Young Writers Society

1

☽O☾

Zita was no angel, but she never claimed to be. An angel would have smote Titin and Foy by now with their heavenly wrath. All she was doing was digging her fingernails into her palms and biting back a scream as the boys yanked at her feathers right where her newly broken bone was trying to heal. Titin pulled out another one with a giggle. If he wasn’t nearly nine feet tall with a permanently crooked nose from being broken too many times and cracked, dry skin on his hands from too many fist fights, it might have looked childish. Seeing that he was, though, it came off as much more threatening. Zita felt her nails cut through the skin of her palms.

She forced herself to shuffle forward with the group, sure she would be lectured for falling behind. Her wings twitched behind her back as another red feather was plucked from her no-longer sensitive skin. Nonetheless, she winced. Just a little longer. Dron was saying something to Jincol, the woman who was supposed to be watching the kids. Of course, as usual, Jincol only cared about precious little Dron, with his tasseled acid yellow hair and contrasting purple skin, tied off with the largest pair of yellow-spotted, purple butterfly wings and glittering blue eyes. The perfect picture of the perfect child. When Jincol was looking. The moment the slender elvish woman turned her back, Dron went from cherub to hydra.

Zita heard a snippet of their conversation, “-sorry Honey Bat, but I can’t afford it,” Jincol was saying in the most heartbroken voice.

“But All the other kids will laugh at me if I’m the only one without it,” Dron pouted, giving his best puppy eyes and even mustering up a tear. Zita refrained from clapping at his performance. He was doing especially well today.

Jincol put a hand over her heart and looked as if she were about to cry. She turned to her husband, Marrin, and opened her mouth to say something, but Zita didn’t hear what, because, at that moment, Foy yanked out an especially sensitive feather.

Zita yelped in pain and skittered sideways, out of the older boys’ reach as they snickered. The adults didn’t hear a thing over the six other kids who could claim to be Zita’s siblings. She was yanked from her thoughts, literally, by Titin, who grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back to the group. She grumbled under her breath as she followed along, wincing every time a stranger brushed her broken, disfigured wings. She cursed the day she was sent to live with these people, not for the first time, but, hopefully, the last. That thought cheered her up a bit. She kept her grumbling, though. Suspicion was the last thing she wanted right now.

The chaotic family entered a clothing store through the enormous entryway, which reached far above even Titin's head so even the tallest giant could enter easily. Zita watched the shoppers carefully, keeping her own group in her peripheral vision so she could follow them easily enough.

They passed racks and racks of endless varieties of clothes for endless varieties of species. The white hallway, decorated by dancing swirls and arrows with words to point you to whatever you wanted, seemed to stretch on forever. It very well might have, but Zita didn’t stick around to check.

The others split into two groups, each with one of the adults, and took off into the maze of color and floating neon signs. Zita went with Marrin’s group in the opposite direction of Jincol’s and pretended to be even remotely interested in trying on clothes while many of the bones in her ratty red, green, and blue wings were either broken or shattered. She winced to think of how that happened. Zita shook the thought from her head and picked out a random piece of clothing, a lovely lilac-colored headscarf, and turned to Marrin.

“I’m going to go to the dressing rooms to try this on,” She held up the scarf.

Marrin just grunted a response without so much as looking at her and scratched his bulging stomach.

Zita took off in the direction of the dressing rooms, which the floor told her was even further into the store, and went up to one of the people at the desks, “Hello,” She greeted him with a little smile, “I’d like to try this on,” She placed the scarf on his counter.

He sighed as if that were the biggest inconvenience in the world, “Just one minute while we wait for one of the dressing rooms to open up,” He said in a weak imitation of a cheery tone.

Zita kept her smile and politely affirmed that she would wait there. She backed up a step or two and waited in what she hoped was a nonchalant stance. It was only when she spotted Foy coming toward her that she realized that she was holding the scarf with a death grip-like hold and loosened it, the muscles in the rest of her body going taunt instead. Foy skipped toward her with his arms loaded down with clothes, his merperson gills on his collarbone on full display as he craned his neck to see over the load in his arms.

