Jack flew;
aloft on hallowed currents, where wing and wind entwine in languorous dance.
Such heights lacked the substance of the earth; its rolling hills, textured forests, and expansive plains.
Canary considered the difference between land and sky, and how the latter fulfilled its scape instead of landmarks.
‘Such absences are ensconced instead with aetherine motion. Out of airy substance are its features made, but the sky is flighty, one moment a mountain the next a valley.’
One such mountain touched his wingtips and, in a rush, he ascended ever higher into the blue void.
‘It is the rare earthly hill that assists you so,’ he thought at the updraft’s peak, ‘my, I am feeling poetical.’
But just as suddenly the air opened up beneath him and he plunged, only to be caught again by another rising column. In this way he was buffeted and battered by the winds, as the calm summer day became otherwise.
The storm claimed him, unintended, but no less unrelenting in its grip.
The imagined hills of air became realized in dark clouds, and rain began to pelt him, not just from above, but all directions at once. Stinging black hail joined the assault, clutched at his feathers and refused to melt, growing only heavier until, stiffened and encumbered, he could flap no more.
He fell;
haphazardly with useless wings, the natural union of feather and flight broken.
The cruel earth beckoned, and he dreaded their acquaintance even as he plummeted. But at the moment of impact all his furious speed disappeared, and he found himself curiously whole and unbothered by the fall.
‘For this anticipation I find myself gladly unsatisfied,’ he mused.
He took stock of his surroundings, until then unexamined, so sure he was of imminent demise.
Around him extended a vast murder of crows, their limit outside of seeing. They called and croaked, cawed and cackled, a cacophony that swallowed all meaning. They played and preened, petted and pecked, a swarming hive of motion.
But above all else, their activities were gustatory. Some settled atop odd white shrubs and collected red berries from their tips with delicate dartings of their beaks. They scuffled in the dirt, clawing at the ground for grubs and drawing up flesh-pink worms that they swallowed with relish.
The ones that refrained had clearly already been there some time and sat with unpleasantly distended bellies, deigning only to move when a choice gluttonous temptation moved them.
Even as he watched their frantic activity and thrashing of wings threw gussets of rust coloured dust into the air, in ever thickening streams that merged and twined like snakes rising into the storm above.
The scene seemed unnatural, but familiarity felt close at hand, as if it was distorted by a warped lens that could be corrected with only the slightest adjustment of perception.
In his stomach disgust and exhaustion made a vile harmony.
He began to shake, not knowing precisely why.
A curious blue and white berry rolled before him, chased by a waddling bird, horrific in its corpulence.
Unable to stop himself, he traced the path of the fruit back to its source, and the warped world was made clear.
Blood ran thick and old across the ground, drying to dust before the chaos of the ground slung it high into the air; the shrubs were limbs, berries beading blood supped upon delicately by puncturing beaks; the crippled thrashing of the still living slowed in pace to their scavengers enthusiasm; and the dull broken face before him closed its remaining blue eye, resigned to what would come.
----------------------------------------
Jack woke, heart racing, gasping for air. The dream held him still. Every shadow hid a corpse. The nobles had been killed by a stealthy Hiver, he was soaked in blood that had pooled around him. An umbrar waited in the dark, watching, reveling in his fear.
Something touched his shoulder, he jerked away—all reflex—before recognizing the shadow that loomed as Grant’s.
“You cried out in your sleep.”
Jack said nothing, still half-lost. Until, far too late for nonchalance, he answered.
“My apologies, I...”
‘I don’t know what to say.’
He should make an excuse, a flippant deflection, to mollify Grant and send him back to his mat. But he couldn’t find the words, lost in the dread of what he’d be left alone with.
“Walk with me,” Grant murmured and extended a hand.
Jack flinched, but then, curiously, found himself wanting to take the offered hand.
He met Grant’s grip with his own, and was smoothly pulled to his feet.
They left the campsite, carefully avoiding any noise until they’d gained some distance from the sleeping nobles.
A cloudless sky and gibbous moon eased their journey, until the pair settled on a small rise with a clear view of the others.
Grant sat with a sigh, gaze raised to the stars. Jack did the same nearby, hugging his knees to his chest despite the warm night.
“Was it the Hivers or the blackthrive that took to your dreams?” Grant asked candidly.
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Jack couldn’t answer at first, his throat felt thick, but even after clearing it the feeling stayed. Finally, he managed a garbled reply.
“The birds.”
“Ah...,” Grant exhaled long and slow, bringing his head down to look to the ground, “I won’t tell you otherwise, that one weighs on me as well.”
Jack remained quiet, still held partially in memories.
“It does you credit,” Grant continued, “that it’s other’s pain that brings your nightmares. Not that there is any shame in it in either case.”
“They sleep peacefully,” Jack nodded to the campsite, “while I have struggled since. Why am I...”
“To speak frankly, Calre fainted at his first sight of blood.”
Jack looked over.
“Well, a child can’t be expected to-”
“He was fourteen.”
‘Don’t react.’
“Oh?”
“Such decorum!” Grant chuckled, “Doesn’t exactly match the common image of a young noble, hot-blooded and proud, now does it? Cal was a sickly lad, bookish to a fault, very unlike his peers.” Fond warmth was carried in Grant’s tone as he recounted this, but it became sad as he continued. “His life changed when he carded, violence was put upon, and demanded of him. He struggled even as he excelled. Such a temperament is shown little regard in their circles.”
Grant looked at Jack directly then, and even in the darkness, Jack could sense an intensity in his regard.
