Luneset 02 OLD OUTAKES

Fiel awoke as though someone had reeled her in from underwater. There was an explosive inhalation of breath that propelled her up to her side as she coughed out smoke. Her head rammed heavy against her skull as a sudden intense pain shot up her leg. She cried out, faintly reaching for a mess of blood at her calf. Was that bone? Reflexively, she clenched her wet eyes, refusing to look.

Tears streamed down her cheeks and nose as she doubled forward, inching for the hem of a blood-spattered bustle. Fiel breathed out a rush of warm air, knowing somehow what she had to do, and then trying to hold the contents of her stomach in as she braced herself to do it. 

She ripped the bustle with fast, short pumps of her breath, tried as she might to steady the shaking of her hand as she leaned forward with one clenched fist of cloth circling around her knee, tying one knot, and then a second above her ankle. There, not so bad… More blood than pain? No—Fiel gritted her teeth. The pain was there, more pronounced as she moved. How was she supposed to—?

She dared not move from there, inching instead, one mechanic motion towards the whistle hanging around her chest. Her father’s whistle. 

Come on—she stuffed the whistle to her mouth—blow! It falls before her lips could grip it—again!

A scattered rasp—again!

A piercing shrill! She fell back onto her back, her teeth clasping around the hard metal, releasing a long, low whistle now.

She could survey the sky before her—a pink  horizon blazoned with plumes of smoke drifting further and further into the ether. The ash fell intermittently depending on the wind, like crow feathers, or black snow flurries. She had been whistling for hours.

She felt lightheaded now, but her horns, she noticed, burned intensely. Her breathing at least had steadied and she would’ve sworn she might have felt her father’s presence somehow, as though it were his big, brown arms that steadied her shaking, or the back of his hairy palm that dried her tears.

Mother used to call him Bear and growing up, he showed all of that strength and grouchiness, from the way he strode about with bumbling, heavy footsteps to the way he laughed, a rumbling heh-ha! and a stroke of his beard.

Father wanted a son, like Uncle Santos and Lucas. Fiel liked to think that when she was born, he gazed upon her and shrugged. This will do and thereupon he taught her to swim by tossing her head first into the waters. He taught her to fight by pitting her defenseless against dogs, and how to sign her name at the market-stalls when all eyes bore upon her, and how to plow the weeds for hours into the dead-heat of the summer sun, and how to get back up after a fall from particularly lousy riding.

What would he say to her now, dying alone in the woods from too much blood and pain and suffering? Well, what did he always say? This will do! to the most curious of things, even as he started coughing up his lung. Like a battlecry! Like a stubborn bear! He had greeted his death as he had a friend.

She wondered if she hadn’t been dreaming. If, other than the pain that plagued her now, she could just make her way through the woods and find her home as it was the day before, some horrible thing she ate, perhaps she was hallucinating, and perhaps none of it was real.

Except that when she turned her head, she saw Rosch’s package hanging out of her bag. The falling ash now covering its contents. Not even in her dreams could she have imagined such a sky. And her town. Her people. Were they really—?

She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t comprehend it. Why wasn’t she dead, how could she still be alive? Worse of all, where was Atlas? Where was Lucas? Mr. Talon next door, and Merinda and Ramathan? Little Tulie? Mona? Yuna? She should be over herself in grief right now, but not a tear came anymore. It was as if she had grieved to her capacity—her grandfather, then her mother, and finally, her father, and now her people, too? She had to believe she was hardened to death now. She was truly a harbinger now, her horns were burning so hot, she had to rake her head against the mud. How many times had she been forewarned? All the ones she loved would die and all because of this curse! These horns!

Suddenly, her ears, close upon the mud of the earth, felt the vibrations then heard the sound of distant galloping. At once, she blew upon the whistle, one long, clear thrill, like a calling. She is crying now, unsure if it was the pain of her leg, or the burning in her horns. She blew again. Lucas. He’s all I have left! He has to be here! She blew again, and again, drawing the galloping closer to her, until with relief, she heard the sharp caw of a canyon runner calling back. Is that you, Atlas?

She brought herself back up to a sitting position, jerking the straps of her bag towards her with all of its contents. Fiel knew it was Atlas who brought her here. Taking stock of the surrounding woods, she recognized the place as the clearing she and Atlas used to play. Part of her wondered if Atlas thought of the place as a safe haven, or as a second home, to have brought her here so far. And yet, something doubted on her mind. She heard the strange caw, again which convinced her. Not Atlas—Anji!

The powder-blue feathers came into view and she cawed again, a comforting coo, but there was an unfamiliar rider on her back, not Lucas, and no Atlas trailing behind her. Fiel’s heart might’ve skipped a beat, if she had not recognized the gleam of a smile on the rider’s face. Ayande.

He was the same as always—a tall lanky man with long, dark hair falling into his eyes and tied back into to a ponytail at the back. His olive-toned arms revealing the same, twisted tattoo—an upside-down wave curling in on itself, it was supposed to be the flag of Varsomme, but overturned. Someone unfamiliar might’ve thought it looked harmless, some elaborate bird feather, but Fiel knew it for what it was. A symbol of the rebel movement in the East.

Anji was always the sweetheart. She didn’t need prompting or hand motions, Ayande clicked his tongue as though he had been riding for years and Anji slowed, automatically tucking herself low to the ground as though nestling eggs.

“Miss Montroy! No need to move, I’m coming,” Ayande said, hopping off and pouring over her, his forehead wrinkling in many deep lines. He had a pouch with him, which he reached into and handed its’ contents to Fiel’s hand—eudelion powder! She stuffed the herb into her mouth, its properties beginning to numb the pain as Ayande fumbled about with her leg.