Zita tried to steady her breathing. Sparks crackled in her ears, her muscles drew taut. Yes, Zita, said the exasperated side of her who had made this plan in the first place, let us screw all of this up because your annoying older brother showed up. Great idea. Zita’s nerves did not calm one bit despite that wonderful piece of sarcastic goading.

It’s already ruined! The panicky side of her argued, running around in circles with her hands flailing, If he sees us- the panicky side was cut off by the exasperated one, He won’t, now, stick to the plan, we’ll just have to improvise a little. Zita’s inner selves were very much unhelpful, but she took exasperated one’s advice and forced her muscles to relax.

“Hey, pumpkin head!” Foy called over the top of his stack, “Help me with this stuff or I tell Jincol you tried shoplifting!”

Zita glanced back to see the guy at the counter was gone, vanished into the multi-layer tower that was the changing rooms. Her muscles went right back to their previous state. She took a deep breath, I’ve almost made it, she reminded herself, I just have to complete the really risky, really difficult part of the plan and I’m free! Unless I make a mistake, then I’ll never get another chance again! She really should stop going to her own head for anything.

She glowered but took half the stack from the top and hefted it into her own calloused hands. Foy grinned like it was Creation's Day and spun in a circle, “ Jimcol is going to get me whatever I want,” He bragged, wiggling his eyebrows as if to add, ‘and you’re only getting the bare minimum! Ha!’ Zita looked at the ground and pretended to be hurt by that idea. The truth was, even if she wasn’t planning on pulling off a super dangerous escape today and leaving the Striker’s for good, she wouldn’t want anything. The more she had the more there was for the others to rip to shreds while ‘playing’ with it, and that was not the kind of ammo she would ever give her siblings.

Foy went on to chat about every item he planned on getting and all the events he would go to, and what he would wear to each one, and blah blah blah blah blah. Zita ignored him and sighed in relief when the counter guy returned with a little jade disc with a number carved on it. Zita was about to give all of Foy’s stuff back and take it, when Foy plopped all of his stuff in Zita’s arms, nearly knocking her over, and leaped up to the counter. He snatched the key, saying something about Zita saving him a spot, before heaving his stuff out of her grasp and tottering away with his load.

Zita almost sighed in relief that he was gone, when she realized, with a sudden jolt, that the scarf was gone. She searched the ground frantically for it, but found nothing, then she realized what must have happened. Foy must have taken it with his things accidentally, or, knowing him, on purpose to make her have to walk all the way back to get another one. She suppressed the urge to scream or hit something, or both. She could just get something different. Okay, yeah, that would work. Except all there was as far as the eye could see was giants clothes. She looked desperately around for something, anything. An item placed on the wrong rack when a customer couldn’t be bothered to return it to its proper place, something that was dropped on the ground, something.

No matter how hard she looked there was nothing. If she went back now she would be stuck, out of time, out of luck. She needed something now. Finally, she saw it. Not a product, a uniform, or rather, a whole box full, shoved almost out of sight behind the desk. This was a bad idea.

Zita glanced around nervously. She had never done anything like this before. She had never impersonated anyone, never stolen anything from a store (the Striker’s stuff didn’t count), and she had never done anything against the rules in such a brightly lit place in front of so many people. Only a small number of people walked down the hall, maybe five or six within sight, and a violet-skinned giant woman was browsing the shirts section to her left. The desk guy had vanished again, probably to unenthusiastically clear out a dressing room or something. No one was paying her any mind.

Zita walked casually behind the counter and grabbed the topmost yellow uniform. She brushed a strand of almost glowing orange hair out of her face and found it was sticking to her sweat. There was no way she didn’t look like the guiltiest nervous wreck on the planet, but no one pointed at her shouting ‘She’s stealing a uniform!’ she figured she was okay for the time being.

