My feet hurt. As I trudge through a patch of thick mud, the soles of them throb as if they have thudding heartbeats of their own, pulsing shockwaves of dull pain from within my worn, dirt-covered shoes. My ankles are stiff and heavy as I force them to keep moving.

Around me, a forest sprawls. Shadows of bouncing branches slide over me in a maze of lines, most of them teeming with a kaleidoscope of fiery leaves, auburn and crimson and yellow. I want to stop and gaze at them, to find them pretty, but I can't. Simple joys like that are slippery, dripping through my fingers like rays of cold, weakening sunlight and into dark patches of shade. The corners of my mouth won't lift from their drooping frown.

My toes drag, splashing up watery brown droplets that speckle my trousers. The former indigo of their fabric is slowly but surely retreating, overtaken by the forest's grime, lurking solemnly in the background as dirty streaks scale their creases. Coming to a momentary halt to catch my breath, I peer down at the tiny, murky puddles sitting in pockets of the uneven ground and run my tongue over my cracked lips.

I wonder if I'm allowed to drink water like that. My scratchy throat says yes, but I know deep down it must be wrong. Mother would probably say so. Father would definitely instruct me, very firmly, not to do that. It would be bad for me.

Neither of them are here to tell me anything at all, but I tear my eyes away all the same and carry on, gaze meandering to the cloud-puffed sky instead. The sun has been travelling too as I have; it was poking over the horizon ahead of me when I started walking, but now I have to crane my neck over my shoulder in order to see it disappearing behind the jagged row of mountains. A whole day, gone again. I count it on my fingers and add to it the days before, the other days of autumn forest and puddles and walking. And the day of finding the forest. That might make this day number four.

Or five? Have I lost count already? Frustration jumbles my thoughts, and I give up, curling my hands into fists at my sides as my heels slap the ground, crunching leaves. It only serves to hurt my feet even more.

I want to go home.

A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow thickly, clenched teeth trapping in a whimper. I pull in a shaky inhale. My legs want to collapse, but I have to keep them pressing on, placing one foot in front of the other, getting further and further from the strange, broken place I ran away from five days ago. That wasn't home. I'm just lost, and if I keep looking, I'll find Mother and Father hiding somewhere in the undergrowth or at the end of this shadowy woodland path. They're waiting for me. They must be worried. That's why I have to keep going.

But when I do find them, Mother will pull me into a warm hug. She'll cook me a nice meal and comb her fingers through my hair, and Father will tell me a story. He'll carry me when my feet hurt too much to walk. Then they'll both take me home.

My stomach grumbles. I wrap my arms around my middle, pulling my cloak in as I do so. It's only a summer cloak; the violet material is thin and floaty, only covering the upper half of my torso, and it simply flaps a little in the whistling breeze rather than fighting back the cold. It doesn't make me any less hungry, either.

Mother will have food, I think, stumbling over a tree root that juts from the path. She'll have plenty of food. I'll find her soon.

The sound of running water trickles into my awareness. My head jerks up, something like animalistic instinct drumming in my chest. I change course without thinking and speed up, ducking past bony branches, listening hard for the sound as it morphs from a distant tinkle to a light peel of thunder, though it still feels like forever before I finally see the stream.

Skidding to a stop right before it, I stare. Glittering crystal rivulets clamber over one another and glaze past smooth pebbles, running an impossible race down the slight slope that curves to my left. Sunlight catches on the water in tiny yellow-hued flecks. I drop to my knees and shove my hands into it, trying to capture a pool to drink from, yet my fingers drag instead through wet soil and grit, and the water I collect is tiny. I bring it to my mouth anyway. It drains through the gap between my palms and plops back into the stream, until all I can gather are a few droplets that soak into my tongue.

Disappointment weighs heavy on my chest. My throat burns when I swallow, singeing any leftover drifting petals of my delight, though desperation still rolls through my thoughts. My eyes widen as something clicks together.

Little streams come from big rivers. This water is running from somewhere. I push to my feet and start climbing up the hill.

