by J. Kearston
So though everything inside of me balks at the ideas, I try to blank my mind, to connect to that force that binds everything in our lives together. I raged against that connection, wanted no part of it. But whether I want to be or not, I am. From the first second I laid eyes on Cambria, my path was irrevocably changed. I became a part of this world long before the brand was seared into my skin. I didn’t need that tether to bind me to her, it just shoved me past my reservations when I was too blind to know that this is where I’m meant to be.
When I created the other rings, it was a blinding shockwave of desperation and rage exploding out of me. All of that energy, it came directly from me. But now, I try to shut all of that off, to feel the thrum of power beneath my feet instead. Focusing on the way she described it, I try to imagine the ashen earth as something more, something that’s alive, but just barely.
It’s faint, and unless I was searching for it, I’d never notice, but I don’t think she could have described it any better. The energy lurches abruptly, like someone’s drawing in a small, gasping breath.
Bending down, I run my fingers through the ash until grass blades tickle my palms. A small pulse, like a struggling heartbeat, meets my hand. It could very well be my own and I’m just projecting a ridiculous fantasy, but I shove that doubt away. I embody the feeling of standing on top of a mountain and looking down at the world, the sensation of my feet covered in sand as waves lap at my ankles; everything that makes the world seem so impossibly vast and small at the same time.
I let the irrational fear that I’m inconsequential and irrelevant in the grand scheme of things see the light of day. That every bit of pain I’ve been through was meaningless, that the sun will continue to rise and fall long after I’m gone as if I’ve never existed at all. An impossible yearning for more that leaves me aching, that void that I’m always trying to fill by chasing the feeling of being alive before I’m out of time.
And just once, in a moment we’ll never speak of again, I let a single tear fall to the ground beside my scarred hand. A tiny offering to a dying world, so that a piece of myself will live on even in death.
The energy beneath my palm seems to pulsate, blending with that of the ring the changelings created, infusing the earth and coaxing it back to life. As I open my eyes, I find myself on the inside of the ring with the others. The two fairy rings merged into a singular, massive one, encapsulating everything important in my life; even the changelings, dead silent and staring at me like they’re truly looking for the first time. They’ve seen me, sure, but this...this is deeper than that.
These are the pitying stares of creatures that understand a feeling that can’t be put into words, that see something that the majority of the world will never understand. The looks of creatures that realize the pain that stems from being perpetually alone while surrounded by a sea of people.
Turning to the others, I waver on my feet. Drained, but far less so than my previous attempts left me. “You’re up, Dorian.”
Chapter 13
Cambria
The changelings don’t turn on us the second we’re able to finally pull it off like I thought they would, the expanse of the prison now laid out before us. They just look...defeated. Like they reveled in their freedom while they could because they knew it could never last, that they’d be forced back here eventually. They’re still in their demonic, true forms; all of their excess energy sacrificed to create the ring that would replenish the wasteland, bringing it back to what it once was.
Crouching down, I offer a hand, palm up, to Loki. “You three and Atlas did the hard part, so I’ve got some extra to give.” I glance at Raziel and Azazel, jerking my head towards my hand so they know they’re included. “Can’t have you going hungry, now can we?”
As if expecting it to be a trap, none of them move at first. Azazel finally crawls forward, the mist of a tongue flicking over the tips of my fingers like an arctic wind. Closing my eyes, I channel the energy thrumming through my veins into my hand, grateful that I have the ability to do so and they don’t have to latch onto me like vampires to suck it from my blood.
When some of the solemn air surrounding them dissipates, a bit of hope that they won’t be sentenced to another twenty-four year stretch of living in a state of starvation manifesting, I gently withdraw my hand. I can’t feel the connection to Faerie anymore, too far removed from the earth despite the floating island we’re standing on. Whatever magic surrounds this prison to ensure the changelings usually can’t escape, it also severs that tie to the steady source of energy we all need to thrive; like they wanted to keep my ancestors from growing too powerful as well.
“No wonder they couldn’t create a ring to escape,” I murmur, brushing my fingertips over the dust laden stone beneath our feet. “It’s a miracle that they managed to survive on the scraps Elorie threw them long enough for the barrier to fade and still managed to fight their way through it.”
Lucien wraps a hand above my elbow to help me up, hovering close by when he releases me as if he expects me to collapse. “Who knows if they were the only thing in this prison, though? Before we let our guard down and start figuring out how we’re going to round them back up and herd them here, let’s make sure it’d even be sustainable long term.”
Dorian tries to make it sound less daunting than the situation really is, but misses the mark epically. Everything is looming over our heads and each step forward feels like three steps back when we glance at them from a new angle. “And honestly, it’s only a matter of time before Elorie sends someone to check here for you, after word gets back to her about what happened in the shadow court and you sympathizing with the changelings. She’ll assume you’ll have figured out what she did to you and that you’d want to see where you were born.”
“If the magic could be used to keep the changelings inside though,” Atlas points out, “then logically, we could adjust it to keep everyone else out.”
Finally, an actual solution. A solid plan. The rest of the world thinks of this place as a prison, but we can turn it into our safe haven.
