A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
The last thing he fully hears before the world falls to chaos is the shiver of whisper the golden man (the invisible man) blows into his ear.
Of course Abel does not have time to explain the lie, or the plan he has conjured with the speed that had kept him fed and whole on Denocte’s tsunami-ravaged streets. He wonders if the stranger will understand that there is no catching him, not in the commotion of the fire with the ability to vanish his only with a thought. It was only ever Abel in danger.
And now he is caught.
The bay’s only recourse is to stick with the plan, as the flames and throw shadows and faces into stark relief. Before he can scramble to his feet a second mare arrives, and he is surprised she doesn’t throw up sparks with the speed of her hooves striking stone. He has no intention of answering her, and though his ears are pinned, his mouth is a drawn line and his eyes are dark and glassy with nerves. Abel has possessed a primal fear of fire ever since the pass burned, though the scent of Denocte’s ever-burning bonfires is still a strange comfort.
His chest and face are burning, but whether due to the mare or the fire beyond her he couldn’t say. Shut up, the first mare barks, but Abel has said nothing more.
Still he manages at last to his feet, shoulders hunched and neck arched like an alley dog waiting for the kick. Beyond them he sees others begin flocking to the building, shadows of legs and bodies breaking the scattered light through smoke. Something like a meteor slashes through the dark sky. The room is filling quickly and the taste of ash is thick on his tongue; Abel coughs.
He wonders if his partner is out beyond the city walls now, breathing clean winter air tasting of pine. He wonders how Raum might choose to kill him, if Isra does not first.
Abel shivers despite the mad heat at the thought of the unicorn queen. She could place him at once; he was there in the cave when she woke. Sometimes, when he dreams, he is driven awake with the feeling of a thousand hornets stinging at his skin. Such paltry smoke as this could never smother them.
The boy wonders then if either of them can win, or if they can only drive the rest to their deaths.
It is not the time for such thoughts. He shakes his head like a man coming out of a drug haze, smoke a physical thing in his nostrils and his eyes still stinging with tears. One of his ears is trained on the horned mare, listening to her plan for him as his skin itches with a heat not even the Solterran sun could match.
He jumps at the crack of a beam, the rush of sparks like fireflies or hornets. There is a pit in his stomach and acid in his throat and he walks stiffly ahead of the mare, making no attempt to evade her. Abel is only concerned with one escape right now. There is still chaos. There is still time.
Somewhere in the night a dragon screams. Beneath that, like a heartbeat, is the sound of the drums, and Abel searches for the light of other fires too large to be the Night Market’s customary celebrating. Between his ribs his own heartbeat is shuddering, lungs heaving in air that burns cold but clean. It is a relief, like dunking his head in a barrel of frigid water. It helps him think.
Abel has memorized every last dog-legged dirt street part of the city. He knows the map of it like he knew his mother’s markings, and he recognizes the alley the mare shoves him toward.
Though he makes a faint show of resisting, as soon as he allows himself to be pushed into the alley Abel darts forward like a ship-rat, dark and quick. Here his small stature of all angles is a boon, and the boy doesn’t glance back as he takes a hard turn through a doorway of black cloth - the back entry to one of the Crow’s final haunts before Raum killed the last of them.
The dim bar is empty, its patrons spilled out into the chaotic night to see why the drums beat with such urgency. Tables are scattered and littered with half-empty mugs of ale. Beyond the front door Abel can see a crowd beginning to gather - and it is that he heads for, and a last grab at freedom.
@Boudika @Morrighan
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