The sun sinks behind the mountains in the time that I walk. The shadows stretch longer, becoming more fluid as they dampen the light trickling through the trees and tug at me with long, grey fingers, cold and sticky. My head aches and my muscles throb. Several times, I think about giving up and resigning myself to another fitful night of battling for sleep, shivering my way into terrifying dreams of fire and choking smoke, yet eventually my persistence is worthwhile.

At the crest of the hill, there is a pool. Its glassy surface reflects the looming shapes of the trees and the darkening sky, making it appear like more slippery liquid shadow, but it's water. I kneel down beside it and scoop it up in a flurry of thoughtless movement, gulping in a few cool, welcoming mouthfuls, though it's still not quite enough. I hesitate for only a moment before plunging my face into the pool.

It's icy and oddly slimy against my skin. My core twists and snarls at the feeling of it, itching like it's repulsive. It's never felt that way before. Yet I'm still thirsty, and so I open my mouth and drink my fill as hastily as I can before lifting my head and gasping in air instead. I can feel the water trickling down my throat and through my chest; it's chilly and strange, but tastes so nice. I forgot that water tasted that nice.

My face drips, beads of water running down my nose and chin. Absentmindedly, I scrub at them as my gaze drifts to the pool's surface. The last, distant glow of day's light leaks into the forest enough to etch out my reflection, swaying with the water's settling ripples.

There are holes where the middle of my eyes should be. I blink, tipping my head downward as confusion stuffs cotton into my head, but the oddity remains. The pool refuses to reflect the colour of my eyes. Buoyant twilight sky glimmers behind them, soaking up darkness in place of violet flame. Maybe it's simply a result of the dark, heavy smudges carved beneath my eyes, or the dust and dirt scuffing my cheeks, tingeing my skin grey. Can eyes get dirty? I chew on my lip, wondering. It's something I would've asked my father if he were here. He knows all kinds of things.

A black lock of hair drops down to dangle in front of my face, obscuring my vision. I snatch it up and brush it back, fingers snagging on my short tangle of curls. It's gotten long enough for a few strands to tickle the back of my neck. I'll ask my mother to cut it for me when I find her.

Your mother is not coming back.

I watch the hollowed-out reflection of my eyes shoot wide as the words shiver through me. They're not formed of a thought, not mine, but the echo of someone else's voice, creeping softly into my head. A female voice. The sensation of a hand resting on my shoulder seeps through. Gasp hitching in my throat, I sit up and twist around to scan the expanse of trees behind me, though there's no-one there.

A chill prowls up my spine. My heartbeat thuds in my ears, trampling over the forest's crinkling silence. Maybe I imagined it.

Neither is your father.

The voice's abrupt return makes me jump. The words themselves sink into the pit of my stomach and scratch at the back of my skull. I press the heel of my palm to my forehead.

"Yes, they are," I tell the voice in a tentative whisper, glancing around again, half-afraid someone will charge from the shadows and tell me off for talking to myself. But this isn't myself. I wouldn't think something so cruel. "They're both coming back. I just got lost. As soon as I find them--"

You will not find them anywhere. It sounds admittedly soothing, brushing over my skin with imaginary fingers that drip sadness and pity. They are gone, Noli.

I jolt. When it speaks my name, memories flash before my eyes, ones dyed the same hues as my nightmares. Everything on fire. People screaming. The gentle, coaxing whisper in my ear.

We should know, because we killed them.

"No." I shake my head so hard that the world judders. A second hand joins the first, and they both press to the sides of my head, blocking my ears, though I keep hearing the voice's words regardless. My breathing runs away from me. "No," I gasp out again, lungs heaving like they're empty. "That's not true. No."

Denying it will not help you, the voice insists, but I push at it with all my might, a sob wrestling up my throat.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to hear her speak. I want her and everything she says to go away. My eyes squeeze shut, and dizziness overcomes me.

"Not to worry, my friends."

A pale hand stretches out in front of me, the darkness behind my eyelids blurring away and fading into a dimly lit hallway. Moonlight trickles from a cracked hole in the roof above. Is the hand mine? It's whiter than it should be. Its fingers spread as it lifts, moving seemingly of its own accord.

There are figures blocking the hall, perhaps three or four, but they ripple and shift in and out of clarity. Their faces are smudges of colour.

