Prison

But I know what lies beyond the Barrenlands. I know of the countless cities that exist beyond the wastes, free to trade in amongst themselves. It is a majestic country called Rowledd, filled with deep forests, snow-capped mountains and snaking rivers. I have to keep my city contained, however, for fear of contamination.

There was water and darkness all around Faulkner. It was cold, choking, painful, but so very welcome. So long as the coldness was affecting his face, he knew he could still feel. He wasn’t numb yet.

He lifted his head from the water basin, looking into the mirror at the eyes of a broken man. Water dripped from his face, as it fell from the heavens outside Ophelia’s window, seeming to reflect his emotions.

He was cold. Ice cold. But there he could find some comfort. If he was cold, he couldn’t feel guilty for his wife’s death. He couldn’t feel the confusion that would have corroded at his soul. So long as there was ice, he could not guess at what his wife had wanted to tell him. He had neither the strength nor the will to speculate. He was frozen in time, unaware of how many days had passed since her death. Life went on around him, but he stayed frozen in time, reliving the moment when the cold silver blade had thrust through his wife’s stomach, the fleeting warmth of her lips, and the scent from her hair which had been washed in lavender that very morning.

He felt touch his shoulder, the skin smooth and soft and warm. So, so very warm, as if a small, welcoming fire burned beneath this skin. He saw Ophelia’s quiet shape in the mirror, her black hair disappearing against the shadows that filled the room from the candle on the windowsill.

“Another nightmare?” she asked.

“Yes,” he lied. There were no nightmares. There never had been, for he hadn’t slept. Days blurred into the next, and every moment of that endless wakefulness was filled with the reminder of his wife’s murder. Her scream had sounded in his mind every moment before he drifted off, waking him, keeping him from rest. He kept his rifle locked away, refusing to look at it. There were still traces of Vindicator blood. Seeing that would surely unsettle his emotions.

“Perhaps you need a walk,” she said. “Get out of this…prison you’ve been in the last few days.”

“I suppose,” he replied, taking his coat from the floor, wrapping it around him. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said. Ophelia climbed back into bed and rolled over. Quietly, Faulkner approached her cupboard and from within took the rifle. Who knows, he thought. I might need it. He slung it over his shoulder, and left her room quietly.

He didn’t bother with an umbrella, instead hoping that the rain would do exactly as the water had been doing inside—keeping him from feeling numb.

Rain soaked his coat till it was a mighty weight over his shoulders, rivalling even the burden that held his heart so tightly. It was dark outside, despite the lamps, but he had the hearthflies to keep him company and that was enough. The warmth they let off dispelled very little of Faulkner’s pain, but at least they were kind enough to hover about him, watchful; caring.

“Thank you,” he whispered to them, and though they said nothing in reply, he could sense that they understood him, for they began to gather about him. What had originally been three became five and then seven, and before long, there were almost fifteen about him. Fifteen glowing flames, warding him, guiding him to wherever he needed to go. Every one of the hearthflies was slightly different to the next. There were three large ones, their wings almost a foot from tip-to-tip, while there were a handful of smaller ones, carrying cauldrons the size of thimbles, and every other size in between.

“I’ll never understand any of you,” Faulkner said quietly. “Even though it seems you all understand me.”

Down countless streets he wandered, silent, enjoying the pattering of the rain on nearby rooftops, ignorant to the fiends that stalked the shadows. For now, it was just he and the hearthflies.

His mind was also blank of thought as they traversed the empty streets. For the first time, in a very long while, his thoughts were a void. Silence. Blissful, wonderful, perfect silence.

But as he walked the streets, there were memories too.

One corner of the street was where he had first seen Harriet.

A restaurant he passed was where he had taken her when they had first starting courting.

And at that same restaurant had been where he had asked her for her hand in marriage.

He looked around at the hearthflies, their flight focused but careless. They were strangely friendly, for creatures that weren’t sentient. Perhaps they knew something.

“Do you know where I can go to help forget?” he asked. “There are too many memories here.”

It seemed the flies understood, for their flying became faster, more determined, as if they weren’t following…but guiding.

