowled down at her. "I'm getting tired of carrying you everywhere. Wake up and walk."
One of her eyes opened, as she stared up at him - only to close it once more. "Could fly. But someone…"
George glowered down at her, but did not drop her as he marched onward. She snuggled into the blankets wrapped around her with a sigh of victory, before blearily blinking her eyes open to look up at the darkening sky. "We there yet?" She glanced at the cliffs around them, recognizing far below them the snowy slopes that they had left behind hours before.
"How am I supposed to know?" George complained. "You've been asleep, so I had to just go in the direction you had pointed out." His frown came as much from exhaustion as from exasperation - though carrying Callie slung over his shoulder for most of the hike had helped, the less certain ground here had necessitated shifting her forward, and that had only accelerated his weariness.
"Hmm. Let's see." Callie craned her head around, looking for landmarks that she could use to deduce their location. "Oh, we are close! Just go that way, towards those cliffs with the jaggedy bits on top!" She blinked as she noticed the hand supporting her neck was wrapped in slim bands of cloth, like bandages-
George scowled down at her, bundled snugly in his arms. "It would be easier if you would get up and walk to lead me…"
"Hmm. Not yet." She burrowed her shoulders and chin back into the blankets. "A few more minutes. Still sleepy."
"Get up, you dumb lizard!" His voice echoed off the rocky cliffs around them, as did her response, a long wet raspberry blown into his face.
And the sun sank below the mountains, departing for its own restful sojourn.
Just under an hour later, they reached the overhang that marked the entrance to Callie's 'new-old nest.' The wyvern had finally taken to her feet once more, energetically trotting along the path with George shambling behind her. The paths here were narrow and steep, and putting a foot ahead of the other was more taxing than he would admit. Each rise and fall was punctuated with a chirp of "Almost there, just ahead!" or "Hurry up, slowpoke!" He had to fight not to trip, because a slip here could be disastrous, but her promises were barely enough to keep him from curling up on the ground and just sleeping there.
Their path led them along a vertical cliffside, slipping under a jutting overhang like an upper jaw of stone. Despite the stone overhead, the path broadened into a platform with ample room to stand upon, and Callie made for the solid wall of the cliff, which was jaggedly striated, the edges unsmoothed by the wind. She gripped one of those straight lines, hauling on it as if pulling the mountain apart - and, bizarrely, the cliffside obliged, smoothly swinging open for her. George stared into the hole that the stone door had revealed, surprised to discover that, instead of the naturally-shaped crack he might have expected, the tunnel within was evenly-wrought and lined with reflective stones that glittered in the dying sunlight.
Callie smiled at him shyly, nodding him towards the yawning cave mouth, and he complied, albeit nervously, reaching out to feel the wall of the passage. It was sanded smooth, and below his waist decorated with faded paint in repeated triangular patterns. The short tunnel opened into a larger room, and behind him Callie pulled the door closed before he could register much about the decor. Soon enough, though, he heard the chipping sound of a flint striking stone, and along one wall a torch flared to life, filling the chamber with light.
While Callie moved to light a second torch, George studied the room around him. Exits similar to the entranceway led off to either side, shrouded in shadow. In general, the room was surprisingly cozy, with a wide-open center and human-styled furniture along the walls: a low couch with flattened cushions, a seat that leaned awkwardly on one broken leg, a few musty small tapestries with winged shapes criss-crossing over treelines. One such decorative draping had been carefully woven with a branching selection of lines that George recognized as a family tree, with names stitched in golden thread. A human-shaped form in one corner drew his attention, and, as the second torch sprang to incandescent life, he blinked at the glow of fire reflecting off of the shining suit of armor atop a stand. It was crafted in a style he had never encountered before, with gleaming metal scales sweeping back from the front. The helm was smooth and crested with a fin, and the shoulders also had backswept ridges that still looked to have been polished by flowing water. It reminded him in many ways of Callie's more reptilian form, which - on second observation - he realized would fit neatly in the open spaces of the room, including one corner that had been filled with deflated cushions. The shapes on the decorations, the scale-like pattern of the walls… "Does this place belong to your parents?"