She tucked it under her arm so the logo was concealed by her glorified potato sack of a dress and wandered toward the tower of dressing rooms. If this worked, she was going to give thanks to every god and goddess she knew of. She swallowed the lump in her throat and passed by an employee who had just put a jade circle into her already bulging pocket. As she walked by, she slipped two fingers into her pocket and nicked a random key. The number on the front was written in a loopy font reading “321”. Zita marched up the stairs with a purpose. She went to the third level, passing far too many empty rooms to not consider punching the desk guy in the face when she got back down.

Finally, she found her number and slipped inside. In the little square room, the back of the door had a set of written instructions painted on it. Zita ignored them for the time being and undid her belt after checking that the door was, indeed, locked. She slipped out of her dress as carefully as possible so as not to jostle her wings. Just because she could handle the pain didn’t mean she wanted to feel it.

Once she was out of her old clothes she put on the new ones, as she did so reading the instructions. “Say, ‘reflect’ while your hand is on the wall to turn it into a... mi..me..mirror,” Zita mumbled the words aloud, struggling to read them as fluently as a girl her age should be able to. Yet another thought to throw away.

The back of the uniform split and rejoined itself around her wings and tightened around her body to fit perfectly. The logo pinned on the shirt depicted a cartoon, smiling red dragon cradling a sign that read “Mr.Willy’s” and something in small print that Zita didn’t bother even trying to read.

She followed the instructions on the door, and the wall she touched turned into a large mirror. She grabbed a ribbon, probably fallen off some piece of clothing or other, and tied back her ratty orange hair like she had seen the long-haired employees do with theirs. Why was it that her eyes had to be more noticeable for this to work? She hated it when people pointed out that they were mismatched, one so dark brown it was nearly black, the other a blue so light it could have been pulled right from the heart of a glacier. Zita shook her head, yet again, to clear it. She had to stay on task, the colors of her eyes could wait.

She knelt down to do what she had come to the dressing rooms for in the first place. A thin, gray band wrapped around her ankle. It had no clasp or obvious means of getting it off, just a continuous line of colorless fabric. A shackle. Literally. As long as she wore that, she could never go anywhere the Strikers couldn’t find her.

She stopped ogling at it and got to work. She positioned one hand on either side of the anklet and took a steadying breath. The crackling of magic filled her veins and reached her hands. It became more concentrated by the second, eventually becoming too much and expressed itself by sparking out of her skin in little flashes of orange light and small streams similar to electricity.

Her fingers danced in a practiced pattern. Zita kept her intention crystal clear and alone in her head. She almost cried with joy when she felt it loosen, but she bit it back and stayed focused. It wasn’t long before the anklet dropped to the ground, no more than a useless piece of cloth. She wasted no time celebrating and left the dressing tower with a confident stride.

Even in the uniform, Zita stood out. Her hair was ratty and unbrushed, her wings protruded at odd angles. Even the way she walked suggested she didn’t belong. She tried to slow down, to make herself look busy, on her way to do something important. Either it worked, or the employees were just not paid enough to care, but she made it to the back of the store and out an ‘employees only’ door without being stopped.

She shoved the heavy, graffitied door open and breathed in the open air for what felt like the first time. She vaguely processed the door slamming shut behind her as she sank to the ground, suddenly overwhelmed with too many contradicting emotions. Relief flooded her veins as terror gripped her mind. Her heart beat faster and faster but Zita couldn’t tell if it was from fear or joy.

Looking down at her pinkish, pale hands broke her from her trace. She moved them to the ground and pushed herself to her feet, glancing at the treeline just a few feet before her, then the streets only a little further behind. Titin would notice her absence when the group re-joined in a few minutes, based on the seconds she had unconsciously been counting from the moment Foy left her alone.

Trees. Trees where her best bet.

Zita ripped the company logo off the shirt and tossed it in the dirt as she carefully maneuvered around the trees so as to not jostle her wings too much. Every once in a while a branch or tree trunk would bump against her wings and she’d wince at the sudden flare of pain.

She made it to a small clearing out of view of the shop and eased herself to the ground. Her legs were killing her from her trip into the city and all the walking in the store, and then this. The tension slowly released from her muscles at the brief moment of relation. She sighed. A second later, she heard the sound of someone moving forest. Her head snapped to attention. She pulled herself back to her feet.

