Someone told me not to cry.

It was the first time Miraye had asked him about his past. The question was simple, but Tic found it hard to respond. He hadn't thought about his family in a long time. He'd chosen not to.

"I had a little sister." He kept turning his palm idly over in the conjured flame, needing something to do with his hands. The warmth of the enchanted flame awed him. He had learned to accept Miraye's magic as commonplace by now, though he always wondered about it. Had Miraye been learning it since a young age, or like him, found her powers by chance?

Miraye peered from beneath her cloak, looking smaller than usual. Tic hadn't noticed before how young she really was. She looked child-like when she wasn't fighting for their lives. Almost innocent.

"What's her name?" she asked. Miraye's curiosity bothered Tic a little, though he tried not to show it.

He had to think for a moment before answering. "Mia," he said. "Her name was Mia," he repeated, assuring himself he had not forgotten.

"Pretty," said Miraye.

"Yeah," he said. There was more silence, more awkward turning of his palm. He tried to think about something else, not knowing how his expression changed.

Miraye was aware of how Tic spoke of his sister, in had's and was's. She heard the way his voice changed when she questioned him. It was obvious the girl was dead.

"I'm sorry," she uttered quietly. Tic did not respond. Feeling it best not to press him any further, she turned onto her side and tried to sleep.

"We lived in New Jeda," Tic said from the silence. "We couldn't afford anywhere else."

Miraye raised herself, knowing for sure she'd never fall asleep. "Oh?"

"A few years ago, the government went after people who couldn't pay the new tithe. They were only supposed to put us in jail..." he paused. "But that was too humane for them."

His hand shook as he squeezed his knuckles white, as if trying to grip the enchanted flame. Suddenly he didn't want this ability. The guilt hit him as soon as he spoke it.

"I could've saved them."

Miraye sighed, putting her hand on Tic's shoulder. "You didn't know," she said.

Tic turned his face away; he did not want her to see his eyes, even in the dim light of the flame. A long silence passed as he struggled to clear the evidence of crying from his voice. He swallowed the knot in his throat several times. Pressured by the awkward silence, he asked Miraye something he'd been wondering since he'd met her.

"How did you learn magic?"

Awkward Divinity.

"Don't... don't touch him," said a woman's voice.

Tic opened his eyes and blinked a few times. He was laying on the village floor, his clothes wet and torn from burns. The girl was no longer in his arms. There was a small group of villagers talking over him.

"Jonis' girl was sure as dead. There ain't nobody comes out of being set a-fire and still look like a pristine little flower! He's got somethin'. A power."

"It is trickery," replied a man. "A common magician's act. He's a criminal and a deceiver. He just wants us to think him a hero. The girl too. So they can get away and places keep gettin' burned up behind them. And there ain't no such thing as healin', Sal. Just a myth, the kind of story those Elanzir priests would have us believin'.

"Hey, he's awake. Get up, kid."

Tic sat himself up, looking around for a sign of the little girl named Zenia, wondering if he hadn't just imagined what had happened. His body was still quivering in shock. The village was still in flames, but now groups of men were heaving buckets of water and throwing their contents into the fires, which appeared to be dying down. There was an eery but comforting silence, the absence of panic and battle.

A man with a brown and gray beard leaned down into him, looking into Tic's eyes suspiciously. "It's him," he said to the other men. "Fits the description."

"So turn him in now before they come back for another go!" cried another man. "Boy, what have you to say?"

Tic could think of nothing else but the child. "I... where is the girl? Zenia?"

"Don't play games. We know it was a ruse."

Tic's nostrils flared in panic. "A ruse?"

"You think you saved her? You and your friend have caused enough damage to this village for a lifetime, and to countless other villages before it! Lives, homes, children were all lost! Burned to death! Zenia would've never ended up in that situation if it weren't for you!"

"Is she... okay?" Tic asked, ignoring the burning in his eyes and the shaking in his voice.

"Of course she is! You pulled her out and fell into the water before any harm got done. She's fainted from the shock, poor thing. But don't think you did something special, kid. Any guilty criminal would've done the same. Not even the lowest of criminals would want that on their conscience." He quoted the guardian, "'What man would let a child die to protect himself?' You're lucky you have a murderer for a girlfriend. She killed them all!" he threw his hands to the air incredulously.

Miraye. What happened? His memory was foggy. All he could remember was the little girl's face as it burned away from the bone. No, had it really happened? He touched his face. He could still remember fire burning his flesh, but there were no scars on his skin.

"Tic," whispered Miraye. "Tic, let's go."

Tic turned around to witness a sorrowful sight. Miraye stood, both her eyes a pale blue, blood slipping down from her face and neck. She held her right shoulder as though it were in pain. Her clothes were battle-worn, stained with blood, and torn away. She had a make-shift bandage across her left hand, arm and chest. Even though she had slaughtered all of Larkin's men, she looked defeated. It was a look she wore since she told him they were cursed, as if looking this way were the curse itself.

"If they send more," she said, "we may not make it through another fight. Let's go before the village turns us in themselves."

Tic nodded reluctantly and followed over to the girl, putting his arm beneath her for support. She shook her head and shoved him off.

"We'll gather what we have left in the tavern and leave immediately," she said. "What's left of the tavern, that is."

In the attic of the bar where they spent their last few days paying off debts to the bartender Gaston, they found the sack of coins they had rightfully earned. The tavern thankfully had suffered very little damage. Gaston was not inside the bar, though they suspected he was helping to put out remaining fires. Tic wished he could stay to offer help, but already knew that he would be turned away. There wasn't much redemption for the criminal who had caused the village burnings in the first place. The villagers silently acknowledged, and some even thanked Miraye for defending them against the guardians, though she seemed not to notice their respect. She shrugged them off weakly.

After tidying up what they could at the tavern, they loaded up their satchels with food scraps. It was already three-moons dim by the time they were ready to leave. As they headed out, they heard a familiar gruff voice call out to them.

"Wait," said Gaston. He stood at the entrance of the tavern, staring inquisitively at Tic for a moment and then quickly looking away. His expression was unreadable, but it made Tic nervous.

"Thank you, Gaston," said Miraye. She curtsied to him. "You gave us more than we deserved. We are sorry we brought this upon your town. We will be on our way now."

Gaston looked down, his expression remaining stagnant. "Miraye," he said, nodding. "This village suffered less than any other village that burned before it. Thanks to you, no child had to die." He looked at Tic again. He seemed to want to say something that he couldn't say it out loud. Like a guilty secret.

"There is someone that wishes to see you, Tic," said Gaston.

Tic's heart plummeted. He knew there was still something left to happen before they could leave this village for good. Gaston held the door open for them. As Tic followed Miraye out the door, Gaston did something strange. Looking Tic in the eye for a brief moment, he breathed in quickly and immediately bowed his head, mouthing words to himself in what looked like a silent prayer.

Puzzled, Tic and Miraye followed Gaston out into the village courtyard. To Tic's relief, the village buildings were still standing. Any damage that had been dealt was repairable. In the town center, there was a circle of villagers huddled together, some holding wicker candles and talking in hushed voices. Some were humming hymns and whispering prayers. Children were holding their parents' hands and whispering excitedly. It looked like a vigil. A small girl was swinging her father's arm happily, humming along with the hymns. Gaston leaned down and tapped her gently on the arm.

"Zenia," said Gaston with a soft smile. "I brought him for you."

The little girl giggled and turned to gasp at Tic. Her crystal eyes glowed and widened as she smiled at Tic. "The angel!" she exclaimed. She ran toward him and stopped just an inch away from his feet. "Can I touch you again?" she asked, as though someone told her not to.

Tic raised his eyebrows and smiled weakly. He put his hand down to hers, took her pale white little fingers, and said, "Sure."

She gasped again when he touched her, and ran away giggling playfully. "I touched him again! I touched the angel again!" she bragged as she joined the circle of villagers, who, by then, had seen Tic and bowed their heads as Gaston had done. The girl's father broke away from the circle and approached Tic, removing his hat, and staring at the ground. He was a small man with short hair that grayed prematurely.

"I would like to apologize," he declared, as if confessing a great sin, "on behalf of the village. They did not understand. When Zenia woke, she told us... " Suddenly he was on the ground before Tic, kneeling before him with his hands clasped together. "I do not know how," he spoke, raising his tear-filled eyes to meet with Tic's, "but my daughter is alive thanks to you."

"We... we are good people," spoke another man. It was the man who had accused him of trickery earlier. "We try to look out for each other, we... we do what is best..." He took a great breath, regaining his composure. "It's just so hard to believe these days."

He kneeled himself beside Zenia's father.

"Forgive me," he said.

A woman from the prayer circle stepped out and kneeled in her place. "Forgive me," she repeated.

All around, villagers were falling to their knees. One after the other, they kneeled and uttered the phrase, asking the boy from nowhere for his forgiveness. He watched them in awe, uncertain of what to do, or what to say, without looking ridiculous or making some sort of religious taboo. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a silent err.

Miraye nudged Tic in the back and whispered, "Well, forgive them."

He took a deep breath and awkwardly raised his right palm to face outwards, like in the paintings he'd seen of the Seven Gods, not knowing a thing of what he was doing and hoping, even praying, that he was getting it right.

"You are forgiven...?" he mostly asked himself, waving his hand in a circle.

The kneeling villagers murmured the same three words, bowed their heads and rose to their feet.

"There. Not so hard, is it?" whispered Miraye, patting him on the back.

After the vigil, Tic and Miraye were invited for a brief feast before their departure, to which they declined and instead chose to take care packages of rations, clothes and water instead. They had enough to last them for what looked like weeks. As they departed, the townspeople bowed to them in respect, waving and wishing them good health. Leaving the village behind them, they came to the border of town where the small Elanzir temple stood.

"Think we should go in?" asked Tic, wondering if it wasn't a bad idea to see if the priests could advise him somehow.

"No," said Miraye curtly. "They know as much about your power as you do. Besides, they'll probably want to keep you and make you an ordained priest or something. We have to get out of here."

They travelled west toward the southern plainlands, dusk falling quickly upon them. He had been silent for much of the walk, thinking over the villagers' behavior. "Miraye," he said finally.

"Yeah?"

He raised a hand and looked at his fingers, inspecting them. "Will I always be treated like this, if they know I can... heal?"