The changelings’ forms shimmer before they don my form and I cringe. “Yeah, I could do without that.”
Dorian barks out a laugh. “Hottest version of Clone Wars that I’ve ever seen.”
We take our first good look around and I know mine isn’t the only jaw that’s dropping. We’re high up on a stone platform, surrounded by an iron guardrail like a massive balcony. The stone tapers off into a metal skywalk that extends a good stretch on either side before curving into a massive oval without an end in sight, hovering above the labyrinth two stories beneath us. Shadowed hallways of pitted stone, so similar to that in the mountainous terrain that we just left, it leaves no doubt in any of our minds.
“The wasteland was their home.”
Lucien puts a steadying hand on my hip as he steps up beside me, gazing down at the maze. “They likely didn’t even need to cry to create the ring.”
I simply nod. “They were just mourning the home they hadn’t seen in centuries and what it had become.”
Atlas throws his arms up in the air, but doesn’t seem genuinely upset, just annoyed. “Of course,” he mutters to himself before becoming just as engrossed in the sight as the rest of us.
Dorian rests his arms on the railing, attention rapt on the unconventional habitat. “Likely the two courts fought over expanding their territories and drove them out, starting this whole mess.”
Lucien’s thumb strokes over my hip in a steady rhythm. “And they had to get the energy to create the prison and barrier from somewhere. It was likely a final ‘fuck you’ from Cambria’s ancestors to take it from the land that started the chain of events and leave them with only a pile of ash to kill each other over.” We simply stand there for a bit, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
I trace the path of the maze from what I can see from this angle. There aren’t any cell doors, nothing like the prison I’d imagined. Above the labyrinth is a metal grate that
acts as a lid above the entire thing to keep them trapped inside, now slid back just far enough for wraith-thin bodies to escape. Deep grooves are clawed into the stone where they scrambled up the walls to fight with the grate, prying it free of where it locks into place; a stark reminder of their brutality and desperation as they withered away, forgotten.
As we start making our way across the skywalk, the changelings drag their feet, attention rapt on the sight beneath them, like they’ve never seen their prison from this angle before. Fates’ only know what memories are racing through their minds right now, what horrors they’re reliving.
I glance at those obsidian eyes trapped in nightmarish memories, not so different from the face I saw in the mirror the first time I was released from that silent room beneath the castle; half mad, sick, and so damn hungry. Not for food, but the will to live, for the energy that I didn’t realize I was being deprived of. They were suffering up here while I was rotting away in that room. So close, and yet an ocean may as well have separated us.
We could have helped each other, if only I’d known back then that I had something to fight for. That I had people counting on me to fight for myself so that I could get strong enough to fight for them too.
I’m pulled right back to Dorian’s lament after laser tag, when his past had such an unyielding grip on his mind that he struggled to stay in the present. So, even though it might be a foolish waste of my power when we don’t know what’s waiting for us, I start to hum softly as we walk. Not enough to counteract the onslaught of emotions, but just enough to take the edge off, to make things more bearable. Nobody questions it and we carry on the long stretch with only the soft sounds to counteract how ungodly silent the place is; abandoned of all but the haunted history still clinging on, a malignant absence of energy like a void.
Eventually we get to a fork in the road, where the skywalk connects as a bridge to the other side of the oval surrounding the pit beneath us, continues ahead, or branches off into the darkness at our right, into a tunnel in the earthen wall. Lucien veers for the shadows without a word and the rest of us follow behind him. We need to understand everything we have to work with here no matter how creepy, and the center space is clearly reserved to hold the changelings. And if that’s the case, then my ancestors had to have living quarters somewhere else in this place.
We’re forced to trek slowly, running our hands along the stone walls in the dark to find our way. After a few minutes, I bring a soft glow to my hand, aiming to conserve as much of my power as I can, but needing to not break my neck either.
We follow the ramp descending at a shallow incline until doors appear, lining the hall at irregular intervals. Lucien stops before the first one, his hand on the handle, and looks to me for confirmation that I’m ready for whatever we’re going to find on the other side of it. Whatever he sees on my face has him patiently waiting; not questioning, but giving me time to psyche myself up.
Whoever lived here...I didn’t know them. Even if they were my parents, grandparents, or cousins, I don’t know any of their names. No memories, no stories. I’m connected to them through a dying legacy and blood alone, nothing more.
“Open it.”
He pushes in the door, white knuckling the handle as he tenses, expecting something to jump out at him. When I step inside the small room behind him, a semi-hysterical laugh slips out.
A broom closet. Bottles of soap, a bucket and mop, and some dusty rags are all that are inside, what I was so worked up about. An incredulous breath of amused relief rushes from my lungs and I shake my head. I’m beyond grateful when Dorian takes my hand, gently pulling me from the room like he’s aware that an old closet has the power to tip me over the edge in my rising, manic state.
“Let’s see what’s behind door number two, shall we?” he offers, and Atlas joins in.
“Nah, third one’s the charm.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. “Let’s just skip right to that one; we might win a new washer and dryer set.”
