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The little bird led them to her effortlessly, but it was too late.
“Oh, no,” Marli moaned, sinking to the forest floor. “No, no, no…my poor little cousin….”
Carn stared at Kamilé in complete shock, cursing whatever fate had lost him the last remnant of his family.
She was crumpled on the ground, tears staining her cheeks, pathetically small and clearly dead.
“Oyäe,” Marli swore, covering her eyes so he wouldn’t see her start to cry. “Now what do we do?”
He could not answer. They remained there for a long time in silence, Marli hiccupping slightly as she tried to stem her tears.
“I’m going…to kill…those kids,” she sobbed.
“It wasn’t them,” Carn murmured. “She would have died regardless, without Everan. That’s how twin chosen are.”
Marli let out a miserable, muffled wail, saying nothing.
“When I see Sera again,” he mumbled, “what am I going to tell her?”
“I don’t know,” Marli cried. “I don’t know what to do….”
They said nothing for perhaps an hour or two, letting the rain soak them through. The little bird perched on Kamilé’s head and kept pecking at her, as if hoping she would wake up. She did not.
Finally, Carn forced his legs to move, kneeling at Kamilé’s side and gently turning her over.
“Still warm,” he said sadly.
“If we’d’ve just…grabbed her….”
“Marli, that would have done no good. You said yourself, chosen are stronger than everyone else; they run, they fight, like they’re not hurt at all, and then they just… fall down and die.” He stroked Kamilé’s hair from her face, shielding her from the rain. “She was finished, and I didn’t see it…she couldn’t have made it to tomorrow.”
“Poor little girl,” Marli sniffed. “She looks like she’s happy now, though….”
Kamilé’s face was at rest, peaceful, like she was in a painless, dreamless sleep.
“Do you think…at least…she’s with her brother?” Marli whispered.
“Absolutely.”
Dawn’s light touched the sky; the storm was breaking up, but it was still raining miserably.
“We’ve done something wrong,” she said suddenly. “But it’s too late to fix it.”
“The deities tell us so much through nature; we just never listen.”
They were silent for some time, until they realized the time.
“Carn, it’s past dawn.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Carn….”
“Yes. I understand.”
He pulled off his cloak and covered Kamilé with it, picking her gently up. “We’ll bury her by her mother,” he said to himself. “And make a grave for Everan….”
“No. The same grave. That’s how Kilio and Tara were buried, together.”
“Ah, yes. Of course we will.”
“We?”
“The entire city—no, the entire country will be present at the funeral of a chosen. It was the same for Sera, for my mother…it will be the same for her.”
Marli said nothing, rising and shivering.
“I used to believe the gods walked beside chosen, but now I’m not so sure…the second chance is no good now….”
“Oh?” Carn was distracted, wiping blood and dirt from Kamilé’s face.
“Everan died, but she didn’t go, too. With twin chosen…it just…it didn’t work. Something went wrong…poor Kamilé…she was so young….”
She sighed, turning away. “Well…come on.”
Carn did not move. “Marli. Maybe…maybe the second chance will work…after all. Now that they’re both….”
“Maybe,” she said tonelessly.
“Marli,” he said again, sternly this time. “I have a feeling that we need to be hopeful, just this once. Did you know that chosen’s bodies don’t rot away?”
“No, they don’t, not until their second…chance…. Oh. I see.”
“You go on without me. Tell them that the chosen has begun her journey.”
She turned and stared at him, and at Kamilé, for a long time; finally she smiled weakly, shrugged, whistled for his bird to follow, and went off, the spring in her step relevant to one who is tired and weary, but bears good news.

End Part One.



~~~~~

Well, Part One, you've put up a good fight.

Stats:

Begun: August 2006
Ended: October 2007
Pages: 361 (exactly! xd Funny huh?)
Words: 191,000
Characters (with spaces): 1,068,000
Paragraphs: 7,000
Character count: about 35 including animals, plus 20,000 for the rest of Ametris.
Fatalities: two. Aren't you proud of me? (plus like, 200, fire victims. And like a thousand trees. Shh.)
Fan Club: 17
.....readers: 7
.....non-readers: 10ish

Wooooooo. heart

Their houses were destroyed by the fire. They rebuilt them exactly the way they were for familiarity. I dunno. This part confuzzled me too. I never thought about Carn's house being destroyed when I planned this scene. And I didn't elaborate much on it, but all the trinkets were fireproofed by Sera, who hated the color red (blood) and didn't bother fireproofing the entire house.

-Marli knew that twin chosen never are.

-No, no one went in there. Are you kidding? He's a senile old crusty. Srai did, but she already knew that; she's just an idiot and didn't see the little symbols. Remember that it's faded and such, and also that Ametrisans like to decorate dead people's names with flowers and moons and such.

-people came to Sera's funeral, but they stopped regarding her as a chosen after she died--they just thought that she wasn't one anymore, or she was disguised as a mortal to fool them, but was really a god. They didn't think about it much, they're not too bright.

-not many people know the specifics of chosen. As Talin showed us, they don't know how they're different from other people. You'd be surprised how unobservant people can be. Also, Everan's hair covers his (highly convienent for him) and Kamile is so dirty that no one could see it.

-She's still alive, still sick, and will be dealt with next chapter. twisted


Admittedly, this all has a bunch of holes in it. But it all makes sense if we look at past info. NOW who wrote unnecessary amounts of crap? Huh? xd

So. Kamile and Everan aren't related, but Kamile IS related to several important people, many of which are now dead. Everan was abandoned and has no family. Both are now "dead." Yes? Reactions?

Very nice. 3nodding

Yay!

Chapter Twenty-One: Amends

Carn made his way slowly through the forest, thinking. The body in one world would remain intact until it was needed again, or until the other body died. It was a sickening thought, but…if Kamilé did not rot away….
He eventually found a place around noon, a pleasant place by the river; the sky continued to drizzle on him halfheartedly, but he could still see the place’s tranquil beauty. He laid Kamilé gently down on the grass and began to weave grass and leaves together, like he had been taught as a boy by his mother, who was skilled in many things. Patiently he wove them, refusing to take even the slightest of breaks, never letting himself grow frustrated by his old, fumbling fingers or his many mistakes…finally, at sunset, he had fashioned a rough hammock, which he fastened to two pines.
He laid Kamilé in it, satisfied when it held her tiny weight, and covered her with his cloak for now, resolving to bring her a blanket in a few days’ time…when they could be sure….
Smiling and rubbing his granddaughter’s hair affectionately, he turned and left.

Marli and Srai were back on good terms with each other; or at least, Srai was too shocked by what Marli had to say to think of an acidic remark. Marli patiently explained her way through a detailed explanation of how Kamilé and Everan were always the chosen, how they were, in fact, twin chosen, very powerful, very respectful and so forth, and how someone had attacked them while they were trying to protect the Heart of Ametris, which was stolen by an unknown individual with red eyes and/or hair, a woman, with a dress and a bad attitude. Everan had been killed by said individual and deserved a burial of honor; Kamilé had been wrongfully accused for everything that said individual should have been, and Srai, she politely suggested, should clear the twins’ names and tell everyone to be on the lookout for the unnamed, highly conspicuous woman, possibly a magi with enough power to destroy them all. Then she added on second thought that chosen could not be killed anyway (this she added for Srai’s benefit) and both of them were happily saving the world right this minute, more than likely.
Srai’s only comment was to blink; Marli, remembering that she was Elder Carn’s cousin or niece, thought tea would help, and rest. When Srai was coherent she thanked Marli and said she would do that, but Marli doubted she heard anything after “chosen,” and her doubts were not assuaged.
Marli then assumed that she was reinstated as a teacher and went back home to feed the cat and clean up a little, and then walked back to the square to find Kayle. Last night she had stayed over, in a bit of a mess; she felt a little embarrassed for crying all over him, but he didn’t seem to hold it against her. He had been upset over what had happened to Kamilé, but preferred to believe that she was all right now and much better off wherever she was. Marli assured him that if she was on her chosen journey right now, she was definitely better off, Ametris was terrible.
Kayle made her lunch, or rather, followed her instructions in making lunch; they had a nice time, but it was clouded by the sullen drizzle, and by the solemnity of all that had happened since the Festival. Marli wondered how on earth she was going to tell Pilori, how she was going to help fix all this, and, in the back of her mind, wondered if there was some way, any way she could follow in Kamilé’s path, and go home.
As she walked back home in the afternoon, she passed Elder Srai informing a group of people by the well that there would be a meeting for the entire city in this spot tomorrow at noon, and they should inform everyone.
The day felt strange—no stress, no worrying constantly about Kamilé’s welfare or Srai’s tyranny, no running and shouting. Normal. Things were becoming routine already.
It was comforting, but somehow…she felt sad. She knew that her class would seem so much smaller without Kamilé brightening the room, without Everan making her proud to teach.
Ametris was just all the more godsdamned annoying now.

There were over two thousand elves in the city of Kocha. It was not a lot; a few hundred lived in the square, and the rest were dispersed within a two- or three-mile radius, within the shadow of the Great Tree. But they came and went at separate times when they did their shopping—some rarely or never did any shopping at all, preferring to scavenge their food from the forest—so the square, though it seemed crowded, had never held so many of its own elves before, so tightly packed; every one of them surrounded the well, filling the street and the little round common in the center of the square, eyes set on Elder Srai. It was reminiscent of the Festival, where four thousand people were crammed into one city; one had to be three inches tall at the most to move any distance through the crowd, or possess the ability to fly.