"It did." Callie nodded, her good humor guttering out reluctantly. She turned a sad smile towards the armor he stood before. "That was Da's. He was a great dragoon."
"A what?"
"A rider. A knight." She walked closer, reaching out to touch the hollowed helmet as if resting her hand on her father's cheek. "He and Mama came here on a quest from the Demon Queen herself." Her talon pointed towards an engraved symbol on the scale that would have covered the knight's heart, and George stooped to study that blemish: a heart-shape, atop two sundered lightning bolts. His blood ran cold at that, and he nodded. Of course… servants of the demonic forces, come to human lands to- "They came to fight a bad dragon, who caused trouble here. She wanted to make a war happen, and the Demon Queen didn't want that."
George blinked, turning to the girl. "Why would the Demon Queen stop a war here?"
"Because war is bad?" Callie pointed out, incredulous. George shook his own head in exasperation.
"No, the humans here are her enemies. Why worry about people who are against her?"
Callie shrugged, frowning, as if trying to excavate memories buried in the mud of years past. "Because bad people wanted a fight, because they thought monsters would win. But the humans thought humans would win. So she wanted there to be no fighting, instead, so they could try to work things out. I think." Callie glanced at him, a guilty expression crossing her face. "I… don't remember everything…"
"How long ago was this?" George asked, looking around at other decorations. One caught his eye, on the wall opposite the couch and armor, and he approached it. It was a faded painting of a man with a woman with wings like Callie's, the pair standing close together. The man wore the armor George had been inspecting, save the helmet, exposing his easy-going smile, angular chin, and swept-back brown hair. The woman looked like Callie, albeit older, and with a casual confidence that bordered on brashness. Her hair was long and rose-colored, and a smattering of her scales bore the same coloration, especially trailing from her claws to the center of her limbs. She leaned against the knight with a leering grin, one wing thrown over his shoulders; the staidness of the portrait conflicted with the vitality of the figures it depicted, and the dust coating their forms felt even more of a disgrace against the motion implied by the light in their eyes. Lord Calliard and Lady Thyrus, Swords of Her Majesty, a plaque below the portrait proclaimed, as best George was able to read it.
"Years and years," Callie replied softly, not looking at him. He cast his eyes over the furniture, and nodded to himself. In places, there had to be more than a decade's worth of dust here. Much of the past day began to make sense to him now: Callie's habit of calling this her 'new-old' nest, her vague references to her mother, her oddly uncultured way of speaking. He remembered his own past as an orphan, before he had been brought in by the Church, and nodded slowly in sympathy. "They got a message, and told me that their friend would be coming to take care of me while they fought the bad dragon… but she never came." George swallowed, imagining Callie left all alone in these rooms. She had to have grown up here, waiting, expecting… she had obviously hunted for herself, but without anyone else around, she had to teach herself everything.
George remembered much of his upbringing in the Church's orphanage. Most of those there had been boys like himself, sons of dead soldiers or families lost to diseases. The trainers had raised them to work for the Orders or the various church organizations, their way of repaying the debt they owed the Church, as they had been told. The boys had all been rough-and-tumble sorts, which had suited George fine, except that those who watched them cared little if the older, stronger boys picked on the weaker ones. For the weak ones, the only recourse was to get older and stronger - and then, avenge themselves on those next generations instead of their tormentors. The adults had been harsh taskmasters, especially on those who wanted to join the Orders. George knew he owed a great debt to them for shaping him to be the warrior he was, but at the same time, he couldn't say with certainty that any of them had truly cared for him in particular, and it definitely hadn't felt that way at the time. Even when he had been promoted to Purifier-Errant, the first independent rank of his Order's progression, none of those who had helped raise him had come to the ceremony. He had tried to visit them afterwards, but every time he had passed the orphanage's gates, he had paused outside, torn internally about whether or not to go in… as if the act of entering that fence would regress him to the boy he had been, crying himself to sleep in his bunk, keeping silent out of fear one of the others would hear.
But he hadn't been alone, like Callie. Just… mostly so.
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place for him. "This is your 'new-old' nest. So, you had a different one?"
