Aquila

My vision is red. I can smell the ocean swirling around me. I’m close to it, closer than I have been in weeks. When my eyelids open the redness disappears, replaced with the searing light of the sun through a small rectangular window. A beam of light, so strong it looks tangible, lands on my face. Dust motes swirl through the rays like fish in the ocean. My fingers are moving before my mind catches up. They swipe through the beam and the dust motes dance away like fairies. My body is still stiff, my muscles still carrying the tension of my new location – of my recent actions. But the pain has dulled. My heart is still beating. I’m still breathing. So is someone else. I look to my right, where Axion sits on a wooden stool against the far wall. He appears relaxed but experience tells me to look closer. His muscles are tensed, his skin taut over the defined ridges. He’s not as slight as he looked next to Clyst. His jaw is clenched, his eyes intense. He’s still watching me. Guarding me? My hand moves reflexively, not expecting them to have left me armed. But my dagger’s still there. The discovery makes me sit up, too quickly, and the world spins dangerously until my blood pressure stabilises. Why would they leave me armed? The arrow is still in my thigh. I sigh at the sight of it. I whisper, “I’m still alive,” to convince myself more than anything. “For now.” Axion’s voice is as tight as his body. He’s still swathed in black but his face is clean of the war paint. He looks even more familiar. I stare stupefied. “Why? You saw me kill.” A lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow my pooling saliva. I can feel the moisture in my eyes. I bite my lip to keep from crying. I must be emotionally wrecked. How embarrassing, to cry in front of your enemy. Axion doesn’t answer. He stands lithely and walks over. He’s still armed too. I can see his sword at his hip, below his cloak. He lifts me easily, and I let him. My feet feel cold and damp. I think they’ve been washed, which is a little disturbing. I attempt a glance at them as he carries me from the room, along the corridor which leads to a larger courtyard. Someone’s definitely tended to them, and applied some kind of balm. I’m not ungrateful, just freaked out. We emerge quietly, but the few dragone outside turn to stare. We both ignore them. A fountain bubbles in the middle of the courtyard. I watch the cascading water intently as we pass. The sun glistens on the surface, making it look more precious than diamonds. Perhaps it is. The sun has moved in the sky. I’ve slept, that much is obvious. I don’t know how long: hours, days, weeks. Time has lost meaning. The next door is wider, big enough for two. Inside is a foyer: white walls, green tiled floor, wooden desk, wicker furniture, and my mother, sucking from a cocktail glass with a proud paper umbrella. She’s wearing a bathing suit and sarong. Her eyes are glazed and unfocused. She’s high again. “You drugged her,” I accuse the jawline of Axion. “We had to, she watched her daughter kill a man. She was uncontrollable.” He doesn’t glance at me as he sets me down in a wicker armchair opposite the tanned form of my mother. She smiles when she sees me. I smile back. Huh, maybe they drugged me too. Brue bounces in then, before I can ask if the reason I’m sitting here compliantly is because I’m tripping or because I’ve lost my mind. I smile at him too. “Aq-ua!” my mother’s shocked voice stutters. “What are you wearing?” I almost laugh. She’s not worried about the metal shaft still in my leg. She’s worried about my outfit. I’ve changed since she disappeared, literally. I now wear the uniform of the Guard. Very different to the loose fitting sweaters and jeans she’s used too. I’m now in skin tight black leather and steel armour – although I’m severely lacking in the armour department right now. I give a tight smile. “I’ve got a lot to tell you, if I get the chance.” “Have you seen the pool?” she asks, her shock forgotten. I roll my eyes. I look at Brue then. He’s leaning casually against the desk with a dark black bruise covering the right side of his torso. I gasp. He also has a yellowing bruise on his stomach, one I inflicted. “Brue.” I can’t speak. His name is barely audible. He walks over anyway, not an ounce of fear in him. I grab for the bag on my belt. There is no pain syrup left; I used that in the cage. I have half a vial of heal aid, the other half already used to help Brue’s stomach. I hand him the vial, my last one. “Drink this, it’s for healing.” He turns his nose up. “No way, angel poison won’t work on me.” I laugh despite myself. Brue is a force of nature. “It already has, on your stomach. Take it Brue, please.” His hands shoot to the bruise on his stomach. He frowns at me fiercely. “You gave me that stuff in the cage?!” “Yes and pain syrup, this is all I have left. Take it.” I force the vial into his reluctant fingers. What use is me having it now anyway? Half a vial won’t do me much good. “Why?” he asks. I shrug. “To make you better.” “Why did you give it to me?” he asks more sharply. “Same answer as before.” “Why?” he barks. I frown at his question. “So you weren’t hurting, so you’ll get better faster. Why not, Brue?”