In the night a story told
The one that fled and now is cold.
Ferrian sat in the darkness, on the edge of the flickering firelight, as close to the heat as he could bear. He had made up a couple of torches, as well, soaked in alcohol and ready to be lit the instant anything even looked like it was going to leap out of the shadows at him.
The spider-things were back. He could see them, creeping about just outside the circle of light; could hear the faint, whispering rustle as they moved. They did not approach him however, keeping well back from the fire. They seemed to be congregating at the base of one of the huge trees, presumably where the Muron corpse had fallen.
Good, Ferrian thought fiercely. Let them eat that thing, not me!
Sitting there in the eerie silence, beneath the looming trees, with strange things scuttling around him in the darkness, Ferrian felt gut-wrenchingly helpless and alone. It wasn't the possibility of death that scared him – that had already come to pass, although he wasn't keen on being slowly digested while still conscious by some plant thing, or carried off by Murons for Gods-knew-what purpose.
But he was mortally afraid for his friends.
Mekka had been gone a long time, and Hawk was still out there, somewhere. Ferrian had no way of knowing whether they were lying dead somewhere or not. He couldn't stand just sitting here, waiting for them.
He stared miserably into the shadows. He had even dropped his damned Sword again!
His hands curled into fists. He was sick and tired of feeling so useless! If those stupid spider-plants hadn't attacked him, he could have defended himself against the Muron easily. He would have sliced its horrid head off...
Instead, he was forced to lie there, immobilised, listening helplessly to everything happening around him. The entire time he'd been tangled up in those vines, he had contemplated summoning the Winter, but had not been able to bring himself to do it. His friends had been too close.
Gritting his teeth in frustration, he resented the Winter's lack of subtlety. Either he summoned it, and all hell broke loose, or he did nothing, and sit around hoping to be rescued.
Neither option was acceptable.
And he was fed up with being captured, fed up with his friends putting their lives in danger to try and get him back…
What do those Murons WANT with me?!
Had they tracked him all the way from the valley? It was an appalling thought, but it was possible. If true, it meant they no longer needed Arzath, or, more likely, the sorcerer was now useless to them. So they had come after Ferrian instead...
Obviously, they wanted his magic for some foul purpose that Ferrian could not fathom. He did not want to know, and he was definitely not going to give it to them.
The next time a Muron touched him, he WOULD summon the Winter, and rip it to shreds…
If he managed to get his Sword back, he vowed that he would never lose it again.
Some time later – Ferrian reckoned that it must be near dawn, though inky blackness still pooled around the trees – he was sitting in the same place by the fire, staring dejectedly into the shadows, when he heard a thrashing sound from behind him.
Leaping to his feet at once, he thrust a torch into the flames and spun.
Something silvery flashed in the shadows, reflecting the firelight. A few moments later, a figure materialised behind it.
It was so covered in black blood and filth that it took Ferrian several seconds to recognise that it was Hawk.
The Freeroamer stumbled into the clearing, wobbling on his feet. “Finally...” he sighed. He tossed Ferrian the Sword of Frost. “Cool sword,” he said, then staggered over to the fire and slumped down in front of it.
“Hawk!” Ferrian gasped. Then he turned and searched the darkness, but no one else appeared.
“Wait… where's Mekka?”
Hawk lifted his head with an effort. He frowned at Ferrian, then looked around. “Mekka? I thought he was here?”
“Here? He told me he was going to help you!”
Hawk shook his head. “Haven't seen him since he went after you,” he replied.
“Oh no...”
Hawk fell onto his back on the ground, and closed his eyes. “I wouldn't worry,” he murmured. “He does this sometimes...”
“Does what? Disappears without telling anyone?”
“Yep.”
Ferrian frowned anxiously.
“Look,” Hawk sighed. “He probably found me, saw that my head was still attached to my body, was bitterly disappointed, and flew away.”
“Hawk!” Ferrian exclaimed. “Don't joke! He could be out there injured or… worse...”
“Kid,” Hawk pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing. “You didn't see what he did to that Muron back there. If anything is going to get Mekka, it sure as hell ain't a Muron.”
When Ferrian still looked concerned, Hawk went on, “Mekka knows this forest. He probably knows it better than anyone. He'll be all right.”