“Do not let others define your kindness as weakness, your pain for others as flaw. They are precious.”
Jack nodded mutely at this declaration but added, “such things do have value, I would not lose them. Just... it is difficult that they occasionally come at such a high cost.”
Grant went quiet then, as if debating something internally. He scratched fitfully at his rough beard, before speaking with great care.
“There is an elixir that is carried by bondsman, particularly those with young wards,” he paused, “I would not offer this so early if circumstances were different—for most, the mind heals with time—but we approach dangers that you should not be left vulnerable to, and so I go against my own judgment.” Qualifications submitted, he described the effect. “When taken in small doses, it weakens the influence of traumas on the mind, for those who find their grip overwhelming. I would make it available to you.”
Jack considered the offer. He didn’t suspect Grant of duplicity, and the possibility he raised of another fugue during their time with the Hivers held risk. He hadn’t anticipated being pulled so quickly and deeply into his act, the loss of control had frightened him, but there were some transgressions on his mind he couldn’t accept.
“Will it affect my memories?”
“Only your feelings around them. They will become less intense, as if they occurred years ago, but you will retain all.”
“What does a larger dose entail? I would understand the risks, and the mechanism.”
“...Your diligence touches on unpleasant truths,” Grant thought for a time, long enough that Jack wondered if he had rescinded his offer, but finally continued, “When taken in excess, habitually, the user will remove the need for the drug altogether. I cannot say more.”
‘They stop feeling the horror of what they encounter altogether,’ Jack interpreted, ‘it is a dark thing that the most sensitive are remade in such a way.’
Jack considered carefully.
“You know the dose?”
“I know it well.”
And so Jack acquiesced. A small vial exchanged hands, and with only a moment of hesitation, he imbibed it. The sickly sweet taste of green apple, clinging to his tongue long after he swallowed.
"It tastes foul!"
“It's a taste you should remember, there's always a cost to such things," Grant spoke haltingly at first, but quickly found his rhythm. "Now you must speak of the event that torments, I will listen, and cue you if need be. Your thoughts might wander without my guidance, but I will ensure the effect will be limited to only the memories you suffer from,” his voice carried patience, kindness, and familiarity; Jack could feel them.
Warmth began to spread through Jack’s limbs, and a curious drifting of his mind left him feeling distant from reality. He found the prospect of speaking easier than he expected, and so began.
“I noticed the birds first, descending in a dark cloud...”
He spoke for some time, entirely aware, but also knowing that his thoughts felt strange and altered from the norm.
Grant listened, and made soothing sounds when Jack stumbled in his account. Eventually, Jack finished, a timely conclusion as he could feel the strangeness of the drug lifting from his mind, but in their stead other thoughts, particularly those of gratitude, rose.
‘I wish I didn’t have to lie. I wish the nature of your duty and mine could align. I’ve been so afraid. Less for myself than for others, but this is the greater anchor as it means I cannot trust you, because it is not my risk to take... But perhaps we can be friends, even if some things must be kept secret.’
They sat in a companionable silence, feeling the weight of shared vulnerability, but with none of the faint embarrassment men in particular are want to have after such sharing.
“You have been with Calre for a long time?” Jack asked out of the blue.
“Fifteen years. In the early days I was called away frequently to act in service to his family and he was content with his books. Later, it was felt my talents were wasted on one of his disposition. Unfortunately for the few who coveted my skill, we had become closer, and he committed himself to becoming someone... undeniable in their circles.”
“He certainly can carry an air of intimidation. But I think he isn’t quite what I expected either.”
“Oh, he knows his role well. But you’d be surprised how much of the lad who loved nothing so much as catching frogs to sketch on rainy days remains in him.”
“I think I would like to see these sketchings.”
“Hahaha! Oh they were absurd! Imagine a little boy gravely handing you a sketch of a circle with askew limbs protruding every which-way and telling you ‘it’s the idea of a frog’, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t capture the feel of them!”
They spoke late into the night. Jack told Grant of the antics of the nightrunners, and even if details of his own life were sparse Grant didn’t comment.
Eventually the pull of exhaustion became too much, and Jack offered sincere thanks to Grant before retreating to his bedroll.
But sleep was slow to come as new thoughts raced in his mind. It didn’t escape him that many of his early fears had been realized, but had also not amounted to much. The nobles had singled him out, but seemed less bloodthirsty than he had been warned. His cards had proven useful in dangerous circumstances and the caravan was intact.
He still had Jam’s strange efforts with Wyli to navigate, only temporarily put off by extenuating circumstances. He worried for Stroph, who would still be suffering even in the care of Issaiah. The journey so far had been tumultuous, more dangerous than he ever expected. The original motivation of discovering the cover-up he suspected in the Meäl region had been set aside as more pressing events came up. But that had only been half of the drive for his journey, and he’d realized that the other was closer at hand than he’d ever expected. Within the next few days he’d be going into the thick of danger with the nobles, and would observe directly anything related to their carding.
Unable to contain himself, he pushed his attention onto the pair of unusable cards that sat in his perception, feeling the same strange resistance they always offered, never quite managing to be played.
Dart had been clear and frank, it could be years before the cards would function, and more likely they never would. But he still felt for a moment, that they felt a little different, before dismissing the thought as wishful and finally drifting off to sleep.
Visually impaired text to audio description:
An image of a parchment page depicting a set of five frogs drawn in varied styles. They are charmingly crude.
[https://preview.redd.it/63hpg77i3ffb1.png?width=6126&format=png&auto=webp&s=a1598a651a475063753de1bd9ef2e528cdf3bbb4]