7. Old Fables tell New Tales
Somewhere amidst the labyrinth of narrow tunnels, staircases, and dimly lit passages of the Middle Area, there lies an expanse of lands that once belonged to the Inner and Outer Towers—incomplete blueprints of what could have been, now abandoned by their divine architects to the forgotten archives of mediocrity. Monochrome fields of tall grass, wheat, and stunted trees entirely devoid of motion grow from beds of ashen dirt, miles and miles of lifeless imitation stretching as far as the eye can see.
Akraptor wanders the grey seas, legs leaden with journey, a hand trailing the stalks. His gaze roams the discoloured distance, led by aimless swirls of shinsu-luminescence drifting above. Between the moments of light and dark, there are traces of a memory or two surrendered to time, but they fade just as quickly as they manifest. It’s not something that bothers him anymore. There are no tears left to cry.
Despite the lack of any climate whatsoever, his close-cropped silver hair stands as a phantom chill passes through his neck. He recognizes that chill. Sounds form syllables, whose culmination brings a familiar name to his lips.
“Headon.”
A droning laughter fills the harsh silence.
“Won’t you turn around to greet your first visitor in over a century?” The Administrator buzzes with enthusiasm.
“Has it been that long?” Akraptor replies, almost dismissive.
“Exactly one-hundred and fifty years.”
“I see.”
There is a pause, before Headon breaks the silence again.
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“You aren’t afraid of me anymore.”
Akraptor scoffs. “What do I have to lose? There is no escape from the endless Middle Area. Not without a guide.”
“Did you not make a promise to your beloved?”
Akraptor stops, hand that was trailing the overgrowth now tracing the golden ring he’d pierced to his right ear. He tried. For a long time, he did. He swears it. But for a man as ordinary as he, who has not even become a regular, the Middle Area may as well be a prison.
“What if I told you your sentence has come to an end?”
“Don’t.” Akraptor clenches his fists without realizing it. “Hope is too potent a poison for me to endure.”
“Oh come now,” Headon drawls. “Your narrative used to be so much more colourful. How dull it has become to read your story.”
Akraptor chooses not to respond. There is no victory, nor anything to be gained from quarrelling with a being that has lived an eternity. Then, the Administrator speaks the name, no more than a low, feather-light remark, yet it rings as clear as day.
“Arie Rose Zahard.”
Akraptor swings a feral gaze at Headon, his face twisted with an expression he didn’t think he could make again. The damned rabbit floats above the lifeless reeds, indifferent to the sudden surge of emotion.
“Is she alive?” Akraptor blurts. “What about Gwen? How are they? Where can I find them?”
“That is all I am permitted to say.” Headon’s beady eyes gleam with the brilliance of a cold blue star, the first real colour Akraptor has seen in ages. “But one thing is certain.”
Headon points up with a thick, bloated finger. “The answer lies up there.”
There is a chime of vintage bells, a wintry draft and the fragrance of spring-kissed cherry blossoms. Hope is a shy lemon blush in the vast blue, an image whose colours fill in from the corners. Akraptor remembers the fatigue that comes with daybreak, the exertion of yawning, of tensing and untensing, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He wonders how many seasons it has been since he’s had a cup of tea in the morning.
“So?” Headon glides down into the reeds. “Will this old fable tell a new story?”
The Administrator extends a three-fingered hand.
“Will you climb?”