The Elders made a circle around the rim of the well, facing the crowd, which pressed in from there; Marli had come early and received permission to be right beside the well if anyone challenged her, with Kayle beside her as he was held in high esteem within Kochan society (for whatever reason, Marli muttered when she heard this). Pilori stood by them; all the wounded, including those that had been moved from the infirmaries, sat or stood closest.
As they arrived, Marli had tried to pick out her students; there were over seven hundred children in the city, but not all were of school age, between fiveish and fourteen, and very few actually came. Most were needed at home; only thirty or so were regulars. It became easier to find her kids in a crowd now that she had banned uniforms and could recognize them in normal clothing. She drifted for a little while before noon and found many of her kids, especially the younger ones as they would run up and hug her, and some that were memorable from the past month’s events: Shima, far in the back with her parents and brother, who lived a couple of miles away if Marli was correct; Dirstei, with the wounded, accompanying his parents and refusing to meet her eyes; Asta’s family with theirs, bearing one wounded as well; and most strikingly, Vix and his mother and sister, who had their own little bubble of space as no one wanted to touch Luci with her red scarf.
Sæta’s family was with them, and she talked with them for awhile; Luci missed her and babbled on about how she thought it wasn’t very nice that people stayed so far away from her but Vix had told her that it was cool because now they got more room (she was obviously feeling much better). She noticed that Vix kept his arm protectively around Sæta’s shoulders at times, and when he did not she kept two fingers inside his closed palm; she wanted to congratulate them, but felt they would be embarrassed. Well, good, she thought, about time.
A few minutes to noon found her back in her place, resisting Kayle’s attempts at nobly shielding her from the sullen drizzle and comforting the quietly sobbing Pilori. She had been told all that had happened, but was heartbroken that her “child” had gone through so much. She perked up slightly at the observation that if Kamilé and Everan had both “died,” and if Kamilé was on her second chance (Elder Carn had visited today and informed them that her body showed no usual signs of decay, a very good thing indeed) odds were they were together and safe and would come back home eventually; but nothing could stop her steady crying.
“Say, Pilori,” Marli inquired, trying vainly to cheer her up; her healer said it was best for her wound if she did not stress herself. “How’d you ever become a midwife, anyway? Seems kinda odd….”
She sniffed and scraped a sleeve across her eyes before replying, “M-…my mother was a-an elf f-f-from around h-here, s-s-s-so when Dad died we came t-to Kocha…she always w-wanted to g-g-go…sh-she was a healer, but b-b-best at delivering b-babies…so that’s what she did…she t-t-t-t-trained me….”
“Cool,” Marli offered, only understanding about half of it, albeit the important half.
“Mm-hmm.” Pilori nodded and gave a watery smile to the ground. “Everyone else w-was so h-h-happy with their b-babies…I was j-jealous…but then S-s-sera…w-w-well…L-l-l-lucky for m-me, w-w-wasn’t it…?”
And then she burst into tears again, and there was no getting any sense out of her after that.
Kayle silently reduced his sleeve to so much frayed string, staring off into space with his jaw clenched.
“You okay?” Marli asked him.
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Well I am fine.”
“Well fine. Quit destroying your sleeve then.”
He looked down in surprise, and then let it go rather jerkily, as if he had to force his own hand open. “Just nervous,” he mumbled.
“Why?”
“This whole thing…’s just wrong…I gotta wonder, Marli…does it have anything to do with your people? It…just sounds like S—”
“Shhhh!” a dozen people hissed at him; Elder Srai had risen to her feet on the edge of the well. The other Elders followed her lead; several men jumped up and politely helped the women and Elders Roden and Carn. Marli discreetly punched Kayle, not too hard, for what she thought might have been a slur on her country. His stern frown told her it was not; she shrugged and was forgiven.
“Good afternoon,” Srai told them; everyone heard her, though she did not raise her voice much. The entire crowd fell silent, even the babies. “It’s nice to see you all together again.”
She had taken a bath—one could always tell in Kocha from the conspicuous lack of dirt and slightly pink skin—and brushed her hair until it shone, falling in chocolate-colored waves to her elbows. She no longer looked like a smoldering wreck, save the tired streaks of red on her eyes. The city was reassured. The other Elders looked their best as well, as if to match their new, gleaming city; Elder Carn looked a little weary, but all seven stood proud. Srai had told them, after all, never to show a problem before telling it.
“I called all of you here,” Srai continued, her voice strong, “to speak to you about a few important issues. The fire is one of them…the chosen is another.”
Whispers broke out in waves from the well; Srai held up a hand for silence. When silence fell, she glanced, briefly, at Elder Carn—he nodded curtly, which she seemed to understand as approval for a direct approach. Srai remembered who was Head Elder first, and longest, Marli thought.
“The fire was not started by Kamilé—a girl all of you know by sight and not by name, I’m sure.” She glanced around her; judging by the challenging glares, they remembered. “It was my fault entirely,” Srai continued: a statement added to her speech by her alone. “I was too quick in judging her, and all the rest of you have done is follow my lead. Saya Kamilé should have been given a fair chance to explain herself like anyone else…all of us got carried away,” she assured them in a soft, pleading voice. She had no need to convince them of anything; she was trying to be sure they did not do it again. Scolding her children.
“But what we have done no longer matters…she did not start the fire. Someone did. No child could possibly have done it…not a child, but an adult. A woman.” In the crowd, husbands stole discreet glances at their wives, who muttered about the atrocity of sexism within their own sex. “A woman of unknown race, human or elfin,” Srai continued, “who at the time wore a black sleeveless dress, a headband or circlet, and boots. She has red hair, possibly red eyes as well—” eyebrows raised but Srai took no notice—“and the eyes are, whatever color, very distinctive. Tall, fair…that is the most I can tell you.”
Srai seemed to be reading this off of a piece of parchment in her hand; however, when she relaxed her arm and faced the congregation again, Marli was sure she saw a child’s charcoal drawing, crumpled and messy and quite unprofessional. She pointed to it and grinned at Kayle, but he was paying rapt attention and said nothing.
“This woman, whoever she is, is dangerous. If anyone has seen her, I ask, no, I beg you to tell one of the Elders or myself before she does any more harm. She has destroyed our homes and our forest, killed so many of our families and friends…if it can be helped in the slightest, none of us can allow her to do that again. It can be ascertained that she used our Heart of Ametris to start the fire, which she then stole; she also attacked our chosen. Such undeserved brutality is unforgi—”
Srai could go no further; outrage rang from every corner of the street; fists flew in the air, murder crossed peaceful faces. There was also fear, blind fear, evident as people looked for their chosen among the wounded and paled as they thought of the dead. Again, Srai held up her hand for silence; again it fell, reluctantly, but swiftly. They watched her with pleading eyes.
“Please, there is…no need to fear.” Marli watched her carefully, knowing she would go for the downright lie, knowing it was the best course if Srai could pull it off without snapping from the strain. “Our chosen are…unharmed. They recovered and have, just last night, set off on their journey—we owe them our lives and our peace, and will surely thank them for their heroism upon their return. If not for them, the fire could have been so much worse, I’m sure.”
Distracted, Srai stopped; they were all still staring at her. She gave them a reassuring smile, which they did not register.
“Ah. The chosen,” she realized. “A law was passed eleven years ago that stated that the common people of Ametris were not to know whom was the chosen until he or she turned fourteen, but that law, after such disastrous circumstances, only hindered our chosen in the end, so is now no longer in practice.” She grinned suddenly, proudly; the crowd was startled, and jumped. “We have two chosen this generation, twins, like their ancestors, Kilio and Tara—they are eleven years old, sadly orphaned, but we believe that their skills are honed enough so they will be able to complete their journey.” We hope, Marli corrected, shaking her head, having worried about this herself. “You may know them; they have black hair, silver eyes, and crescent moon marks on their foreheads; their names are Kamilé and Everan Haenir.”
Two thousand elves stared at her. She flushed slightly, not knowing what to say, standing there awkwardly as the staring continued.
“No way,” Marli offered helpfully, and they erupted. A full five or so minutes of pure noise defied the Elders’ attempts at silence; after a lot of shouting and waving of arms a lessening of sound took place, and Marli, at a nod from Srai, leapt up onto the well. She discovered that it didn’t make much of a difference whether she stood up there or not; scowling, she climbed deftly onto the well’s covering and waved her arms.
“Okay,” she called. “For those of you that don’t know me, I’m Professor Marli, hi, nice to meet ya. Now, listen—“
“Marli,” Vix stammered in the silence, “I mean, Professor…you said he was dead…her brother, I mean….”
She winked at him. “Ah, no. We thought wrong. He came back and they went together, they’re both fine.”
Luci clapped in delight; Vix, still shaky, nodded and smiled. Marli smiled back and carried on.
“Now, I’m from the place that the chosen have to go, don’t ask why, and I can tell you right now that you really shouldn’t be surprised. Some of you are saying to each other that you knew it all along—shut up, no you didn’t. Some of you don’t believe it, say they’ll never come to any good—well, they are, deal with it. And some of you believe it—there was always something weird about them, and you noticed, but you couldn’t figure it out; maybe it was looks, maybe how they acted, maybe something else. I’m sure you all feel guilty for treating them like dirt, which you did, and you should, but it’s only natural for you to know they were strange—we are elves—and even more natural for you to shy away from them.
“Just let me tell you something: chosen are powerful. I don’t know how I can explain it so you’ll understand…they can withstand injuries that would kill a full-grown elf four times over, they can lift heavy loads with unnatural strength when called to, they have power and strength and when they learn how to use it, they’re deadly. And most of them look the same too, with the hair, the silver eyes and the mark—some of you may remember Sera, the previous chosen; she looked just like her twins—so for the g—deities’ sakes, if you see someone with a weird mark on them, please be nice to them at least. Go on and let them steal you blind, it’s worth it—they need it and they’ll save all of you in return someday. Preserving your chosen, keeping them safe is the best investment you can make as far as your lives are concerned.