She nodded, frowning. "New nest was on top of mountain. It's nice: a hot pool, a few cave rooms, some open to the sky. But…" Her expression twisted with naked sourness. "Fat dumb dragon came and fought me for it. It was mine, but she chases me away every time I get near." She glanced to George, and there was a hint of unexpressed guilt in her gaze. "One reason I wanted you to beat her - so she'd leave my nest for me again. Old-new nest is nice, but…" She looked around, her shoulders slumping under the weight of memories.
He looked over to her with pity - no, empathy, because it wasn't hard to imagine what she had gone through with the nearness of his own experiences to hers, but to his surprise found her turning back to him, hope growing in her expression instead of the swell of tears he had expected. "C-could you read something for me?" she asked, suddenly. "They left letters… but I never learned…" She hesitated over the words, but looked to him hopefully, pleading with her gaze. "They could tell me where they went, where I could find them…"
His heart shriveled in his chest. "N- I mean, maybe-" She rushed towards him, but with an excruciating flinch, he held his hands up to quench her eagerness. "Probably not. The orphanage didn't really teach us well…" She stopped, her face plummeting, and belatedly he saw the glimmer of tears as her newborn hopes fell to their knees. "But wait! I have a friend back in New Haven, Simon… he's the smartest guy I've ever met. He could read them for you just fine." She looked up at him, not ready to trust her dreams again, but the relief of being able to rebuild what he had torn down in an instant pressed him imprudently on. "Maybe when your wing is better, then I could take you to him. He'll give you the answers you need. He can help us find them."
Blossoming slow, a rose blooming in beauty, Callie's smile spread across her face. She completed her hasty journey to his side, throwing her wings around him in a grateful embrace. She was warm now, and soft, and despite himself George slipped his arms around her in turn, holding her to his body. Her head rested against his chest, and he could hear her murmuring her gratitude, clutching him as if she finally had found something she needed, and he could feel the dampness seeping through his shirt where her face pressed to him.
And yet… he was utterly miserable. His stomach knotted itself, and the world took on a sickly hue.
He was lying to her. There would be no trip back to New Haven. No journey to find her parents. Once his quest was done, he would leave this place. He would leave the mountain, and monsters, and Heroes, and this whole world behind. He would go back to being a Purifier-Errant, in a place where the world made sense. He would serve his brothers with pride, repay the Church for all they had given him. He would leave… her.
Callie looked up at him, eyes wide with happiness, and George lied once more, by plastering a forgery of a smile over the sickness he felt. She didn't notice the falsity of his smile, and leaned in towards him. His eyes widened as she brought her face close to his, her lips all but brushing his - before pulling away with a sudden blush, her tail whipping in agitation behind her. "S-sorry…" She stole a bashful glance back at him, and he looked away also, hiding his face for more than one reason. "I, ah… the letters. They are in here."
Taking a lit torch from nearby, she walked towards the room's left exit, and he took a moment to force down his raging disquiet before following after, trying to wall away his concerns for now, for just now. She paused at the entrance to the next room, glancing back to him hesitantly, before stepping in, moving to light one of this room's torches. As the light spread, he entered the room, inspecting it as he had the other. This one was smaller, and more sparsely decorated, but a few key pieces of furniture dominated the space. Firstmost was the large nest at the far wall, a structure of woven branches topped with a heap of pressed soft mats and blankets. Despite the avian nature of its base, the bed looked far more comfortable than many he had used during his life. One of the blankets atop the pile was considerably smaller than the rest, tattered and faded, yet close to the top, and his heart clenched as he recognized it for what it must be - he had treasured his own, a final memento of all he had once had, until it had been cruelly taken from him and destroyed by some of the older boys.
In the same vein, along the wall a small nest was built, child-sized and long-since abandoned. Near it were piles of toys, gliders in the shapes of dragons mingled with the crude wooden facsimiles of armored knights. Across was something more akin to the real thing: another armor stand, this one holding only a suit of mail. Beyond was a cabinet, no doubt full of clothes, rifled-through and haphazardly put back together, and topped by a sheathed sword on a stand, the hilt bound by a knotted cord. On another stand nearby was an odd leather seat, with straps dangling from its bottom, some of them ending in large metal rings. "What's that?" George asked, motioning towards it casually.