"I will take our esteemed golden captain from here." I'm sure my lips form to make these words, even more certain that the voice is some twisted version of my own, but that makes no sense. Curiosity fluttering in my core, I press closer to the strange illusion, if only for some escape from reality's cruelty. My thoughts flicker as I do so. My body feels numb, distant.

The tallest of the figures is a man with black hair like mine and a hooded navy cloak that fans out around him. He steps forward. Recognition chimes two sets of bells in my chest, a duet of memories crashing into one another and leaving me winded. I almost miss his reply.

"Captain Heathe is a prisoner of Neyaibet. We have questions to ask him that have nothing to do with you." His head tilts. "You may have your chaos, but first we must win our war."

A laugh scrapes raw up my throat. It has an unpleasant aftertaste, but I can't find the strength to swallow. "You and your petty little war. As if such discourse will matter when I am finished." My hand jerks, fingers curling in beckoning. "I want him. Hand him over."

The man folds his arms. "Our agreement said nothing about you conducting meaningless torture. You already have the Kynig boy for that."

The laugh becomes a snarl. "Would you prefer I stole one of your puppets instead?"

I can touch the anger I hear in my voice. It rumbles through me, spilling through my senses like hot, coarse sand. There's maddening fire burning beneath it, but the sand scatters amongst the flames, driving their purpose, narrowing it. I thread it over me like it's made of ribbons, and clarity bursts fresh into my head. I can feel the hallway's chill, the soft whistle of the night's breeze. I tug on a finger, and it twitches.

Anger distracts her, something says in my head -- a voice less tangled and raspy, more familiar, though still clouded by the distant feeling pushing at my mind. Emotion is foreign to her, so I can wield it.

I can't fight her with strength, so I have to fool her. I'm good at playing the fool.

"I am a god, Harlow," I say. "You are nothing. My whims triumph over any agreement you can construct with your feeble words."

A pleasant chill tickles my arms and throbs in my cheeks, concentrated at certain spots like freckles formed of ice, and Harlow gives way. There's no argument he can give. One of his soldiers shoves forward a man with copper-brown hair and a solemn gaze, one that remains on the ground as he staggers under the push. He sways. A bloody wound scrapes his cheek, with several more scratches poking from his torn clothes. His hands are chained behind his back, and without their balance, he looks as if he might collapse.

I snatch up the chain and yank on it to right him. A glint of sorrow rises like a trail of smoke in my stomach, ashen and stringy, before it's hastily stamped on to make way for anger's crackling storm. Glee is lightning within it, but still the smoke is all I can taste.

I'm sorry, Dalton.

The phantom hand on my shoulder returns, cold with sharp nails that dig in. Alarm spikes through me; I cling to my vision tighter, to the comforting fragment of myself who wishes to fight and to the roiling undercurrent of guilt, the desperation, the fear, but it's rushing away from me with the speed of a howling gale. The hallway blurs into darkness, and I plummet, crashing into a world more safe and anchored.

My eyes snap open. Instantaneous panic lurches up from my gut and jerks through me, dripping into every corner of my mind, stealing the breath from my lungs. What was I thinking about? There are tears in my eyes.

"Mother," I say, hunched into myself as the whimper cracks on my tongue, and I remember. What else is there to remember? She fills my thoughts, my mother and her wild, amazing black hair and her faraway smile and her delicate fingers adjusting my tunic. The desire to call for my father battles its way to the surface, too, yet the word is soundless. A salty tear drips onto my lip. The crying makes my eyes ache, but I can't stop. I can't even take in air.

Hush, Noli.

A calming presence sweeps through my mind, snagging on the wild net of hysteria and carefully teasing it apart. My breathing gradually evens. I stare numbly at the lake, the dull-edged blade of knowledge cutting into my chest, stated in simple words that I can't doubt. I wipe at my eyes and gulp down the rest of the tears.

"They're gone." I want it to be a question, but it isn't. The innocent ripples in the water likely already know, just as everything must for the widespread nature of the pain in my heart. Loneliness washes over me in a frothing wave, and I interlock my hands, cradling them close as they shake. "My family is really gone, isn't it? They're..." I inhale sharply, not even sure I know how to pronounce the coming term. "D-dead."

