Prologue - or so they say 5

A Chapter by Shaibelle

The raid begins.

`~`*Days later*`~`

Shaken abruptly into the waking world, Skye manages to force out the muddled word, “What?” Phsy's gaping panic shoots a bolt of icy stinging through his spine. She dances fanatically around the room with the awkward stiffness of terror, looking for something.

“Hurry and dress,” she snaps, exasperation dripping through her voice. Drowsy and distraught he obeys, getting cried at when he doesn't find his coat fast enough. Rushing the process, he digs out his boots and shoves them on, his coat is nearby and is whipped around his shoulders the moment he spies it. Casting a wide-eyed glance her way he sees she's only in her yellow dress. Very much displaced, he is rushed into the main room and has a chunk of bread stuffed into his hands with the instructions, “Eat, we might not have another chance.”

Wind roars outside, sleet pouring down in flash-freezing sheets along with it. The storm shows no intention of relinquishing its power. A blinding snowstorm would overtake the valley within hours; what can possibly be so important that they have to go through that? “What's happening?” he tries again, ruffling the patchwork leather of his coat, and centering his sights on Phsy's coppery shoulders. Every box and cabinet available to her is ripped open and all of their contents disgorged onto the freezing floor.

For a few seconds she looks up at him, and acknowledges that she will answer, but quickly returns to rifling through their things. The features of her face are twisted in pain, bending as she is clearly is not a comfortable position, and yet she presses on in her search for the unknown something. As she sifts through things the door is suddenly slammed open; Phsy seizes Skye and shoves him into the nearest hiding place available- a half-opened chest that once held their mother's clothes. Shrieking curses, of the unrepeatable sort, whip from the woman's mouth in quick succession as she lunges for a knife on the table.

Skye's delicately pointed ears strain to hear beyond his sister, vying to gain a mental image of who, or what, is intruding their home- the wolf-beast? Soldiers? A heavily relieved sigh, followed by a gruff grunt in response, reveals the one entering is Balthazar. Fractions of a second later, before Skye can manage to start another train of thought, he is pulled from the trunk and splayed across the floorboards. “Ah'm sorry- didn't mean teh scare yeh.” Phsy nods after the large Elvan speaks and begins wringing her hands- they are pale, close to mirroring Skye's own- her eyes remaining unfocused and wide.

Close to being inaudible, she hisses, “ I can't find my ring,” this was meaningless to both boy and man. Skye stands between them now; what does a ring have to do with anything?

The immense Elvan scratches mindlessly at the back of his arm, “He's not a clue what's happenin', does he?” His sister is slow to shake her head in response. Addressing the boy's interest, Balthazar says the one word that announces all, “Humans.”

Throat restricting her words, Phsy tags on, “Entire army if the lookouts were right.” The droop in the emotion of her face is evident, years of aging flicker there, her concern leaving her older. Much older. With more to lose.

Skye fights between a balance of shock, disbelief, and anger- all three playing across the silvery-blue irises of his eyes in rapid succession. The awareness that the entire village is nearing its end passes between them all, but they know nothing can be done. A thunderous roar initiates tension throughout the room; nature can care less what evils are bearing down upon them- even the thunderstorm's sleet has yet to shift into snowfall.

Rapidly growing impatient, the blacksmith grumbles, “What's so important 'bout that ring that we end up riskin' our butts in stayin' here?” Phsy's narrow-eyed death-glare is the perfect point to make him pause in questioning her. He finally snaps back, “They're barely a mile away now, we've got to be goin' or we won't be getting' more than a few feet out the bloody door.”

She nods vigorously and cries, arms thrown dramatically up in the air, “I NEED THAT RING!” Her figure twitches and she resorts to adrenaline-filled shaking. Turning on her heels she grabs Skye's shoulders, the skin and bones that made up his tiny body all shuddering in response, “My jewelry box- see if it's there...” Her enormous eyes pin him in place, he numbly tries to remember what her ring looks like- she only had two, and she wore them everyday. The jewelry box is in her room. She won't be able to make it up the stairs...

“But I'm not allow-”

“Just go!” At her urgent command, despite her past insistence that he stay out, he sprints up to the door and shoulders it open to begin his search. His mother's jewelry box, the music box, sat atop Phsy's makeshift bed; two simple dresses, similar to her yellow one, were beside it- they were her only other dresses. He eyes the music box for a matter of seconds, then begins rigorously tearing through the room for the silver ring, the appearance finally coming to him. Just to make sure, he checks the music box, filled mainly with little stone carvings of animals; multiple necklaces and bracelets are inside it as well, all of them made from basic henna or twine braids. He chances across her engagement ring, or what had been her engagement ring; a pretty thing carved from a thick, spiraled seashell.