He felt strange using the word. It didn't seem to fit him. Such a strange power to bear. He would have never known it existed, never known he had this ability, had it not been for the recent events. Up to this point he had been in denial of it and chose to forget all the events in his life that proved it was real. Even Miraye's resurrection still seemed like a dream; his memories of it were so fantastical that it seemed to have never happened at all.

"I think you'll have to get used to the attention, Tic, when it comes. There's not a lot of people out there that can bring back the dead and heal first degree burn victims back to perfect health. They think you're a God now."

"Oh," said Tic, pretending that it made sense.

"Don't let it get to your head," she warned, "because soon they'll want you curing their ill, dying, and diseased. They'll expect more and more of you. But your powers aren't dependable. You can't always heal right, for one," she said, and coughed, as if to emphasize the statement. "Not only that, but you may be one of the last of your kind... we wouldn't want too many people to know about you."

"Why?"

"People get riled up over that kind of power. They might accuse you of being a false prophet, a demon-worshipper, anything they can come up with to deny that your abilities exist. They might even try to kill you."

She paused before she spoke again, and stopped in her footsteps.

"But worst of all," she uttered forebodingly, "They will try to use you."

Tic looked down at Miraye to see her expression. She was staring far into the forest beyond, her eyes squinting as if to focus her vision on something she sorely disgusted. Her face bore an ugly grimace of hatred.

"Larkin," Tic said without hesitation. He looked down for a moment. He didn't want to worry about Larkin now. Not now. Not... yet.

Miraye looked at Tic for a moment, cocking her head to the side. "Yeah," she said. "You better hope he doesn't find out, either." She looked back at the forest in front of them. "Is this it?"

They had come upon the border of a dusky pine-filled forest. The trees were tall and full with leaves; their canopies hid the forest ground from the light of the remaining moons. Tic touched one of the nearby trees, testing its bark and grooves. He slipped his fingers in and around the trunk, as if reading something with his hands. He looked up from the tree and followed along a vertical path of trees with his eyes, counting in his mind. "Yeah, it's here," he replied.

"Right here?" pondered Miraye sarcastically, looking around.

"Yes," he said. He tapped the ground with his foot, knowing what lied beneath. The trees were discretely marked with specific bark patterns to indicate the path of an underground tunnel system leading to and from S.I.N.K. cities and the corresponding trolleys. The botanists that worked within the S.I.N.K. had chemically altered trees and planted them as markers for wayward Kith. The particular bark patterns on the trees represented how far away the mole hole was from where the tree stood.

"The entrance isn't for several miles, though," said Tic, pressing his fingers along the bark to read its code. They would be traveling for a few more hours, it seemed.

"Let's go, then," said Miraye. They unpacked flares, a gift from the village, and lit them. The flares hissed and cooled, giving off a soft, lasting glow of yellow light and decent heat. The air had gotten chilly. They pulled their hoods on and made their way into the winding darkness.

Undo.

The screams of the child entered Tic's head like an explosion and brought him to his knees. How could it come to this, the life of a child for his? Agony swept up inside of him, rushing the blood to his head and throwing him off balance. He grasped the edge of the wall and looked to the ground as it swayed dizzily before him. He let himself fall and buried his face in the ground, closing his eyes but not going unconscious. He struggled to keep his mind alert as he allowed the fainting spell to pass over him. The waves of dizziness finally subsided, and he raised himself against the wall, opening his eyes to a blurry scene of fiery chaos.

Villagers were fleeing in every direction. Buildings were burning; fire and smoke bustled from the windows of shops and homes. Smoke filled the air, shading the world in grey and black. The guardians hurled flaming discs toward the village houses, which erupted into fiery explosions as they collided into walls. Tic could see it all happening in front of him, like a surreal dream, unreal and untouchable. Somewhere beyond the smoke-filled air he heard the collision of metal upon metal, gunshots and electricity. He saw the forms of black-clad figures fight, fall and flee from a pink-haired figure dashing to and fro, swooping upon her victims and slaying in single swings. Men were shouting, women were screaming, and somewhere amongst it all, a little girl was burning to death.

Though he wished he could not see it, he was drawn to the writhing mass of cloth, flesh and fire. His eyes were wide in a trance-like stupor, trapped onto that nightmarish vision, as his feet carried him toward it. The stench of charred skin had already reached him, churning his stomach in sickness. A warmth writhed within his chest as if his heart had caught aflame from the very sight of the girl on fire.

This was not where he imagined his life to turn. He could bear it no longer. His life and what control he had over it seemed to perish in those flames. Nothing would ever be the same. Nothing but the aching inside his heart that rose within him from the moment his heart learned to feel. That would remain forever; a scar, a gift, a desire to undo the wrong. The power to undo wrong. The power to undo death itself.

The guardian was already dead by the time Tic reached him. Dead from Miraye's sword. His eyes were shut and he appeared to be sleeping in the fire, holding his ragdoll to ease him into a sweet dream. Both he and his doll were cloaked in flames, their bodies whistling and cracking like fresh wood in a campfire. The girl was was nothing more than dead; her body was a mass of blackened flesh, crumbling and peeling the skin from her bones, melting away into nothingness. That is, until she opened her eyes.

The crystal clear blue of her eyes appeared dramatically radiant against the backdrop of molting flesh. The eyes widened at the sight of the boy leaning in toward her. What little strength that was left inside her was used to raise a withered black hand, as if to touch the boy's face. Without thinking, Tic laid his hand into the flames, slipping his fingers around the girl's. He leaned into the fire, flames licking his unscarred skin, so hot he could not feel anything but the girl's body as he slipped his arms around her and tore her from the corpse that bound her.

And when he did feel the pain, he did not scream, only closed his eyes and held the burnt doll in his arms. And even as the flames caught onto his clothes, he did not struggle, he did not throw himself to the ground. He stood up with the flaming black creature and walked to the pool of village drinking water. Each step he took was an eternity of pain, peace and death. There was fire, but something else was raging, something so unbearably hot that it did not feel like fire at all. Something so unbearably painful that it had become painless. Something he had felt before.

His eyes rolled upward, as if pulled to the sky. His heart tightened and relaxed, each beat alive in his chest, pumping something purer than blood through his veins. It overflowed and saturated his flesh, until every inch of skin was imbued with the immaculate touch. Looking down he saw the crystal clear stare of the girl in his arms, her skin as white as a dove's, as he pulled them both into the pool.

The Bystander.

"I'll deal with you later," Miraye said coldly and sprinted toward the village center.

Tic turned and fell against the wall, looking away in disgust of himself. Just like that, he was left to hide again. No more than a mere spectator to the battles he should be fighting himself. How weak he must be, he thought. Miraye was the only person to risk her life for him, and yet all he could do was stand back and watch. He pressed himself around the corner wall and followed the girl with his eyes. She hooded and disappeared in the crowd of village men pelting the gallows stage with rocks.

Gimme shelter.

“We have been cursed.”

The words etched themselves onto the walls of Tic's mind and sank through. They registered slowly in his brain; his first instinct was to consider it absurd, but the gravity in Miraye's demeanor spoke more truth than his doubt could deny. Before he could even begin to question the authority of Miraye's valiant decree, she had shut the door and left him alone, sick to ponder. Even if she had remained in the room, he didn't think he could've asked anything more than, “By who?”

But he didn't need to think of who it was.

He didn't want to, either.

Looking away from the door Miraye had disappeared behind, he turned his glance to the pile of clothes on the floor. His mind was utterly blankened by a race of thoughts. He glanced to the open window and the breaking daylight behind it. The tavern they took refuge in no longer felt like a safe haven for them to bid their time any longer. How long were they going to keep hiding? Their destiny awaited patiently in the world outside. He gave an uncertain glance to the bathroom door again, deciding Miraye would be fine if he slipped out for some air. The streets wouldn't be too busy at this hour, he assured himself.

He reached down to the pile of clothes, and dressed himself eagerly.

Outside, the temperature was perfect for refreshing the senses and clearing the mind. In the sky, the moons were hidden by the grey clouds that loomed gloomily over the land. The chilly yet soothing morning breeze whipped through his hair as he stood outside the tavern, holding and rubbing his arms in a slight self-embrace. Miraye's words replayed in head for a moment, sounding more and more like a death sentence. And it made too much sense that a curse would cause him to have such an unlikely nightmare. Certainly Miraye had dreamed similarly, but her violent spasms bothered him deeply. What else could this curse do to them? He didn't want to think of it. With a sullen sigh, he turned to look around the barren street and wondered just how early he had risen. He didn't expect there to be many people out… but he didn't expect there to be none, either.

Casting a wary glance behind him, he pulled the hood of his tunic over his head, and made his way out onto the empty street.

A walk would be better to ease his thoughts, he assured himself, even if the street's eerie desertion irked him. He started on his way to the center of the village, hoping to see at least some of the villagers there. Perhaps it was Seventh Day; the day of the week when labor was probihibited (all except slave labor), and the denizens of each city were ordered, by law, to use the day to rest and worship the Seven Moons. He hadn't known, since he never practiced anymore, and since he had lost track of time ever since he had been captured…

A strange thrill ran through him at the thought. He paused in his footsteps, feeling an unusual sense of deja vu, but quickly forgot it when a distant scream shook the air. Head upright, he fixed his stare ahead of him. The scream had come from further down the road. Sooner than he had time to forget it, another scream reached his ears. Fear suddenly gripped him, telling him to turn back.… but something even more powerful told him to keep going, and his feet carried him forward.

He neared a corner, hearing the screams rise in volume as he came close. When he turned the corner, his heart sank; he found where the villagers had been, but it didn't seem they gathered for a good cause. They crowded around the platform that stood in the center of town, looking tired and distraught. Their expressions were unmistakably marked with unease; some held each other, looking onto the platform in fear, while others looked away, shaking their heads gravely. A woman, whose beauty was lost to the ugliness of tears, was gripped tightly by a man who might've been her husband; she was wailing and thriving in distress, her cries heard high above the soft murmur of the crowd. On the platform, a group of men stood. Two men were standing at the front of the group. One was holding a long roll of parchment in front of him. The other held a little girl by the hand.

All of them wore uniforms of pitch black. On their waists, they wore sheaths to electric staves.