“And you’re all worried about this…woman now, and you should be. We don’t have the chosen to help us right now, nor will we for awhile, so we’ll just have to help ourselves. This woman—this witch—she’s almost as powerful as the chosen. Maybe more so, right now. You don’t want to even go near her. I’m sure you’ve all heard of magic—well, it’s not from some fireside tale, it’s real, and dangerous, and she can do it and do it well. Look out for her, but keep away from her, g—deities know what she’ll do—”
“What a woefully inaccurate introduction, Professor,” a smooth voice sneered. “I should be offended.”
Marli started, nearly falling off her perch; everyone looked around, down, then up, and saw her.
She was sitting there, calm as a summer’s night, watching the Elders as if she was part of the crowd—perched on a rooftop in clear sight, auburn hair shining in the drizzle and weak sunlight. A silver circlet adorned her head; she smirked at the gasps and screams, and her red eyes glittered.
“That’s her,” Srai breathed, the parchment fluttering out of her trembling hands.
Marli saw red. “YOU!” she shouted, leaping down from the little roof over the well; she landed in a crouch and did not rise, only rearranged herself into a battle stance, fists raised, weight shifted low. “I knew it was you,” she shouted, “knew it right from the start—come down here and fight, coward!”
“Marli!” Kayle yelled, but he could do nothing to pull her away; the crowds screamed and cried and carried on, huddling against each other. The Elders stared; the sorceress had a sort of feline power about her, a deadly captivation—it was not her beauty, although her features were straight and held like a queen’s, that held their eyes to hers. She hypnotized them with her crimson irises, invited them closer to their death.
She laughed harshly, rose to her feet, and then appeared in the crowd—so quick were her movements that no one quite saw her jump. They screamed and hurried to back away from her, carrying the wounded and hurrying their children out of sight, until a circle formed around the well, with Marli and the sorceress at its center, and everyone else a good twenty feet away. The Elders watched in fear; Kayle stood rooted to the ground, unable to break away from the hypnotizing eyes. Pilori had been dragged away by her healer; they did not see her.
“What are you doing here, Your Majesty?” Marli spat. “It’s only chosen that can go back and forth, you don’t have the right.”
The sorceress grinned. “Let’s not be hypocrites, Professor; you have just as little right as I.”
Marli laughed humorlessly, never moving from her fighter’s stance, never even blinking. “Chosen blood, Tyrranen,” she told the sorceress. “The gods blessed blood like mine over trash like you—that crown belongs to the chosen and the chosen alone.”
Tyrranen made a short sound like a chuckle, but did not seem in the least amused. “Regardless of your opinions, girl,” she said coolly, “your blood is not strong enough to interest me. Your leader, however,” she added, striding carefully over to the Elders, her eyes locked with Srai’s, “is more than enough chosen for me.”
“I wasn’t done with you yet!” Marli screamed, infuriated, but Kayle shook himself out of his daze and grabbed her, offering no explanation, his eyes fixated on Srai as well. Marli stopped struggling and watched, burning with rage at the woman to whom she owed so much more than a few insults.
“What do you want?” Srai choked out, stepping forward. She and Tyrranen froze face-to-face, a few yards away from each other; Tyrranen could easily reach across the distance and snap her neck, and Srai knew it.
“I think it’s pretty obvious what I want and what I’ll do,” Tyrranen said, with a coldness that stung; Srai tried not to flinch, but failed. “Your professor gives such an inadequate introduction. I find that if you wish to know what someone is going to do, you take a look at what they have done, and if you wish to know what they want, you take a look at what they tried to gain before. I want three things from you, Elder: the Heart of Ametris, that boy’s head, and the little girl—and I’ve proven to you that I’ll destroy every last one of you to get them.”
Marli knew exactly whom she was talking about; she screamed curses and kicked, desperate to be free, but no one paid any attention to her.
Srai had to ask. “Which boy and girl do you mean?” She did her best to keep her voice from trembling.
Tyrranen rested her elbow in the hollow above her hip, covering her eyes and massaging her temples with a hand. “The chosen, you simple elf,” she sighed. “I want them.”
“You killed them!” Marli shouted brazenly at her while Srai paled and backed away. “You demoness, you killed them both, what more do you want?!”
Tyrranen turned to her with polite interest, surveyed her, considered her no threat, and turned back to Srai. “Naturally I attacked the little brats,” she assured the Elder, who paled further. “So annoying, trying to stop me stealing the Heart…but I didn’t kill them, of course not. That boy…I could have sent him to the ends of the earth and he would have come back by now, so annoying. He’s found a way, I know he has, probably killed him; I don’t care about him, but I want to be sure he’s dead. And that girl just wouldn’t die, no, no, she’s still alive, and I want her. It’s simple.”
Srai’s eyes narrowed, and her temper flared. “What kind of elves do you think we are, giving away our children to a monster like you!”
She immediately stepped back, half-raising her hands to protect herself as Tyrranen stepped closer. Her thin chestnut-colored eyebrows met in a single line. “Of course you will give them to me,” she hissed, no longer amused. “What’s two little half-dead orphans that you didn’t even want? Send up your children and I’ll pick them out for you, you probably never even looked at them—surely they’re not worth your city, but if you refuse I will tear this place apart stone by stone, limb by limb, until I find them!”
The crowd was silent, still, unmoving; fear held them in place.
Tyrranen looked around, saw no response to her demand, and conjured magic in her palm; it looked like her hand had lit aflame. “This place burns like a fireplace in a drought,” she laughed. “Even in the rain.”
Marli wanted so badly to tear her apart, but Kayle kept a hold on her, one hand over her mouth. “Please don’t get yourself killed,” he breathed. “Please, please, please.” She glared up at him in response.
Srai struggled to find her voice. “You can’t have them,” she said thickly, as if her tongue had gone numb. “You can’t have any of it.”
“I think I can,” Tyrranen said sweetly, eyes flashing dangerously. “I think you’ll give me anything I want. There are thousands of people here. Do you want to watch them all die?”
Now would have been a good time to mention that no one had a chosen or a Heart of Ametris, but Srai could not do it. In retrospect, it did not matter; no words could have saved her in the end.
Tyrranen scoffed in disgust at her fearful expression and turned to the crowds. “All of you, then!” she called; her voice sent chills down their backs. “I need two small children, a boy and a girl, with black hair, silver eyes, and scars on their foreheads. Any of you that bring them to me will be rewarded; any that hide them from me will be killed.”
She grabbed Srai by the arm; Srai screamed and struggled to free herself, blind fear drowning common sense, but it was useless. Tyrranen snapped her fingers, conjuring a bead of radiating blackness at her fingertips that sucked the light and warmth from the day. Hearts stopped, elves held their breath—Tyrranen held Srai’s wrist above her head, forcing her to her toes.
“Last chance,” she said.
Srai opened her mouth, but no sound came out; with one smooth motion, without so much as a blink, Tyrranen spread her fingers and slapped Elder Srai right over her heart.
They were all frozen by fear, even Marli, who knew what would happen, if only vaguely. It could not have been prevented; they would know it later.
Srai fell, twitching and writhing on the ground, her eyes rolling back into her head, an unearthly keening tearing from her throat; the sound deafened them as within seconds, her flailing limbs fell still and her twitching ceased. The sound was the last thing to die, long after her, echoing off the stone of the streets.
No one could move; no one could speak. Their leader, the Head Elder, lay crumpled on the ground, mouth open in a soundless scream, the feeble sunlight glaring off the whiteness of her eyes.
“All of you will follow,” Tyrranen assured them. “One by one, Elders, then children, and upwards, until I get what I need.”
She looked around, but no one said a word, still frozen by shock as the horrible screeching echoed in their minds. Undeterred, Tyrranen turned to the Elders. Arkai had had the gallantry to place himself between the others and the sorceress, but now he was shaking like all the others.
“You,” she said firmly, pointing at Elder Carn. “The grandfather. Are you hiding them?”
Carn was trembling from head to foot and looked about ready to faint from heart failure; he could not answer.
“It’ll do no good,” she promised him, eyes narrowing. “I can make you tell me. Hand them over. What good is it anyway? After what happened to Sera, wouldn’t they be better off dead? It’s inevitable; they will fail. They’re so much younger than her.”
Carn flinched, slowly shaking his head, seeming unaware of what he was doing.
Tyrranen scowled at him, snapping again; another bead of darkness sucked the joy from the day. “Come on, old man,” she snapped. “I haven’t got all day. It’s useless to fight, you saw what happened to your cousin.”
Carn wasn’t going to do anything, no one was going to do anything. Marli forced herself to speak; in her nervousness and fear, her native tongue came out.
“You waste time looking for things that are not here,” she said, her voice soft and flowing. It felt so good to release her own language, give herself a little piece of home, that she felt braver; she slipped out of Kayle’s frozen grasp and faced the sorceress.
Tyrranen half-turned. “I am looking for things I badly need,” she replied. “If they are not here, get them for me.”
“The chosen are gone. When, if, you find them again, it will be too late. They will still your heart forever.”
“Gone, have they?” Tyrranen made a soft hissing noise as she thought, which was something Marli missed dearly from her country. “Fine. They will be dealt with. For now, the Heart.”
“If you do not have it, we do not know who does.”
Tyrranen frowned at her, moving closer; Marli again sunk into a fighter’s pose. “You thought I stole it?” she murmured. “Then where—THAT BOY!” she hissed, throwing out a stream of curses; Marli savored the sounds of them. “Ugh! Annoying little pestilence, I will tear him apart—”
“You won’t,” Marli snapped. “You can’t.”
Tyrranen gave her a disparaging look. “Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do, little girl?”
