ZEPHYR RAVENSWOOD

The drizzles of rain pattered down heavily while singing a sombre song, and in its midst he saw the light of an high-up vertical box, sitting upon a long metallic pole, go from green to red; looking below the changed light, he saw himself come to a stop at the edge of the road, not his new self that watched from a corner, a place where shadows and darkness caved to dine, but his old self, the boy of sixteen he used to be. It was a sight that made him shiver slightly.

A full moon hung from the starless weeping sky, shining its light on the empty roads of asphalt which travelled as endless as the dark stares from above, but that light could not touch him where he watched. It ran from him, it ran from where he stood within the shadows, as though he was a leper, and it, a healthy noble.

He was Zephyr now, but from where he stood he could see himself, he could see his old being, Jon, but he could not see his old features, as he could not see anyone else around the road-crossing his old self stood upon waiting. The hair, eyes, lips, and the drawings of the face of his old self had all been gone, faded, but he knew it was him, he remembered the fleece brown hoodie he wore which shielded his head from the rain, he remembered this place, it was here it all started, he could not dare to forget.

The lights came then, the headlights of a car from the road on the left, it was close but felt and as well looked to be far away. Along with the shadows surrounding him, he watched the car draw near fast, swerving and screeching as though the person behind the wheels was stuck in a trance and had forgotten the workings of a steering. And as suddenly as the lights appeared, so did a girl in a white gown. From behind him she came—not the new him, the old him—running and dancing beneath the sky’s tears into the road with a mind to cross to the other side. She was little, as little as a girl in her early teenage years could be, and she no doubt had the wisdom of such age.

It was all reflex now, he had since known he was in a dream. What was happening before him had all passed, so for him to see it all again, it was no doubt the work of the night’s sleep, but his body still dared to move to her aid. He wanted to run away from the shadows and into the light as the car drew closer, far closer than it had been, but it was impossible, he could not move, not now, not ever. He was a watcher, a bystander, it was not his job to intervene, he noticed that much as he struggled to move, and he noticed as well that it was his old self that would be the help the girl needed and not him.

He turned to shout his mind at his old self, but his voice was lost, it had been long gone, but only now did he notice, and it was all because of the slender black mist that swirled around his throat. It did not hurt, but he could not speak, that was only felicitous to him though, it was not the same for the shadow behind him; that one spoke, in a voice he knew, in a voice he could not forget. It wept at him, his mother’s voice. “You want to do it all again, again?!!” His eyes widened, and his chest tightened, squeezing his heart like a grape in a tightly folded fist. He could not breathe, he could not speak, he could only watch, as the car drew closer, his old self standing still at the edge of the road unmoving, the little girl halting her run to a stop as she saw the lights close in on her, and the dark sky singing a symphony of sorrow while it cried.

He could not bear it, he could not watch her die. She had not died in reality, so why was she about to die in his dream? No! No! It was there now, inches from the girl. His eyes went shut, he forced it shut, and as the wail of the car filled his ears with a crash, he felt his scenery change. The shadow about his neck was gone, and he was no longer standing, he was…

He opened his eyes slowly, and when it fully came about, he shuddered shakily with an inaudible gasp of shock. He was upon her, he had saved her, he had saved… What did he save? He was not sure. He looked at her face, and she looked back at him. What was he looking at? It was true she was looking back at him, but… there was no face. It was pitch black, a small round guise of continuously sinking darkness which looked to have no end. He moved to run, he was frightened, scared, and hyperventilating, but he did not move, it was all in the mind of his mind, he was still on her, stuck to watch the darkness sink until he’s dragged along with it.

The moonlight followed by the sky’s tears finally touched him, but he did not want either of them now. He wanted to run from where he crouched. To the shadows maybe; his mother was there, but he preferred there, he would sink if he remained here, he would sink…

“Seek me.” A voice erupted from the sinking face. Another voice he knew, he had heard it before. It was the same one that bellowed his head when he had asked about the witches. It was the same one. “Seek me!” It said again, louder and fiercely, scaring his ears painfully into tears of red, and this time, into the darkness, he sank, screaming without voice.

And then he awoke to find himself stumbling to the cold floor of his bedchamber, leaving his blanket halfway dropping with him. The pores of his face were weeping just like the starless night sky in his dream, while his hands trembled in fright. He sat up with his unclothed back to the wall, and then folded his fists to curb the terrors they underwent, but they were not easily calmed, they still shivered, frightened by the dark in the dream and the dark of the room. The lamplight had long since extinguished while he slept, leaving his chamber without light and lost in the darkness of night. The moon might have helped if only it wasn’t sleeping and dreaming its own beneath the thick dark blanket of clouds up in its sky-chamber.