Ferrian nodded reluctantly. Hawk's words were reassuring, but worry still played havoc with his dead insides. Snuffing his torch out in the dirt, he sat down slowly, facing outwards into the darkness.
He hoped that Mekka was all right.
Dawn came grudgingly, as though it resented making the effort, but eventually, grey light began filtering down through the high canopy. A chorus of peculiar birdsong broke out with it, like an ode to the gloom.
Ferrian maintained the fire, sat in silence, or paced around the clearing restlessly. Hawk had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. Ferrian envied him. He never felt tired any more, or the urge to sleep, though he could – sort of – if he really tried. Or at least, he could go into the white space inside his head, the one with the crystal, where the Dragon lived… but he did not like going there any more.
The Dragon could no longer be trusted. He did not like her taking over his body without his knowledge, forcing him to use magic or manipulating his thoughts. After what had happened with the Winter, he needed to be more careful; he needed to retain control of himself.
She no longer sang to him, remaining quiet and hidden, somewhere in the depths of his mind.
Ferrian preferred to stay awake, instead.
Hawk slept until well after what Ferrian guessed to be midday: he couldn't be sure in the misty half-light.
Mekka had still not returned.
Ferrian took a torch, his Sword and one of the cooking pots and ventured off the path in search of a stream. After awhile, he found one. Giant butterfly-like fungi were gathered around it, growing on the enormous roots of the trees.
Ferrian approached them warily, reaching out and poking one with his Sword.
Thankfully, it did not move.
He gathered water and followed his slashed trail back to the clearing, and almost dropped the pot in surprise.
Mekka was sitting there, beside the fire, as though he'd never been gone.
“Where… where were you?” Ferrian exclaimed.
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“Around,” the Angel replied vaguely.
Ferrian noticed that a change had come over him. Mekka did not appear to be particularly injured, at least as far as he could see, but the Angel had withdrawn back into his old self, brooding and gloomy, saying little.
With great discomfort, Ferrian set the pot onto the fire to warm and retreated quickly to the cold fringe of the clearing, shaking Hawk awake as he went.
“Told you,” Hawk said, giving him a groggy smile as he awoke.
Ferrian sat down again by the bushes, but still felt that something wasn't right.
They continued their journey after Hawk had cleaned himself up and tended to his wounds, which fortunately were not too serious, and after Hawk and Mekka had eaten a little. The Freeroamer took the lead once more, this time with the Sword of Frost in hand.
Mekka resumed his place at the rear of their party, but lagged a little further behind than he had previously. Every time Ferrian looked back to check on him, the Angel was staring aside into the trees, or at the ground, and would not meet his gaze.
Ferrian frowned.
As evening fell and the gloom began to deepen, they searched around for a suitable clearing to make camp for the night. They found one beneath an almost perfect circular hole in the canopy. Snowflakes drifted gently downwards and the clouds had thinned to permit a weak, watery moonlight which made the carpet of snow glow softly.
Hawk went off to find some kindling to make a fire, leaving Mekka and Ferrian alone in the clearing.
Mekka turned to wander off into the trees as well, but Ferrian stopped him.
“Mekka.”
The Angel paused on the edge of the clearing.
“I… uh… need to ask you something.”
Mekka said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
Ferrian swallowed. In the twilight, with those intensely black wings, he did look rather scary. But being called a Muron by an actual Muron was a few steps above Hawk's joke, and could not have been an easy thing to hear.
He suppressed a shudder.
“It's...” he took a deep breath. “It's about Aari.”
Mekka was a statue. After a long moment, he half-turned, slowly. Ferrian noticed that it was his blind eye that he turned.
“When you two were young,” Ferrian went on, “Aari said that you talked about leaving Arkana together. But one day, you just left without him.” He hesitated. “You… you never told him why.”
A deep silence fell. Mekka stood there so long that he could have been one of the trees. Then he turned away, and Ferrian was certain that he was simply going to stalk off into the trees, but he turned, all the way this time, though still could not look at Ferrian. Very slowly, he crouched in the snow, and placed his forehead against his clasped hands.
“I could not tell him,” he said, so softly that it was almost a whisper.
Ferrian came forward a few steps. “But… why? He was your best friend. You could have told him anything.”