Marli made a soft growling noise in her throat. “HE will tear YOU apart. They both will. You are no match against the gods.”
Tyrranen laughed mockingly, stepping closer again, cool fire burning in her eyes. “The gods? Ah yes, the pathetically outdated religion of your people—you believe the gods walk with the chosen. There are no gods to protect those two, nor will there be—” She suddenly grinned. “Do you like the way I tore the girl to pieces? Torture should be an art form.”
Marli snarled, her hands curling into tight fists. “You will not harm any more of my family,” she assured the sorceress. “Not my parents, not my cousins, not their cousins or their parents. You, what you did to my family, my people, my country—you will pay in blood.”
“And who will take the payment?” Tyrranen scoffed. “Your chosen?”
“If I don’t first—!”
Marli had had enough of this woman ruining her life; she flew at her, yelling her battle cry as she reached for her dagger. Tyrranen ducked the first swipe, and they entered a dance of sorts, a battle of sureness, passion, skill; they knew what they were doing, knew enough to keep from dropping with the first blow. Tyrranen conjured red magic and swiped at her with it, dodging her knife’s path with nimble, immortal speed; Marli blocked, swiped, feinted, and stabbed with her dagger, ducking the magic, even once performing a neat little flip and turn to dodge a blow. She felt overjoyed—her skills had not abandoned her, her body knew its old tricks. It was limber and lithe and strong and in her hand was a blade; she was a deadly force, and savored the fact.
But Tyrranen was deadlier, even with red magic. This Marli laughed at.
“None of your blackness in my heart?”
“It is useless to waste it upon one so weak.”
“How do you like Ametris, Tyrranen? Your magic is weaker than ever, you can even see it—not so powerful now, are you, Your Majesty?”
Tyrranen grinned, and her magic flared; she scoffed as Marli, in response, sent red flames down the length of her dagger. “What about you, Marli? How do you like it? Banished here for life, brought here by accident, misplaced power, and too weak to return—do you ever wonder what I’ve done to your sayata?”
Anger flared in Marli’s chest; her magic reacted and flared out of control. She forgot all pretenses and protocol, lost all common sense, and charged at the sorceress, who dodged behind her and punched her hard. Her fist landed squarely, something cracked, and Marli screamed as she flew through the air and smashed into an unforgiving stone wall. Consciousness seeped out of her like blood as she crumpled to the ground, struggling to breathe; Tyrranen’s shadow fell over her, and the now-familiar chill of black magic stopped her heartbeats.
“Pathetic, Marli. Haven’t they always taught you to be free of emotion?”
“And what will take its place? Hatred and evil, like you?” Marli gasped.
“Hatred? Oh, no, saya. I love what I do. Tearing apart families like yours, burning, killing…why do anything in life if it doesn’t give you pleasure?”
“You’re sick,” Marli spat. “It’s people like you that have destroyed this world.”
“Ah, ‘people like me’ are, perhaps, just making their own perfect world, you see,” Tyrranen explained, clicking her nails from boredom. “It is one’s right as a mortal to make a world for one to live in. Why should I fit like a puzzle piece into your view of perfection?”
“Because your way is sick,” Marli whispered, her eyes fading. Her head throbbed terribly, but she must get up and fight…. “People get hurt.”
“People die for your world as well. But really, Marli. Why on earth should you care? They’ve trapped you in this world, they bore you and outcast you with their strange ways; they are ignorant and weak. What does it matter if they all die? It would make it more like your world, the world you grew up in.”
“Demoness,” Marli snarled; at least this woman appreciated the insult. “My childhood sucked because of you—AUUGH!”
She had tried to get up, failed—and a burning sensation twisted and ripped at her mind, as if a flaming hand had grabbed it and was trying to rip it out. She screamed in pain, her hands flying to her temples, writhing in agony; no hands touched her, and yet the pain went on.
“You should give up, Marli,” Tyrranen’s voice said calmly throughout. She watched coldly, clearly the cause but having no intent to stop it anytime soon. “You will never return. You live a lie. Either accept their ways, forget your old life, or—” the pain intensified; Marli screamed—“live in your home only in your dreams, or—” Marli couldn’t bear the agony; she fell still—“visit as a spirit, a ghost…give up and die, Marli. Your life here is pointless. What good is a warrior here?”
Marli didn’t know if she was breathing or not, or still alive; this demoness’s voice would be the last thing she heard….
But the pain withdrew; the black magic was closer now, unbearably close. She didn’t know which was worse.
“And you are a white magi? What a shame…it will take so much longer to kill you like this.”
Marli wanted to shudder, as was Tyrranen’s intention…everything had slowed down…by Karayani, she’d be damned if she let this insane excuse for a mortal kill her….
Her hand sought her knife, and found it; her mind thought of good things, sunlight, gods and goddesses, Kamilé’s smile and laugh, and she struck.
She found herself standing up, leaning heavily on the sorceress’s warm body as she drove her knife, glowing pure white, into her chest; black stuff oozed out, and she pushed the sorceress away from her to get out of its way. The sorceress disappeared from her world as it spun crazily out of control; she sank to the floor, desperate to let unconsciousness cure her wounds, and it obliged.

It took a very, very long time for anyone to move.
A baby awoke and started crying; though hastily hushed at its mother’s breast, it broke through the shock like a foot through ice; a mass shudder shook the city, and it breathed again.
Several hundred people sank to the ground; several hundred also started to sob. Some fainted, others were sick; the screaming still echoed in their pointed ears. Children cried; the street was filled with noise.
Kayle forced his frozen feet over to Marli, dodging the puddle of black stuff; Tyrranen was gone. He checked her breathing and heartbeat, then picked her carefully up and carried her to the well.
Carn collapsed onto the well’s ledge and stared at what was left of his dead cousin, or whatever she was, in utter shock.
Medilii started to cry; the other Elders stared off into space or hid their faces, overwhelmed. It was Sariynn who regained her senses first; “Lay Marli flat, Kayle,” she said softly, “something in her back is hurt.”
Kayle nodded and obeyed. Sariynn took a deep breath, then rose to her feet on the well’s edge, her hand for a moment seeking Elder Carn’s arm to rub for comfort. He might have said something—“Where has all my family gone?”—but perhaps it was just their imaginations.
Everyone fell desperately silent as they stared at Sariynn, waiting for the nightmare to end itself.
“Everyone, please calm down.” Her voice shook. “I-I…we have everything under control. If no one is hurt, you may go home, or to the library for something warm to drink. Please remain calm, everything is all right.”
And it was purely to Sariynn’s credit that they did, every single one of them; the mass hysteria did not emerge as they wordlessly followed the other Elders to the library. Of course there was not really anything for them to drink, hot or cold; “I think some tea would be appropriate, Kayle?” Sariynn asked him politely, and he nodded, refusing to be distracted from Marli’s head resting on his crossed ankles. “’S by the coffee,” he murmured.
“Arkai went to get two stretchers—she’ll be all right, Kayle.”
“Yeah,” he commented vaguely, good manners sticking in his throat.
Sariynn gave Carn, Nheyii, and Medilii a few instructions; the two girls nodded, but Elder Carn could only stare at Srai in total shock. When Sariynn left to help herd the elves into the library and make two thousand cups of tea, Medilii immediately went to comfort him, hugging him fondly as if he was her own grandfather and assuring him that it would be all right at least three times per breath. No one else said a word; Nheyii watched the ground just as Kayle and Carn watched the two females lying in the shade.
So they waited. Medilii murmured condolences and comfort to Carn, now more to fill the deathly silence than to help, and clung to his arm not to console him, but to reassure herself. She was scared; they all were.
Only when they could clearly see Arkai returning with four strong elves bearing stretchers did Carn finally say something, in a hoarse, quiet voice: “All gone, they’re all gone….”
“Oh, it’ll be all right!” Medilii pleaded with him, giving him another hug. “Please don’t worry…your grandchildren, the chosen, they’ll be back soon, won’t they? They will, Carn, honestly!”
He shuddered, rattling his ancient body; this more than anything seemed to wake him up. His eyes closed, and he breathed deeply for a moment, seeming not to hear Medilii’s further babbling; and then they opened, and he was the epitome of composure.
“Thank you very much, Medilii,” he told her gratefully, smiling. Kayle picked Marli gently up, supporting her back, and set her on the stretcher, while two of Arkai’s helpers gingerly lifted Elder Srai, closed her eyes, and carried them both to the library. “Marli will need a healer,” Carn added conversationally, rising and offering her his arm. “Shall we?”
She took it, smiling shakily at him; Nheyii helped Kayle up, and they went on ahead.
“And I would like some of that tea,” Carn said with another smile. “Shall I get you some?”
“Oh, no, saiyön, don’t worry, I’ll get us both some—you help Marli, she needs it badly.”
“Ah, of course—thank you, sayama.”
They entered the crowded library and parted, Medilii to get them some tea, Carn to find Marli in Kayle’s deserted bedroom; he immediately turned her gently over, pulled her shirt over her head, and examined her back. Finding several damaged vertebrae and severe bruises, he wrapped a thin, flat piece of wood in bandages, set it against her spine, and proceeded to bandage her torso tightly with a poultice for the bruises. The magic she possessed would hopefully heal her quickly. He cleaned the gash on the back of her head, found nothing else wrong with her, laid her on her stomach in Kayle’s bed amidst several blankets, and left her alone.
Kayle watched in silence from a chair in the corner, frowning at Marli; he knew she would be all right, but what he had seen had shaken him…what she was capable of…. She told him all the time how she could hit a moving target with any blade he chose, dead center every time, that she could have fixed her schoolhouse with a wave of her hand if Ametris hadn’t drained her power, if Ametris wasn’t so annoyingly peaceful, if Ametris hadn’t trapped her.
