2: Fugitives

6 months earlier, in the chilly streets of Wallace, Idaho...

“Do you want anything to eat?”

It was the middle of winter. The streets were slick with ice, while tiny snowflakes flitted through the air like little kids playing tag. Rooftops were clothed in ice, and a fresh blanket of snow covered the sidewalk. No one was out. The only evidence of life in the town was the billows of smoke coming from the chimneys that rose up into the air silently until they disappeared into the overcast sky. The town was quiet, and the only sounds of life could be heard from under a large frost-covered hedge, where a boy and a strange creature sat in refuge. 

They had been running for weeks now, trying to avoid civilization at all costs. But the two had learned how hard that could be. There had been a few close calls, and they almost got themselves caught. They had run out of food over a week ago and prey in the forests was growing scarce. This was their last resort. The boy was willing his stomach to stop growling at the mention of food. His question was rhetorical, but the creature answered it anyways.

“Of course I do, both of us are hungry!” The creature moved his lips, and no sound came out, but the boy heard him clearly.

No one knew about this power he had, but it still made him odd. In another life, the boy had been mocked, taunted, and beaten so badly to a point where he had to cover one of his hands with a glove in fear he would get mocked, taunted and beaten some more. Most people thought he was a street fighter, as he always walked around with new scars, but he never fought. He was too timid. But something happened, and he couldn’t live in that life anymore, so he had run away from all of it. He didn’t like to dwell on those memories of his old life, the one full of pain and tears. He was happier now, living as a nomad in the forests, with only the creature, the birds, and his thoughts to keep him company.

The boy’s hand moved aside a few leafy branches, giving the two had a perfect view of the empty town, and a small corner store that was the only place open. The boy could see a burly man at the cashier, probably bored from lack of customers. “Should we risk it?” he whispered to the creature.

His reply was a loud rumbling noise from the creature’s stomach. 

The boy threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine!” he grumbled. “At least turn into something presentable.”

The creature’s lips curled up into a wry smile. “Whatever you want.” In a matter of seconds, the creature had morphed into a house cat. Breath billowing in the air, the boy and the creature scrambled out of their hiding spot and onto the slippery sidewalk. 

It was the coldest this place had ever been, the streets were too slick to drive on, and the town had already stocked up for the cold snap. The corner store cashier was never expecting a scrawny, rosy-cheeked teenager with nothing on but a sweatshirt, jeans, and a faded Seahawks beanie to walk in. He was holding a white-and-black house cat, and came up to the counter with canned cat food and some chicken soup.

 “Kid, why are you out on a day like this?” the cashier asked suspiciously.

The boy wasn’t expecting a conversation. “We’re hungry,” he replied, as if it were obvious.

Huffing, the clerk stared down at the cat, who blinked innocently back up. “You know pets aren’t allowed in this store, young man.”

“He’s for moral support.” The boy really wasn’t lying.

Scanning the items, the clerk snorted. “I guess I can pass with that one. That’ll be five bucks.”

The boy handed him the money, and pointed to the newspapers on the counter. “Can I have a newspaper?” he asked.

“Yeah, they’re free.”

The boy took a newspaper and his items and left. “That was close,” he whispered to the house cat as they stepped out into the street.

Back in the corner store, the clerk eyed a newspaper that had fallen when the boy took one. One ad lit up like a beacon.

Missing: Fifteen year old boy. Green and blue dyed hair, brown eyes. Last seen with sweatshirt, jeans, Seahawks beanie and unknown creature. Call 1(800)-704-3629 if spotted.

The clerk picked up the store phone. “I knew there was something suspicious about that kid,” he muttered.

After they finished their meal, the boy flipped open the newspaper, its crinkling filling up the space under the hedge. “What’s in there?” the creature asked.

“Just local stuff, mainly. Looks like Darknight murdered a few members of Congress again.”

“That’s too bad. I hope someone stops him,” the griffin commented. Lately Darknight, the most feared man on Earth, had gotten into mass murdering. Mass murdering as in the U.S. government. Officials were still trying to stop him, but it wasn’t working.