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“It’s just a dream,” Zephyr whispered to the faces he saw roaming the dark of his room. None he knew of, none he wanted to know of. “It’s just a dream,” he told himself again, while he watched the faces weep and wail, either in terror or anger, he did not know and he did not want to. They breezed and swirled past him continuously, and he watched them as though he did not see them. He could close his eyes and force himself back to sleep, a plausible option, but this was neither the first nor second time the darkness had come to him after he dreamt; they would swallow him up if he dared sleep now, and he would dream again. The thought of another of that dream left his skin prickly. His hands were still shaking.

And as if to worsen his mood, the voice came again. “Seek me.” He heard it clearly and he shook. He was beyond frightened now, and his hands told him that they were too. It came again. “Seek me.” And he knew then, it was not just a dream. He was not hallucinating now, he was awake, that he was sure of. It came again. “Seek me.” He jumped to his feet in the darkness, pushing the swirling faces into a frantic disorder, as he watched the black for the one that spoke, the one that called to him. Yes, he was being called. It was a call, one he might not be able to reject, one that might plague him continually if he rejected. It came again, this time with a clear indication of where it echoed from. “Seek me.”

Zephyr turned his eyes, which had adjusted to the dark of his chambers, towards the door. The voice was outside, just there. He had to follow it, he told himself. He had to.

He blindly searched for his night robe, and covered his body with it as soon as his hand felt its woollen texture.

He successfully arrived at his chamber’s door, after experiencing a painful mishap of hitting his toe on the chair standing somewhere in the room. It hurt when he did, and the faces had just watched him grunt in pain.

The door creaked as he pulled it open, and outside stood a guard enamelled in silver armour and black cloak. Silver, not gold; his Kingsknights were not yet by his side, a crunching blow to his ribs anytime he thought of it. Half a day was so short, but yet it felt so far.

“My king,” the guard bowed and greeted with a voice softer than butter, anyone would have thought he was a lady if his armet was not off and seated at the side of his feet, showing his broad face beneath black hair dripping at its edges with sweat. He was surprised, anyone would have been if their king was awake past midnight, when even the moon was asleep.

Zephyr looked about the corridor from where he stood at his door, and saw no one but his guard. The voice… he thought, and it came again, this time from the far end which led out of the king’s quarters and into the small yard. It was moving and he was to follow it. He turned to the guard. “Get me a torch or a lamp, any will do,” he told him, commanding. The guard was about to speak, but he did not let him as he added, “Ask no questions and just do what I tell you to.” The guard bowed and hurried away then, his armet remaining where it sat sleeping.

Zephyr sat at the door, resting his back on the frame while he buried his face beneath his arms on his knees. The voice kept calling and he kept hearing. He was tired and exhausted, ever since he arrived, he had been thinking more than he had ever done before. The voice called again, and he folded himself tightly where he sat. It called again, and his body was slowly beginning to fume in annoyance. “I’m coming,” he said softly, replying to the voice’s calls. It called and he replied, and everytime it called, he replied angrier than the last.

It called again, and this time Zephyr screamed in reply, startling the sound of armour to sing terrifyingly, as his guard stumbled backwards with a blazing torch in hand. “Forgive me, my king. I…”

Zephyr jumped to his feet. “It’s okay,” he said, then took the torch from the guard’s grip. “Stay by my door.”

“I have to be with you at all times, my king. I shall hold the torch and lead your way.”

“You shall stay where I say you shall stay, and you shall not argue with me.”

The guard inhaled sharply and bowed. That was all. Zephyr turned and followed the voice through the king’s quarters and into the small yard, what called him was not there, he followed it further past the guards at the holdfast’s door, who tried to accompany him as well, but were commanded to remain, and into the great yard. He stood aimlessly in the midst of the braziers burning brightly in the great yard while he waited for the voice to call again, and it did, this time to his right, he turned and walked, following the voice’s calls until he arrived at where the voice was the loudest.

The wind brought the smell to his nose, the smell of flowers. Roses, violets, lilies, and many others. He could not see them well in the dark, and having a slim idea of where he was, he dared not bring the torch in his hand closer to the ground to see them clearly, they could all catch the blazing fire and cause a disaster. But there was something else he could not see clearly in the dark, this one he took his torch to, uncaring of a disaster if it caught fire. It was a person, he saw now clearly when he was close, standing cloaked in black from head to foot ankle. His chest tightened and his heart raced. “Who are you?” He asked, knowing the person was probably anything but his ally.

The person answered, and it was the voice. The one he heard when he asked about the witches, the one he heard from the depth of darkness in his dream, and the one that called out to him. “The one that brought you back from the dead.”