But he realized now that he hadn’t believed her—he couldn’t have, for her display to be such a shock to him. All the dodging and weaving with her dagger, like a dance, the red and white sparks that flew from her fingertips, the things she could stand and still rise to her feet…what else could his best friend do that she had hidden from him?
He decided he didn’t want to know; if she did, it wouldn’t be something like sewing or arranging furniture. Cooking, fighting, and the attitude were about all he thought he could handle.
Kayle fell asleep in his comfortable chair, halfway through a kid’s book about conquering prejudice, which he still thought worth reading; he found himself awake before dawn, the book lying pathetically upside-down on the floor, his lamp still feebly glowing. It took him a moment to realize what had woken him: Marli was talking in her sleep.
He sat at the foot of the bed, afraid to touch her, and listened. Most of it was unintelligible; she tossed and turned fruitlessly—Carn had tied her shoulders down so she wouldn’t move—and nearly suffocated herself in the mattress as she moaned and gasped words he couldn’t recognize.
“Raena,” she whispered several times, “Raena, siämiyáté….”
After a little while, too afraid that she’d hurt herself, Kayle decided to wake her up; he called her name and shook her shoulder gently until her eyes flickered open.
“Huh? What?” she murmured, speaking in Ametrisan once more.
“Wake up, Marli, you’ll hurt yourself—”
She ignored him, staring up at him; the lamplight reflected brightly in her eyes. “I can’t go back, Kayle,” she whispered, actual tears filling her eyes. “I can’t ever go back….”
He couldn’t get anything else out of her, no matter what he said; she started sobbing uncontrollably, and the most he could do was try to console her and comfortably rub her arm as she cried herself to sleep. But he did not forget it; when she awoke, he would ask her what she meant. She seemed so strange to him now…he still did not know, though he was there when she came, exactly how she got to Ametris in the first place—it was something else he would ask her in the morning.
After a few hours of sleep and breakfast, Marli was sitting up again, propped up on pillows and refusing any help from Elder Carn. The only thing that bothered her, she said, was that the witch got away and (she added under her breath) the senile old moron had needlessly removed her shirt. She demanded it back the minute he was gone, but Kayle wouldn’t let her, which earned him, after finding out that he had watched him heal her, a stern lecture on how wrong it was for men of whatever age to watch females with lecherous eyes.
He let her talk all she wanted, relieved that she was well enough to speak. She was, in fact, well enough to do anything she wanted, including curse the ground and sky away from Tyrranen and mutter something about Srai that he didn’t catch—something about “slow,” “peachfluff,” “knew it,” and “sucks for you guys.” Kayle took it to mean that she was sorry the Elder was gone.
When she had calmed down and chewed her way through a fruit salad, a pie, and a glass of wine (no one could really begrudge her that), Kayle decided to ask.
“Marli, did you kill her?”
“No,” Marli replied, scowling. “White magic when attached to a solid object rejects all physical properties of the object and substitutes it with its own.”
“Um….” Kayle scratched his head. “Meaning?”
“The black stuff wasn’t blood, it was black magic that the white had displaced, but not enough to bleed her out and kill her. She’s probably fine by now.”
“Oh.” Kayle decided to let it go before Marli gave him brain damage. “How did you know Tyrranen? What were you two going on about?”
She said nothing, looking away. “She’s the, ah, ‘queen’ of my country—her armies were mainly responsible for my cities being raided all the time—looking for recruits and rebels. She…it was her fault that everyone died. I hate her…we all did.”
“And she took offense to this, somehow?”
“No. We were talking in my language, I couldn’t help it, it slipped out…she doesn’t care what I think of her, she thinks she can get what she wants and kill everybody who looks at her the wrong way, and I’m wrong to stop her.”
“Eäyo.”
“What?” she said dazedly. “Oh. Oh, yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah…’s just getting harder to understand Ametrisan…you hear the words and not the meaning, you know?”
“Um, yeah,” he lied. “What did she do to you? Was she…she wasn’t touching you….”
“The demoness is telepathic,” Marli snarled. “It comes with strong magic.”
“But that doesn’t explain….”
“Sure it does.”
He gave up on that. “And she’s from your country?”
“For all intents and purposes, yes. She’s not from there.”
“So she came the same way you did?”
“I dunno,” she snapped.
“What way would that be?”
No answer.
“How did you get here, Marli?”
No answer.
“How did you do it? Why?”
“You were there, genius,” Marli said scathingly. “Going on and on about your long memory….”
“No I was not there. I was there when we found you, but I have no idea how you got here. You can’t have just taken a ship?”
“Shut up, Kayle.”
“Is this something I can’t be trusted to know?”
“No, shut up!”
“Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“No!”
“It’s okay, I’ve got plenty of time to convince you.”
He smirked at her, but she could not meet his eyes; she turned away, her breaths shuddering like she was about to cry again. “Yeah,” she said hollowly. “I guess you do.”
“Marli….”
“She’s right,” she whispered. “I can’t ever go back, not ever….”
Kayle didn’t know what to say. He merely rubbed the back of her shoulders, pointedly looking away so she could cry without being embarrassed later.
But she didn’t cry this time. “Okay, fine,” she said briskly, her voice back to normal. “You want to know? I’ll tell you. But not now.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. When I’m up again.”
“Okay. Are you going to Srai’s funeral?”
“Yeah. After that. I’ll have to show you.”
“Fine with me, Marli. Are you gonna be okay?”
“Do I look like I’m not gonna be okay?” she challenged, and he had to admit that she did not. “Good. Worry about yourself, library boy.”
“Well, if you say s—”
“I do say so. Now if you would please get me some more wine before Carn comes in here again, I’d appreciate it very much.”
“No problem,” he said blithely, losing no time in obeying; if he knew anything about Marli, the faster he let her do what she wanted, the happier everyone would be.

Felt kinda rushed through the whole thing.

I swear to Karayani that you will love this one, Reese. <3333

Chapter Twenty-Two:
White

Snow drifted lightly onto the frozen ground, swirling in the chilling breeze, catching onto anything that stood still—the small, delicate puffs were as pure-white as the listless sky. Grass and undergrowth became invisible; bushes transformed into white, shapeless lumps, and trees were covered in snow until their leafless branches bowed under the weight. It was midmorning, but the sun gave no indication of its presence whatsoever…the forest was timeless, its inhabitants cast into an enchanted sleep for the duration of the winter.
However, one inhabitant had awoken a little too early.
A small boy’s head popped out of the snow, looking all around, searching—finding nothing, he struggled to his knees. The way he swayed and blinked made him seem dizzy, confused; he sneezed, shivering in the cold. His clothes, though long and warm-looking, were no proper winter attire, much too big for him and very old and worn. His ebony hair was striking against the fluffs of snow lingering on it.
Everan’s sharp eyes discerned every inch of the clearing as he searched, but the whiteness hid everything in its all-consuming depths, and he found it hard to focus. Kamilé! he called, raising himself higher on his knees. He knew he’d brought her along….
His head hurt, probably from the fall, and every bit of him was sore and frozen—he loved winter and didn’t usually mind the cold, but this was just ridiculous. The snow had melted on his clothes and in his hair, which had frozen into spikes, and every tiny breeze that stirred the frigid air made numbing cold flow all over his body. His chest hurt, too, right where the sorceress’s magic had hit him…it made it hard to move…he wished everything would stop spinning around, he had to find Kamilé….
He stood up and fell right back down again, his legs unused to holding his weight. Muttering swear words in his mind, he tried again. His legs were in an odd position, widespread to keep his balance, but at least he could see further around him.
Kamilé, are you there?
Why was it winter? Had he really been gone that long? Or had the sorceress messed so badly with the world that the weather had reversed itself? Was this ash from the fire? Or was he dreaming? No, his dreams were never this real, or this strange…. Maybe—he shuddered, not with cold but with fear and horror—maybe he had traveled the wrong way, fallen into the wrong place. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he said to himself. You are the most idiotic genius that ever lived. But that wasn’t important right now.
Where was Kamilé? he wondered. Why wasn’t she answering? He knew she was there…he could feel her….
KamiLÉ! he yelled sternly. Answer me right now!
Nothing.
He was getting worried…normally he would have been able to find her in an instant. He could have used his mind to track her down. It should have been ridiculously easy. But her mind resisted his probing—it was like the mind waves were traveling right through her and into the forest beyond. She didn’t know how to do that….
KAMILÉ! he snapped, impatient now. He didn’t want to be so sharp with her, but he needed to find her…he missed her…he needed to explain….
He took a step toward the fringe of trees on the edge of the clearing, wondering if she’d gone in the forest to escape the snow. That would have been the smart thing to do, but leaving him behind…she wouldn’t do that…or was she going for help? Perhaps she didn’t even know he was there…he’d been gone so long that she’d forgotten how to use her telepathy….
He tripped, earning a mouthful of snow. Swearing fluently, he pushed himself back up, then clapped his palms to his temples to make the world stop moving. He closed his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath to combat the dizziness, and when he opened them, the world was still. But he didn’t know which way he was facing; he’d completely lost his sense of direction.
Dammit, he muttered, looking around again. Kamilé, where are you? Kamilé! KAMI—
He froze, his breath catching in his throat. In the snow behind him, he saw a small, dark shape, lying crumpled in the folds of white. It was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time…he knew the shape, and the features, but not the unsettling feeling it gave him….
He was at her side in an instant, kneeling in the freezing snow, shaking her shoulder urgently. She was almost entirely covered in snow, only her head, her fingers, and her booted feet visible. Every one of her digits was blue-tinged and cold as ice; so were her lips. He called her name over and over, all the emotions he had carefully kept in check overflowing: fear, panic, worry, desperation, loneliness, frustration at all his mistakes, how stupid he had been….
