Beyond the Bridge

by C D Beaudin

  Aradon had closed his eyes and tried his hardest to ignore his father’s pleading. “I can’t.” His head had dropped, guilt flowing through him. “I can’t, father. I want—I need—to leave.” He’d grabbed his bag, throwing his blue cloak around him. “Please try to understand.”

  His father had looked at him with sad eyes. “My boy, what if I never see you again?”

  Aradon walked over to him and placed his hand on his shoulder. “I will be back.”

  As he’d turned to leave, his father stopped him. “When?”

  “When I’ve won back Nomarah.”

  They’d exchanged a small, sad smile, and Aradon headed toward the stables. He’d mounted his horse, riding off, and knew in his heart he would probably never see his father again.

  Aradon had glanced down at his cloak, a silver pin of the Everstar pinned to the blue fabric, a pin his family had cherished for years. His thoughts had been firm. I will win back our kingdom. And our family will be restored to its rightful place in this world.

  Harden had punched Aradon, knocking him to the ground, blood spattering his face. The older boy had scrambled on top of him, and punched his chest, harder and harder. His fists pounded against Aradon who had started to choke, blood spilling from his mouth. His chest had tightened and felt as if it would explode.

  “Don’t just lie there, you fool!” his trainer had yelled from the group watching them.

  Aradon had looked over at the watching boys, young and some almost done with their training. He’d looked back at Harden, who slammed into his face again. His eyes had bulged as Harden grabbed his throat, squeezing it hard. Aradon had fought for air, but none came. He’d closed his eyes, summoning everything. In that moment, he didn’t care that his Besged strength would kill Harden. They will let him kill me.

  With all his strength he’d somersaulted, slamming the unsuspecting Harden into the ground. Hearing him cry out, Aradon had tackled Harden, and both had groaned as they hit the ground. Barely breathing, Aradon had punched the blond-haired boy in the face, and gripped his head, punching him over and over again. He’d grabbed one of his knives he’d hidden in his boot and jabbed it into the boy’s throat.

  Standing up, he’d wiped his mouth of his blood, breathing heavily. The crowd had been quiet, no doubt surprised at what they’d witnessed. Harden was the best of the Red Warrior cadets, trained since birth, and he had just been defeated by a sixteen-year-old who had only been training for a year. Aradon had looked at the silent faces, some of the younger boys backed up in fear.

  Aradon had glared at the nervous trainer. “You called me a fool?” He’d gripped his blood covered knife, and the man’s eyes had widened.

  “N-no. I-I would never!” The trainer had scrambled, fear in his eyes.

  Aradon had smirked, wiping off his blade with his black shirt. He’d spat blood on the ground. “Good.” He’d placed the knife in his boot, walking over Harden’s dead body. Got them where I want them.

  Aradon had walked up the pathway, shoulders straight, feeling pride in every step he’d taken. The trainers and students gathered along the path, all the way up to the Master’s Hall. He’d climbed the steps up the short hill, and two Red Warriors had opened the black dragon painted doors to the big wooden building.

  Inside, Aradon had been faced with a pack of Red Warriors, all wearing their black cloaks. He’d held his head high as the youngest Red Warrior in history. At seventeen, he’d been a year younger than most, and with only two years of training, he’d known that one day he might be considered the best of them all.

  He’d walked up the red carpet, laid out in ceremony. Red-clad girls beat drums in a slow, low beat as he’d started up the five steps to the throne.

  The Master had sat on his wooden throne, another black dragon painted over his head on the wall. His black cloak was patterned with red, and his long, graying black hair was beaded with rubies. A black line tattooed in the middle of his forehead, crowned him the Master.

  Aradon had knelt on one knee, his head held high. Under his knee on the black lacquered floor had been an elaborate painting of a red dragon.

  The Master had stood, walking a few steps toward him and looking to the crowd of Red Warriors. “This is a day to remember,” he’d started with a powerful voice. “On this day, our youngest warrior is presented to the world.”

  A servant dressed in a red robe had walked over to Aradon. He’d held up a red-hot brand of a dragon, the same symbol on the hall’s front wall. The Master held up his hands, and the servant pressed the brand to the back of Aradon’s left shoulder. He’d gritted his teeth at the burning and breathed sharply when it left his skin.

