12th of Eyelestre

We wound up in the abandoned factory.

The assembly floor was littered with overturned tables and empty crates, with no sign of whatever they had once held. There wasn't much left of the place at all, really. The huge loading bay doors were missing, leaving four large holes in one wall, and the roof had collapsed at one end. None of the windows had any glass, either, and drifts of leaves and small branches had gathered in every corner and around the rusted hulks of machinery still bolted to the floor.

There was a storage room with an intact roof and windows, though, and someone had obviously used it as a shelter at some point. There was a makeshift bed of crates along one wall, complete with a moldering bolster mattress and a few ratty blankets. There was also a small fire barrel in the corner that still contained ashes, although they were old enough that it was clear whoever had been there hadn't been back in quite a while.

I gathered sticks for a fire while Arramy worked his Northlander magic on a few pieces of broken crate.

Arramy watched me as I moved about the assembly floor but didn't seem inclined to talk.

We hadn't talked at all, actually. We had simply fled Dovan's Leap on foot, and the factory had been the easiest place to take shelter before the sun went down. There was no plan beyond making it safely through the night.

I didn't mind. I was still coming to terms with what had happened. There didn't seem any way to talk about it, yet, or put it into words. So I didn't, and he didn't, and when the fire was going in the barrel I sat down on the bed in the storeroom, brought my legs up, rested my chin on my knees, and stared at the flames.

Arramy stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at me, then left, slipping away without a word.

He was gone for quite a while, but I didn't move. There was nothing to move for. I was so tired my bones felt like lead weights inside my skin, and there wasn't any food.

The sun went down, and the shadows began deepening inside the storeroom. I didn't mind that either. I had learned to appreciate the shadows. Darkness was familiar, now, like an old coat, and I let it come.