In moments he bandaged it up and prepared it in a splint for her. As the numbing grew more pronounced, she was easily able to hop aboard Anji. Anji slowly ascended back up to her full height, as though taking Fiel’s pain into account. She was easier to handle than Atlas was, and much more experienced in matters of riding. Though, Atlas was stronger and faster, it was Anji who was the most adept at maneuvering and tracking. She had a much larger wingspan than Atlas and didn’t need much prompting to stretch the pinon of her wings as a way of supporting Fiel’s leg. If she moved her leg too much, she would surely lose her balance in the pain, but having it outstretched upon the wing helped in great measures.

Even as Fiel was glad to see Anji clucking happily, something didn’t seem to fit right with her. Why wasn’t Lucas with her? What was Ayande doing here? And where was Atlas?

Ayande, typical of him, seemed to have the ability to read her expression.

“Your cousin Lucas is fine, he’s with Mona and the others back at the crossroads.”

“And Atlas?”

“He’s fine. Lucas had been blowing that whistle all throughout the night looking for you, and when all he found was that bird, well…We all split up and spent the morning trying to track your whereabouts. I just happened to chance upon you first. ”

“Lucky me,” Fiel grumbled. Ayande seemed uneasy about something.

“A lot of people didn’t make it,” he said finally, after great thought. “It wasn’t just Willsboro, Fiel. Rippleton. Carasaw. You know about Varsomme. We were all hit. The few survivors, I mean, it seems the rest of them will be migrating West for the next Luneset.”

Fiel bit her lip, her brow furrowed. She couldn’t believe it. All of these cities! With the exception of Varsomme, they were all neutral territories with hundreds of thousands of people either dead or displaced. She could not recall anything of this magnitude happening before in all of the histories she’s read.

“How is this happening? Why?”

Ayande’s expression darkened and she knew it was the wrong question to ask of him. “Does the God-King need a reason to wipe out ants like us?” He said it in a vicious snarl as though he needed to spit out the vileness he felt within himself.

“Probably it was because of you!” Fiel snapped back. She quickly recalled the reason she couldn’t stand being anywhere in the same vicinity with this guy. She couldn’t fathom what sweet Lucas saw in him. “This stupid, rebellion thing of yours needs to stop—how many more towns are going to be destroyed before you realize you’re endangering people’s lives?”

“And how many more innocent people will need to die before you realize who’s pulling the trigger?”

They always argued like this. He couldn’t see reason. He couldn’t see how hopeless and aimless his anger was, how much of an idiot he was for incurring the Preserver’s wrath and thoughtlessly manipulating others to take up arms with him on this foolish charade. 

If Ayande had grown up in Willsboro, he would’ve realized the simple truth. The land knew it, the birds knew it, even the animals: the meek bow to the strong. That was always the way it was, and the way it will always be. There’s no changing that.

The Preserver was a God-King. He could destroy and create at will. There’s no rebelling against that. A person’s life, or death, that was under the Preserver’s full control and whim, it was his power. Life, or death, hell it was the law of the land. The choice was simple.

They were heading towards the thick of the smoke at a slow amble and as they steadily climbed back through the fields, the burden of silence fell upon them. Anji was no longer jovially chirping along, instead, she drooped her head low. The land was barely recognizable. Where once there were rolling hills, there now stood huge craters; where once there were golden stretches of fields ripe with fruit, now there was blackened rubble and smoke plumes.

She’d seen these landscapes before in other villages: decimated countrysides and ghosttowns, she’d known all along what they were, why they were. She knew even as she felt the impact of the bomb pushing her away, but seeing it here was different! Here, she witnessed the full extent of the damage, intimately so, seeing flashes of what once was there yesterday, a gathering well, a road, a schoolyard, to what is now left. Ruins. Willsboro was supposed to be neutral territory. It had been her home for twenty-one years! She felt sick, betrayed. All was dirt and dust and crumbled stone that could be rebuilt, but who was left to do so? It was as if she were in a dream sequence. As if she would wake from this and it would all be gone.

That was when she saw the people running. People from all over the East—from Rippleton, from Carasaw. It was just as Ayande had described. All were lined up one after another, most carrying nothing, some carrying small bags, and all of them heading towards the West, towards hope and the security of the Great Cities and their gates. Some of them were helping to gather the injured, to uncover the fallen, the buried, and the limbs of children.

Fiel couldn’t bear to look, had she recognized someone? And in that moment, she came across the familiar, lanky figure of her cousin, whom she would’ve ran to from this distance had she the ability. He was mounted atop Atlas, pointing here and there, passing out medical supplies and food.

Anji jumped at the sight of Atlas, Fiel almost fell over backwards, had she not the years’ of experience as a rider learned to hook her good leg behind the shoulder of the wing as an anchor to keep her balance. 

Atlas’ stopped in his tracks, listening to the rumbling of the ground and made a sharp turn, causing Lucas to drop his bag and hang tight. In a few strides the birds closed the distance and before Fiel knew it, she was hoisted up in Lucas’ arms and they were both shaking before each other, crying, and homeless and happy to be alive in each other’s arms for they were more of a family now then they had ever been.  She heard it deep inside her as much as she felt it. Her fathers words.

A/N: This chapter is no where near polished. Blegh. 

Kind of at the last minute I threw Ayande in there. He wasn't supposed to appear until much much later in the story, but I needed something extra and exciting because it was originally just a transition chapter of Fiel surviving by herself in the woods, pretty boring.

I'm probably going to stick with chapters being 2.5k, lemme know if it seems too long/too short, and also probably going to stick to releasing them on a weekly schedule. The Novel itself is looking to be 30 chapters, so it'll be a long ride. I hope an entertaining one!