  “I, Master Eomare, pronounce Aradon, a Red Warrior and our kin.”

  The crowd clapped as Eomare had wrapped the black cloak around Aradon’s shoulders. “You should be proud, son,” the Master said so only he could hear.

  Aradon had looked at his face with pride but could only think of his father’s absence.

  I will make you proud, father. You’ll see me become king, I’ll make sure of it.

  But it turns out that becoming king would be harder than Aradon had originally thought. He doesn’t have an army, and his skills only got him so far. Hope isn’t part of him anymore. He doesn’t hope for the future, knowing he’ll be disappointed.

  Aradon never thought there would be someone like him. Someone who had everything, yet nothing to live for. Someone so dead, they are like ghosts. Their past haunts them every day and could come back to destroy them.

  But Awyn’s past is already destroying her.

  Aradon shifts slightly, his eyes closed, body drenched in sweat. His eyes squeeze shut as he groans when he tries to move, pain rushing through his body. His arms and legs are paralyzed, his chest feels like it did when Harden was killing him. Even as a Besged, he feels pain, and can be killed. His family has hidden it all his life, and yet when he needs his strength the most, it fails him.

  I. Need. To. Move.

  With all his strength, he lifts his right arm, his muscles straining, his teeth clenching from the hurt. He yells in pain as he rips his other arm from the earth, lurching forward. Breathing heavily, his chest tightens. He groans as he slowly stands, yelling sharply at the terrible, flooding pain. His chest heaves, and he vomits blood, the rock spattering with crimson. Stumbling and weak, he staggers over to the limp Awyn, falling to his knees on the hard stone.

  “Awyn.” He shakes her gently. “Awyn, get up.” He rolls her over, blood is smeared over her cheeks. Dried blood covers her body, with black-and-white ash in layers and scorches on her skin. There are burns on her stomach and arms, her dress is badly singed, in tatters and nearly falling off her. Her fair face is covered in dirt, her long eyelashes touching her cheeks as she sleeps in unconsciousness.

  Aradon sighs as he lays her head in his lap, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I wanted to be better, I really did. But I guess I’m not cut out to be king.” His voice is calm, but his words are not meant for her. He takes off his cloak, covering her burned stomach, the blisters plump and white. “I wanted to help you. Maybe at first, the reasons were selfish.” He looks at the limp princess, feeling defeated. “But I actually like you.” He smiles. “Hard to believe, right? You can be very difficult.”

  Awyn coughs, sending Aradon into a flurry. “A-Awyn?” He holds her head, one arm resting on her hip as she moves, groaning. Her eyes flutter open, the blue blazing from the glow of the lava around them. “Awyn, hey,” Aradon says softly, smiling with immense relief.

  “A-Aradon?” Her eyebrows furrow as she winces, no doubt feeling the pain. “It hurts.”

  He looks at the rock crushing her arm—he never even noticed. “Oh, um, hold on.” He rolls the rock off her arm, making her scream in pain. “I’m sorry.” Anguish tears through him as he helps her sit up, still holding her.

  “I-I can’t lift my arm. I can’t move my arm.” Her voice is panicked, and her body trembles. “I-Is i
t cold in here?” She shivers, her red lips a blueish hue.

  Aradon wraps his cloak tighter around her, holding her close to his body. “No,” he says quietly. She has a fever. Awyn rests her head on his chest, his arms around her.

  “Aradon, what are we going to do?” She stares at the entrance. It gets farther and farther away as they float deeper into the tunnel they spent what seemed like forever trying to escape. He closes his eyes, not knowing the answer.

  “We’ll think of something.” He strokes her hair. If she’s sick, he doesn’t want to worry her.

  “Aradon.” She swallows painfully, her throat must be dry. “Aradon. It’s ov—”

  “No. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. We will make it through this. We will.” She closes her eyes, and he holds her tighter. “We will make it through this.” Saying it will make him believe it…right? He sighs, and lays her on the hot rock, knowing her feverish body needs the heat.

