(WIP) The Aethya's End - Forgotten Prophecy - Chapter Three.
Kian leaned against his family’s shack and sucked in a deep breath, allowing the delicate aroma of the village baker's bread to tantalise his taste-buds.
Ever since he had settled down to a life of farming and family, this time of night had quickly become his favourite. Silvery moon-rays shone through the Aethya and allowed iridescent illusions to scatter across the swaths of wheat, bathing each golden stalk in a myriad of vague colours, a soft breeze wound about his swaying fields and carried the faint yet mouthwatering scent of baked goods through the rustling grasses, and the cool air caressed his skin, reminding him that he was free.
“Free,” he pondered, then forced a hard glare to dry his moistening eyes. No-one was truly free, least of all he and his family.
The small farm was as peaceful as the heavens, the otherworldly beauty above sharply contrasted the ominous burgundy skies the week before, and all appeared as perfection. To the ignorant it would seem a paradise —he was not so oblivious.
“It’s only a matter of time,” he muttered to himself, kicking his old, ratted boot into the parched dirt. “It won’t be long before those blighted Magisters take this from us too. Nothing is free. Nothing is sacred,” he paused, then released a harsh guffaw. “Nothing ever was.”
Misty clouds swept across the midnight sky, momentarily shrouding the heavens, and then faded to reveal the star-streaked expanse. He clenched his fist, allowing his fingernails to bite deep into the calloused flesh, and glared across the horizon to where distant chunks of floating land tarnished the otherwise spectacular view.
The Sundered Isles.
He clenched his fist tighter, tighter, until his knuckles whitened and warm blood pooled within his closed hand.
“Natalia,” he growled. “I’ll get you back, I swear it.”
It had been a season since he had last seen her wistful smile, so reminiscent of her mother’s; had last admired the soft black ringlets that curled down her forehead and obstructed her view, just as her mother’s had; as she would sweep her hair away with an irritated hand, just as her mother would; as, when she thought he wasn’t watching, she would gaze sadly into the heavens and dream of lives better lost and forgotten. Just as her mother.
He furrowed his brow until he could barely see through his slitted eyes.
The women in his life were all special, but Natalia… she was the first mage and had been destined for a greater purpose than to become some disgusting Magister’s plaything, or worse, a mere tool to be used before simply being tossed away, discarded as though she were a rotting chicken carcass.
Did they even know what they had captured —the prize they had claimed?
“Muhi vun theo’lu, vin ba elasa,” he grunted beneath his breath, a small incantation from the ancient tongue that no ordinary peasant should have the means to know, and released the handful of blood.
The crimson drops fell upon the dusty soil and were absorbed instantly, his face as stone as the wheat grew an inch taller.
Normally he wouldn’t dare risk such an act —the dread horses would be drawn to the scent of his blood and he would be forced to the castle or forced to die— but the seasons were worsening. He would not have the idiot villagers he watched over struggle because he failed to provide for them. It was fortunate that after all these years he still had a few tricks to hide himself from the horsemen… and from another who would be highly displeased that Natalia had fallen into the Magisters clutches.
“Maybe if he hadn’t been at Harclyffe Cove, Natalia would still be here,” Kian grumbled before he returned his glare to the faraway Isles. “Bastard. He can stay at the damned Cove.”
The delicate beauty of the Aethya painted the sky in large spiralling waves that seemed purposefully designed to draw his attention away from the Magisters heinous home, but he deliberately ignored each graceful swirl. The Aethya could burn and so could the so-called Gods that lived within; the Three had failed to hear his despair and neither would he deign to hear theirs when the time came.
It was closer than many dared entertain.
With a swift flick of his wrist the bloody moon-shaped crescents he had stabbed into his palm brightened before vanishing, leaving his flesh as unmarked as a newborn babe, then he spun about and stalked into his dark, decrepit home.
The once white-washed walls were now dull and dingy, the wooden boards beneath his tattered boots were as cracked and splintered as wood hacked from a blunt axe, and though moon-rays shot through the shutters and illuminated the room, not even they could beautify the endless tracks of dust and filth he had trekked inside. A large hay-sack awaited his collapse in the corner but he wasn’t ready for sleep, instead he heaved it to the other side of the empty room, unlatched the trapdoor that had been hidden beneath, and hurriedly descended into the privacy of his personal sanctum. Their personal sanctum.
It was a simple square-shaped hole that had been dug through the floor and into the ground, but it had long stood against the test of time and would likely remain standing for many years, for many generations, to come.
“For as long as I live at any rate,” he snorted, taking an old charred bowl that sat precariously atop an altar.
Encased in finely wrought silver, the manicured quartz altar sat carefully within the perfect centre of the dugout, expertly tied herbs and flowers were piled in small bundles around its base, and a handful of tiny obsidian beads sat in a bag of transparent cloth, reminding him once again that freedom was an illusion.
Kian grimaced. Grabbing a herb bundle, he quickly untied the horse-hair that held it bound and unceremoniously dumped the flora into the bowl. Raising it to his nose, he breathed deep. The combined fragrances permeated his senses and swarmed his body, removed all vestiges of anger from his conscious mind, and persuaded greater, subconscious instincts to take hold. The rite he was about to begin was simple and had been performed many times —he merely wanted to verify, again, that Natalia still lived and had not yet succumbed to the desires of a particularly demented Magister— but, if he were to succeed, a strict calmness must be maintained. He, after all, had not been blessed by the Gods.