Tic's eyes widened. His feet lost their movement, unable to take him neither forward nor back. Captivated by terror, he could do nothing but watch.

The man with the parchment unrolled the paper completely, raising another hand to silence the onlookers. The villagers complied immediately; even the crying woman quieted her sobs to mere whimpers. He cleared his throat, then read from the scroll:

“In concern for the well-being of The Nine Cities, our King and Master Larkin Shrike has ordered to him the return of Tic Synkrat Ideo, committer of illegal craftery and attempted murder. Any village holding in its name over three hundred persons is punishable by one death should the criminal not be produced." He paused, glancing to the little girl on his left, then continued: “Selection of the punished is at the discretion of The Royal Guard."

He rolled up the scroll, pocketed it and peered across the crowd, allowing his words to sink in.

The crying woman resumed her bawling, her cries reaching the pitch of hysterics. She finally broke free of her husband's grip and ran for the platform. “Zenia!” she cried, reaching for the girl, who stood quietly with the uniformed men. The hiss of electricity suddenly burnt the air, sending a small flare of light. The sobbing ceased immediately. Something hit the ground with a thump and the little girl screamed. A man ran forward, kneeling to the ground and taking the unconscious woman into his arms.

“It's very simple,” the Guardian spoke to the transfixed crowd, returning the smoking stave to his sheath with impassive ease. “Hand over the boy,” he smiled, taking the now struggling girl's arm into his own, “And little Zenia doesn't get hurt.”

Soothe.

The water dripped, slowly, pausing a few seconds before decidingly dripping again. A ring formed with each drop's dive into the water; it echoed into larger rings that spread and then disappeared as they journeyed too far. Tic watched the tedious descent of droplets from the faucet, his arms resting upon either side of the tub, head set in an upright position, listening to the sounds that each drop made as it hit the water and splashed. Though he watched it as if with care, his mind was clouded with thoughts of his burden. The warm water that surrounded him only seemed to remind him of the weight that now rested upon his shoulders. If only it, too, would drip away into the water, and disappear.

But it wasn't something that was going to go away. It was going to last with him as long as he stayed here, and past that, if he chose to return to the underground. It was something that would change his life forever for the worst, if he chose the alternative. But neither decision could outweigh the other. The lives of innocent people depended on him, either way. He'd never had a burden like this before.

And Miraye. He knew she was aggravated by what he wanted. He saw her eyes turn cold and her lips go straight. His hands sank lazily beneath the surface of water. It stung him, faintly.. to see someone react to him that way, when he'd just realized he was to blame for the holocaust of an entire town, and probably others. Who knew how many towns the Guardians had already been through? This town, he feared, was not going to be spared from their pursuit, and they'd already experienced that. How could Miraye still think they needed to stay here? Tic wasn't even sure if he trusted Gaston anymore. And then, he suddenly thought, if Miraye had never been around, would he have given in to Larkin? Maybe he wouldn't be where he was right now. That girl, she turned his life upside down.

Just as he turned hers.

He sighed and let his head fall back with a short intake of breath. If she had never even seen him, she probably would never have gotten mixed up in all of this. She would've never destroyed half the city, or gotten caught by the likes of Larkin. His breathing suddenly hastened. She probably wouldn't have even died. But it was Larkin, the ruler of Galesing, the man who would be king, who caused all of this. Tic's eyes moistened, breaths coming out short and quick. Somehow Tic felt as if Larkin was of a higher order. Something he couldn't control. Something that controlled him. A man whose eyes and intentions could turn Tic from a dirty sink rat into anything he wanted him to be. It made him shudder.

It made him..

Tic looked down for a moment, exhaling with a soft gasp. He stared again at the faucet as the feelings passed, letting his chest heave gently. His eyes grew wet and he lifted his hands to his face, holding it for a moment in his palms. The water dripped from his fingers, down his face and disappeared into the pool of water below. He removed his hands and sank his head beneath the surface, tempted to just let himself disappear into the water forever.

He was surprised to find Miraye already in bed when he returned to the attic. Judging by the darkness of the building, he realized Gaston must've closed shop early. He didn't bother to wonder why. Before climbing into bed, he took a moment to breathe in some fresh air from the window. The air was frigid and stung his nose, but refreshed his previously muddled senses. He stood for a moment by the window, suddenly realizing just how odd the sky looked. The Stryphus moon seemed to be at its peak.. quite a strange sight for this hour. He stared at it mindfully, until a sudden pang of remorse hit him and forced him to look away. He sighed and turned, dropping himself into the bed and falling arduously into a slumber of dreams.

I heard the news today, oh boy.

The light of morning against his eyes wasn't always the only thing to wake Tic. It could be a sound, a shift in temperature, or a dream. But tonight it had been neither. Movement had awoken him this time, the movement of something light nestling into the bed behind him. It opened his eyes to darkness, but did not stir his repose. He stared dimly for a few moments toward the darkened wall, trying to recall the dream that had been interrupted. In it, him, his father, and his family were safe at last; they lived in a world where the tyranny had ended and peace was the only demand. He sighed; he hated waking to the realization that some things could only be found in dreams.

His body ached with the weight of sleep, so he turned himself gently, carefully, to face the other side. To come upon another face, lying across from him with its eyes closed, its skin bright and its lips silent. He watched the face thoughtfully, examining its features as if to make sure it was real. The scar that ran down its left eye intrigued him. He had always wondered when, why, how did it get there? But the tire in him drew his thoughts gently away. He closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to once again slip into the arms of sleep.

The next time he awoke, morning light had already bathed the room in pale grey. He rose quietly, only to find that Miraye was gone from the bed. He ran a hand through his hair and searched for the clothes he had bought, no, received, yesterday. He found them in a pile at the side of the bed, grabbed them and headed for the bathroom.

Before thinking to knock, he opened the door to find the girl, undressed and soaking in the bathtub. After a moment of quick embarrassment, he muttered an apology and hastenly shut the door. He dressed himself quickly, deciding it would be much safer to change outside.

After pulling on his boots, Miraye appeared from the bathroom fully dressed. She approached Tic with a heedful expression.

"Could you do me a favor?" she said. She hadn't put her jacket on yet, and the corset shown around her waist. She turned so that her side was to Tic. "Tighten the laces, will you?"

He didn't react immediately, but raised his fingers and did as she said. She smiled and thanked him, took her jacket, and they both headed down to the pub.

Downstairs, they proceeded with the routines of the tavern, having mastered it within just a few days. The monotony of it, however, left Tic to worry about other, larger things. They had gotten new clothes, new shoes, and were now gaining money rather than paying off. They would be prepared, or were already, to make their journey to The Sink soon. He didn't think it would take very long to get there; he knew most of the locations of the hidden moleholes in the forests and would surely be able to find one. But he was anxious. The longer they had to stay at the tavern, the more time it gave for them to get caught. He didn't know what extremes the Shrike would take looking for him, but he knew better than to think that Larkin had given up.

The morning passed without a hitch, but slowly. The only thing he could do other than the tavern work was listen to the conversations of the customers. Some spoke of their wives, some spoke of the weather, some didn't speak at all. It was the only interesting part of the job, and currently his only way to hear about what was going on outside. He kept an ear out for any news on Larkin, The Sink, or Guardians passing through the town. He was sure Miraye did the same, though there hadn't been any valuable news yet. And though the town seemed safe, they also needed to be careful about when and who they spoke to. A single wrong word could have them sent straight back to the castle. He didn't believe they would ever be safe until they were with The Sink.

When noontime came, Gaston let them take a break. He provided them with food and drink, and didn't even take the tab out of their payment. Tic was surprised at the man's hospitality. Especially after the fact that he knew that they were on the run from the Guardians. If they were ever caught, Gaston may as well take the penalty for housing two fugitives. Yet he continued to tolerate their presence. Something about him even told Tic he knew more about them than he should. Although, it would be hard to ignore it when two kids come into your tavern, their clothes ruined and stained with blood.

Soon after the break, they returned to work to serve the deluge of lunch-hour costumers. Tic settled with the tasks of washing, cleaning and sweeping while Miraye helped Gaston serve out drinks and rations. The chatter amongst the patrons was at its usual, as if no one was aware of the massacre that took place, or the war that would. The lives of the townspeople seemed to continue on peacefully, and after all he had been through, Tic envied them for that. They didn't know what had happened, how much Tic was worth or what Miraye had done. And Tic hoped it would stay that way.

Like any other time the door swung open, someone walked in and took a seat somewhere within the confines of the tavern. This time they took off their hat and sat on a stool at the counter, calling for the bartender by name. Gaston smiled and greeted him like an old friend, asking how he was doing, where he's been. The man looked about Gaston's age, Tic saw, with dark hair and a short goatee. Gaston passed him a cup of something golden and he began to speak.

"I been out of town, Gaston," he said, almost sternly.

"Whereabouts?" asked Gaston.

"Took a visit to Lutney see the family."

"How was it?"

"It woulda been just swell if I 'adn't passed through Arston Creeks on the way back. That place is a mess."

"Why? What happened?"

"Burned, most all of it. Straight to the ground."

Gaston paused for a moment in surprise. Then, "Burned? How did that happen? It's a quiet town. The rebels don't go after towns like that."

"It weren't no rebels, Gaston." The man took a sip from his drink, and looked up. He leaned towards Gaston, as if to talk in secret."'Twas the Guardians. They was looking for someone."

Gaston leaned in closer. "Who?"

"A rebel. Some kid," he said simply.

Tic's heart stopped. His hands ceased their movement and he lifted his eyes, frozen to the spot.

"They burned the entire town jus' for some worthless boy," the man continued. "It's a pity, you know. He should jus' turn 'imself in before any of this stuff continues, if he knows what's right."

Tic felt himself lose grip of the mug too late to catch it. It fell from his hands into the sink, creating a pang of glass against metal. The sound surprised him and his hands scrambled to pick it up again. He could feel both men's glances on him as he resumed washing it.

After a few moments, Gaston asked the man, "Is there a reward?"

"Not that I know of. I reckon, they get the boy and the burnin's stop. That's the reward."

The man seemed to go silent after that. Gaston tended to another customer that sat close to Tic. Tic stared fixedly into his hands, not even daring a glance to Gaston as the man neared.