  He watches as she sleeps again. Shallow, labored breathing is the only sound coming from her. Her eyelids flutter, and she moves slightly. A small, sad smile spreads across his lips. That’s it. Dream. Dream and escape. He lies down beside her, closing his eyes, giving into his fatigue.

  If only he was right about Awyn’s dreams, because in her sleep, she’s reliving her waking nightmare.

  The bed creaked under her, the old wood frame squeaking under her light weight. Every slight move Awyn made, the bed let out a loud groan. The sheet under her felt like sand. It hadn’t been washed in five years. The mattress was lumpy and hard, with bugs biting her back and neck every night, leaving her itchy and irritated. Her pillow was a piece of cloth with only enough cotton to fill a cup, and perhaps crumpled up paper, from the crunching it made when Awyn rested her head, though, those could have been beetles.

  With her eyes open and body awake, Awyn sat up, the bed protesting again. She looked around the room, wondering what to do. A table, a chair, a ratty rug, and a bucket. Not many options. She walked over to the table, opening the only drawer, pulling out a doll she’d made from her dress and a needle she had been given for her tenth birthday. She holds it, fiddling with its blue dress and white hair, the brown skin made from a sack that held her only food for the week, many years ago. Having no face, Awyn can make up any expression, any feeling, any name, and any life for this doll.

  Her favorite was Milly, a twelve-year-old dwarf who worked with her mother in the fields of Lauden, back when Idies was still King of Nomarah, back when Nomarah was still a kingdom. She had white hair, blue eyes, caramel skin, and a lovely blue dress her grandmother had made for her on her twelfth birthday.

  She loved how the wind flowed through her hair when she ran in the flower fields, wild flowers of blue and yellow dotting the plains around her, the green grass smelling of last night’s rain. Her father would be tending to the sheep, and the dog Scruffy would run behind him, his silky black coat flowing in the wind as he kept the cattle together. Her father and mother would love her very much, and they would have dinner together, always a lovely feast, with chicken, potatoes, and carrots. Carrots are Milly’s favorite. Her best friend was Danny, a brown-haired boy who loved to fish and ride horses. They had a tree they sat under, rain or shine, talking and laughing, staring out into the fields. Milly was always happy. And she had every reason to be.

  Awyn wasn’t so lucky. It was her fourteenth birthday, and she wasn’t celebrating with her parents, Neo, or even the servants, who had always loved her birthdays. On this day, she is alone. Revera and Tamon always came in to halfheartedly congratulate her and give her a knickknack or an extra piece of bread or cheese. But other than those detested visits, Awyn remained alone.

  Alone. To dwell on her thoughts. To think about her predicament, which she tried to avoid, but it always managed to slip into her mind. Dreaming. That is what had kept her alive those five years, that and Revera’s magic. When she’d gotten a terrible cold from no heat, Revera had healed her. A dirty, cruel punishment. Keeping her alive. Being alive. It was a terrible, barbarous punishment.

  Her head turned when she heard a nearby click, and she hid the doll in the drawer, standing up, hands behind her back, hearing the footsteps and mumbling of the guards. The blond one unlocked her door, opening it, and her uncle walked in. He shut the door behind him as Tamon looked around the room.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.” He turned to her, a smug look on his face. “It’s cozy.” Awyn’s expression remained blank as her uncle looked at her. “What? Is hello so hard to say to your uncle?”

  “I will not give you the satisfaction,” Awyn snapped. Tamon lifted a brow. “Now, as much as I love your yearly visit, I politely ask you to leave.”

  “Well, I just came down to this place to wish you a happy birthday. But I see the moldy bread has finally infected your brain.” He smiled wickedly. “But while I’m here, I just had to give you something.” He placed a ring in her hand.

  She looked at it, anger filling her. It was an engagement ring, one made cheaply and swiftly. But he knows it has more meaning to her than just being a cheap trinket. She would have been engaged to Neodyn by now, or at least be talking with Hadore about betrothal. She looked away from it.

  “I don’t want it.” She handed it to Tamon, who scoffed.

  “So rude, rejecting a present from the king.”