“The Seahawks won the game on Sunday.”

“Niiice.”

“More local stuff, some ads, and�" uh oh.”

The creature looked up. “What is it?”

“We’re in the papers again.”

“That’s terrific,” the griffin said sarcastically. “We should get out of here.”

Some minutes later, the boy and the strange creature were sprinting through a forest. They had gotten a good distance away from the town when suddenly, the boy tripped and fell face-first in the snow. Through the white, he could hear a voice above him.

 “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” 

Glancing up in shock, the boy found himself staring up at an old man who was dressed just as well as the boy for the chilly weather. He wore a faded old sweatshirt and jogging pants, and the hat he was wearing only covered some of his balding head, and it looked like he had just slapped it on. Panic flooded through the boy. He turned to run when the old man’s raspy voice sounded behind him.

“Don’t worry, I won’t report you.”

For some reason, the boy felt he could trust the old man. He turned to him. His blue eyes seemed strangely knowing and hypnotic. The boy felt he could gaze into them forever, forget all his troubles and his fears...

“A boy and a…”

“Griffin,” the boy finished automatically. He could see the man sizing up the griffin, taking it in. The griffin was about the size of a lion, maybe bigger, and all muscle. Squarish scales plated its body from neck to tail, in mottled greens, blues, and browns that shimmered in the sunlight. Its front legs resembled a lion’s, while the hindquarters had the distinct talons of an osprey. Humongous brown wings draped across its body, dwarfing the navy blue spikes as large as a man’s foot that ran down its back, ending at a swishing blue tail. Its head resembled an osprey, the distinct crest and the brown stripe from eye to nape, only many times larger and with individual feathers that stopped at his neck. The creature seemed utterly wild and ancient, its glowing neon green eyes magnifying the effect. Any normal person would have turned and fled at the sight of the griffin, but the boy wasn’t normal. He was still a bit unnerved at the sight of such an enormous and powerful creature, but him and the griffin had been through a lot together, and he was starting to get used to him.

The griffin butted his head on the boy, forcing him to pet it. He held the griffin’s head and scratched his soft head feathers. A rumbling noise came up from his throat.

“Yes, yes, a griffin.” the man said, as if deep in thought. An awkward moment passed. “What are you running from?” he finally asked.

The boy took some time to consider the question. He trusted the man, but how much should he actually say? 

“Everything,” he finally said, which wasn’t the whole truth but enough.

“Ah, yes, yes, everything,” the man muttered. “I suppose this?” he said, pointing at the boy and the griffin. The two were entirely different, but stuck together like two peas in a pod.

The boy turned away, anger, sadness and embarrassment washing over him. “Yes,” he said softly. 

“Ah.” Another awkward moment passed. 

“You have a great privilege, a power like that.” 

The boy turned to stare at him. “What?” he breathed.

“I see your future is bright,” the old man told the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You will be a great warrior, you and the griffin. You will fight side by side, united as one. Instead of putting you down, people will look up at you and him. You will both be a legend.” His eyes suddenly darkened. “But some dark things will have to happen first. Your power is the key to your happiness.”

“What…” the boy stammered. Everything up to this point relating to his power had all been against him. Scarring him, beating him up, hurting him. All of this confused them. How did this man know his future, if he even knew his future? “How?” he finally managed to say.

“All in good time, my boy,” the old man replied patiently. “But first, a warrior needs his weapons.” He unstrapped something from his back that the boy hadn’t noticed before. As the man laid it in the snow, he could see what it was. Or rather, what they were.

It was two swords, one with a green sheath, one with a blue sheath, set so that they made an X in the snow. The one on the right had a diamond-shaped top and a trapezoidal hilt, while the other had two curved prongs at the end and a sharply curved hilt. The handles looked brand new, while the rest of the swords looked ancient and almost magical. Entranced, the boy knelt down and unsheathed the sword with the horn-like hilt. He held it up to get a better look, twirling it in his hand. 