"Mama's saddle. She said it kept Da from falling off when she flew too fast." Callie eyed the accessory with an odd expression, a mixture of longing and resentment. "They took their favorite and left the spare."
George walked up to it, inspecting it more closely. It featured a prominent horn with a hole drilled through, and a complex tangle of cords emerged from that opening. He blinked at that, then a word that Callie had said finally registered for him. "Fly?"
"Yeah?" Callie spread her wings wide, extending them fully. "Wyvern?"
George blinked once more, then considered the saddle again. "This… isn't for a horse. This is for- your mom wore this? Ah, I mean, your mom in bigform? When you said rider, you meant-?" He stepped back, frowning in thought. "He flew on her back?"
Callie giggled at the observation, intrinsically obvious to her. "Yes, silly. He was a dragoon. She was his wyvern. They were partners. And that's how I was made."
George blushed, though he couldn't figure out if it was due to his embarrassment at his slow realization, or at the somewhat complicated meaning the word 'ride' was taking on here. He took a moment to consider the prospect: flying as high as the heavens themselves, soaring like the birds, seeing the ground stretch out for miles and miles, a better view than the highest mountain. The thought made his stomach tighten, because a single slip would be irrevocably fatal, but at the same time… to breathe the air and see the world like the gods themselves would be worth any risk he could imagine. "C-could you…?" He motioned delicately to the saddle, his eyebrow raised inquisitively. He immediately regretted his question.
Callie's mouth opened in shock, and as she recoiled from him she covered herself with her wings, even her tail coiling around her waist and draping over her lower torso. "I-!" She looked utterly scandalized, her eyes wide as saucers, and she was silenced for the first time since he had met her. His face ignited with panic and hasty desperation as he vomited forth apologies and self-recriminations and waving explanations of his ignorance of the social mores in the situation of asking a wyvern for a ride- wait, yeah, that word was just as tricky as he had suspected.
Finally, Callie offered him a reprieve, in the form of a slight giggle and a placing of her claw atop his head in a gentle pat, and, relieved to have escaped his anger at his incautious proposition, he let his shoulders slump as he offered her a lopsided grin. She beamed up at him, her smile bright, and they laughed together, long and loud. When silence fell, it felt as if something had fled the room, something cold and hostile, and in its absence they were free to relax.
Relaxing, George's body reminded him sharply, was definitely in order. He stretched, glancing around the room once more. "Well, I said I would bring you here to be safe, and it looks like your wing isn't hurting you so much anymore-" Callie self-consciously closed the wide spread of her wings, looking guilty at the observation despite George's grin, "so I should probably let you rest to finish healing up. Do you, ah, mind if I make use of the couch I saw out there? At least till the morning?" He motioned with a thumb back to the previous room, but his face fell as he saw the hesitation on hers.
She looked to the ground, folding her wings in front of her, and swaying on one leg and her tail. She cast gazes from him and back to the floor, and then again - and then to the padded nest across the room. "Couch is… flat," Callie explained carefully. "Sat on it bigform. Cushions popped." Her eyes didn't meet his. "Not comfortable."
"I've slept on worse," George laughed. "I mean, I-" He paused, understanding arriving fashionably late to this conversation.
"Dummy," Callie muttered under her breath, pouting.
George looked over to the nest. It did look more comfortable. "Well… perhaps it would be… safer for us both if I slept in here," he said, and this time, though he knew he lied, it didn't tear at his stomach. "After all…"
"Bad dragons," Callie offered, helpfully.
"Bad dragons could come," George agreed, his cheeks heating to a boil. They both glanced to the nest, and then to each other. "So I should stay."
"Stay," she agreed, looking down, and then back up, and stepping towards him. He swallowed, his throat tight.