When the fire had died almost to nothing, I began wondering if maybe Arramy had finally decided to leave me behind. Maybe this was the end. Maybe the fire in the barrel had been his goodbye gesture. I decided I wouldn't blame him at all and watched as the last of the coals began to dwindle and go out.

~~~

The scent of earth filled my nose, mineral and stone mixed with the loam of old forest. I lifted my head. I wasn't in the storeroom anymore. I was lying in a small clearing full of ferns. I had seen it before, somewhere. I knew that in the same way I knew I was supposed to be on my way home, and I was late. Very late. It was night, now, a huge white moon washing everything in shades of blue. Father would be worried that I was coming home in the dark.

I got up and began walking. Or flying. In no time at all I wasn't moving between thick tree trunks, but small, squat buildings along a dusty street.

At the end of the street was a barn. It looked familiar too. I had been there before, and I looked around, expecting to see horses tied to a line outside.

There was only a chair on a porch. There was no one else around, not even an animal. I turned, thinking I was alone, only to find someone walking toward me, following in my same footsteps. A woman, I thought. She was small, and a long cloak whipped around her, blood-red even in the blue of the moonlight, tossed in a wind that kicked up dust from the street. She was vague, her features changing and blurring. Some moments she was blonde, but she had dark hair if I looked at her hard.

Then she was standing in front of the barn.

Cog was suddenly there next to me, sitting quietly in the chair.

He was putting together a clock.

The woman pulled a long-barreled Magi pistol from beneath her cloak and began waving it around, aiming at something that wasn't there. Her eyes were closed. Or was she blindfolded? Suddenly, it was clear that she had one of NaVarre's silk scarves wrapped around her head; the ends trailed down her back, fluttering in the breeze.

I reached for the woman. I needed to slap her. Wake her up. Make her take off the scarf. She was about to kill Cog with that gun, and she didn't even know it, but all I could do was swat at empty air, my shouts thin and faint like they were coming through glass. Nothing I did was working, and panic mounted, rising up my throat, clawing at my heart as she waved that stupid gun right in Cog's face.

And then it went off with a pop, like a cork, and Cog toppled over backwards, blood running from his forehead.

But it wasn't Cog lying there, it was Arramy. Arramy, with his beautiful smile and haunted silver eyes, lying there in the dirt.

And I was the woman with the gun in my hand. Screaming, I wheeled around, and saw my father. Raggan. Rugga. Hedwyn. Licha Stongfal. They were all lying in the street, all of them dead, staring up at nothing, and these hands that belonged to me were still pulling the trigger -

"Bren!"

I flinched and pulled the trigger again, then screamed because the voice belonged to Arramy and I might have shot him again -

The sting of a rough slap to my cheek brought reality crashing in. I was sitting on the crates in the storeroom, a freakish keening groan coming out of my throat. Grief glowed like angry, smoldering coals in my ribs, robbing me of air. Frantic, I shoved at the big hands gripping my shoulders. Suffocating. I was suffocating.

The hands didn't let go, and for several seconds I struggled, mindlessly trying to get away, wanting only to run and run and run like I always did when things got this bad.

"Bren, you're alright. It's just me. You're alright -"

I got a hand free and hit Arramy in the face. Hard.

With a grunt, his grip shifted, and I was up, moving on shaky legs, aiming mindlessly for the door of the storeroom, the pain in my ribs expanding, burning into my bones. This was bad. So bad. I wasn't going to survive this time.

But there wasn't any running. I was snatched up off my feet and held in an iron-hard grip, Arramy's voice a deep rumble against my ear. "C'mon, Bren. Wake up."

I went limp as a ragdoll and hung there. Waiting. His hold relaxed and I sprang forward. I would get out, away from him, away from me -

But Arramy was there again, this time blocking the doorway. Standing there, big and solid between me and freedom. Stupid barbarian. With a snarl, I lashed out, trying desperately to squeeze around him.

He let out a sharp breath when I clawed at his throat, but put his head down and caught me again, pulling me up against him, taking blows with gritted teeth as he wrapped me in his arms. I hammered at his shoulders with my fists, at his back, at whatever I could reach, first because I was fighting to be free, then because I was punishing him. For my father. For being the one who always came back. For being there when he was the very last person I wanted to come apart in front of. And I was coming apart. My chest was on fire. Scalding tears were brimming beneath my lashes, and then it was too late to get away anymore. The tears began boiling over.

"I've got you," Arramy whispered. "I've got you. Let go."

As if he had just given it permission, the first sob cracked me open. I choked and buried my face in the front of his shirt so he wouldn't see, my fingers turning to claws on his back. Another sob followed, riding over me roughshod, and then I was crying in a way I hadn't allowed myself to cry before, every ounce of grief and pain, loss and heartache scorching through me, blazing out of me in a river. It was exactly as awful as I thought it would be, stripping away every last shred of protection I had put up and breaking my soul into tiny, jagged pieces that I could not put back together.

Arramy held me, one arm cradling me against his chest, his other hand warm at the back of my neck, his chin resting on top of my head. He held me until the sobs became whimpers, and until the whimpers died to inside-out, broken gasps. He held me until I was leaning my aching, fiery head on his shoulder, and my body was a dried up, burned out, lifeless shell.

But I was still alive, somehow, my heart still beating in the wreckage.

Finally, I pulled away and dragged in a shaky breath, my shoulders jerking. I couldn't make myself look at him. Instead I brushed at the mess I had made of his shirt with trembling fingers. "Sorry." My voice sounded horrible.

He moved, his fingers drifting down my back to lightly span my hips. Not holding me tight anymore, but not quite letting go either. "It'll wash."

I cut him off, my words thick and difficult to get out. "I'm sorry about your mother... and your brother. I'm sorry you always wind up stuck with me."

He caught my jaw on his knuckles, bringing my head up, his gaze meeting mine in the light of a new fire dancing in the barrel. "None of this is your fault, Bren."

He didn't understand. "Everyone I know winds up dead... or gone..." I whispered, my voice breaking. I was too tired. Thoughts kept spilling out of me like I had drunk too much rum. "I should be dead. I keep surviving everything... because you're always there. Always picking up the pieces, always coming back for me. But I'm not better than anyone else. My life isn't more valuable than theirs. Stop saving me. Please..."

His eyes darkened, more pewter than silver in the firelight, and his chest lifted beneath my hands, rising on an indrawn breath. He shook his head, then framed my face in his hands, his fingers sliding into my hair, his brogue ragged. "Nai. Ya cannai ask that of me, Brenorra Warring. I owe ya too much. I took everything from you. For whatever it's worth, I will always come for ya, kid... Whether or nai ya want me."

I stared up at him, his words slowly sinking in. There was nothing keeping them out. All my defenses were down. His hands, so capable of taking life, were also surprisingly capable of being gentle, and the way he was touching me – carefully, as if he could easily break me – was making me dizzy.

For a moment we stood like that, unmoving, the silence of the empty factory stealing over us. Arramy's expression changed, becoming almost wistful. He wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb, then quirked a lopsided grin as he lowered his hands. "We should get some sleep."

Numb, I watched as he sat on the bed of crates and stretched out with his back to the wall. He patted the narrow space in front of him. "Come on. I promise to be a gentleman."

I swallowed. Then, moving on stiff and creaky limbs, I lowered myself onto the mattress again.

Arramy gathered me close, wrapping us both in the scant protection of his coat.

My eyelids burned, and my head ached, but sleep wasn't quick in coming.

He had rebuilt the fire in the barrel and there was a bucket next to the door that hadn't been there when he left. He had gone to get water. That was all. He would be there in the morning. I would see his face again.

I lay there, drifting in the warmth between reality and dream, listening to Arramy's steady breathing, a realization dawning as sure and steady as the sunrise: against all my better judgment, in spite of everything, I was glad he was there. 

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

So...Um... too much? Too little? Not enough detail? Too disjointed?

GRAAHHHH I love/hate writing all the feelings! They make everything so sticky. Seriously, I had to sit with these last two chapters for way too long before I felt comfortable posting them... an insecurity that I find vastly ironic given the content...

*long breath* *smooths hair*

Ok. What think you?

Also, I hope you had a Merry Christmas, or a beautiful day, whichever you prefer :)

2021 here we come!