He made to brush the snow off her—how long had she been here, to be buried so deeply?—but froze halfway. Slowly, he drew his hands back. His fingers had touched something that definitely didn’t feel like snow or skin…
Underneath the snow burying her right arm was something whitish, oddly textured, like a half-healed burn. He carefully brushed the snow off her shoulder and saw that they were connected…that was her arm….
He suddenly felt sick; the world was spinning again.
Kamilé! he called, brushing her frozen hair out of her face—she was as wet as he was. Kamilé, what happened to you? KAMILÉ!?
His fingertips brushed her forehead—it was burning, and her breath, misting over the snow, was irregular, harsh.
KAMILEEEEEÉ!
Everan had never in his memory felt the urge to cry, even when he was very small, but now his throat was closing, his breaths shaky and labored. He was appalled that he would do something that childish, even involuntarily—he forced himself to stop, blinking his vision clear so he could see what he was doing. His delicate fingers skimmed over her skin, brushing off the snow completely—her entire arm was burned, and the other one was badly bruised. Her legs were scarred and burned and bruised, not one inch of skin left unmarked, and her face had a burn snaking across her forehead and into her hair. Her mark nearly glowed against her dirty skin; her cheeks were tearstained and bruised. She was a mess…he didn’t understand…most of the cuts and burns were half-healed, how long had he been gone?
Oh, no, he moaned, oh no, oh no….
What was he going to do now?
Wake up, he begged, Kamilé, please wake up, don’t leave me here alone…I don’t know where we are…it’s really cold, Kamilé…you can’t just leave….
When he heard himself say it, he was surprised—not just because he had admitted to being afraid, something he hadn’t even done when the sorceress had arrived, but because he had said “leave”…but he really meant “die.” He was scared that she was going to die, and he’d never speak to her again, never tell her how much he had missed her….
Kamilé, please get up, please, please, please, I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to, she made me, please wake up, don’t do this to me….
What was he doing? Why was he babbling on like this? Stop it! he told himself firmly. It wouldn’t do any good; she couldn’t hear him, and even if she could, there was nothing she could do to make herself get up. She needed his help, and here he was, freaking out over a few burns and bruises…. Stupid, he told himself again, shaking his head in disgust.
But what was he going to do? Where were they going to go? They couldn’t stay, it was snowing outside, for the deities’ sakes, but he couldn’t lift Kamilé…and they didn’t have anywhere to go….
He glanced up—the Great Tree threw its shadow over the forest, as usual. Maybe he’d gone the right way after all. There was Kocha, if it wasn’t burned to the ground. But they were pretty far away, a good forty or fifty leagues to its north. Too far…even he couldn’t walk so far in his current state, never mind with Kamilé on his back.
Though he’d never asked for help in his life, he felt as if he needed some right now. What could he do? What choice did he have?
I guess this is where we’re sleeping tonight, he told Kamilé glumly, carefully turning her onto her back and clearing a little place for her without snow. She was freezing; if he didn’t get her warm soon, she’d die from the cold, especially like this.
What had happened to her? he wondered as he pushed more snow away. Burns he could understand…bruises were reasonable too…the fire had hurt her a little, that was all. She’d be fine…she’d walked off worse injuries. But it scared him, seeing her so hurt… and if he wasn’t imagining it, some of the bruises on her face were shaped like fists…someone had hurt her, he guessed, balancing on the edge of panic. The sorceress?
That woman would be taken care of later. Fury burned in his head at the thought of her, and he needed to think clearly, so he cast her from his mind.
He carefully ran his fingers over Kamilé’s entire body, searching for broken bones, fresh bleeding, anything unusual. The wounds he felt seemed serious, but superficial—any one of these by itself would not have bothered Kamilé a bit on a normal day. But all of them at once was too much for anybody…how was he going to fix this? What did he have? A bunch of snow, some books, his bag….
Frustrated, he sat back on the wet ground and rummaged through his pockets and his bag. Four books, the two from the library, the one from Pilori, and his favorite from home; a few of his handmade tools, used for various things like lock-picking, corkscrewing, and surgery; a threaded needle and a spool of white thread, sewn partially into the side of the bag so he would know where it was; the little bag of “luck” from Marli and Kayle; a piece of flint; a handful of candy that Kamilé had snuck in there for later; Kamilé’s birthday present in its little pouch. Things that would have helped him in normal situations, but not for something like this, unless Kamilé needed stitches. No medicine, no bandages…nothing but the knowledge in his head.
Gritting his teeth in fruitless anger, he made to stuff everything back into his bag, but something caught his eye—a white dot. He reached for it and found that it was not just a dot, but a dot attached to something bigger; he reached around it and pulled it out.
The Heart of Ametris, unseen in the black interior of his bag, lay in his palm.
He stared at it; he felt relieved that the sorceress hadn’t gotten it, and it made a lot of sense if he had it in explaining things away. But it was no use to him, cold and hard as ice and about as useless.
Do something, he muttered to it, clicking the two halves together. The holiness of it breathed out to him, but it did not glow or change his situation in any way whatsoever; it was like a revered god that stood motionless and watched the world burn. Annoyed, he threw it back into his bag. The most powerful conductor in the history of the world, and all it could do was sit there and be stolen.
The exhaustion tugged at him unmercifully…he liked the cold, but he wished so badly that he could be somewhere warmer…enough to balance the chill of the wind and thaw the icy feeling in his chest….
He lay beside Kamilé, careful of her wounds, and put an arm over her. His back was exposed and the wind attacked it like a million icy needles, but he would warm her up, and then she would warm him up, and maybe she’d open her eyes and smile at him, talk to him…he’d been all alone for so long….
Dreams of blank, overwhelming whiteness haunted the safe dark haven behind his eyelids as he lay there, alone in a forest that now regarded him as an intruder and whipped snow and wind across him as if beating him away, and minute by minute passed through a cold and miserable day and night.

In the next morning it was brisk and cool, not as windy or freezing as the night before; Everan felt as if his body had frozen; he shivered violently in the same position, unable to move. His theory about body heat had failed when the night’s snowstorm had sucked all the warmth out of him; snow fell on him, melted, froze, and generally encased him in ice throughout the long night. Kamilé was not as bad, as he’d adjusted himself on top of her, but she still wouldn’t wake up. He felt like she never would—why would she want to wake up to this? She hated the cold….
But today, he decided, today he would find wood and burn something. He didn’t care if it was living or dead, or about the elfin rules regarding fires and firewood; he had his knife and a piece of flint, and dammit, he wasn’t going to freeze any longer—
His fluent cursing never left his mind as he reached for his belt and found that his knife was gone. Where, he could only guess…they’d used it to cut through their palms, but then Kamilé stuck it into her boot…it wasn’t there anymore…Eäyo, he swore, among other expressions.
He tried using one of his tools, a little metal point on the end of a thin stick, but the metal refused to throw out sparks when it struck the flint. Swearing harder, he unfroze his legs, built up a little snow barrier around Kamilé to protect her from the wind, and decided to look around.
He kept Kamilé in sight the entire time, walking in a wide circle. He found an absurd amount of trees and snow, some bushes, dead plants, pinecones, a hollow acorn, and some rocks. This really isn’t helping, he muttered to no one in particular. And he found, as he always did when talking to himself, that no one in particular really did not care.
There was no place with any real potential, so he would have to make do with what he had—Kamilé probably didn’t need to be moved anyway. Resolving to obtain some use from his explorations, he grabbed an armful of dead branches and made his way back to where he had woken up.
They’d done it all the time back at home—home being a relative term that could be applied to the entire forest, if they were still in it—but somehow, it was a lonely task, building a snow fort all by himself. He lined the branches up in a rough pentagon around Kamilé with an opening between two sides and stacked them up, letting the jutting limbs arch overhead. He made another trip to gather more until he was satisfied—the wind concentrated itself through the gaps and whipped across his back. He sneezed a few times—his head felt thick, condensed, as if he was developing a cold; great. Just what he needed.
What next? he asked no one in particular sarcastically. A blizzard? Another crazed magus after our heads? More useless artifacts from deities know when?
The universe ignored him. Shaking his head in helpless frustration, he began piling snow against the wooden frame. Long before he finished, his hands had grown numb, and he could not stop his teeth from chattering. But he had built a solid fort, and as he hurried inside, he saw that it would stay standing for now, and at the very least it would get them out of the cold.
This being done, he shoved his hands between his knees to warm them up, shivering so hard that he was seeing double. How long had they been lying there? Long enough to develop hypothermia? He rubbed his hands together briefly until he could feel them again, then gave Kamilé another once-over, calling up information from the over a thousand books that he’d read during his lifetime. She felt cold, but the other symptoms —confusion, weakness, shivering—wouldn’t show up if she was unconscious. Why she was unconscious, he couldn’t tell for sure, but he could guess—pain or blood loss from all the wounds, shock from the journey here, wherever here was, or from lack of nutrition—her little ribs poked through her tunic. That wouldn’t help her—it would just make the hypothermia worse.
He gritted his teeth in fury; had no one wanted to take care of her? None of the normal people, surely, but the Elders couldn’t just let her starve…Marli, Kayle…Pilori, even, now there was someone who owed them both a favor. How easy is it to turn your head and prattle away to someone when a starving little girl is stealing your food? Everan felt hot with anger at the thought of it…money was useless to elves, why didn’t they just let her have it? What did they want her to do, beg? Cry?
Aside from that, and the bruises and burns, her shoulder was dislocated—the muscle felt liquidized and spongy—but that was all; superficial things, by themselves they were nothing a little medicine and a few weeks couldn’t heal. But added together they posed a bigger threat, and things like infection and malnutrition gnawed at his mind as he thought of what to do. What could he do? Keep her warm with his own body, put her arm in a sling, and try not to let her die….