Mekka shook his head, eye closed. “That is why,” he replied. “I… did not want to hurt him.”
“It seems you hurt him anyway.”
A look of great distress came upon Mekka's face. He swallowed several times, as though struggling to hold back his emotions. Finally, he took a deep breath to compose himself. “Sit down,” he told Ferrian.
Ferrian did so, slowly.
Mekka lowered himself to the ground as well, resting his arms on his knees. He was quiet for several moments more, apparently trying to decide what to say, or how best to say it. Snowflakes settled on his dark hair, and stuck to his feathers. Finally, he began to speak.
“When I was an infant,” he said, “my mother tried to murder me.”
Ferrian went still in shock, but said nothing.
“Black feathers are unusual colouring for an Angel,” he went on. “So rare, in fact, that it is seen as a sign of evil. Black is trigon. Black is corruption. Black is a hated colour.
“Angels are a highly superstitious people. Perhaps even more so than Humans. They are very fond of prophecies, portents of doom, that kind of thing. They take them seriously.”
Mekka paused for a moment. “There is a particular prophecy, a famous one, that tells of a black-winged Angel bringing destruction to Arkana.”
He closed his eye. “My mother was one of those who believed in this. So you see, when I was born, she hated and feared me at once. She was unable to see me as her son, her eyes saw only black feathers and they terrified her. I was nothing but a foul, corrupted thing that had to be gotten rid of.
“So she took me to the Holy Tower in the middle of the night, and begged the Syncwarden there to open the Dark Gate and throw me into the pit.”
Ferrian stared at him, horrified.
Mekka swallowed. “Fortunately for me, I suppose, the Syncwarden at the time was a kind woman, a mother herself. She could not bear the thought of throwing a helpless, newborn child into the endless pit, even a cursed one. However, she understood my mother's distress. She took me from my mother's arms and assured her it would be done.
“Instead, she raised me in secret. Hid me away in a storage room where no one would hear my cries. I spent the first few years of my life knowing nothing of the world but crates and boxes.
“Of course, her secret was eventually discovered, and she paid the price for it: her family disowned her. In shame, she gave up her position as Keeper of the Gates. I do not know what became of her after that; she disappeared.
“But by then I was old enough to escape, and I did. I fled into the forest. For a time, people hunted me. It became a kind of sport, both for them and for me. At one point, I believe, there was even a bounty on my head.
“But I hid amongst the vast trees, and they could not catch me, and eventually everyone lost interest.
“As I grew older, I became more brazen, and started venturing up into the city. I stole things – food, mostly – but sometimes trinkets or other random items, just because I could. I spied on people, learned their secrets. I lurked about the alleyways and rooftops, only at night, only in shadows, because I was far too conspicuous in daylight against the white stone buildings.
“And then, one evening, I met Aari.”
Mekka shook his head. “He was the only Angel I ever met that did not hate or fear me, or desire to kill me.
“Instead, unbelievably, he wanted to be my friend.
“He was amused at my thievery, and wanted me to show him how to do it. I refused. But he kept following me around. Somehow, he was able to track me down when no one else could.
“Aari had friends of his own, many of them. He was popular, well-liked. He came from a loving family. I had no idea why he wished to hang around with me.
“But he also had a fierce rebellious streak. He loved getting into mischief. He was adventurous and daring, as was I. He considered most adults to be pompous and annoying, and Fleetfleer stuffy and boring. We found that we had quite a few things in common.
“So, I started showing him things. Secret places that I had discovered, in the city and in the forest below.”
Mekka took a deep breath. “One of those places was Grath Ardan.”
He looked off into the trees for a moment, his face pale and haunted, as though the ghosts of that hidden library stalked close around him. “The main entrance to the library is sealed and guarded,” he continued quietly. “It lies on the forest floor underneath Fleetfleer. But there is another, secret entry in the forest, under a mossy slab.
“We went inside; myself, Aari and two of his friends. His friends did not trust me; they had come along out of loyalty to Aari only, and fled almost as soon as we had entered. I think it was not the ancient library that they feared, but me: they thought that I was leading them into a trap.”