He felt like his heart had plummeted straight through him. The memory of the priests came back to him, Kein's voice ringing in his head, "All will perish in the flames! The burning shall reign!" and he felt it echo, ringing louder now, as if becoming real, as if the world was set on fire and all he could hear was the screaming, burning cries of the innocent, and he couldn't do anything, he could only watch as they perished in the flames, and it was his fault, all his fault, and it was hot, so hot around him as he only stood on and watched the explosions of flames, enveloping, burning, killing, ripping away the flesh –

"Tic? You're bleeding," a voice said, out of everything.

Miraye was standing across from him at the counter.

He gazed at her for a moment, then lifted a hand to beneath his nose. He tested the substance, and looked down, staring at the red spots that graced his fingertips.

A little wonder.

The Moons of Morning were soon high enough to tell that noon was approaching, shining down onto the earth from their distant positions in the sky. The rain that had gathered in puddles along the ground was disappearing, though the ground was still quite wet. Tic followed through the paths of the village, looking down to his feet every now and then to his new footwear. The bottoms of his pant legs covered the boots so that just the toes could be seen. He didn't understand why the priests gave them to him, or why they seemed to act so strange. And the memory of what the young priest had predicted didn't escape him just yet.

It wasn't long before he found his way back into the center of the village, passing by familiar buildings and shops. With the new attire, he didn't attract as much attention as before, and he found that quite comforting. The same faces seemed to pass by him, but without even a cursory glance. And all of it was done without even having to pay anyone. He hoped his luck wouldn't fade out anytime soon.

When he entered the tavern, a few faces turned in his direction, and most of those glances turned back to their whiskey or beer. The lunch hour wasn't very busy today, Tic thought, removing his hood and passing through the tables towards the bar. Miraye stood nearby, moving a mop along the floor. She was wearing something white, and tight around her waist, with black laces and black skirt to match. So she didn't have any problems getting new clothes, he thought. He wondered if she had run into anyone, like he had with the priests. But it didn't matter. They would soon pay their debt to the bartender and leave for The Sink, he hoped, safe and sound.

Without saying anything, Tic moved behind the counter to the sink. There was a new pile of unwashed mugs there, and he turned the faucet on. Unaware of the stare on both him and Miraye, he proceeded wash the mugs clean.

Reach out, touch faith.

Rays of light penetrated through the grey clouds, casting down their white beams to the dirt of the earth below. Soon the clouds disappeared, leaving the sky a clear, pale blue; free of all clouds, and pure. Tic traveled further down the roads of the village, in search of a cobbler, though without luck in finding one. From what it was worth, he left his hood on, despite the absence of rain. He was defenseless, and the possibility of a Guardian appearing did not comfort him. Though so far from the castle, he was still in Larkin’s territory. And though so far from Larkin, he still felt haunted…

It had only been three nights ago. The night was calm, without rain or thunder, from what he remembered. And when he remembered, it was as if trying to remember a dream; only fragments and feelings remained. But it happened so quickly. The kiss, the skin, the touch. And then, when he awoke from the nightmare, it was not he who was screaming. The sound and image were clear in his mind: the man, crying out in pain, clutching his face and falling from the bed. He did not turn back to look at Tic as he parted, leaving him lying on the bed, his chest bared and blood seeping from his nose.

Tic lifted his eyes, suddenly breaking himself from his thoughts and looking to his surroundings. The buildings, the very of few of them, were unfamiliar; small, one-roomed houses spread out along the road, fences in front of them, barricading small animals inside. A larger, white building sat further down the empty road, while the road itself seemed to disappear into a vast, green field out in the distance. He stood for a moment, his head turned back into the direction he came, scanning the town for any sign of a shop or tavern, and seeing neither. It looked like he had reached the edge of the town.

He set his eyes on the grand white building down the road. Perhaps there was someone in there who could guide him back to the proper shop, he thought, making his way towards it. Upon nearing the building, he saw that it was unlike any other of the buildings in the village. Long, majestic pillars stood in front of it, holding up a tilted roof. On the front of the building, just below the roof, there was a large, circular window, whose glass gleamed in the morning light. The entrance, situated behind the pillars, was wide, with broad double-doors and a semicircle of a window just above it. When he neared enough to tell that the entire building was made of a white marble, he realized exactly what it was.

A temple.

This was a temple of Élanzir, he knew; he had visited temples when he was very young, before the death of his father. He remembered how devout his father was; how each night, before he went to bed, his father would come to him to say a silent prayer. But when his father was killed, he could not understand how the Gods could allow it to happen. He didn’t want to put his faith into something that didn’t exist. He could not stand the thought of something else controlling his life. He stopped believing.

Tic paused for a moment, standing just before the marble staircase, staring up into the rose window above. He moved his eyes down, towards the entrance, staring as if waiting for something to stop him. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, the dirt of his ruined shoes leaving marks on the white of the marble as he stepped. But it didn’t matter to him anymore that he was searching for shoes. He was searching for something else.

The aroma of incense immediately took to his sense of smell as he walked within, careful to shut the door behind him quietly. When he turned, his eyes were met with a magnificent sight. Light shined in from the many windows, casting columns of white rays down onto the floor and into the small, round pool of water in the center of the room. The light reflected off the pool and onto the white walls, rippling across the walls in trembling waves. Though the grand chamber was well-lit, candles sat along the floor and on the higher walls, in hanging fixtures from the ceiling and on mantles. At the back of the room, there were white doors leading further into the depths of the temple, perhaps even underground. The entire room gave off an ethereal sort of aura, but Tic was surprised to find it empty.

Hesitating, he walked forward, removing his hood and stepping gingerly down the stairs towards the clear pool. A dark metal hanging came from the ceiling, hanging above the pool, holding a bright blue flame in the center of it, grey smoke drifting into the air. He looked around him carefully, to be certain that he was the only presence in the room, and walked slowly towards the edge of the pool. Gazing into it, he kneeled, as if to pray, and saw the violet eyes of someone else staring back up at him.

What he saw there was a face; the face of a peasant, a rebel, someone without the understanding of what destiny planned for him. Nothing had changed in the face, yet there was something eternally different about its owner. Something he didn’t quite comprehend, and didn’t know whether to accept. All his life he had spent unknowing to his ability; so why now? Why now did he realize? He could have helped, could have saved so many people. His father could still be alive. He moved his hand over the surface of the water, distorting the reflection into broken fragments of himself. This was not the face of a healer. It was the face of a rat.

Suddenly, there was a muffled sound, as if someone was screaming. Tic lifted his eyes from the pool and looked to the back of the room, standing and watching as one of the doors burst open. Three men came out, two of them holding up the third, their arms around his shoulders. Long, white, flowing robes hung from their bodies, and upon each of their foreheads, a blue circle within a white ring was painted. Priests. The two moved slowly, struggling to keep the third standing, who cried out again in agony.

“The burning! The burning shall reign!”

Tic stared helplessly, watching the screaming priest as the men carried him to the pool. He was younger than the others, and his hair, though young, had streaks of grey in it. His eyes were rolling up towards the ceiling, nearly disappearing beneath his eyelids, as if permanently fixed upon the sky. He continued to yell, his cries hoarse and choked.

“All will perish in the flames! Can’t you see it! The entire village is going to burn! And the world will be consumed by his darkness… such terrible things are going to happen! Can you not see?!”

The men ushered him towards the pool, dropped him to his knees and kneeled beside him at the edge of the water. They didn’t seem to notice Tic, who had backed away from the pool as soon as they neared. One of the priests stood, the eldest priest; he closed his eyes, put his fingertips together, and began to mutter words. The other priest, with his hand on the young priest’s back, whispered to him comfortingly.

“Wash your face, Kein, cleanse yourself.”

The priest stopped screaming and gave in; he leaned down towards the pool, cupped the blessed water in his hands and threw it into his face. He rubbed his hands briskly across his eyes, throwing the water again into it, and repeating. After a few moments of peace, the elder priest leaned down to the young priest, and whispered softly. “Is everything alright now, Kein?”

The young priest did not answer. His head was still in his hands, but he peered over the top of his fingers into the pool. He lifted his eyes suddenly, and gazed straight into the face of Tic.

“Kein?”

The man stared at Tic, eyes widening. He lowered his face back into his hands, muttering something that Tic could not hear.

“Take him back downstairs,” the elder priest spoke. The other priest nodded, moving to take Kein by the arm. But the young priest pushed the man’s arm away, lifting his head and reaching out to Tic desperately.

“Forgive me,” he whispered to Tic, gazing at him from across the pool, his hands stretched up towards him. The boy stared on, uncertain of what to do or where to turn. “Forgive me!” the priest whispered again, but Tic only watched as he was lifted to his feet, taken gently by the arm, and guided towards the door. The door slammed shut, leaving Tic and the elder priest in silence.

“I must apologize,” the priest spoke out of the quiet, bowing to Tic. He was tall, his head hairless and his skin paler than the white of his robes. “This usually doesn’t occur during the day. I am sorry you had to witness it.”

Unsure of what to say, Tic lowered his eyes to the pool. There were stains of water around the edge where the young priest had been. Strange, how the man acted; it was as if he was possessed. Finally, Tic raised his eyes, speaking from his thoughts. “What was wrong with him?”

The priest seemed to sigh. “He has the gift of foresight.”

Tic looked down. Foresight? The young priest said the village was going to burn. But it couldn’t be true, could it?

“His visions are rarely accurate, however,” the priest spoke reassuringly. He paused, glancing at Tic through his dark grey eyes, scrutinizing him. There was silence again, then, “Come closer, child… what brings you here?”

Tic obeyed, walking out from behind the pool and towards the priest. He stopped when within talking range of the man, remembering suddenly why he had come there in the first place.

“I.. was looking for a cobbler, but…” he trailed off.

“Ah,” spoke the priest. “But you got lost.”

Tic nodded.

“The best means of finding your way is to get lost first,” said the priest, who stepped forward into a patch of light. His skin seemed to glow. “What is your name?”

“Tic,” he began, but was cut off by the sound of a door opening. He looked past the elder priest, back to the same door that the young priest had been brought out. It was the other priest, the one who had helped the young priest out of the room. He stood, closing the door gently behind him.

The elder priest turned his head back to the door. “Is he alright?”