He felt his blood run cold at the thought of her dying. But she couldn’t, could she? They’d been in tighter fixes than this one…like the winter when they were six, alone, and they had yet to finish their house. They’d been too afraid to steal, and if it wasn’t for Kayle, a lifelong friend of theirs, letting them sleep in the library and giving them half of his dinner (he had been forbidden to break into the emergency stores upstairs, and Everan had not let him tell anyone), they would have starved or frozen to death. Everan loathed the idea of dependency, so after about a week of this he took matters into his own hands—people discovered that jackets, scarves, and mittens had gone mysteriously missing, only to be found when the snow began to thaw. This went on until someone got suspicious and threatened to decapitate them if they touched his property again last winter; Everan had been racking his brains for something new to do all summer. But his plans involved civilization….
Right now it wasn’t important—he was tired and cold, and his chest hurt. He felt helpless and small as he stretched out beside Kamilé, covering her as best as he could with his own body, listening to her slow, ragged breaths and feeling her icy skin against his cheek.
What were they going to do?

Kamilé woke him from a very deep sleep when it was dark and any small bit of warmth had been sucked out of the world. She started shivering so hard that she made him vibrate just by touching him, whimpering in her sleep and shifting restlessly. He held on, relieved when he noted a rise in temperature in her skin, especially when he felt her forehead; some of the color was returning to her face. As long as he kept her warm, she would be fine, and he himself was already perfectly all right, or as “all right” as any eleven-year-old boy in summer clothes could be when it was twenty flakes outside.
But even though his brain told him that she was okay, he felt fear twist a hand around his heart—she murmured words he couldn’t understand for what felt like hours, fading eventually into a single word, repeated over and over in her hoarse, weak little voice: Everan, Everan, Everan. She started to cry when her voice ran out, and as she was still unconscious, nothing he did could make her stop. He kept a vigilant watch all night, fighting pain and fatigue, wishing he could be more than a blanket when she needed him most.
In the morning there was fresh snow, and the sun was still hiding his face behind the blanket of listless white. The temperature felt like it had risen slightly, or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part after the freezing night, and Kamilé was sleeping deeply, too tired to shiver. Her stillness frightened him—over the years, he had grown used to her nocturnal shifting and stirring; even in her most exhausted states, she still talked a little. She had also curled into a ball or some other impossible position every night without fail since the age of four months, but now she seemed unable to move.
He searched tirelessly for the problem—what was wrong with her? Surely cuts and burns wouldn’t make her so tired…she’d had worse than this…she’d broken her arm, cut herself to the bone, done everything in her power to make him furious enough to give her the we-can’t-afford-medicine-and-bandages-you-reckless-idiot lecture again. What then? The cold? Hypothermia would do it, but she was warmer now, and she had been moving earlier…. And then the thought struck him hard, bringing freezing sweat to his forehead—had he made a mistake? Was he the cause, or his clumsy attempts at time/space travel?
Regardless of what he had done in the whiteness or which way he had gone, it was his fault anyway—oh, sure, he scolded himself sarcastically, walk up to the deadliest person in the country and threaten to kill her. You’re eleven, you’re three feet and nine-and-a-quarter inches, and your little sister can beat you up—you’re not a threat to anyone. It was true, he knew; intelligence was useless against power and strength, Kamilé proved that to him on a daily basis. It did not help his pride if he recalled that they were twins—but then, he had clearly come first, and he took full credit for raising her better than any stupid mother ever could; their maturity levels were at least ten years apart.
Perhaps having Kamilé with him hadn’t helped, even though she went everywhere with him. He could death-glare all he wanted to, but she was exactly his height and acted smaller than she was; she made him look about as dangerous as one of her candies. But somehow, he knew that hadn’t really made a difference…the point was that if he had not walked up to her, the sorceress would have never known of their existence, and thus, he and Kamilé would be at that moment seated happily on the riverbank in late summer, painless and (in Kamilé’s case) carefree. Godsdamn that weed, if she killed Kamilé he was going to….
But the thought of Kamilé dying filled him with cold emptiness, and he sighed on his hands to warm them and settled closer to her. What if she did die? What would he do? What could he do? It was getting to the point where taking care of her was all he lived for—no one else would, and no one could do it right anyway—but if he thought about it, he had never considered anything else: what he wanted to do when he grew up, for example, aside from marrying his sister (he had to laugh—silently—about that), or where he wanted to live. He’d never even thought about growing up, having considered himself fully matured for a very long time. Growing up meant thinking for himself, and only himself, but if he was forced to do that now, could he? Life without Kamilé would be so quiet, too much so…too lonely….
It was useless thinking of this now if he’d done all he could do—he would just have to be a blanket for now until some new responsibility appeared. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, falling into the breathing rhythm of deep meditation—he had a lot of thinking to do.

Ever since simple things like breathing and walking had ceased to drain him of energy, Everan had abandoned sleep for a more practical alternative. Instead of allowing his conscious mind to succumb to the subconscious—in other words, falling asleep—he simply lay down, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander. Deep, steady breathing and a comfortable position, coupled with a quiet environment and the absence of Kamilé’s waking mind and all its birdlike jolts and turns and curiosity, helped enhance the meditation until it resembled the deepest of sleeps. He liked it; he received twelve hours all to himself during his favorite time of day, nighttime, and gain temporary respite from the exhausting efforts of understanding Kamilé’s half-formed thoughts all day. Added to that, he got to think, which he also enjoyed, and he never tired of searching through his mind’s little corners and crevasses.
Hmm, he told himself dimly, lost in the soft blackness behind his eyelids, paler this time from the winter sunlight. So here we are. But where is here? Is it in one place or the other?
In his mind’s eye he saw it—or rather, felt it, as his eyes had been useless in the white abyss. His brain had supplied pictures, sounds, even smells to describe the feeling, but all seemed insufficient to the point of being crude. He had been lying—standing? Floating?—in broad whiteness, pressing like the darkest of nights, impenetrable, insubstantial, without beginning or end. It shot tendrils through him, meshing him into its calm existence. The tranquility filled him until even his own death would have caused him no panic, no stress—only acceptance and mild curiosity. The pain had melted into the albino darkness, drifting along on a snowy tendril.
He meandered at a nexus point between two constants—whether two worlds or two times or two views of the same place, he had no idea. One on his right, one on his left. He knew without a moment of doubt where he was: in the thin strand, the time/space continuum, that bound all constants as one. How unique, he had mused upon realizing this. The magic must have completely separated me to the subatomic level, protons and electrons and neutrons, and then sent all the little pieces here. Extraordinary.
Everan was clueless to the fact that not even the most potent minds of Ametris knew what a proton was. He had no way to measure his own brilliance against others when they could not even compare to him. His mind, as he floated, allowed complex temporal equations to float from his temples, swirling in the space before him.
Free from time, he told himself calmly, free from matter, gravity, physics. I am what I choose to be, and therefore I am nothing, not even a ghost. As far as I know, I have become a pair of sightless eyes, trapped in a continuum. Now this is something.
Nothing in his short, boring, intellectually lacking life could come close to this. He felt almost happy as he let Marli’s algebra assignments work themselves out in the air. When this grew old, he moved on to something more complex, three-dimensional diagrams and neatly labeled simulations of real-life mathematical problems holding his interest for another brief instant—if time could be measured at all here. One simple floating number could travel at speeds measured in millennia per second; simultaneously, a temporal diagram and equation, an enactment of a hypothetical situation, that would have taken him years to write down and solve if he’d had the equipment or the drive, floated by him in a fraction of a second, and he caught every symbol. Beautiful.
He absently let his mind draw pictures in the air, giving them color and texture, even, making entire sceneries front and back and from every side. He felt like a deity, adding light and darkness and animals and bringing it to life. It felt as if the tiniest bit more would make them real, just a little spark in the right place, a light in the eyes of a squirrel or a deer or a mouse or the faraway person, unseen by the casual eye, who stood on a slope and looked on. The beauty amazed him—had this come from his mind? Was this how the creator of the world felt, floating through space and time, as formless and lost as her name had become over the millennia, one by one giving life and breath and solidity to the humans and elves and dwarves and merpeople and building trees upon grass and water upon mountains upon flat earth, adding sound, light, emotion?
He felt like laying back and relaxing, perfectly at ease. Here at last was somewhere perfect for him and him alone, his own universe; Everan’s world, population: one.
But that was just it. He was alone. It surprised him how quickly (if time had any meaning here) he felt the loneliness—what was wrong with him? Normally he’d kill for this kind of silence, free of the stupid prattling of normal people—even their thoughts were completely unoriginal—and all the trouble he went through every day to keep himself and Kamilé away from them—
Ah, that was it. Kamilé. No matter how many times he wished he could be by himself, without her distracting him and tugging on him and begging him to play with her, he now realized that being alone was not what he wanted at all. He felt empty without her, incomplete, like a mind without a body. The dead silence was too powerful, too vast, without the constant music playing in Kamilé’s head or the roundabout, half-formed, abstract thoughts swirling around her head.
Great. Just great. After wishing her away for a decade, now, when she was finally gone for good, he wanted her back. So much for peace and quiet….
Wait…gone for good? Was she really? Or was he?
And then a frightening thought struck him: Am I dead?
Dead?
That would explain a lot. The pain at first, for one thing, and the whiteness and lack of physics.
But he couldn’t be dead! How was he ever going to do all he’d wanted to—read all the books, write all the equations, grow bigger and stronger and take his revenge on everyone who’d made their lives hell? What was he going to do with himself for all eternity? Who was going to take care of Kamilé—what if she was in danger still, or hurt? No…she’d die without him…or worse, she’d live for ages, leave him alone until she was old, and then she’d be sad…or angry with him…. No, he was not ready to die just yet….
