The Fly Without Wings (You Jump Off A Cliff) - Chapter 1 (1/3) - Hiraeth

E’en the nether holds no hope for the Heron;

He who descends from the Heavens

Upon wings fore’er immortalised

By the scared blessing

Of the Moon.

- Excerpt from Svartur, Rauður, Hvítur

Chapter 1

Hiraeth

Night time is the time of the thieves, the scoundrels, the scum of the world with their hands dripping with crimson and their smiles sharp-toothed and savage. All of Sresta knows to be on guard, to shut their lights and lock their doors, so that the monsters of the night do not come to visit. It is a time where bloodlust boils in the veins and tempers run high, challenges invoked and debts repaid; a time where steel sings the unearthly song of an end of days while scarlet rivulets paint the streets in vivid colour. It is ever a struggle for survival laid bare to the witness of the moons.

Only fools go out during the night.

Heron resists the urge to scoff at the thought. He’s not a fool, despite what some people say, and attempting to steal anything during the night is quite simply inviting death. Green eyes flicker upwards to the soft grey sky and he forcibly stops his lips from curling upwards into a predatory smile. Daytime, where the true hunters reign.

It’s strange, he thinks. People have preconceived notions of everything that they cling to despite evidence to the contrary. Subconsciously, they class information into little boxes upon boxes of expectations and presume to be correct, ignoring the fallacies of their assumptions.

A pickpocket? Nether-Srestian, obviously. Dirty. Uncouth. Hunch-backed and shifty-eyed, greasy strings of hair falling limply over thin shoulders. Stays down in Nether-Sresta, or at most, slips up to Mid-Sresta following the lure of plentiful, hapless victims. A creature of the night where the cover of darkness veils their movements. A creature easily caught and made an example of by the Holy Enforcers.

One would think that they’d learn after the first dozen times, yet most continue to ignore the danger hidden in the day. Perhaps it’s a product of their upbringing. Heron shrugs mentally. Whatever the reason, it works in his favour.

No one expects a pickpocket in the heart of Sresta-True amongst the nobles and aristocrats and priests, slipping through the crowds with the easy gait of one long since familiar with the hubbub. An ash-grey cloak of notably fine make drapes around his shoulders and the sweet scent of perfume billows in his wake. Confident strides, a determined air, and not even the priestesses look twice.

Brush past a woman simply dripping with gemstones and silk. Quicksilver fingers slip into her bag, her pockets. Angle body, grab stuff, tuck into own sleeves, retreat. Walk on with the woman none the wiser and him significantly wealthier. Repeat.

“Hey!” A loud shout rises above the clamour to make itself heard. A sheen of sweat breaks out on Heron’s back. Holy Enforcers. “Thief! Pickpocket! There’s a thief on the loose!”

He sucks an involuntary breath in, uncomfortably aware of the weight tucked in his sleeves and under his cloak, throngs of people blocking his escape route. Crap. It seems like some people are more perceptive than he gave them credit for. Don’t flinch. Don’t react. It takes an enormous amount of effort not panic, not to break out into a run and escape back down to Nether-Sresta, but he knows it will only make him suspicious. Deep, even breaths, ignoring his clammy palms.

There’s the sound of feet pounding on cobblestones like they’re trying to bruise and the unmistakable ring of fine steel being drawn. Heron can’t resist a swift glance over his shoulder. The white-clad Enforcers smell his fear like bloodhounds, twelve odd gazes unwavering and focused on him.

Adrenaline sings in his veins as he whirls around and starts running, shoving people out of his way with abandon. The time for stealth is now long past. Screams and yells fill the air, smoke and noise and commotion, and he knows he’ll have to escape quickly before more Enforcers come. A man draped in the vivid violet of Cerci Familiaris refuses to be cowed, standing firmly in his way, arms crossed and stance unyielding. “Thief,” he begins sternly.

Heron feels the choking sensation of desperation rising. No! He has to get away! Behind him, the hammer of footsteps gets ever closer. A split second, frantic eyes flickering between the Cerci and the side street beyond where an escape route lies, the consequences running through his head in dizzying speed, but there’s no other option so he reaches-

slides -

pulls -

- and the web of glittering gossamer strands woven above his life-weave bursts away into thousands of individual threads. “Abomination!” is the cry, shrieks and screams and mass panic as he shrinks from the lanky build of an adolescent on the cusp of adulthood to his true form - a small, thin child with nimble feet and the unmistakable gleam of seiðr threading through his life-weave.