Frowning, he kicks off from the wall and fumbles behind him. A second later, lights click on and hum to life as he flips the switch that was poking him in the back. The single bulbs kick on in a series of waves down the long hallway, the occasional one blowing and sending glass shards to rain down, tinkling softly against the stone paved path.
The ceiling is high enough that it keeps the claustrophobia at bay, though it still feels too much like a tomb for my liking. Honestly, I have to commend whoever designed this place though. Despite the fact that they kept the changelings contained instead of letting them run rampant throughout the island, my ancestors at least realized how little difference there is between them and us, choosing to live in a similar set up. The changelings may live in shallow caves in the walls, but so did they; their chambers just had doors.
Humoring Atlas, we skip the next door and open the third into the hallway, but it steals the air from my lungs. It’s a simple bedroom set up, but the ceiling is what captures my attention instantly. Painted to replace the sky, a myriad of stars arc through a sunset, the colors so vivid even after all of this time that I forget how to breathe for a moment.
Without wanting to risk the emotional blow of what I might find if I dig too deeply into the abandoned belongings, I move on to the next room, and then the next. Each ceiling is hand painted; some stormy, some a sunrise, and others a night so vast, the inspiration has to hail from the shadow court.
But the next room has me choking on a sob before I can stop myself, my hand covering my mouth as soon as I spot the small crib against the wall beside the bed. I know better, yet still, I can’t stop myself from scanning the room slowly, soaking up every detail and committing it to memory.
The dusty bedspread that never got a chance to be made, the clothes scattered about the room like they were exhausted with their newborn daughter. And the ceiling, a colorful blend of clouds concealing the majority of the sun, the shades the same vibrant tones as the ones in my hair, like the first thing they deemed important wasn’t the laundry piling up, but brightening the room so I wasn’t trapped in the darkness with them.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Atlas is suddenly there, arms wrapping around my stomach and chest to keep me upright. My hands curl up to grip his forearm at my chest and he removes the band from my stomach to stoke a hand over the side of my face, cupping my cheek and gently scratching my neck. “If I don’t get to fall apart, neither do you, princess. Deep breaths.”
It’s hard to draw air into my lungs, my tears blurring my vision as I gasp through my sobs. So much; I’ve endured so goddamn much, but a fucking painting wrecks me.
I couldn’t tell you how long we stand there with me clinging to Atlas, but by the time I can breathe without my lungs protesting, I feel like hell. My eyes burn, are puffy and swollen, and my limbs feel heavy. A splitting headache has already made itself at home, and nothing but sleep is going to be able to put a dent in it.
When I finally can feel my feet beneath me, I pivot in his arms, finding us alone and panic sets in as I croak, “Where are the others?” I clear my throat, desperately hoping we find at least a bottle of water in this place soon.
He scans my face, eyes hard and jaw clenched. “I think the changelings might have been more upset seeing you like that than the three of us were. You were projecting pretty hard and they weren’t handling it well, so Dorian and Luce took them out of here to keep exploring the place.”
Swallowing, I nod, swiping away the drying tears on my face. “Sorry.”
His arms tighten around me as he growls, “You don’t need to be sorry, damn it.”
I murmur the words against his collar since he’s crushing me. “Sorry.” His chest vibrates beneath me with his annoyance and I grin, just a little bit. “There has to be a water source here somewhere, maybe the others have already found it.”
Taking the deflection in stride, Atlas pulls back enough to scan my face with a pinched look before grabbing my hand. We head back out into the hallway and
follow the winding path that seems to make little sense. It rises and falls with multiple, smaller paths branching off of it. We stick to the larger main path for fear of getting lost, though I still have a small blip of fear that we’ll be trapped underground forever. Even though we’re technically on a floating island.
My head hurts too much for this.
“Damn, how far did they go?” Atlas complains, as we follow yet another swell upward.
“Maybe they took one of the smaller side paths?”
He sighs, staring at the seemingly endless path in front of us. “Okay, from a constructional standpoint, I’d wager this center path runs in a wave around the entire circumference of this place like a giant, caffeinated oval. Each rise and dip allows for tunnels to branch off on the different levels here without having to go too long of a stretch before having access to a different floor. So if we stay the course, we’d just end up back where we started, but I’d imagine we’ll come to an opening to the center space soon; an access point on each of the four main sides.”
“Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”
He rolls his eyes at me, but a small smile twitches the corner of his mouth. “Not like I built the damn thing.”
“Yeah, but your brain is creating a map as we walk to get a layout. My mental map is just a pile of spaghetti after those twists. Couldn’t tell you which way is west to save my soul.”
With a snort, he kisses the back of my hand and urges me to keep walking. “You couldn’t tell me north or south if you were holding a compass.” Flipping him off with a smile, he chuckles.
“You’re not wrong, but I thought you were more of a gentleman than that. Calling me out on shit; how rude.”
He barks out a laugh as we continue to rise. “What the hell did I do to give you that ridiculous impression?”
I’m feeling better already, but it’s only amplified as a light off to the left up ahead shows that Atlas was right and we’re almost out of the weird wall labyrinth. “You’re right, I don’t know what got into me. Thinking you were a decent person?” I shudder. “No thank you. Give me the asshole that fucks harder than he runs his mouth any day.”