They are dead, the voice confirms, wrapped around me in an embrace too cold to be my mother's. Still, I don't dislike it. I duck my head and huddle into it.

For several beats of silence, I remain hidden in its comfort, listening to my breaths whistle in and out and watching the stars sneak out of the clouds to twinkle at me. My father told me lots of stories about the stars. They're supposed to be bright and magical, made of fire, just like me and him. Did he ever tell me what happens to stars when they die? I wish I could ask. I want to tell him about the kind voice, too, but I'll never get to tell him anything again.

A massive stone lands in my stomach and rolls around, dragging me down. Do I even try to get up and keep walking? I'm not sure I can. I have no idea what to do, and everything feels so heavy.

You can ask me whatever you like, Noli.

I flinch, still not used to the silky echo winding through me, momentarily blurring out my thoughts. I know that people with powers like mine make friends with Synté, animals that tell them what to do and guide them in how to use their flame, but I won't get one of those until I'm powerful enough. I'm still learning how to make my flame come to my hands. Even Izar hasn't talked to me yet, though I've asked him to.

"Who are you?" I ask eventually, looking over my shoulder again. "Are you hiding?"

The voice laughs softly. My name is Shaula.

"Shaula," I repeat, tilting my head as the long syllables roll over my tongue.

And yes, I am hiding, Shaula says, deftly gliding from one corner of my head to the other. An old friend of mine has hurt me very badly, so I am going to stay with you for a while until I feel better. Is that alright?

A frown creases my brow. "Why would your friend hurt you?" Friends are nice. They're supposed to help and protect, I know that. Not hurt.

We disagreed on something. The wrapping coolness hugs tighter, a gentle squeeze that wafts away my curiosity. It does not matter to you. All I ask is that you look after me, just as I will look after you. Can you do that for me?

I find myself nodding, arms crossing over my chest as if I can squeeze Shaula in return. "I think so."

Good. Warm, relieving gratitude soaks into my bones and settles the beat of my heart. It brings a small smile to my face.

"I'm glad you're here, Shaula," I say, swamped in night's falling blackness. "I'd be so afraid if I was alone."

As would I. She's smiling back, I know, even if I can see no part of her. Together, we have nothing to fear, Noli. Remember that.

"I will." I hold those words like a shield before me, quieting the jittery stir in my chest that rises in tandem with the swaying shadows. The forest changes at night. It becomes monstrous, a beast with spiky fur that mixes the surroundings into empty abysses and patters chilled breath on the back of my neck, but I squirm away from those scary images. Shaula's voice ekes wisdom. If she says I should not fear, then I can't disappoint her, not when she's being so nice to me.

Now, what shall we do together first? Shaula asks.

I lick my lips, thinking. "I..." My heel presses into the dirt as I consider standing up, though I quickly abandon the idea, wincing at the aches and pains riddling my legs. It reminds me of the fuzzy exhaustion dancing like static around my head. I rub at my forehead, trying to dispel it. "Maybe we should go to sleep."

My stomach growls again, though this time the sensation peels through me even after the sound has left my ears, twisty and writhing as it squishes my chest flat until all that's left is emptiness. I tuck my knees up against it, grimacing. "I'm hungry, though."

A gentle, frosty touch slithers through my veins, papering over the ache of hunger to soothe it a little. Then we will find you something to eat.

"Do you know how to make cakes?" I rest my chin on my knees, failing not to think about the sweet, rounded little treats I love so much. "My mother, she... used to make those a lot." My tone slopes downward as a shock of tears leap up to prick at my eyes again. I was so looking forward to seeing her. What if I forget what she looks like? I know I'm not supposed to fear, but that thought terrifies me.

Not quite. Shaula coaxes the tears away, rubs against the sadness until it lessens. Get some rest, Noli. I promise that we will find food when the morning comes.

My noisy stomach claims the food should come now, but I only nod obediently. Shaula is my family now. She knows what is best. Still, as I lie down in the grass and shut my eyes, so far away from my bed at home, I can't help but keep thinking about Mother and Father.

I miss you, I tell them, though they can't hear me. I'm not alone anymore, but I miss you.

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I just love tiny Nathan so much you don't understand T^T

- Pup