Chapter Twenty Seven
Austin stomped after Mr. Smith as he led her through the ever darkening forest. The cold was seeping throat her coat and she had twisted her ankle a hundred or so paces ago, but her mind was too busy for her to become fully aware of those fact.
A memory of an afternoon not too long ago was playing on a loop in her mind, each time becoming more defined.
“Austin,” Mr. Smith’s voice was stern, but worried, “This needs to stop.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” she pleaded, already knowing that he would. She sprayed and wiped at the table, trying to erase the message written in Sharpie.
Austin Anders is a sl~~.
She had managed to clean off part of the last word, but the meaning was still clear. Some catty girls had taken a liking to Aiden, and they didn’t like the fact that he was always hanging around her.
“It would be best if people resolved their differences face to face,” Mr. Smith said, longing clear in his tone.
“Sword fights should be the norm instead of counseling,” she agreed, surprising herself. Where had that idea come from?
“If only people actually did that,” he chuckled, taking the chemical soaked towel from her, “Okay, let’s compromise. I won’t tell your guidance counselor or your uncle, but I will tell my nephew.”
“You have a nephew?” she asked. She knew as much about him as the other students did, which meant to say that she knew next to nothing.
“Adoptive nephew. He’s more like a son, actually,” Mr. Smith smiled, straightening the ends of his tweed jacket, “He’s transferring to this school in November, and I’d think you two would be great friends.”
He was trying to make friends for her, which was irritating. Even so… “You won’t tell my uncle?”
“No,” her teacher promised, rubbing at the graffiti. Under his well applied force, it started to blur.
“Then fine,” she shrugged, “Tell your nephew whatever you want.”
“I’ll be sure to do just that. Now go home. Your uncle must be worried. I’ll take care of this.”
The next morning when she came to school, she barely remembered the deal they had made, and her desk was spotless. There was no reason to remember that afternoon, until now.
Dustin.
“He’s your family?” she asked, breaking the silence that had begun to settle. Mr. Smith sighed, like he had known this topic would come up. He never doubted her ability to remember.
“I was the one who turned him into a chaos,” he did not face her, “In a world where our only options are turn or kill, I often choose to turn them.”
There were many things that they did not do that day. Mr. Smith did not bring up Anathaem again. She did not trust him. She also did not bring up the fact that while he chose to ruin lives, his ‘son’ chose to end them.
The sun slipped over the edge of the nearby mountains and Mr. Smith stopped her, “We’ll rest for few minutes. I have to fix these cuts or I’ll bleed out before we reach our destination.”
Austin tossed him a pack of bandages from her backpack, ones that Kai had given her, and her teacher leaned against a thick tree while he sterilized and wrapped the worst of his wounds. While she waited, she pulled on the strings that held Kai’s cardboard box closed. It opened easily and she unfolded the tabs. An envelope half covered the heavier things that she had heard moving around, and she ripped it open, wanting to see what it held. She was not surprised to find a letter.
Austin,
When I was assigned as one of your guardians, I knew that your story would be great. Never in my lifetime has a Fledgling been assigned four guardians, much less having one of them by the General of Anathaem. Though I was made to watch over you from afar, I enjoyed it tremendously. I missed many of your firsts, only having been assigned on your ninth birthday, but the things I saw made the world fill with words, words all connected to you. Creative. Empathetic. Daring.
But never loyal. I never knew if that was a fault or a strength, or maybe a bit of both.
Still, it never dawned on me that once we brought you to Affelil, to Anathaem, that we would be close. I had been under the impression that we would part ways after a possible meeting, however brief it was. I had to check on you when I heard you would be arriving in the midst of the festival, and you were safe.
Even now, with you sleeping mere feet away as I type, I can scarcely believe that you made it. Words can barely describe how grateful I am for that fact.
But, the inevitable has come―your departure. Whether it was because of the chaos or your status as a Halfling, I don’t know, but I knew this day would come. It always does.
I’ve enclosed what I can: books, a box of my favorite tea, a filled journal, an empty journal, and three pens. In all your days surrounded by the books in my shop, perhaps you’ve come to love words as I do, and perhaps you will find those items of use.
I hope you don’t mind, but I started the one journal for you, with a single word and its definition
Do not treat this as a goodbye, though it may be. If you are alive and I am alive, our paths are sure to cross again. If I am dead, well, it was a pleasure to have known you. Thank you for being daring, for opening up a life lost to me, and for accepting me.
You were the best friend I have had in a long, long time. If I am still alive by the time you read this (and I apologize if I am not), there is nothing that could ever convince me to give our friendship up. I will fight to see you again, and I do not doubt that you will do the same.
Until our paths do cross, I trust that you will make your story great.
Signed,
Kai Davis
Storyteller
She bit her lip and folded the heavy paper carefully, tucking it into her jeans pocket. It was very Kai of him to write out his goodbye. That was what it was, though he did promise it wasn’t a farewell. Her eyes were suddenly very wet and she opened the moleskin journal under it, which was blank except for a small, handwritten note at the top.
Hiraeth, it read, a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, and the grief for the lost place of your past.
Well, that was uplifting. She wanted something inspirational, not something to make her cry. She felt something wet roll down her cheeks, proving her point to no one but herself. She tucked one of the pens, an official looking model, into her jacket pocket and stuffed the rest into her bag once again. If the filled journal was anything like the almost-blank one had been, it would make her want to curl up into a ball and sleep. Sleep was not what she needed right now.
She needed to keep moving.
Fledgling Page 28