A large figure pushed through the trees, at least as tall as Titin, and twice as broad. His skin was sickly green and covered with grungy brown rags, all sewn together and patched up. Despite his getup, the troll had an expensive-looking embroidered bag slung over his shoulder. Alarms blared in Zita’s head as he gave her a crooked-tooth smile with his large, frog-like mouth.

“Hello!” He greeted her happily, “I’m Johndl,” He gestured a veiny hand at his own chest, “I couldn’t help but notice you look a little lost, can I help?”

The way he said was like he was reading off a script, it was too practiced, too generic. Zita backed up a couple steps, “I’m good, thanks,” She said, trying for a polite smile. There was an awkward silence until Johndl broke it.

“Is there anyone you know nearby?”

No, thank the gods, “Yes, I’m just waiting for them.”

“What are they doing?”

Godsdamnit Zita, she eyed the knife strapped to his thigh, long enough to be a short sword for her, “Shopping, I’m just supposed to wait here until they get back so they know where I am, they’re very protective,” Thank Lok for her ability to lie.

“Ahhh,” He rubbed his chin, “When do you think they’ll be back,”

Run, “Pretty soon...” now is a good time to run. When he reached for the dagger, she took off. She just barely managed to squeeze her wings through a small gap in the trees and dashed into the woods. She heard the long strides of the troll thump after her. Her mind was a colorful field of profanity as she bit back yelps of pain every time her broken bones were jostled around like this. Even with her pain tolerance, the feeling of freshly broken bones being bounced around with only a thin layer of skin and muscle keeping them together, made her want to curl in a ball and scream. 

She knew she didn’t have long, maybe a few steps, before he caught up. His stride was longer, and her wings were heavy, it was no contest.

Just as his hand brushed the tops of her wings, she heard his scream and his hand was gone. She ran a few more steps before turning around. When she did, she almost let out that scream.

The troll was pinned against a thick oak tree, green sparks of magic popping and glowing around his wrists and neck. Zita’s eyes went wide and her head swiveled. She couldn’t see the caster. She momentarily glanced at her own hands, but the magic wasn’t hers, it couldn’t be, her’s was orange and her palms were just as colorless as always. A moment passed. Another. The troll continued to struggle and gasp, but Zita couldn’t bring herself to move or speak, she wasn’t even sure if she was breathing. Another moment.

Finally, the troll went limp and the magic vanished. Zita saw the steady rise and fall of his chest and let out the breath that she apparently was holding. A figure leaped out of a tree to her left, landing like a dancer with soft steps. He straightened out and corrected his long green coat, straightening the bright orange collar. An assassin, cleaning up after a hit. He faced Zita, giving the troll one last glare before looking at her.

“Are you okay?” He asked, looking her up and down the way a doctor would when looking for visible wounds.

She took a second to respond, “Erm, uh, yeah? I’m-” She winced as a strong wind slammed into her wings. She cursed internally.

He suddenly lost any resemblance he had to an assassin. He reached out instinctively and almost stepped forward, but froze, “I’m sorry,” He put down his hands and offered one for her to shake, “I’m Kivvien,” When she didn’t take his hand, he dropped it. His eyes scanned her wings, taking in their obvious disfigurement in the various places where the hollow bones had healed incorrectly, “I can help,” He said, gesturing to her wings, “You’re obviously hurt, just let me help you with that and I’ll leave. I swear.”

Scenarios ran through Zita’s head. Was he friendly? Maybe. He had gotten the troll off of her, but, for all she knew, they were working together. Maybe Kivvien was supposed to take him out after he chased her here to get her to trust him. Maybe Kivvien was just another crook who got lucky. Maybe he was being honest. Of all of the possibilities, the last one seemed the least likely. Zita shook her head, “No thanks.”