The man came forward, nodding, and making his way towards the elder priest in an almost urgent manner. He gave a long, worried glance to Tic before turning the elder priest away and whispering something to him. They talked quietly, speaking in hushed voices so that Tic could not hear. After a few moments, the elder priest turned his glance on Tic; his eyebrows were lifted, as if in surprise. He turned back to the other priest, shaking his head. They spoke for a moment more, and then the other priest nodded, bowed his head and headed back towards the door.

The door was shut, and silence came again. The elder priest looked upon Tic.

“Tic, did you say?”

“Yes,” he spoke, “Tic Synkrat Ideo.”

“Ah.” The priest didn’t speak for moments after that. He looked down to the pool, as if in contemplation, his hands clasped together in front of him. Tic started to feel awkward in the growing silence, and began to turn, to announce his leave, but the door creaked opened once more. The same priest came out, carrying a pair of light brown boots in his hands.

“Ah,” the priest spoke again, lifting his eyes and taking the boots from the man. “You are in need of shoes, am I not correct?”

But before Tic could say anything, the priest held the boots out to him.

“Please, accept this as my apology.” He stepped forward, placed the boots into Tic’s arms, and lowered his head.

Tic looked down into his arms. The boots were thin, long, with a column of black laces on their fronts. They looked to be just the right size. He bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

The priest smiled down upon him.

“You are very welcome, Tic, to everything we have to offer. Do not be afraid to come to us again if you need anything.”

Tic nodded, bowed again and turned back towards the entrance. The priests watched him as he left, turning to each other once he was out of the building completely.

“He saw the boy in a vision?” the elder priest asked.

“Yes.. he said the boy is of the Blessed.”

“It mustn’t be true.”

“We shall see..”

Beneath the stains of time.

Tic watched after Miraye as she left down the gravel road, the blood still visible on her dress’s back. She disappeared around a corner, leaving him standing in the middle of the street. Slowly, he turned himself to survey the street, gazing at the array of shops that lined it. The shops stood next to each other, some without alleyways in between, each bearing different signs and decorated fronts. His eyes passed from one end of the street to the other end, until they stopped at a building with garments displayed in one of its windows. A broad sign hung above the door, with a single word etched deeply into its wood. “Tailor,” it read in bold, black, capital letters.

He looked warily over his shoulder for a moment, searching for someone to assure him, but then proceeded towards the shop. Stopping in front of it, he looked into the window to see the clothing on display. The outfits were of dark colors, mostly, except for one. A purely white, loose tunic with a blue neckline, blue bordering on the sleeves, a hood, and a heavy, dark grey, long-sleeved shirt to be worn inside of it. Finally certain that this was the right place to be, he stepped inside.

A small bell jingled at the top of the door, signaling those inside that someone had entered the shop. And those that were inside were very little, in fact, just one: a woman, who stood, turned away from the door, making adjustments to an outfit that hung from a rack. Tic walked further inside, after taking a glance at his surroundings; fabrics of all sorts that lay on tables, sat on shelves, along with articles of clothing hanging from stands, on the walls, and on sewing machines. The entire shop was a single, large room, whose dustiness could not be mistaken for bad service. The woman remained with her back turned, seemingly unmoved by the sounds. Her dark dress revealed some of her back through the black laces.

Tic walked until he stood just feet behind the woman, pausing to see whether his presence would stir her or he would have to speak. It seemed all too much to be the latter, and he parted his lips, speaking softly.

“Excuse me.”

The woman turned her head, her hands hanging in mid-air, a look of surprise upon her elegantly-formed features. “Oh!” she said, lowering her hands and turning herself to face him. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She looked as if about to say something else, but paused, staring at the boy for a moment. The blood and dirt had remained on his clothing, despite his washing, which seemed to alarm her. She spoke again, a look of hesitance in her golden eyes.

“Can I… help you with something?”

Tic looked down for a moment at the stained sleeves of his outfit, lifting them slightly. “Well…”

“Are you looking for some clothes?” she asked, her voice as smooth as a gentle ocean wave.

He nodded twice.

“You’ve come to the right place, then,” she said, smiling at him. Her lips were painted red, and she had stunningly long black hair. It draped around her face like a thin lion’s mane, and she brought a finger to her cheek, pushing the strands of hair behind her ear. Tic stared at the woman, feeling an odd sense of familiarity, and then she spoke again, pulling him from his awe.

“Do you have anything in mind?”

Tic turned his glance towards the window for just seconds, then back to the woman’s elegant face, shaking his head slightly. “No,” he spoke softly, lying. He had no money; the clothing looked too expensive for someone to trust him with.

The woman’s eyes moved to the window, seeing where Tic’s glance had been. When she looked back to him, her fingers slid beneath his chin, lifting his head upwards. There was a prolonged silence as she peered at him, and he, naturally, began to feel uncomfortable.

“Your eyes would look nice in white,” she finally spoke. He didn’t say anything.

The woman made her way past him and towards the window. She took the white tunic and grey shirt from its hanger, and then moved to search through a pile of garments on a nearby table. Out of it, she pulled a pair of grey-brown pants, and carried the clothing over her arm back towards Tic. She put the garments in his hands. “Try them on,” she whispered with a half a nod.

Tic’s eyes were searching dumbly for a place to change when he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder guide him to the back of the shop. To his relief, she took him into a vacant room with a door at its entrance, separate from the main room of the shop. She looked at him with a smile, “My name is Verisa, and if you need anything, just call for me,” and she left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Tic waited a few moments in the silence, watching the door as if He or someone were staring down at him through it, and proceeded to shed his clothes.

The white tunic fit snugly over the dark grey shirt, falling across his shoulders and waist loosely, just as he liked it. The pants, with large pockets on their sides, reached just below his ankles, though a little loose at the waist. He stared at himself in the mirror that hung on the wall, straightening out any deformities. The outfit fit him perfectly, but he didn’t care; he just wanted to be out of what Larkin had dressed him in. With his old, stained clothes in his arms, he pressed open the door and walked back into the shop.

Verisa was back at one of her outfits, making measurements with a long piece of marked cord. She turned her head when she heard the click of the door, and smiled as Tic walked out towards her. “Very nice,” she said. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he said, almost automatically. “I’ll take it,” he added.

“Good.” She turned, gesturing for him to follow. They walked to a dark wooden counter that stood at the side of the room. Verisa stood behind it, pulled a key from the necklace around her neck and unlocked a drawer. She pulled out a brown sack, counted something on her fingers, and looked up to Tic. “That’ll be eight gold pieces,” she said with a soft smile.

Tic looked down, his stomach churning. “I.. don’t have the money.. right now,” he looked up, “but I promise to repay you within a week.”

Her smile faded slightly, and she shifted her eyes downwards to the sack, removing it from the counter and replacing it in the drawer. After locking it, she placed her palms on the countertop, thinking for a moment. She lifted her eyes after the few seconds of silence, smiled, and spoke.

“Well,” she leaned in over the counter towards Tic, “If you leave your clothes with me, I’m sure I can get those stains out. You won’t have to pay me back.” She moved the black locks of hair from in front of her face behind her ear again, and her golden eyes gleamed.

Tic paused, looking down to the clothes in his arms. He placed the garments on the counter. “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head slightly, hiding the faint burn in his cheeks.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, folding her arms against the counter.

Tic smiled gently, and moved towards the entrance. As he reached for the door, he heard Verisa speak out to him.

“And please, do try to be careful out there.”

He nodded, put his hood on and walked out into the drizzling rain.

Through the warmthest cord of care.

Her arms held him closely; slender, white limbs that pressed him near to her delicate form. There was darkness all around them; the only light was glowing on her skin and in her eyes, and suddenly, the everlasting moment of his dream was real. Her lips lifted to his forehead, kissing him there gently. She closed her eyes and whispered, her mind falling into a peaceful sleep once again.

Tic gazed at the sleeping form beside him, a new feeling burning inside. The touch was different this time; there was not desire, but something else. There was no man to take the moment away, no flames in her eyes to deceive him; the nightmare of this dream had already passed. He felt safe now; far from the harm of another’s will, or so he thought.

The rain outside became a soothed hum, hushed into whispers by some sudden grace of the Gods. His eyelids fluttered shut, the anxious thoughts calmed and put to rest. The darkness veiled over his mind and silenced his thoughts until he, too, journeyed to a world of dreams.

---

A vibrant, melodious tune pierced through the darkness of his dreams, waking and shaking him from the paralyzing restraints of sleep. His eyes opened slowly to the sound, his mind unable to discern it from the sounds of his dreams. The light grey ceiling loomed in upon his vision, becoming clearer and brighter every blink. When the tune persisted, whistling and calling as if frantic, he realized it was the song of a bird. It was unusually loud, and unusually beautiful.

His stare passed over the day-lit ceiling to the shape lying beside him beneath the covers. He watched her for a moment, and raised himself, eyes glancing around the room as if he was uncertain of whether or not he should be there. The bird’s song seemed to have stopped, quieting itself as he rose. He carefully slid his feet to the floor, reaching for the fallen towel and wrapping it around his waist. He gave another glance to the girl, and stood, walking to the bathroom with footfalls silent.

He tested the dampness of his newly washed clothes, and, finding that it was satisfactory, proceeded to put them on. As he finally brought the shirt over his head, he heard the high-pitched cry of the bird once again. It was too loud to be outdoors, and his eyes went in the direction of the sound, searching for whatever creature sang this tune.

To his surprise, he spotted a small, grey, sparrow-like bird hiding in the corner of the bathroom. It sang out to him in a tone of fear, and hopped away from him as he neared. At a closer glance, he could see its fine, grey and black feathers, its silvery beak and tiny, black eyes. He looked up to the minute window that hung high on the wall of the bathroom; it was left open, and most likely the bird flew in from the storm during the night, unable to escape back into the world.

Cautiously, he placed his hands out before him, gently stretching them down towards the frightened bird to ease peace into its rapidly-beaten heart. His expression softened, and he moved with such gentleness that the bird’s frantic singing came to a stop. It stared up to him, as if understanding his intent, choosing not to fight when the boy’s hands wrapped tenderly around its warm, delicate body.