"I'll just…" George started lamely, rolling his shoulders back to dislodge his pack. He placed it, along with his bow and quiver, on the smooth stone floor. He brushed his hand against his sword hilt, and with a nervous nod he levered at his sword belt, not noticing the way that motion drew heat to the wyvern's cheeks. The sword and belt dropped also to the ground, and George paused. He was still dressed in the clothes he had worn up the mountain-
"Do you sleep in all those?" Callie asked, surprised. George blushed, shaking his head, and soon more and more fabric tumbled to the ground like leaves in autumn. In a moment he stood in a long undershirt and his underwear, feeling decidedly more naked than he actually was, though perhaps the eyes wandering over him had something to do with that. When he met her gaze, she offered him only the smallest of smiles, before flicking her eyes back to his shirt without a word, and then back to his face. It soon, too, flopped to the cold stone below.
Callie led the way towards the nest, but as she did, George witnessed her stretch luxuriously. His heart pounded as he noticed the triangle of fabric below her tail fade from sight, leaving only pale cheeks rolling before him, and when she turned to glance back at him, he could tell her upper garment had also disappeared. 'Oh, hells…'
Climbing onto the inclined nest, Callie dropped onto her foreclaws, and the view from behind taunted George's eyes for only a fragment of a heartbeat before her tail interjected, and then she stretched onto the bed, rolling onto her side, her eyes seeking out his, which were suddenly on their best behavior. He, too, leaned down onto the bed, stretching out beside her, a gap a body wide empty between them, though their cheeks mutually burned with frustration at that boundary. Their heartbeats counted out the seconds as they settled into the bed, comfortable except for the agony of separation, the torture of anticipation…
Callie shivered, reaching out to grasp a blanket, and George saw a chance, took it before he let himself understand what it could mean. "Cold?" he asked, a counterfeit casualness in his voice, and she glanced back at him, her eyes reflecting the dancing torchlight dimly as she nodded. He swallowed - the step was in front of him, but to take it…
"Well, then, come closer."
It was done, then. She scooted against him, her eyes communicating a gratitude she could never utter, and her naked body touched his. It was as if her soft skin contained an electric charge all its own, and it was all he could do to keep from jumping free of his own skin. Instead, he lifted his arm out of the way, and she lifted her head in turn, folding her wing tight against her body as she pressed close to him. His arm slid under her head, and she rested upon it, letting her own other wing spread across him like another blanket. They shifted as they pulled covers over them, shrouding their bodies in the blankets, leaving only their faces free. Those turned towards each other, eyes wide and dancing, cheeks glowing, words contentedly leaving lips free and unengaged.
He let his gaze turn to the ceiling as he sighed, but his arm squeezed her more tightly against him, and she nuzzled into his shoulder, her leg crossing over his possessively. His heart beat a staccato drumbeat at the soft feeling of something brushing, pressing against his side, and he was suddenly conscious of a growing concern starting its trek skyward, lifting the blanket in a rising peak. He had never done anything like this - well, anything, period - with the maidens back at the Capital. And now he was… what, exactly?
He was distracted by a responding long sigh from beside his chest, and he felt Callie press against him gently, her muscles loosening as she exhaled. Her nose flared as she sniffed at the air around them, and her eyes closed, a sound almost like a purr coming from deep in her chest. "Comfy," she declared, whisper-soft, her smile fading into relaxed comfort. "This is… nice…"
George nodded, and let his hand pass down her back. After an initial jerk that made him pause, she nodded, and as his hand slid up and down her spine, she exhaled once more, a voiced longing that pressed him to continue. He let his fingers explore her satin skin, the lines of her shoulders, the muscles that lined them - powerfully, but loosening. His hand lifted to her head, and she cooed as he combed her hair lightly with his fingers, wandering down her neck, to the sides where her ear-fins drooped in repose, even to her brows. He lingered long there, repeating the gesture again and again, until he finally became restless. Her breaths were slow and steady, even when his greedy fingers trespassed further, beyond the borders of her face, touching her cheeks, even - so daring! - a single finger tracing one plump lip. He felt her head move in response, and that gave him courage to wander further afield, to the hollows and slopes of her neck, gentle brushes along skin as smooth as eggshell.