Forcing the grimace from his face, he closed his eyes and focused on breathing the scented air deeper into his lungs.
The trapdoor rattled and he paused mid-breath, snapping his eyes open.
“Who’s there?”
There was no answer, only the creaking wood of the shack and a shrill whistle as a familiar chill forced itself into the dugout and wrapped itself about his flesh.
“No, it can’t be,” he whispered. “I took every precaution. It’s impossible.”
Creeping up the ladder, he creaked open the trapdoor. The broken shutters swayed back and forth in perfect synchrony with the rising wind and slammed against the walls with the ferocity of an angry tavern-keeper throwing a drunkard out of his establishment, an ice-flecked gust pushed through the rickety slats and pricked his face with tiny frozen chunks whilst sweeping his knotted hair across his eyes, blinding him, and a distant shriek screamed through the epicentre of the approaching storm.
“Serpent’s arse,” he hissed, tossing aside his wind-blown hair.
Despite his better judgement, he scrambled out of the dugout and dove across the filth-ridden floor, hurriedly pulling himself up to peer through what remained of the shutters.
What were once serene skies were now darker than the descent. The unnatural void shrouded both the light of the two moons and the Aethya’s eternal shimmer, the tree a mere half-metre from the shack appeared to have completely vanished and the entire farm was bathed in a black so deep it seemed as though his home was its own island in a sea of nothing. Lightning forked across the expanse in a hundred jagged streaks that briefly illuminated the landscape before returning it to shadow and was followed by a great rumble that further splintered the ragged floorboards.
Another gust wrenched the remaining shutters free from the window, leaving Kian unguarded behind the neglected walls.
“Serpent’s arse,” he yelled, his voice muffled by ferocious winds, and as though in response to his outburst an ear-piercing shriek screamed overhead. “Fuck!” he yelped, then threw himself to the floor.
“Vin ba elasa, vin ba elasa, vin ba elasa,” he repeated frantically, cowering beneath the gaping window. “I’ve seen the unbonded and untrained control you beasts, even if for a moment. Listen to me —vin ba elasa!”
The presence in the skies above released a great whinny as it passed over the farm and the storm continued onward, as though he were not the person the beast and its rider sought. He shivered, then collapsed.
“Too close, too close,” he muttered, clenching and unclenching his fists, then paled as the wind picked up again. “Joh’s eye!”
Scrambling on all fours, he scurried back to the dugout and slammed the trapdoor, locking it tight before he leapt down the ladder and huddled against the farthest dirt wall.
They had taken someone from the village —his village— but Natalia had been the only mage in this village. If there had been another she would have sensed them, drawn them out, befriended them and sent them to Harclyffe Cove. Who in the lower planes had they taken?
A mass of crimson hair fell from the locked trapdoor and spun a thousand times over in a rapid twirl until it became a long tendril that snaked its way toward him and grasped his ankle, twisting it tight as an ethereal laugh echoed above the muffled storm.
“No, the witch,” he whispered.
The sound of his voice broke the illusion and the red hair vanished, and he quickly curled his legs beneath his body and rubbed at where the cursed hair had tainted his skin. Its touch wouldn’t leave him! He clawed at his ankle over and again until the disgusting sensation at last disappeared, then raised his bloody fingernails into the air.
“No!”
Wintry air seeped into the dugout and permeated his bones, and resigned, he leaned against the wall and embraced the chill that had once been the greatest of comforts. That was in another life. In this one, now, they would come for him. It was over.
“It’s over anyway,” he choked. “The witch has reincarnated. Natalia has been stolen from me. That cursed demon is at the Cove. And I will not be taken! Not this day.”
An old obsidian knife as sharp as the day it had been forged, a centuries-old gift, fell from his coat pocket and found its way into his bloodied fingers.
“In another life, my love,” he smiled sadly and closed his eyes. “In another life, we will meet again. In another life…”
He would never again serve them, nor would he allow them to take his living body blessed by an entity no-one could understand. Raising the knife to his heart, long-gone memories of soft black ringlets fell over his face as soft pink lips parted and met his, as his sweet soul-partner allowed herself to love for the first time in her many lives, as he promised to look after her forevermore… his hands trembled.
“We will meet again,” he promised, and swung the blade.
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Hello 😀
This is Chapter Three of The Aethya's End, Book One of the Forgotten Prophecy series. A book and series that is still a work-in-progress but one that I hope to finally get out there this year. (I say that every year; may this year be the one!)
It's been an active work-in-progress for over a decade and has been in mind, constantly evolving and changing shape, for double that.
To the non-native English speakers who may have tried to read this, I am sorry about my archaic voice and use of uncommon words. 😂
Next chapter coming as time allows. 😊 I am slowly getting them up to a printable/publishable standard. Well, to my standards anyway -- I am very much aware that my writing is not for today's mainstream. 😂 I love it though and will get this labour of love out of my system.
I really need to stop being a perfectionist and just get this out there instead of re-writing it twenty million times. Eurgh.