He lifted it carefully, softly cupping it in his hands and holding it against his chest as he walked from the bathroom and into the room with the bed. His stare never left the bird as he walked towards the window; its head swiveled around its neck nervously, staring back up into the face of its captor. When he reached the window, he brought the bird into one hand, gripping it lightly, and pushed the window open with the other. He returned both hands to the bird, looking out to the street below; the rain had stopped, but the ground was covered and shining with the downpour. The bird cooed softly in his hands, and he looked down at it, pausing for a moment.

Slowly, he lifted the bird out of the window, removed his hands from its body and released it. In a flutter of wings, it flew from his fingers and into the blue sky up above, finding its freedom once again. Tic stared out the window, following the bird with his eyes as it flew farther and farther away from him. He watched it as it disappeared into the distance, and sighed, wishing for something more.

You know I'm a forgiver.

The dusk passed smoothly into night, save for the abrupt cries of the thunderous sky above. Lightning reigned over the small village, spooking the horses and whoever dared to pass through the unquiet roads. The tavern became more full than usual with customers; travelers and villagers who were trying to escape the violence of the weather. They came, they drank, they lingered. Only until their thirst was quenched and their minds clouded did they decide to travel again into a storm like this.

The boy and girl remained inside the tavern, seemingly protected from the forces of nature, working and serving until the last of the customers had gone. Some money was earned by ill-paid tips, mostly gathered by Miraye, but the rest of what was made went directly to the bartender. They were still in debt; they would need to work into the following day, and until when, Tic didn’t know. But the day that he would return to the Sink hung in his mind like a Heavenly star, one that would guide him free from the tribulation of the past. He had longed for it ever since he’d been captured; ever since he was caught in the Shrike’s grasp, and used. But that day was now nearing, and still he didn’t know; would they reject him as Larkin had said so?

The night had soon taken over completely, casting a black backdrop behind the electric white of the lightning. The tavern’s once occupied insides were empty again, except for a man sitting at the bar, his head sunken and low. Numerous glasses sat in front of him, their sides gleaming with emptiness. As Tic was putting up the chairs onto tables for the night, and Miraye swept the tavern floor, he could hear the man muttering and blubbering something. He didn’t know what, but as he returned to the counter to wash it clean, the man continued to mutter.

“Shouldn’tve left him,” the man said lamentably, his head hanging low over the empty glasses. Tic turned his glance to the man for a moment, taking a towel to the countertop and wiping away the excess water.

“I could’ve stopped… I could’ve helped,” he spoke again, hiccupping. His voice seemed choked and wretched, held back by drink. Tic felt a twinge of pity for him, and his own voice spoke softly.

“Who?” he asked.

The drunkard was silent for a few moments, gazing down into the abyss of his empty glass. He lifted it to his lips, tasting the few final drops, and set it back down.

“He was lying there on the road, but I left him.. I left him.. but..” he paused, hiccupping.

“.. he was still alive,” the man whispered, more to himself than Tic. He began to speak again, but his voice turned into a mumble, and the mumble into a sob. His face was covered as he buried it in his hands.

Feeling helpless, Tic hesitantly put a hand to the man’s shoulder. He could tell the man had drunk himself into some sort of delusional misery, but felt as though he shouldn’t ignore it. He opened his mouth to say something of comfort, but his hand was suddenly seized, squeezed painfully tight. The man had lifted his head, staring at Tic keenly, eager to dispel his story to someone. “It was a man..,” he whispered, eyes widening, “.. with an arm of metal!”

The man’s eyes drooped, his grip loosening, his head falling forward. It knocked over the empty mugs as it hit the counter, but before Tic could do anything, he heard the familiar growl of the bartender in front of him.

“Leave him be,” he grunted at Tic, standing behind the drunkard and shaking his head. “He’ll wake up in the morning with a tab. And you, you and the girl, you’re done for the night.”

Tic nodded, seeing that Miraye had already finished her work and was waiting at one of the tables. She still looked tired, he thought, even more so now that it was late. He wondered if she’d heard the drunkard; he had talked of a man with a metal arm, and Tic could only think of one person to match the description. But even if it was who he thought, they were still bound to the tavern; day and night. Night… a sudden, frantic question came to his mind, and the bartender spoke as if reading his thoughts.

“By your looks—and smell, I’m guessing you don’t have a place to sleep tonight,” he said, knowing there were other facts behind his reasoning. Tic felt like nodding again, but he chose not to, and instead cast his stare downwards. The man shifted closer, looking behind him to Miraye, then back to Tic. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, and after a few seconds, spoke again. “I have space in a room upstairs. You two can sleep there.”

Tic looked up, uttering a soft “Thank you.” The man nodded, and Tic moved out from behind the bar, to the table where Miraye sat. She looked to be sleeping again; her head was buried in her arms. Though he didn’t want to wake her, he spoke her name, gently raising his voice to stir her from a possible dreamworld.

“Miraye.”

I will deliver.

Looks like someone’s going to lose their job,” came the deep growl of the bartender.

The man was standing at the corner of the tavern, walking towards them with his arms folded against his broad chest. He looked at them sternly, passing through the tables to see who exactly was lying on the floor of his bar. When he did see them, his stare turned into a scowl. He glared at the two as if they’d murdered the men.

“What did you do to them!” he questioned furiously, looking down to the unconscious bodies at his feet. “These were my best customers!”

“Relax, they’re not dead,” said Miraye smoothly.

The bartender knelt down, taking one of the men’s faces and slapping its cheek. “What did you do to them?” he repeated. He’d had men pass out in his bar before, but never four of them at once.

“They asked for the strongest drink,” Miraye said, wiping the blood from her hand onto her well-stained dress, “so we did our best to please them.”

The bartender rose and looked over his bar, his glance going over every bottle that had been misplaced. He huffed, his face reddening, his finger rising to point at the girl and the boy, ready to shout their renouncement. But as he looked at them, something changed in his mind. Something he’d thought about since seeing these two return from the Guardian. He lowered his hand, casting his gaze back down to the men on the floor.

“I suppose they didn’t pay, either,” he said, bringing his hands to his hips. “This will be coming out of your pay as well, you two. Now get to work.”

Tic breathed, feeling as though he’d been holding his breath the entire time. So they wouldn’t be losing their only way of making money and getting to The Sink, he thought, not yet. The rainstorms were passing over them, their roars low and rumbling for now. The boy’s eyes passed over the tavern door as it opened again, but the customers were readily tended to by the bartender, who made sure that Tic and Miraye would not be serving anyone for a while.

Tic looked away from the men, looking down to the bleeding hand resting on the countertop. He saw the blood leaking from it, dripping down her wrist and onto the dress that had already been so ruined. The red liquid suddenly stirred a feeling within him, and he felt compelled to touch the hand, to wipe it clean, to fix it. The feeling was deep; a realization that struck him so profoundly, he wondered how could’ve forgotten it. It was a knowing, one he could not quite yet understand. And it was simple; these were wounds that could be cured. By him.

He stood, staring dumbly for a second as he realized. But then, he shook it from his mind, wondering again if it had all been a dream. His own hands then searched for something below the counter, and upon finding it, brought the soft piece of towel up and held it for a moment in his palms.

“Your hand..,” he spoke softly, offering the white cloth to the girl.

Nothing ever goes away.

The windows of the tavern were softly blurred as a pattering of rain came drifting over it, the dim light within casting long shadows across the floor. At the bar, the boy stood, silently sweeping the shards into a neat pile upon the wooden ground. He cast his glance over the broken glass, brushing a stray piece into the pile, and lifted his eyes to the broken girl sitting at one of the tables. Her eyes were silent, shut; thin, dark lines against the white of her skin. A serene sleep had taken her; lead her through the darkness, and into the light of dreams. She looked at peace, Tic thought, as he watched her sleeping form. A peace that was needed, both by her body and soul.

There was a grunt and Tic was pulled from his stare, looking into the impatient glance of the bartender. He cast his eyes down and swept the remainder of the shards into a pan, disposing of it quietly. The rainfall outside thickened, distorting the figures on the other side of the windows into blurry, dark shapes. Its pattering seemed to echo within the small walls of the tavern, the silence of those inside speaking louder than words. Thunder rumbled softly outside, lightning failing to accompany it.

When Tic finished sweeping the shards, the bartender called him to the bar, where he demonstrated the pouring and mixing of drinks. The pouring was simple; place a mug beneath the nozzle, pull the lever and let the beer flow. He showed him the different teas used, their strengths and their effects; the mixing of certain liquids, how to test taste by scent. Before long, Tic had mastered the creation of some simple drinks. The tasks were easy, and he worked silently, his eyes drifting to the sleeping girl every now and then.

The light of day had waned, fading into the blue darkness of dusk. Most of the tavern’s occupants had disappeared into the rain, leaving the tavern with their hoods far over their faces. The bartender had stopped cleaning mugs, standing and surveying his empty tavern with folded arms.

“When she wakes up,” he spoke to Tic, “you will teach her what you’ve learned.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “sir,” he added.

“The crowds come around this hour, and I don’t want to be serving them myself,” he added gruffly.

Tic nodded again, glancing to his empty surroundings. The pattering of soft rain had become almost violent, beating against the windows with an inclement force. Tic sighed softly, having been put to work washing the mugs the bartender had left behind. He looked to the door, as though expecting to see another Guardian suddenly barge in and take them away. But his stare strayed to the girl, and he thought differently.

They were a world apart from each other, yet she was only feet away. He wondered what she was dreaming, if she was. As he watched her, she seemed to stir. Her mouth moved; opening, closing. She might’ve muttered something, but Tic couldn’t hear. He suddenly wanted to reach out to her, ease her into a peaceful sleep once again. But the tavern’s door abruptly opened with a violent creak, and slammed shut, nearly shaking the walls of the tavern off its foundation.

The men who entered were not as quiet as the rest of the tavern; their footsteps were wet against the wooden floor, their chatter loud and boisterous. There were four of them, and three of them scraped the bottoms of stools along the floor and sat at the bar, seeming to have already had a few drinks that night. The fourth stood at the end of the bar’s counter. He pulled out a small, rolled up piece of white paper, struck a match against the table, and lit it. He breathed in; the smoke wisped out of his mouth in curls and puffs.

Tic’s eyes searched for the bartender. The man had disappeared somewhere within the tavern, unaware of his new customers. Tic was left to serve them alone. The boy put down the mug he was holding, and turned around to face the men, awaiting their orders. They didn’t seem to notice him, talking amongst themselves in slurred voices and laughs. When one of them finally lifted his eyes, he stared at the waiting Tic, as if questioning the boy’s purpose.