Kivvien nodded respectfully, “You don’t trust me, fine, I get it, I wouldn’t trust me either,” He chuckled to himself, as if that was some kind of inside joke, “It’s just...you won’t be able to fly like that, and, around here, if you’re stuck on the ground like that, you could easily get yourself killed,” Zita knew he wasn’t lying about that, the roads of Fable were notoriously dangerous. She glared at him.

“I’ll be fine,” She said stubbornly.

The corner of Kivviens mouth quirked up in a smirk, “I’m sure you will be,” He said without irony, “But you’re unarmed, and with that shirt,” He gestured to the bright yellow store uniform, “you’ll practically be a walking target.”

Zita considered him. There was no way she was letting him touch her wings, she’d had enough of that, but he was right about his other points. She needed a change of clothes and some shelter or a weapon.

“Here,” Kivvien said before she could respond. He reached around his neck and unclasped a necklace. When he brought it out of his coat, it was revealed to be an iron pendant on the end of a leather cord, with runes glittering with magic around its edges, “Take this,” He offered it to her.

When she hesitated to come forward he tossed it to her. She grabbed it out of the air and examined it. She knew basic runes from her sibling’s lessons (her’s had been ripped to shreds and used for pyro-magic practice as soon as her sibling found it), so she was able to discern the basic meaning of the ones on the pendant. Protection, healing, luck. All things she desperately needed.

“How do I know you didn’t curse it so the runes work in reverse?” She asked.

“Because I’ve been wearing it,” Kivvien said simply, and then, after a pause, “Do you...are you alone?”

Zita was instantly alert, “No,” She lied, “I was just waiting for my family outside the store when I got chased here,”

He frowned, “I know somewhere you can go if you are lying,” He said hesitantly, “Just...just go to the inn between Sal and Thala called ‘Imani’s’ and ask for the owner, she’ll help you,” Zita didn’t respond. Kivvien gave a nod and vanished into the underbrush, somehow able to disappear even with the bright orange accents of his coat.

Zita considered following his instructions for a minute. If she was in Nonti, Sal was a day’s journey south, then it was at least five more days, on foot at least, to Thala. It was too far. She thought about this as she walked, more carefully than ever, to where she predicted the road would be. Without really thinking, she slipped the amulet over her head and tucked it into her shirt.

She had guessed correctly. The road stretched like a river of dust and dirt seemingly endlessly to her left and right. She glanced in either direction. There was only one road she could take, this one, the problem was, it was the same one she came to town on. Meaning there was a chance she could run into her former family. She glanced at the sky. The sun was lower now, certainly to the point where the others would want to go home, and even more certainly at the point where they would have noticed her absence. Right meant back to the city, left meant back to the farmhouse. No, in the direction of the farmhouse. By now Zita had learned how to spot an amateur illusion spell, the road outside their house was no dead end.

Zita turned left. She tried to move quickly, but her wings were a problem. Again. She groaned and yanked on a strand of her hair. The least they could be was useful! But no, Zita had to be the only fairy to not know how to fly, even with healed wings. Her anger flared at the thought of all the lengths the Strikers had gone to ensure she never learned. Clipping her wings when she was little. Breaking her bones when she was older, refusing to set them while they healed so they would be too disfigured for her to learn even when the bone had knit back together. They were ever so determined to keep her on the ground, and for what? Some stupid citizens check. More kids, more money, more skimming off the bare minimum.

But Zita was free from that now. She pushed it from her mind and focused on the future instead. Nope. That wasn’t any better. Where was she going? How was she supposed to know? She had planned the escape to the last detail but had failed to even give the events after a passing thought. Her eyes scanned the trees on either side of her.

Thin, eerie shadows stretched onto the road like the claws of the monsters they tell you about in campfire stories. She felt a chill creep up her back as she felt the nonexistent eyes of the creatures in the trees on her back. Or maybe they weren’t so imaginary, she thought as she watched the occasional flash of nocturnal eyes flash and vanish. She stayed in the quickly shrinking sliver of light.

Zita rounded a bend and heard the sounds of talking and laughter. As she came around she saw the flicker of flame and the silhouettes of wagons and people. Zita wasn’t sure whether to sigh in relief or turn around and start running. The decision was made for her, however, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She yelp and whirled around.

