《 Chapter Eighteen 》
"Fire is the beginning of new life."
"Why do ye smell like fire?" Tyler gives his foster-brother a look of concern as he passes.
"I-I do?" Jim sniffs his shirt. "Huh."
The elder boy frowns, wearing a brief expression of suspicion. He can hear the falsity in his voice, the near unnoticeable waver in his tone.
While he's certainly unhappy that he doesn't feel comfortable telling the truth of what happened last month with whole hospital incident, he refuses to display his annoyance. Barbara is already doing that and it's ruined the entire atmosphere of peace that once dwelled within the walls.
He's determined to keep peace with the lad and his friends. It's not particularly hard when he spends every waking hour in the library.
But today, he's been asked to sit through a history class. A history class that isn't being taught by Mr. Strickler.
"Sàbhail mi bhon chràdh do-ruigsinneach seo," he mutters into his hands. "Leis a 'bhan-dia thriple, sàbhail mi."
Hushed whispers surround him, originating from the small groups of girls. If he were to look up, he would find several pairs of lovesick eyes staring at him with admiration. According to them, he's the most attractive male at Arcadia Oaks High.
Not the kind of attention he enjoys.
"Where do you think Strickler is, Tyler?"
The boy raises his head to meet the speaker's eyes. "Why'd ye ask?"
"You were his fave," she claims, twisting around in her seat.
He hums at this, considering his words before letting them loose. "If he were anywhere, it'd be in Arcadia. But seen as he ain't, I'd say he's somewhere in the tropics. Probably down in South America."
Mary smiles at him, keeping her gaze on him for a few moments before turning back around with a dreamy sigh.
Tyler snorts quietly, pulling out several textbooks from his knapsack and placing them on his desk. His fingers brush the decorated feather blade as he closes his bag again and he finds himself running his thumb over it.
It reminds him of his mentor, though doesn't know why, and he feels quite pleased with himself for utilising it in this way. He had been very careful when painting on the encircling pattern, ensuring that there was no shake in his hands.
He shakes his head softly, returning his gaze to the front of the classroom where Coach Lawrence is performing stretching routines.
"Since Strickler's a no-show, I'm subbin' in. We got some book-learnin' to do," he explains, stretching out his spine. "That means you too, Reynolds."
The boy gives him a neutral expression and slams his history textbook open, flipping it up to prove to the teacher that he's reading the correct material. His bored look doesn't cease.
"Okay, people, who can tell me what happened in the year 1989?" Coach Lawrence's eyes widen slightly in panic when he receives no response. "No, seriously. I don't remember. It was a crazy year."
A bang echoes through the classroom as Tyler's head drops on the desk. "Dreya 'ave mercy."
《《》》
"Hullo, Claire," he smiles lightly at the young girl as she walks by with Jim and Toby.
"Oh, hi, Tyler!" she chirps cheerfully, giving a small wave.
He chuckles quietly at her joyous nature, joining the small group at the bike racks to pick up his scooter. The boys' chatter quietens as they watch him unlock his scooter from the rack, and he finds his mood dampened by their secrecy, wanting to know exactly what it is that they're talking about.
"Beannaichte le fortan, ge bith ciamar a bhios a 'ghaoth a' sèideadh," he mumbles to them, turning his head away to face the greying skies.
The conversation of students and cheerful humming of his foster-brother's lady friend fade into background noise as he scowls at one of the trees outside the campus. It's nearly doubled over in the howling wind, leaves ripping from its branches.
"Travel safe," he tells his housemate, tossing him a small rabbit foot keychain. "I'll be home 'round six, call me if ye'll be later," he jabs a finger at Jim's chest. "Actually call me this time."
When the younger boy gives a short nod, he spins around and braves the brewing storm, jumping the school steps as usual. He pays no attention to the powerful gusts of air, only focusing on staying upright and making it to his stretch of woodland without getting hit by a car. There's a small sheltered 'cove' there that he can hide in for a bit.
The sound of something snapping snatches his attention, making his head whip around to see a tree branch flying towards him. By some miracle, he ducks just in time to avoid being decapitated, feeling the twigs brush his helmet.
"Ifrinn naomh," he breathes, watching the branch tumble away.
Arcadia never gets this kind of weather, nothing even remotely close. It's unnatural and frightening. It's like the sky is boiling, taunted by an unknown opponent.
A deep rumble shakes the boys core, bringing him to lean on an old oak for security and support. The heavens themselves are in turmoil now, and the clouds can be seen rolling in from the south, growling in warning. If it doesn't start raining now, it'll be the apocalypse in a few minutes.
Tyler chuckles to himself at the thought, quickly ducking down to avoid another airborne branch. This may be bad weather, but he's not willing to go quite that far. And yet he still feels that dark sense growing in his gut.
He shakes his head and keeps going, crawling down the small decline in the soil with his hands clutching the exposed roots for support. The taste of biting wind is starting to get old, he finds, spitting out yet another leaf. And yet, he keeps going, wanting to reach his place of tranquility.
At long last, the wind stops hounding him, blocked by the gnarled trunks of ancient trees. Their creaking branches sway in near silent greeting, and he wonders if it was magic that brought him here the first time around. The idea has grown on him, and given that no-one else has ever found this place, it seems almost considerable.
The taunting croaks of several crows puts him on edge, as they circle in the unseen branches above him, travelling ever closer. The cruel birds have always made him uneasy, as though something deep within his soul despises them for an unrecognisable reason.
A small cry of terror urges his feet to move before he even acknowledges it, drawing him to a gathering of crows pecking at something on the ground. One of the beasts straightens, turning its head to stare at him with a beady eye. Blood coats its parted beak, crimson glinting in the cold light from above.
"Thalla!" he shouts, waving his arms about as he approaches. "Be gone!"
They caw at him in protest, growls bubbling in their throats as the boy shoos them away. It is best not to challenge one who can so easily bite back.
With a final cry, Tyler throws a stick at the gathering, spooking them into flying into the trees surrounding. He cringes as they continue to gibe, croaking most terribly in promises of darkness.
A weak whimper draws his attention back to the ground and he drops to his knees immediately, hands outstretched. A young raven, splendorous feathers coated with thick red and plucked cruelly. One of their wings is quite clearly broken, and every breath is full of tremors. Not good. Not good at all.
"Shh, shh," the young boy hushes, keeping calm as he delicately grasps the injured fledgling, uncaring of the blood now covering his hands. "It'll be alright, little one."
He continues his small promises of safety, hoping to override the cawing curses of the crows. A murder of crows. Most horribly fitting.
And to think he once believed bad omens did not exist.
Bad omens? A terrible storm? What can this possibly mean??? Well, of course, I know the answer to that, but don't think you're getting it out of me!
Fare well, and I hope you enjoyed!
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