“You work here?” he muttered, eyeing Tic’s bloodied clothes.

Tic nodded. The man raised his brows for moment. “Your strongest drink, boy, and make it quick.”

Tic glanced for the bartender again. He hadn’t learned of this drink yet, his knowledge limited to simply beer and tea. He stood dumbly for a moment, and then spoke, his eyes still searching for the man.

“I’m sorry. The bartender will be with you in a..”

A sudden grip took a hold of the front of his shirt, pulling him forward and forcing his face frighteningly close to the man’s own. “I said,” the man breathed, his breath scented by thick fumes of alcohol, “make it quick.”

He pushed the boy away, who barely caught his balance by taking a quick grip onto the counter’s edge. It caught the attention of the other two sitting men, and they laughed drunkenly, guffawing behind their bearded faces. Tic looked frantically for any sign of the bartender, fetching mugs and placing them at the counter, intent on filling them with drink.

“These are empty,” one of the men spoke. “Where are our drinks?”

“I reckon he doesn’t even work here,” another said angrily.

“What’s a mess like you doing here, boy?”

“But, my friends,” said the smoking man suddenly. He wasn’t at the counter any longer. He was standing beside the table that Miraye slept at. “What’s a mess like this doing here..,” he said, reaching down to touch the girl’s head.

Dead man walking.

Darkness hung like a widow's veil over the alley, its black shadows blotting out the ground and walls. The blue of the moons' light barely reached through, softly illuminating the edges of something laying in the dirt. The dark figure lay completely still, its features blackened by the darkness, and by something else. There was silence, until the small sound of tiny footsteps came, accompanied by an equally small squeak.

The rodent moved curiously out of the dim blue light and into the black, pausing to sniff at whatever this body was. Another set of tiny footsteps came, following the first in suit. Soon, there were many of them, sniffing and squeaking about the corpse. But when the corpse moved, the rats screeched in panic, and scattered, fleeing into the depths of the alley.

The body's arms slid forward across the ground, its skin flaking off as it moved across the dirt. A low, inhuman moan came from it, as its arms pressed against the dirt and slowly raised itself onto its knees. The head moved into the blue light as he rose; the face was scathed, charred, and broken. The rest of him barely seemed to come together as he stood, as though held together by the thin threads of sinew. The Guardian stumbled forward until he found the wall, and he breathed in, his voice gasping in a high-pitched rasp.

He moved weakly, his hands pressed against the wall for support. His garments were black, torn strips of cloth that hung from his arms and shoulders. They did not cover his skin, and when he moved out into the light, it was easily seen that he was a walking pile of black, rotting flesh. Screams of nearby villagers resounded in his ears, and he pushed himself off the wall, staggering towards his horse.

The horse did not immediately recognize its master, and stepped backwards as the man neared. It reared its head when the skeletal hand reached out to grab its reins and pull down, so that the horse's glassy eyes stared into the man's own black holes. The horse snorted, and the Guardian used his remaining strength to pull himself onto the saddle. When he mounted the horse, he fell forward, his face buried in the hair on the back of the horse's neck. His tattered boots kicked into animal's flanks, and the horse whinnied, taking off in a heavy gallop through the gravel streets.

---

Tic held Miraye, his arm around her back, her arm slung about his shoulder, and brought her further into the tavern. He gently guided her into a chair, taking a seat in another beside her. He looked at her, almost in awe of her power, but more in care for her. Her eyes looked so tired. She would need to rest, he thought. They didn't need to work right away.

The bartender was still staring at them, dumbstruck. He thought for sure they would be gone forever. Yet there they were, two children, escaped from the clutches of a Guardian. He looked down for a moment at the broken glass at his feet, then back up to the two, lost for words.

"Well?" the girl said to him.

He stared at her for a little longer, thinking hard. He seemed to come to a conclusion, and turned away from them, reaching for something in the corner of the bar. He turned back to them, and walked out from behind the bar's counter. He held out the broomstick in front of him.

"You can start by cleaning up this mess," he said gruffly, nodding down to the shattered pieces of glass spread across the floor.

Relief, but not for long.

In the moment it took to turn his head to see the man, his heart had skipped a beat, almost frantic. But soon, it resumed its normal rhythm; the man was not who he feared. It was someone else; a traveller, like him and Miraye, perhaps. He was tall, dressed in dark greys, and a velvet hood clung to the sides of his face. Tic tore his glance from the man after a few seconds, as if making sure it wasn't the guardian in disguise, and brought his stare back into the golden liquid.

It seemed almost as if Miraye could read minds, and though he would rather keep his thoughts private, he was glad she brought them up instead of him. Images of being captured and brought back to the castle kept replaying in his head, but Miraye's words were assuring, and he tried not to think of it.

And he remembered the girl, Stelon, was that her name? She was the girl who danced with the Shrike, who screamed accusations at Miraye, who had come to rescue him. He wasn't sure who's side she stood by, but now she was with the Shrike, and Tic knew all too well the dangers of being in Larkin's care. It suddenly worried him, this young girl being with such a man. But would they rescue her and they had tried to rescue him?

And they would need to earn the money, of course; he hadn't thought of that. The idea didn't seem too unpleasant, but didn't seem too appealing either. He had worked before, when he was younger, and when he was in The Sink. But back then, he didn't have people after him. It would be dangerous, but if it was the only way to help him return to The Sink safely, he would do it.

His fingers rested around the warmth of the goblet, and he watched Miraye as she swallowed her sixth glass. He nodded.

"Yes," he said after the moments of silence. "We'll need to work."

"Good," muttered Miraye as she took the emptied glass from her lips. The bartender continued cleaning his mugs, but looked expectantly at him and Miraye, probably wondering the same thing as Tic had thought about their payment. He waited patiently, and when Miraye had signaled for another run, he stopped rubbing the cloth against the glass. He opened his mouth, about to ask to see some money first, but was suddenly cut off by the violent creak of the door.

The footsteps were heavy, and didn't fall with ease. An almost jangled noise came from him, the sounds of metal against metal, or perhaps chains or shackles. You could almost hear the breathing from under his bearded face, the rigidity of his stature as he walked. Tic didn't need to turn his head to see him; he could feel the man's presence, could see the solid black uniform out of the corner of his eye. He could feel the man's eyes roll over the tavern, searching, and then, the realization as they finally landed on him.

The Guardian had found the boy at last. Surely Larkin would be pleased.

The days are much too bright.

The bartender quickly went to prepare the girl's drink, a little frightened and curious as to who these strangers were. Tic looked away from him and to the tavern's entrance, which remained closed. If the guardian had seen them, then he could be walking through that door at any moment. Miraye didn't seem to be as worried, but did seem to be angry at something. Her tone of voice and pushy manner showed it. But he tried not to let it bother him, though it did, and he ignored it.

There was a clink of glass against the wooden table; a cup was set upon its surface. The bartender spoke, his voice low and husky, "Anything for you?"

Tic turned his head back to the bartender, looking to Miraye's steaming goblet, then back. "Some tea, please," he said lightly, and rubbed his hands unconsciously together upon the countertop. He agreed silently with Miraye. The bloodied and dirtied garments did not help the fact that they were strangers, and if the town realized that he was being searched for, then he and Miraye would stick out like sore thumbs. They needed new clothes; something with a hood, preferably.

Tic's hand moved to cup his cheek, elbow resting on table, as a cup of a golden-transparent liquid was placed before him. Small slivers of steam rose from it, and he touched it with his free hand, testing its warmth. He glanced to the door again, when he realized -- how were they going to pay for this?

We only come out at night.

There was a morning dawning, the four Moons of Day waking in a pale sky that shined so much brighter now, without the hindrance of ceilings or walls. There was just the open air and moonlight, a brisk breath across his face, fresh in his lungs. Tic let the cold air enter his mouth. Was it the taste of freedom? It was a new sensation now, but he couldn't help but feel it was bittersweet.

The leaves cracked beneath their footsteps, and Tic followed the girl through the trees that yawned in the daylight. He didn't know where she was leading them, but knew that he would eventually need to bring them to The Sink. He was familiar with the networks of the underground, the secret entrances and tunnels that lied beneath the surfaces of the Dark World. The forests hid them, doors buried beneath branches and trunks; passageways that lead to the underground cities. He could easily find one from any location. And he would bring them to one, if Miraye chose to go along.

Tic listened to the forest as they walked, only slightly stung by the last exchange of words. The retreats of small animals were distant, and Tic could only hear their own footsteps. But he sensed the sound of something else, and raised his head. Miraye was still ahead of him, her face looking to something further ahead, but she didn't turn to see. Instead, the sight of small houses caught his eye, and he dismissed the sound as a noise of the village ahead.

The dirt path they followed soon turned to a gravel road, and they entered the small town, still costumed in fabrics of elegance and blood. The buildings were small, quaint-looking houses of dark wood that lined the road, their windows only beginning to open to the dawn's light. His first home was in a village much like this, but he didn't dare to think back to it. The few people that were outside cast glances to the strangers, questioning them silently, then returning to their work. The occasionally chatter took Tic's attention, but he ignored the stares, trusting that Miraye knew where she was going.

They were coming to the entrance of a tavern, when Tic heard it. A heavy clopping making its way over the sounds of the village; the sound of a horse's walk against the gravel. Tic lifted his eyes, turning his head in the direction of the plod. At a distance, he could see the man atop the black stallion, and immediately recognized the uniform. A Guardian.

The man looked out over the village, his eyes stern as they surveyed the town. He stopped a man beside him, talking down to him from his horse. Tic didn't know whether to hide or flee, but when the man pointed in their direction, Tic took Miraye's arm, pulling them both into the tavern.

"It's one of Larkin's men," he whispered.

You make me real.

They were in each other's arms, standing alone in the center of a darkness that seemed to stretch to infinite reaches beyond them. The trees were no longer in their presence, leaving them as the only two beings, the only two creations to exist within the planes of mortality. Her arms were about him; slender white limbs that held him so close. His cheek rested upon her soft hair, the pink strands obscuring his vision, as he returned her hold. The only light that shined was upon their skin, encircling the two as they held themselves forevermore. The moment lasted in its serenity, and warmth wrapped around them, the only feeling other than the found peace of a lonely heart.