The color of the metal was a twinge of blue, like its counterpart sheath. Intricate patterns ran down the blade, swirling, overlapping, and the sun glinting off them made them seem like they were moving. The boy was in awe, as was the griffin, and it almost seemed like the blue coming off the sword reflected itself in the griffin’s holding green eyes. Slowly, the boy knelt down and slid the sword slowly back into its sheath. “I don’t deserve these,” he told the old man.

“True, true,” the man said, as if agreeing. “But all in good time, my boy, all in good time. Perhaps you will need them, however, as darkness is on the horizon.”

The boy stared down at the swords again. When would he ever need them? He never would intend to hurt someone, even if he hated them. He and the griffin had gotten out of that town safely and with full stomachs, and that was all he cared about right now. The boy ran his finger across the handle of the the blue sword. The swords seemed to radiate power, and that was exactly the opposite of what the boy wanted. 

And why did that man keep saying all in good time? 

The boy looked up, but the man was gone. All that was left in his place was the howling wind that had just started to pick up. Completely bewildered, the boy turned to the griffin, who looked equally confused. He gazed back down at the swords, torn between leaving them there for someone else to find or to take them. But he was drawn to their ancient power, and even though he didn’t want them, he felt that he would need to protect them. Picking them up, he slung the rather heavy swords onto his back.

“You’re keeping them?” the griffin noted.

The boy didn’t reply, only staring at his feet. They started walking again. They walked for a long time, not even stopping to rest or eat. They walked through the forest for quite some time, then slunk across a field, descended a steep hill, and crossed into a pine forest. They had to get as far away from that town as they possibly could. They walked even as the snow turned orange and red from the setting sun. 

They were still walking when suddenly the griffin stopped abruptly. The boy turned to him. “What’s wrong?”

The griffin cocked his head, moved it around, until he finally rested his gaze behind them, where their footsteps lingered. Then the boy could hear it. It was a rumbling sound, like a vehicle moving towards them.

They were being followed. 

“Up the nearest tree!” the griffin hissed, and the boy didn’t bother to hesitate. He clambered up into a pine with some low branches, swords clanking on his back, and the griffin flew up to the highmost branches of a fir tree that looked nearly dead. They listened as the vehicle got louder and louder, until a large black van crashed into the clearing the boy and the griffin had just occupied. It screeched to a stop, tires grinding the snow into a shade of brown. Five men in black jumped out of the van, all holding guns. 

“The footprints stop here,” one noted.

“Could they have flown? That creature he’s with has wings,” another wondered.

“Idiot!” another retorted. “That’s suicide. Boy would fall off as soon as they got above the trees.”

No one dared to say anything after that. The boy hugged the trunk as hard as he could, heart racing in his ears. He could hear the crunching of snow below him as the men milled around in search of other clues.

“Over here!” one of the men called as he stood below the boy’s hiding spot. “This is where the footprints stop.” The men gathered around the tree, guns nervously pointed up into its needles. The man who had suggested flying was pushed to the front.

“You do the honors,” one man said.

Hesitantly, the man began to climb. The boy clung to the tree as hard as he could, willing himself to be invisible. But it didn’t work. He stared down with wide eyes as the man found his hiding spot. Pointing his gun at him, the man said in a wavering voice, “Drop the weapons and you’ll come down alive.”

The boy screamed, and then there was the faint sound of a sword unsheathing, a whumph, and then the boy was lying on his back at the base of the tree in deep snow. Four men stared at him in shock, and the fifth was on the ground, unconscious. It took a moment for the boy to feel the blue-tinged sword in his hand, and the fact that it had been him who knocked the man out of the tree. But the men were upon him before he could get up, and several more guns were pointed his way. 

“We said,” one man growled, “drop the weapons and you keep your life.”

Suddenly the same man who had spoken was bowled over in a flash of green, blue and tan. The crunch of bones immersed in the air. And then the griffin was standing over the crumpled body of the man, roaring in rage. His neon green eyes were narrowed to slits, spittle flying from his beak.

“You mess with Max,” he snarled in his native tongue, “You mess with me!”