His fingers slip over the shell ring and it bounces and rolls across the wavey wood floor. Chasing after it, he lunges to catch it- and there he finds the silver ring. It's jammed- likely stepped on in the panic session this morning- in between the warps of the wooden boards next to the bed. Warily he pries at it until it pops loose, with a faint tink, and wobbles on the rippled floorboards. He stuffs the object into his pocket and gazes up at the music box- his mother's music box- knowing full well the humans will take it and he will never see it again. Never. He attempts to erase the thought and hurries to the stairs to return to Phsy.

Some rings have flower patterns, others leaves or trees, occasionally one could find a dolphin or wave ring, but never would one find a ring like this. This particular ring, although simple tarnished silver, was effectively distinguished from all other rings in existence. A strange eye is engraved into the face of the band, and inside the curve is a scratched-out version of the Elven language's character for wolf. It looks like a moderately inexpensive ring of little beauty, but it carries thousands more weight in the department of meaning, effectiveness, and value.

The shadow-haired boy throws himself down the stairs, pulling the ring from his pocket as if it were a burning ember, and shoves it into Phsy's waiting hands. Relief rolls over her like a moonbeam over leaves, and she immediately ties a ribbon to the ring, looping that same ribbon through one of the belt-rings on Skye's pants. He raises a questioning expression, but says nothing. She dusts off his patchwork coat and bites her lip while adjusting the fabric to cover his shoulders better. Quietly she instructs him, “If we should get separated, I want you to find a safe place and put the ring on- understood?” Still puzzled, Skye nods as he is collected into her shivering embrace, “Blue Boy, please-” knowing she is angry and scared he agrees with a tilt of his head.

Balthazar, who had been staring out the window until now, turns and growls, “We've no more time, Miss Phsy; we've got to go now.” A fraction of a second later Nina runs in the door and crashes into her father, barely budging his form. Her tears represent an inner devastation none of them bother to question. The Elvan man hoists his daughter onto his shoulder and heads for the door, “ I don't feel much of getting' mehself run-through.”

Phsy lifts Skye's hand and holds it in a quivering grasp, her hands can barely keep wrapped around his. Skye tries to hold onto her, but keeping her down in a hug is a futile effort; they have to move. His icy-azure eyes observe the deepening shudders wracking through her body and he quickly looks away before the shivers pass over to him too. The doorway looms over his head nearby. Behind that open door is the world's drawn shadow laid out before him, nothing there is known. It is all the unknowns of what is to be. His little body shoots away from her suddenly, and in a swift jolt he bursts into his room, Phsy yelling words he fails to comprehend. “We can't leave mom,” he shrieks back at her as he returns with his mother's sepia photograph in hand.

She releases a heavy, stinging breath as he folds the old paper and hides it away in a pocket inside the coat. The display is poignant, dripping little drops of acid deep in her soul. Taking up his hand in hers again she leads him away after Balthazar, the man cautiously avoiding the main-used paths of escape that others have already taken. Glancing left and right at the semi-built houses of the village as they leave, Skye mutters, “...people are still here.” The awkward tone of his voice draws Phsy and Balthazar's attention. The elders and the pregnant women are all in their homes, each with no intention to even attempt to leave. He doesn't understand why they- a gunshot whirls into the sky, it's still far off...his thoughts are ruined. A sprint breaks out among them all, Nina sobbing.

Coppery skin shimmering in the splintering sleet and rain, Phsy breathes in heaving gasps, staggering on as her eyesight hazes and fades away. She fares the worst of all of them, the medication given to her not entirely worn off, and the feel of needles stabbing her fluttering heart remind her of this fact. Thunder and lightening roil above the forest in angry waves, it reflects how her body feels about it's current situation. Finally breathing is utterly impossible and she drops to the mud-streaked forest floor, gagging until she passes out. Her little brother drops to his knees beside her, too breathless to speak- they were only a few miles out of the village now, barely far enough to keep them safe.

Not even close to being out of breath, Balthazar pulls Phsy up by her arms and drapes her over his shoulders. Nina whimpers and grips at his side until he tugs her up under his free limb, carrying her like a poor little sack of grain. Balthazar's voice is sudden, “Can yeh still run, boy?” The Elvan man can't carry much more so Skye only nods and rubs his face as a response. Sleeked with sheets of ice-rain, he tugs his porcelain-toned hands into his sleeves, bones aching all the way through. The large elf adjusts his balance for a few moments and starts off again, slowly at first to compensate for the additions of dead weight, working back to a steady jog. Somehow, despite the slower speed, Skye is still fighting to keep his feet hitting the earth, continually falling behind- he curses himself all the while.

'~'*'~'

prev chapter