The skin of her face moved across his cheek, and she lifted her head, lifted her eyes to meet his. She looked up to him, the auburn orbs glowing with a gentle, comforting smile. Slowly, her small hands slid from behind his back, moving down his arms. They came to rest upon his wrists, softly touching his skin, caressing.

But then, as if possessed, the touch suddenly became a grip, nails digging deeply into the flesh. They tightened painfully around his wrists, and he looked into her eyes. Hungry, orange flames had grown within them, her smile decaying into the desirous smirk of thin lips. Shadows were cast upon her face as it changed, and he was no longer in the arms of a girl, but a monster.

The ground beneath him fell away, and suddenly, his back was against the smooth covers of a bed. Long fingers were wrapped around his wrists, forcing them upon the sheets on either side of him. Tic gasped, shuddering in the terror that had struck his body, closing his eyes as if the man would disappear. He could still feel the warm breaths as the face came close to his, could feel the man's hand move across him. And he let out a cry, silenced as his lips became victim to another's kiss.

Tic's eyes snapped open, the dream shattering into a million pieces. He breathed, his vision focusing on the blurred outlines of tall, dark shapes ahead, the dim light of dawn drawn across their surfaces. A forest, he realized. He was lying in it, trying to remember how he'd gotten there, trying to decipher between the illusions of his mind and what was real. The ground was wet beneath him, the air crisp across his skin. He stared out to the limbs of the trees, becoming slowly aware that his head was resting on something much warmer than the cold around him.

Tic gasped, quickly raising himself off her lap, palms spread across the leaves. He stared at her for a moment, wondering if she was just an image from his dream. He didn't understand how it had happened, and didn't try to. Little of it remained in his memory, and seeing her made it seem unreal. Her ghost-like face returned his stare, and he looked down.

Had it all been a dream, he wouldn't have felt the pain. Memories of the castle were returning to him, and it stung sharper in his heart than the icy breaths of wind. If it had been a dream, he wouldn't have remembered what he had done, that he had betrayed an entire society. He turned his face to the trees behind him, seeing through their branches to the castle that lay beyond. The Shrike must still be alive, he thought, his plans of war still to be brought out.

He looked back to the ground beneath him.

"We've got to tell them," he whispered. "We've got to warn The Sink."

I will breathe for the both of us.

In the end, there would be nothing left. A shroud of black would envelope the landscape, devouring the little light the world had mustered. The two bodies would lay, forever trapped in time, juxtaposed; the same red life draining from them. A set of eyes would look on into eternity, seemingly helpless as he watched on. In the end, nothing would remain in the ashes to be reborn; no saviour in the midst of a dying world. There would be nothing more to know, nothing more to read, and nothing more to save.
In the end, this story would be a tragedy.

But this was not the end.

The soft pattering of footsteps came to fill the vacancy of silence, and a new figure stood at the end of the deserted hall. She looked upon Tic and his captor with silver eyes, which were suddenly altered to a shade of green. Tic started to raise himself, gradually, eyes upon the girl. She began to approach them, and Tic saw the way her expression changed, the way her features modeled a piercing glare towards the woman who held him; he understood. His hand was placed upon the floor, fingers testing its cold, as he noticed the arms around him had not yet taken a hold. The girl looked to him, and a whisper came across her lips.

"Go."

His stare lingered for a moment on the girl's face, but before the arm had a chance to return its grip, Tic had pushed himself to his feet and sprinted. He ran out past the girl, who suddenly stood her ground before the woman, as one would before a fight. Thanking her silently, he lead himself into the ballroom, returning to the holy mess that had been caused, caused all by him.

But as he came to the entrance, he could be taken no further. He stood still, thoughts dissipating into a blank canvas, dabbed slowly with paint as he began to see. His eyes moved over every scene; the mangled bodies, the faceless corpses, the dumb mouths of wounds speaking their silence. The bodies of governors lied all about the room, dripping and bleeding; macabre decorations to a party that had gone awry. The few that were left were fleeing to the great doors that hung open ahead, the sheets of rain entering the hall. A massacre had taken place that night, one the gods seemed to have overlooked, as they always do. His hands moved slowly downwards, uncertainly, as he surveyed the sights, breathing in as his mind registered.

And then he saw them.

Lightning struck and the shadows dispersed, flooded by the blinding light; two bodies lay, each the result of their own hatred, holes cut within their skin so deep that the pools of blood had spread, that the blood of enemies had mingled. The light disappeared, and in the dark puddles they laid; a man of power and deception, broken by the blood-stained sword in his chest, his eyes threatening to close upon him..

.. and a girl, the empty shell of a murderer; a stained white cherub, without a breath left in her tiny body.

There was no longer a need to breathe, no longer a need for the moons to shine a light into the darkness; not into this land, nevermore. The world had suddenly become very small, revolving around her alone, all else had simply faded. A single vision remained clear in sight, a final painting drawn out in his mind by some heavenly power. He knew what needed to be done; a path he could not stray from any further.

He made his way silently forward, towards the bloody display, stepping over the bodies that strewed his way. He walked, indifferent to the death around him, as the rain poured down; the only music that could be played for such a bloody ballet. White shoes stepped lightly into a pool of ebony, adulterated as they were soaked up in the liquid. Thin, draped arms lowered themselves to the girl's body, and he kneeled, the blood tainting him further. It was still warm as he passed his fingers through it, as he slid his hands carefully beneath her lifeless form. And the girl was lifted, frail arms cradling the body of a lacerated dove.

He began to move forward, but something had taken a hold of him; weakening fingers that closed around his foot. Slowly, he turned his face to look, to see an orange gaze, its blazing fires fading into the flames of dying candles. There was a single slice in the man's chest, streaming blood forth as he gasped in pain. For a moment, they stared, the violet gaze free of compassion, free of any pity for the man who had tried to break him. Tic turned his glance away, looking defiantly ahead, and pulled himself free -- free of Larkin's grasp, once and for all.

There was an unearthly aura about him as he continued to walk, as his eyes had changed; no longer a frightened, helpless violet. Forward, he carried her through the destruction, through the scarlet-stained walls and floor, through the calamity of her own rage. Forward, he advanced the entrance, to leave them all to rest in peace. When the guards began shouting, he broke into a run, and flew with her out of the castle, out into the cleansing rain.

They were welcomed into the world by the darkness, by the water washing over the land in whispers, roars and hums. The clear, clean rain spilled onto them, dripping across their faces in all its purity. Tic raced down the staircase, the body of Miraye huddled softly in his hold, a sleeping child. Lightning struck, and the two were but a silhouette; the bold outline of a figure holding another in his arms, chased, carried from the castle with invisible wings.

His legs took him forever forward, even as the ground beneath him started to incline -- the drawbridge being raised in an attempt to stop his course. He could hear the hollow sound of his feet against the wood, the pounding of his heart inside him. A dark forest lied ahead, and he kept his gaze fixed upon on it, knowing it would be the final destination. He approached the end of the bridge as it was lifted ever higher, never slowing himself -- and leapt, flying across the gap between bridge and ground. He landed with a soft splash, his hair coming down across his eyes, and he continued running.

The forest came into view, its dark and haunting trees shining with wet, more welcoming now than the castle that he had been kept. Distant yells were shouting behind him, muffled by the high-pitched ringing in his ears, by the thunder. He looked determinedly ahead to the trees, not wanting to turn back, not wanting to see the world that he could be thrown into once again.

And the shelter of trees finally surrounded them, embracing them with its terrene protection. The rain splashed over their heads, falling from the leaves, lighter than before. He ran through the darkness, leaping over fallen trunks, evading the trees that stood in his path. And he didn't stop running, not until they were safe. Not until he knew they would not be found, until the yells had become nothing more than the whispers of the rain.

The wind roared about them; the air was sharp, and for the first time, he became aware of how cold it had become. But it did not matter; not the aching in his legs, not the pain of a wire that encircled his heart, its thorns piercing and bleeding him. He allowed his legs to slow as they came upon a clearing, and as he did, they became heavy. He walked, until they entered the center of the clearing, where he let himself drop to his knees.

Gently, he placed the girl down, a precious porcelain figurine laid to rest in a bed of leaves. His hands slid out from beneath, still stained in scarlet. A hand held her head, the wet pinks and reds like silk through his fingers. The rain had begun to cleanse the blood from her, and her face was returning to the white, to the innocence he had once seen. Her silent eyes stared up to the thunderous sky above, and he moved a hand across them, closing them. The blood was seeping from her chest, through the broken white glass of her body. He placed a hand there, upon the bleeding hole, and lowered his head. He breathed in, letting his eyelids fall, listening to the silence of the lifeless organ. And he knew that she was gone, tears replaced by the sad descent of raindrops.

For moments, he laid against her, chest heaving, his breathing -- the only sound other than the dying of the storm. Her blood touched his face, but he was not aware. He was lost as a silence came once again, louder now than the fury of any thunder. It was for eternity that he laid there, listening to the quiet of a noise that had no sound. A noise that had no shape, no form --

A noise that was no longer something that he could hear, but suddenly a feeling. From a former life, it came to him; a liquid warmth that grew deep within, small and white. Pure. It spread from a flame around his heart, the sacred heart; a heat that cast away the frigid touches of the pouring rain. It coursed through his veins, reaching out to every part of him, wrapping him up in the warmest of blankets. The fingers upon her chest spread, and the warmth gathered there; it pulsated with the heat, and Tic opened his eyes, lifting his head.

He looked up to the sky, the rain falling upon his face, his hand pressed softly against her breast. And the divine touch passed through him, breathing itself into her dead limbs; the pure medium of His will.

The blood receded into the gown, dissipating until no more stains were left. A tired hand, bathed clean of blood, was placed at her cheek; he could feel the warmth in her skin now. He looked upon her with deepened eyes, watching as her snowwhite lids began to stir, as his own heart began to tire with every beat. Slowly, the eyes opened, their vision blurred by the rain, auburn orbs focusing on the sad amethyst, shining in his light. He saw, understood; the darkness of her world had been lifted. No longer would she feel the pain.

He smiled down at the face, and surrendered, falling silently into the bed of leaves.