This was wrong. He was going too far, too close… if he did this, then how could he return to the Orders? To lay with her would be unforgivable, would cost him everything…
His eyes watched her, the way her lips gaped open, the way she didn't flinch away, as his fingers proved their bravery beyond all measure by emerging onto the slopes of her upper chest, tiptoeing towards the heights of her ample breast. Her closed eyelids didn't so much as flicker, her breath faintly resembling a meek snore, and doubt set in as he swallowed against a tight throat. Reluctantly, half in cowardice and half in creeping realization, he let his fingers withdraw, back up her neck, to stroke once more down her hair. His dread was realized as, just as he stroked her hair down her back, she pressed her face against his chest softly and murmured dreamily, "Da…"
His face fell, and he nodded, only to himself. Surrounded in blankets that smelled of her past, and with no future to offer her, George considered the featureless dark above him, his hand yielding into stillness. He felt as if he were falling, as if from the heavens themselves, coming back down to earth. He had been- what had he been thinking? She was…
His jaw set, George ordered his aching muscles, his wounded mind, his yearning desire, to slip into oblivion. Tomorrow would be here soon, and then, his quest waited for him. He just wished his insubordinate heart didn't ache in his chest, crying silent tears into its bed until it, too, fell asleep.
The nest-cave had been finished by Callie's parents, and to offer ventilation for their fires and light during some hours of the day, cracks in the cavern wall had been chiseled open to the outside. Through these, the morning light shined golden into the chamber where their daughter rested against George, but at the first gleaming brush of that light, George's eyes snapped open. He disentangled himself from her embrace, carefully not looking at her nakedness, and with feline grace slid down and off the mattress atop the nest, his expression grave.
His sleep had been haunted by nightmares. The last image he could recall was his own face, blindfolded but weeping golden fire, his mumbling lips chanting words in a voice that did not belong to him. The dream gripped at his shoulders, leaving him trembling with an emotion he could not name, but he knew that it wasn't that feeling that he was trying to flee.
He dressed silently, taking back up clothes, pack, sword belt, quiver, bow. As he picked up the last, he reached back to his quiver in a long-honed habit, counting his remaining arrows. Only a few were left serviceable after his battle in the snowfield, but it would have to be enough. He drew one out before him, eyeing the fletching, checking that the shaft was still straight, the arrowhead - gleaming with golden hunger. Despite himself, his eyes passed over the room, back to where Callie lay in innocent slumber.
With a snarl, he thrust the darkening shaft back into his quiver, and turned to leave. He had a quest to complete, and then this could be all over.
Moments later, he exited the cave, sliding the door closed behind him. Inside, a voice howled to be let free, to speak its part, but he strangled it - thinking of what could have been would serve no purpose now. He had no choices. He had nothing to decide. There was only the mission, and then all could be put back to order, his rebellious heart first and foremost.
He was on the trail leading away from the cliffside when he paused. One of his hapless hands had reached into his pocket, and discovered the small crystal still trapped within. Miraculously, it had survived the battle with the snow lady the previous day, and it gleamed in the morning light, sending azure ghosts dancing over the stones as he turned it slowly between his fingers. Simon's gift, the one that could summon help… he wouldn't need it. His heart was weary enough without seeing his friend once more. But, if he left it for… her, then maybe…
Maybe she wouldn't wake up alone again, abandoned, just like her parents had done. Maybe she wouldn't cry herself to sleep in that nest, over and over again. Maybe she could have a future she could look forward to, instead of being haunted by an empty past full of answerless questions. Maybe she would have something from meeting George, instead of just pain and doubt.
The thoughts, the guilt, flayed George where he stood, till it felt like his nerves sparked nakedly against the chill morning air. His hand tightened so hard upon the crystal that he feared he would break it - 'Do it!' - and ruin it all. If he could leave it with her, then… this would be okay. Somehow. But how could he muster the nerve to walk back into that cave, where she slept, where he… wanted… to…
George turned, his teeth gritted, but didn't manage a single step before he noticed he wasn't alone. Someone stood between him and the entrance to the cave.