“Wilson!” the boy shouted in relief. He scrambled to his feet, ready to defend himself. As his grip tightened on the sword, he felt faster, more agile, more cunning. All of his fears left him. Everything seemed to come in slow motion now. 

He could see one of the three men remaining shout “FIRE!” and the men raise their guns. He could see the bullets come after him, and he deflected them, one by one, using the sword. One bullet bounced back and hit a man in the leg, and he leaped away behind the van, howling. He saw Wilson leap off of the crushed man, a blur of scales, muscle and fury, and ram into another one, screams of pain and agony fleeing as the griffin dug his talons into his victim. He could see a bullet come screaming past his ear and dig itself into a tree with a satisfying whock. There was one man left. He continued to shoot, and the boy danced around, avoiding shots and deflecting them when he could like he had done it all his life. The griffin advanced on that last man, and finally brought him to the ground with a swift blow of his paw. 

Then suddenly, the boy felt pain like he had never felt before sprint up his arm. He shrieked in pain and surprise, and looked down to see blood trickling down a wound on his left arm. His vision danced with white spots, and then he was down in the freezing snow, a man towering above him. Blood gushed out of a wound in the man’s left leg. He rammed his rifle into the boy’s head, his face a picture of insanity and malice. 

“Give up now,” he snarled at the boy, “or I will shoot your brains out of your skull.”

The boy stared up at the man, eyes wide in panic. His hand groped in the snow for something. It found what it was looking for, and snatching it, the hand pointed it at the man’s stomach, faster than the man could pull the trigger. Both boy and man gasped. It was the blue sword. 

The man’s eyes were wide for a moment, then narrowed so thin they looked like pine needles. He brought his face so close to the boy’s that he could feel the man’s breathing. His breath smelled strongly like beer, and a breath mint he must have used in an attempt to mask it. The boy reeled and tried to turn away, but the man only jutted his gun farther into the boy’s head, causing him to cry out in pain again. “Listen, you little punk,” the man spat, “you stop with your little tricks and surrender, or I shoot you. And,” he continued, a gnarled smile creeping across his face, “if you struggle, once I kill you, your little creature friend is next.”

As if on cue, there was a mechanical snap, and a harsh cry of pain. The boy could see the griffin out of the corner of his eye struggling against a giant bear trap that had clamped onto one of his paws. Blood was beginning to seep out onto his perfect golden fur.

“NO!” the boy cried, and suddenly sat up. What he didn’t realize is that he had plunged the blue sword into the man’s stomach. The man didn’t scream, or cry out, but let out a garbled moan, and his eyes rolled back into his head. The gun dropped and fell into the snow. He tried to breathe in, but instead coughed up blood on the boy, then tipped over to the side of him, sword still lodged in his abdomen, and the boy still attached to the sword. The snow around him turned a nasty shade of red. 

The boy struggled to his feet and pulled the sword out of the man’s body. Hand still white-knuckling the sword, he stumbled over to the griffin, who was fighting against the bear trap. Eventually he got the griffin free, and laying in the cold snow, he licked his injured paw. Spent, the boy leaned against a nearby tree and huffed, his breath becoming a plume in the air.

And then he realized what he had done. 

As if a second wind had overcome him, the boy stood bolt upright, pulling away from the tree. He scanned the scene of white, black and red. One man lay out cold, deep in the snow, a big purple bruise in the center of his forehead. Two more were in a heap, limbs twisted in unnatural positions. Another was facedown in the snow, huge cuts screaming down his head. Then the boy’s eyes rested on the last man. The snow around him was a radius of red, spreading by the second, and his face was contorted into one of agony. His bloody hands were still outstretched and reaching for something, something that could save him…

The boy looked down and saw the sword. It was sitting lightly in his hand. And it was covered in blood. Blood that wasn’t his own.

Birds from all over flew out of trees at the sound of the boy’s scream. 

The sword was thrown out of the boy’s hands and towards a nearby tree. “What did I do?!” he wailed in anguish. “How did I even do this?!”