Mekka shook his head sadly. “Aari, however… Aari wanted to go on, and yet… he couldn't. He was excited, but he was terrified. He had never known that he was claustrophobic. It caught him by surprise and disappointed him.
“He tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, tried to force himself to follow me into the darkness. But he was sweating and shaking, and could not breathe properly. He could barely make his feet move.
“Finally, he turned back after the others.
“I stood there with my torch, watching his shame, his embarrassment, his sadness trailing behind him as he went, and I was left to explore Grath Ardan alone.”
Mekka closed his eye for a long moment, lowering his head. “I tried to make it up to him by bringing books out for him to read. They cheered him up immensely. He was fascinated by them; he kept asking me to go back and fetch more.
“I did so, encouraged by his enthusiasm. We spent many nights hidden away in corners of the city, poring over the books, discussing them, imagining adventures that we could have.
“Eventually, our conversations turned to speculating on the possibility of leaving Arkana, of running away.”
Mekka took a deep breath. He was shivering a little, though Ferrian knew it was from more than the cold. “But then… I… I was caught.
“There were guards waiting for me, just inside the secret entrance to Grath Ardan. I suspect that one of Aari's other friends had told them, revealed its location, perhaps out of jealousy that Aari was spending so much time with me, that I had become his best friend.
“The guards ambushed me, and this time I could not escape.
“They…” Mekka swallowed. “They took me to the Governor's office. It was late at night, but he was waiting there for me. They took me up the white stone steps and through the gilded doors, and locked them behind us, and made me kneel before the Governor's polished desk.
“He looked at me as though I were vermin. He accused me of all manner of crimes, things I had nothing to do with, but he insisted that they were my fault. Major crimes, minor misdemeanours: all my doing. He called me every vile name that he could think of.
“Then he walked around his desk and hit me in the face with his pudgy, jewelled fist.
“Then he hit me again.
“And again.
“And when he was done hitting me, he ordered his guards to continue.”
Mekka stopped talking, struggling to go on. “I… let them,” he continued finally, in a whisper. “I lay there on the floor and let them beat me. I made no effort to fight back. I did not struggle or flinch. Some part of me was glad that they were hurting me, was relieved. I felt that I deserved to be punished.
“I believed that I was a thing of evil; a freak, an aberration that should have been thrown through the Dark Gate.
“I believed that there was no place for me in the world, let alone Arkana.”
Tears glimmered on his cheeks in the soft moonlight. “I… woke up at dawn lying at the bottom of the steps in the plaza, covered in blood and…” he lifted a gloved hand and touched the black patch over his eye, “having lost the vision in my left eye.
“I…” he shook his head. “I could not face Aari. I did not want him to see me… disfigured. I did not want him to find out what had happened, because I knew that he would have blamed himself, for asking me to go into Grath Ardan and steal books for him.
“So… so I fled. I left Arkana without seeing Aari, without talking to him, without saying goodbye.
“He tracked me down, a year later, found me living in Trystania. He demanded to know why I had left, and what had happened to my eye. I refused to tell him. I made up some excuse about getting into a fight, but I could not bring myself to tell him the truth about why I had left.
“One day, I lost my temper with him, and he ran away and joined the Freeroamers. I followed him, having a change of heart. I wanted to apologise, to explain everything, but he refused to see me.”
He shook his head, grief-stricken. “He died hating me, thinking that I betrayed him.”
A tear dripped off his chin into the snow. “I don't know what I'm doing here,” he said despondently. “I am worthless. Alone. I have no one. I left behind the greatest friend that I was ever going to have.
“The Murons were right. I might as well be one of them. I should have… taken up their offer...”
Ferrian felt shattered at his words. “Don't say that!” he said fiercely. “You're not alone! The whole time you were gone after rescuing me, I was worried about you! And Hawk worries about you too, even though it doesn't seem like he does! And… and you're definitely not the only person who feels worthless...”
Mekka lifted his head and met Ferrian's eyes, at last.
Hawk paused on the edge of the snowy clearing, arms full of sticks. After a moment, he backed away, very carefully and quietly, and found another clearing to build a fire.
When, some time later, Ferrian and Mekka wandered out of the shadowy trees, he had a hot bowl of soup ready. He handed it to the Angel wordlessly.
Ferrian came and sat closer to the fire than he normally did.