The woman was short, and had wings at the end of her arms, but there all comparisons to Callie ended. Her bat-like wings were a deep violet, with a thin layer of fur, and the hooked claws that served as fingers lacked scales. Instead of horns, atop her head were towering, rodent-like ears, also furred in deep purple. Her hair was cropped short, ending at her neck's nape, but much of it had been turned up and forward, falling over one of the woman's eyes. She wore little - a chestwrap and skirt in the same color cloth as her fur - and the dusky flesh that showed revealed tight, pronounced muscle, including her defined abs and powerful legs. Those furred feet ended in hooked claws that gripped the stones below her feet, and despite the awkwardness of those talons she strutted forward with impervious confidence, a fanged smirk upon her lips. "Well now, boytoy, nice of you to come out before it got too bright. Shame you left your little lizard friend in the cave; won't she be upset that we snatched you out from under her nose!" Her voice was rough and throaty, and she swayed her hips as she stalked closer, a predator cornering its prey.
George stared at the woman with a flat glare, and the glow in his eyes wasn't just the dawning sunlight. "Get out of my way. I'm done with interruptions."
Her smile was a predator's ready maw. "Good! I wanted a toy with some fight in him. It'll keep things interesting, till I break you in." She grinned as he drew and nocked his arrow. "Watch out, prettyboy. I bite."
'Another person to hurt.' George watched her come, pretending not to notice the way the bowstring quivered in his hand, the way the glow sparked and died instantly. "Get out of the way," he demanded, wincing at the quaver in his voice.
The arrowtip circled, fell. His gaze dropped to his feet in surrender. 'I'm the monster here.'
In a moment, the arrow and bow went up, replaced by the shining length of his sword. "I'm not here to hurt you," he insisted, "but I won't-"
"Talk, talk," she groused, then inhaled deeply. She was almost to him, definitely within reach, but then, as she opened her mouth wide… everything was agony. The world itself shook as if it were coming apart. His head hurt, expanded, threatened to split his skull. His sword dropped from numb fingers, and he sank to his knees, pressing ineffectual hands to his ears to stop… the sound? The pain?
He looked up into the woman's mirthful smirk, and noticed her nod beyond him, to someone behind him. The piercing sound was dying, and he could almost hear again… but all he could hear was…
It was a song, wordless, like every lullaby that the mother he had almost forgotten had sung to him, before he was himself yet. It was soft, and comforting, like a small blanket, like the unforgettable scent of safety, of love. It was… beautiful…
George's eyes closed as he fell forward, but he never hit the ground.
When Callie emerged from the cave, hours later, all her wide, panicked eyes found was a sword, laying forgotten on the stone path leading away from her nest. All else was gone.
Author's Note: Whew. Got this one in, at least. Deadline's coming up for my yearbook obligations, and I have a convention trip next week, so… here's hoping I can keep up the pace despite the hurdles flying my way. Call me superstitious, but this convention trip is the same one I went on while I was working on Chapter 2… and stopped, overwhelmed, for far too long. Defying this curse, fighting for this deadline, will be a declaration of my intent to keep writing. I have so many stories to tell, I can't let myself drop the pen once more… wish me luck.
Speaking of what is to come: next chapter begins the second phase of this story. The three protagonists have all had their turns, so now we go back around one more time before the concluding four chapters. Just know that there is one unavoidable oddity in the timeline that will emerge in these chapters. I'll remind people later, but due to a certain event, one character's timeline isn't quite synchronized with the other two. Think of it like a week. To be completely arbitrary, chapters 1 and 2 take place on, say, Sunday - George shoots down Callie Sunday night. Monday has Roger's trip into town and rendezvous with Lacey; Simon's meeting with Eli and talk with John, and George's ascent up the mountain thus far, up until he goes to bed with Callie. So, with that in mind, Tuesday will have chapters 9 and 10 for Roger, and eventually 13 and 14 for George, but… Simon is stuck in Monday, since we haven't yet seen how Mary's situation resolves. Just know that I can't advance him without revealing something with someone else, so… yeah. Time shenanigans. I honestly wish I had a place to make all the, ah, 'inside baseball' commentary on these stories like that, especially considering the little details I worked into this particular chapter that will be crucial to the entire series, but perhaps that will come in time.
Finally, a word to my readers. Thanks for reading my work. I would love to hear from you - FFN is the one site that remains silent, and that is a bit discouraging, since it is where I got my start - but I still thank you for coming on this journey with me. I won't say yet how far we have to go, but know I have plans… plans… plans…
And yet, too few plans that include sleep. I'll have to plan to fix that.