The griffin sat up and limped over to the boy. “I don’t know,” he replied softly, his voice sounding in shock and fear. “It’s like you were… possessed.” He said this last word even softer and even more fearfully. 

The boy stared in horror at the sword that lay against the side of the tree, which did nothing. “What did that crazy dude give me?” he whispered. The two gazed at the sword for a long time, whose patterns glistened and danced in the fading sunlight, even though it was drenched in blood. “I can’t have these,” the boy decided firmly. “They just pull me into more trouble.” He unslung the harness from his back and flung it at the blue sword. “Let’s get outta here.”

He turned to go, but the bloody sword in the snow twitched. The boy turned back towards it. Then, suddenly, his hand was outstretched and the sword was in his hand. A bit of blood dripped off of the blade and onto his sleeve. The boy let out a surprised gasp and the griffin jumped back. The two exchanged horrified glances. He dropped it into the snow, but as soon as he tried to get away from it, the sword was back in his hand.

The birds that didn’t flee at the sound of his first scream were gone in an instant. 

Quickly, the boy dropped the sword in the snow again and leaped away. This time, it didn’t come back. He took a few cautious steps backwards. Another long moment of staring in mesmerized awe passed. and outstretched his hand slowly on impulse. A tense minute passed, and the sword twitched, and flew back to the boy. He held the bleeding sword up to the fading light like he had the first time. “I can’t leave these,” he breathed helplessly. 

The griffin didn’t reply. He only stared at the boy hopelessly, his neon green eyes seeming to melt. “We need to get out of here,” he said. 

As the sun slipped through the trees, the boy scanned the disastrous scene a moment longer. His face hardened in a way no other being had seen it harden before. He carelessly wiped the sword in the snow, and sheathed it, hoisting the harness on his back. “Then let’s go,” he replied, eyes narrowing. He ran in a random direction. The griffin stared after him, a paw raised in hesitation. Then he shook his feathery mane, grunted, and set off. He had no choice but to follow.

Even though it was dark now, both the boy and the griffin had good vision, and could see enough to dodge tree trunks and fallen logs. But the vegetation was thick, and branches whipped at the boy like needles. They added to the bruises, cuts, scrapes and burns he had acquired over the last two months, not to mention the big gash right in the middle of his forehead that had started to throb, and the gunshot wound in his arm. The boy could feel nothing but pain and shock as he hurdled over logs and dodged branches at an alarming speed. 

He saw the ledge, but the griffin did not. Only a few seconds after he had stopped close to the edge and the boy was rammed from behind as both went tumbling down. Adrenaline surged as the boy climbed up the griffin in midair. The griffin had only a few seconds to break their fall, but he succeeded, landing on his feet with the boy on his back. The boy smiled weakly. “That was a close one. Thanks.”

Nodding slightly, the griffin turned the ends of his beak up into a smile and looked ahead. To see four vans and about 18 men staring at them, all holding weapons. Then there was a pop, like air being released, and the boy was swaying on the griffin’s back, a pink feathered dart blossoming out of his chest. He groaned, then slumped into the cold snow, unconscious. 

The griffin’s spikes came up in alarm. His whole body was tense, and his tail thrashed violently. He scanned the men with narrowed glowing eyes. The shooters, unsure what to do, were still, shaking weapons still pointed at the strange creature. Then something snapped. The griffin grunted loudly, pawing the snow like a stallion. His neon green eyes were twin balls of fury. Then he charged. 

Roars and screams echoed into the night. By the end, there was six men dead, eleven injured, one unconscious boy, and one griffin. Pink feathers covered his body, and he staggered from side to side. 

There was one final pop, and one final grunt.

Author's Note

This by far has been one of my best and longest works. It's about the size of a long YA fiction chapter, but the word count isn't what matters. It's the content. Please, PLeASe be honest! I wanna know how I did. =)

Also, some of those spots used to be italicized, such as parts where Wilson the griffin speaks. I have several versions of this chapter and a lot of laziness, so bear with me.

Reviews

[Locke Redwyne (night sy..]

you did really good. i think that it's even better bc i helped you XD especially on the fight scenes, you really improved it