  “You are not the king!” Awyn yelled at him, slapping him in the face.

  He stared at her, placing a finger on his stinging cheek, wincing.

  “That’s what you get for insulting me. You can’t do this forever. You’ll get sick of me, and then, you’ll have to release me, either from this cell or life itself. And I’ll take either.” She let out a short, breathy laugh. “I’m not picky.”

  His smug face turned to anger. “Fine. You won’t be getting extra food today.” He slammed the ring on the table, his short, fat body storming out of the cell, the guard slamming the door behind him. “Starve!” he yelled from down the hall.

  Awyn collapsed on the floor, sobbing. Her hunger grew more intense, and the defeat she’d just suffered ailed her, making her crumble into little pieces of a broken soul.

  She screamed, the sound horrible and blood curdling. Tears fell down her face as her pain sucked all life from her. She slammed her forehead against the rock floor as one last scream came from her mouth. Blood dripped from her ears and her eyes rolled back as she drifted off into a silent, black oblivion.

  Awyn wakes up screaming as loudly as she had in the cell. Her eyes are wide, and she feels petrified, her body shaking violently in fear. She screams over and over again, not feeling the blood that starts to drip in her raw throat. She’s blind to the world around her, no sound, no light, no picture of the lava and burning tunnel that keeps her prisoner.

  Aradon shoots up, awakened from his sleep by her screams. She swipes her hand at black tears from the ashes falling down her smeared cheeks, a loud scream coming from within her, and she stares ahead, not blinking.

  “Awyn! Awyn?” He shakes her, trying to get her out of whatever hole she’s in. “Awyn. It’s Aradon.” He turns her head to look at him and she refocuses, feeling expression return to her face. “Awyn? Are you…all right?”

  She feels confused. Like she’s nine-years-old again. “Um, I had a nightmare. I-I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t sound fine. I thought someone was killing you.”

  “I get nightmares every night. Sometimes they’re bad, sometimes they’re more tolerable. I guess it was one of the bad ones.” She gives him a small, fake smile. Then looks around the tunnel, worry crowding her mind. “Where are we?”

  Aradon looks around them, awe coming to his face as he sees where they are.

  An underground city. Pillars of stone rise from the ground to the ceiling, rocks jutting sharply from the ground and cavernous roof. Built within the thick, rounded pillars of stone are carved houses. Small square windows dot the grayish surface, and doorways rest where the stairway connects to each
apartment. A brilliant garden of crystalline blue flowers grows through the stone on the riverbank, little specks of glowing white flying around them. Fairies. Stone houses are honeycombed around the pillars and gardens, and shimmering, sapphire water flows through the city.

  Awyn looks down, the lava magically turning to water, and the hot rock they floated on that kept them alive turns cool, white and blue flowers sprouting from the stone. Aradon and Awyn look at each other, a wondrous look on his face, no doubt mirroring her own. And under their breath, they say together, “Arleaand.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The rock stops floating along the sapphire river as they come to a light gray stone bridge. Two men, dressed in navy robes, their hair long and straight, stand at the edge of the bridge, waiting for them. Awyn sees their pointed ears. Elves.

  “I am Marmac of Arleaand,” the blond one says, his voice soft. His harsh, dark blue eyes look over them. His face doesn’t move, but his eyes must take in their rough, ripped, and dirty selves, and Awyn can tell he’s disgusted.

  “I am Forithion,” the brown-haired one states, his voice a tad sharper. “We are the bridge keepers. We will now bring you to the Empress, as she has known about your coming for hundreds of years.” They turn, completely synchronized, their steps in perfect harmony as their robes sway together.

  “Who are these people?” Awyn whispers to Aradon. “I thought Revera destroyed all but a few elves.”

  “Long before Revera betrayed her kind, some of the elves left Radian, forming their own kingdoms, their own colonies. Arleaand being one of the greatest. But I always thought it was just a myth,” Aradon answers, looking around them, as they step onto the bridge.

  It sparkles beneath them with a magical hue. The ceiling far above them is tinted with the blue of the radiant river, and those beautiful glowing flowers dot the city, growing from the stone, no soil or grass on the ground.