Everan knew for a fact that, obviously, no one had ever cheated death. But the mark on his forehead empowered him—if it was possible, he would be the one to do it. Maybe to raise himself from the dead, he didn’t even need a chosen’s mark—he just had to be really really stubborn. If he could have, he would have clenched his fists decisively—it might even be easy. What did he have to lose?
So he stopped letting his fear and anxiety darken the space around him and paid closer attention to his environment. The whiteness was between two places, two worlds, even universes—it was infinite and yet not infinite, a vast ocean, and at the same time, a tiny thread, stretched between the worlds. To his right, there was a world that felt light, calm, peaceful; to his left, a world at war, filled with darkness and suffering. They were as different as black and white, and his choice should have been clear…but as he looked closer, he realized that he could feel the past, present and future of both, and he dug deeper and found that they were not all that they seemed. The world of darkness was filled with people that loved and laughed, felt passionate happiness and fierce hope, quite unlike the passivity of the people across from them; and the world of light was tranquil, harmless, but in terrible danger—soon it would be torn apart, or perhaps it already had.
Which one, which one? Personally he would have preferred constant, comparatively minor danger to an apocalypse…and he’d always liked the darkness….
So, that one. Was that the one Kamilé was in? With their luck, probably not. He would have to find their time and reach through the whiteness…find her, connect their minds again…and maybe he could pull her along….
How he did it, he had no idea, but he knew he had—he recalled her presence changing the white to bright yellows, reds, greens—and then they’d spoken…but he couldn’t remember what they’d said, or which way they’d fallen…he’d find out eventually….
Which brought him back to the present, whichever world it was. He roused himself from the meditative state to check on Kamilé, who was still sleeping deeply. As much as he hated to put her in danger, there was no way he could think of to protect her from an apocalypse—perhaps it was best that he’d chosen that place…. And regardless of the world he’d picked, they might be in the one opposite anyway—they couldn’t do anything until they found food and warmth.
Food and warmth, he mused. Such very simple things. The breadth and soil quality of the forest alone was enough to support the entire country of Ametris twice over—surely with a nation that agriculturally powerful, no one should ever go hungry. Everan saw no sense in systems of currency—if he was any type or degree of powerful he would guarantee that everyone got an equal share in everything. At least enough to live by; then, the useless masses could sit in peace while those with actual intelligence and willpower made something of themselves. Or everyone could just get everything their own damn selves, like they had to. How hard was that, really? If two small malnourished kids could do it, why couldn’t everybody else?
They were all so useless, Everan thought—someone needs to slap them across the face and inform them that life really wasn’t that complicated. He would himself, in fact, if he’d ever sink to soiling his tongue and hands with such crude measures.
But he checked himself; the stupidity of mortalkind had saved them in the winter, as merchants and townspeople bartered endlessly, so engrossed in the price of the preserved fruits and warm bread that they didn’t notice when a small, quiet boy stole it from under their noses. This nearsighted folly could save them now…if they could just find a town….
So, a plan: most towns were by the river for reasons of convenience; therefore, if they found the river they were set—there would be plenty of idiots to rob blind. Finding the river might be a problem—using might as a severe euphemism—as his sense of direction had been completely skewed by the disorienting fall, and the sun would not show itself amid the dull white sky. But he’d manage—he’d have to, or they were both dead.
As soon as Kamilé wakes up, he assured himself. As soon as we can, we’ll go. Yeah. He slowly urged himself into a state that could almost be considered optimism, if Everan had ever experienced anything like that before. Yeah, he enthused, shouldn’t take that long for her to wake up…she was almost awake before…maybe tomorrow….
Satisfied, he pushed his mind around in circles, thinking every possibility through as he always did, until it was exhausted; by then it was nightfall, and he wondered if the winter constellations were out tonight. He did not want to leave Kamilé behind in the cold, but it was only for a moment…he extracted himself from her and crawled carefully outside.
Their little ice hut shone dimly in the moonlight as it seeped through the trees like liquid silver; the night was freezing, at least seven flakes lower than that morning. His breath fanned out before him as he stood mildly between the trees—the cold did not bother him much, although the wind funneled through the trees made him shiver. A small circle of stars shone above the trees. He watched them for awhile, recognizing the constellations. After about an hour, he was shivering uncontrollably, but then Zildja rose above the trees, and when he plotted the map in his head in correlation with the Great Tree, he knew where they were: north and slightly west of the Tree. So if they continued west, they’d reach the river…and they should find a town within a day or so….
That particular burden eased, he slipped back inside, relieved to be out of the freezing wind.
Kamilé too was shaking so hard that it seemed painful, moaning and mumbling in her sleep. He swore to himself and immediately took his place as a blanket again, feeling her warm up after a minute; but she shifted restlessly and whimpered all night no matter what he did. He made her as comfortable as he could, assuring himself that this was one step closer to consciousness; Maybe tomorrow, he told himself again, and the cold air warmed slightly with the heat of waiting, praying hope.


Kamilé did not like the maybe tomorrow plan. In fact, one could go so far as to say she utterly loathed it with her entire being. She certainly acted like she did.
Everan jerked himself out of deep meditation around midmorning as Kamilé woke up screaming, writhing and twitching and pushing painfully at him with both arm and legs. He reflexively scrambled out of her way, the little ice hut suddenly claustrophobic as she forced him into a frigid corner. He gulped freezing air, trying to breathe, and then pushed himself at her, trying to hold her down. She screamed even more desperately in pain at his efforts, but he refused to let it hinder him; he pinned her right arm down with one leg, both of hers with another (tricks she often used on him when they fought) and settled her motionless left arm safely at her side. Her face was twisted in pain, but he merely readjusted himself a little, never once letting a shred of mercy through; he held her head still, feeling feverish heat in her cheeks and forehead, until she calmed down.
She started to shiver uncontrollably, but ceased her annoying thrashing; Everan lost no time in taking off his bag and placing it around her shoulders, wrapping the strap twice around her left wrist to make a semblance of a sling. He then lifted himself off her, leaning over to check her burned arm—but when he looked down, her eyes shot open, and she stared at him for a long, pulsing second before her scream shattered his eardrums. Before he had any time to react, she flailed in his direction, catching him with a hard punch across the face and forcing his head to make a painful half-turn. He heard her knuckles crack with the impact. While he struggled to regain focus, spitting out blood from where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek, he felt Kamilé scramble away to the far corner of the little ice hut. He turned to glare reproachfully at her, but stopped, confused, when he noticed her stranger-than-usual behavior.
She was huddled as far away from him as she could get, staring at him with wide eyes, her knees brought to her chest and between them, her right hand clinging to her left shoulder so hard that her fingers turned pinkish-white. The way she looked at him made him feel incredibly, painfully guilty, as if he had betrayed her or hurt her badly, and her fear was so powerful that he could feel it strongly even through their mental connection, weak from disuse.
Kamilé…?
She started babbling, her voice half-hysterics, half-whimpering. It was either some strange backwards language he had yet to be introduced to, or it meant absolutely nothing. He caught his name several times—did she finally recognize him?
He moved very slightly forward, trying to sooth her. Calm down, Kamilé, it’s me—
He flinched as she shrieked again, her voice much too high and shrill, and backed off as she clapped her hand over her ear and pressed tightly, hunching her shoulders and pushing against the ground in an effort to get further away. “EVERAN!” she cried. “EVERAN, TEÁRIMASÏA, AITEÜS!”
What the hell? he demanded, but this only made her scream again and start to cry. That was it. She had beaten him. Crying was just not fair.
Kamilé—
Another scream; she clawed frantically at her head, as if, he thought, she was trying to rip the voice out. Seeing blood, he chose that moment to dive in and grab her wrist, tugging it away. While she kicked and bit, more scared than hostile, he tried to send calming thoughts and pictures to her mind, but the mental contact only scared her more; finally, his frustration flared, and he shouted, KAMILÉ, IT’S ME!
She winced and drew back, then started to sob; her struggles faded, and she fell limply forward, exhausted. Everan released her wrist and hugged her—more to keep her warm than anything—and settled back against the uncomfortable dead-branch walls. Her hot tears ruined his shirt as she curled up next to him, and her forehead radiated heat; despite this, she still shivered violently no matter what he did.
He let her stay there until she cried herself to sleep, then allowed her to share her nightmares with him. Fire, a lot of fire, and a repetition of the dream they’d had a few nights before their birthday…and the rest was like nothing he’d ever seen from her before. Her dreams were never clear visually or in any tangible way, but emotion was strong and colors faded in and out—this was how Kamilé thought, and so her dreams were only frightening to her and her alone. But this one worried even him; he felt fear, loneliness, sorrow, heartbreak, grief, wild, mindless panic, and even wilder anger and hatred. There was another hatred, cold and precise, that he knew belonged to the vague black-and-red figure that drifted in and out, sometimes visible, always present. And then purple light, and a hollow, cold feeling…. He remembered that shade of dark purple—the magic that had nearly killed him.
Poor Kamilé…she had had no way of knowing that he had been okay…more than okay…. He bit his lip as she trembled and occasionally cried out in fear, calling for him even in sleep. She didn’t even recognize him…this was bad. Very bad.
What could he do?

THIS = ADORABLE! 4laugh



Okay, now to nitpick the weather. Were they walking outside during the snowstorm? Because depending on how bad it was, not even an Eskimo would do that. You might also mention their skin turning red, losing feeling in their noses/ears/toes.



And lastly, how did Kamile go from speaking a language Everan doesn't understand and not understanding him in turn to understanding what he says?