The girl behind her giggled into her gloved hand, “Sorry,” She said, tucking a strand of caramel hair behind her ear, “didn’t mean to startle you,”

Zita backed away from her a step, “I-um- it’s okay?”

The stranger stuck out her hand, “I’m Emily,” She said, flashing a grin.

Zita took it hesitantly, “Zita…”

“Well, Zita,” The stranger, Emily, said taking off her overlarge sunhat and giving a flourishing bow, “My fellow nomads and I have an extra spot by the campfire if you would like to join us,”

Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was the sincerity in Emily’s eyes, but Zita nodded and allowed the nomad to lead her to the camp just off the road. When they got there, almost everyone there turned to look at them. Zita felt her face heat up. Emily, however, did not seem to feel the same.

She gave another dramatic bow, this time leaving the hat on and sweeping her sleeved arms toward Zita, “This,” She paused for dramatic effect, “is Zita,” the camp erupted in cheers. Zita felt the burning desire to dig herself a hole and curl up in it. Forever.

The campers soon lost interest in her and went back to their previous conversations. Emily led Zita to a spot near the edge of the fire, a distance away from the others. Zita gave Emily a questioning look. Emily responded with a small smile, “You looked uncomfortable,” she explained and sat down on a log, tucking her bright red cloak under her.

“Thanks.” Zita joined her on the log. There was a moment of silence, filled by the laughter of the nomads and the sound of a set of bongos someone had started playing on the other side of camp. Zita’s nerves jittered. Her leg bounced uncontrollably and her eyes swiveled around to the road every few seconds. I can’t let them find me.

“You can spend the night if you want,” Emily said, leaning over to catch Zita’s eyes.

“Mhm,” Zita mumbled, still watching the road, “Uh, what?” She processed the statement and turned to Emily. She hadn’t considered that, for some reason.

The vampire looked amused, “Yeah, there’s some space in my tent.” She gestured to the rows of tents further into the forest, “It’s yours if you want it.”

Zita considered it. She could smell meat roasting over the fire, and the main group had started singing folk songs. Zita couldn’t help smiling one night would be fine, “Yeah, just for tonight.”

Emily grinned, “Well then, I don’t care if you’re hungry or not, you’re eating.” She hopped to her feet and helped Zita up, “Let us go,” She said in her seemingly patented over-the-top accent. Zita smiled and shook her head as she joined the main crowd.

As soon as she sat down a plate was thrust into Zita’s hands and a moment later someone passed her a dish of mystery meat. No sooner had she passed on the meat dish than another, this one piled high with mashed potatoes, was dropped into her lap. Emily seemed endlessly amused by how overwhelmed Zita was by it all. Zita scowled at her as she giggled when her bright yellow shirt had been stained with some kind of sauce. Emily only laughed harder.

As the meal went on in all its chaotic glory, Zita slowly loosened up. Eventually, she was laughing and chatting along with everyone else, reveling in the openness of the whole group. Anyone who walked in just then would have thought she had spent years with these people when really, she didn’t really know any of their names.

Too soon, the meal came to an end. Emily took Zita by the hand and led her to a tent on the outskirts of the rows. She pulled back the flap and let Zita in first. Emily was right, there was plenty of room for two people. The ground was padded with layers upon layers of randomly selected blankets and the tent was rimmed with pillows. Zita crawled in and lay down on one side, squeezing into the wall as much as she could without hurting her wings. She’d had enough of that today.

Emily followed after and practically dove in and burrowed under the covers, “G’night,” She said sleepily. Soon enough, Emily was asleep. Zita couldn’t tell from her breathing, because, of course, she didn’t breathe. But she had gone entirely still and stopped digging herself as far as possible under the covers. 

Zita tried to pull a blanket on top of her but hissed in pain the moment it touched her wings. She moved to her side and spread one wing on top of her, painstakingly slowly, but it worked just fine. She fell asleep hours later to the sound of crickets and the little songs of the Timvora fairies.