Faulkner stayed in the glow of the fires and the lamps in the street. Candles flicked in the windows he passed, but he didn’t notice them. Instead, he followed the hearthflies through the city, towards the east, until he came to one of the many bridges passing over the canals in Castore. He remembered the night only days before when he had been chased by a Vindicator and thrown off the edge, and how similar the tunnel was—but it wasn’t the same one.

He looked to the hearthflies, confused. They seemed to be indicating to the tunnel, as if they were telling him to go into the water. He looked downwards, noting the dark olive colour of the water.

“But there are fiends in there.”

As if one had understood, it fluttered to the surface, its flame bathing the waters with light, before it immersed itself.

Faulkner gasped.

Though both the flame and the hearthfly were beneath the water, neither seemed affected. The flame continued to burn and the hearthfly continued to fly, as if there were no water at all. It emerged completely dry, like it hadn’t been near the water at all.

“And you’ll all protect me?” he asked.

The movement from the hearthflies suggested a yes.

Faulkner shrugged. “Well so long as it takes me away from here.”

He took off his coat so that he was only in his shirt, trousers and boots. He took the boots off, though, for they were heavy when immersed in water. He clambered up onto the railing, looking about at the light of the streetlamps one last time.

“I’m sorry, Ophelia,” he whispered. “I just can’t stay here.”

And with that, he dived into the water, suddenly struck by the icy coldness.

Through the sounds of rushing water, he could hear the growls of aquatic fiends. There were groans from somewhere deep below in the frigid darkness, but he knew he needn’t worry. Within moments, the hearthflies were around him, their fires bright and warming, the strength of the light burning easily through the shadows.

His head bobbed above the water as he was pushed along by the current and into the tunnel. He took a breath in, wading so as not to sink beneath the surface once more.
Let’s see where they take me,he thought, as he floated down the canal into the darkness unknown.

*

Nataniel’s chest was burning as he stirred. For a moment, he thought he must have cut himself somewhere about there, but as his nerves roused into wakefulness, the heat seemed to grow.

Within moments it felt like a hot metal poker against his chest.

“Ah!” he roared, sitting up suddenly. His eyes burst open, vision blurry from being asleep so long. Through the haze he managed to see a dark shape against a grey plane, a bright, glowing light flickering beneath.

“Huh?” he murmured as the pain subsided.

It was a small hearthfly, its wingspan probably only eight inches, its cauldron of flame dancing brilliantly.

“What are you doing here?” he asked it as it stared at him, its dark eyes curiously watchful. There was obviously no response from the sprite, and yet it stayed close, moving about his head as though drawn to it, like a moon is drawn to a planet. It orbited Nataniel’s head a few times, and then stopped once more before him, head cocked, tail curled tightly around the cauldron of flame. The pulsing that came from the flame seemed close and warm—perhaps a side-effect of being so close to the hearthflies.

He went to pull open the front of his shirt to check for a burn, but paused. He wasn’t wearing the clothes he had been wearing before. He was wearing a kind of jumpsuit, grey in colour, with a zipper up the front. Quite surprisingly, though, there was no burn on the fabric. He unzipped the jumpsuit and noticed a red, circular mark on the left side of his chest from where the hearthfly had been resting.

“Now how did that happen?” he thought aloud.

Suddenly, everything came back to him, cascading into his mind in a jumble, like an overfull cupboard that had just been opened. His head spun as he remembered the tower, Ophelia and Faulkner climbing, the guards, the heat, the delirium that had ensued after something had been injected into his neck. Perhaps the head spin was an after effect of the sedation, though. He looked around him. He was sitting on a bed, smaller than what he was used to, but sufficient enough that his feet didn’t dangle over the edge. The sheets were heavy and rough, irritating his legs through the fabric of his clothes, and his feet uncomfortably warm from having socks on.

He turned to the side, setting his feet on the stone floor once he’d removed his socks. An almighty smell wafted upwards. To one side of the room, though, was a washbasin. He got out of bed, wandering over to the basin and hastily washed his face before soaking his feet in the icy water. As he did so, he looked out through the prison bars of his cell into his unfamiliar surroundings.

The prison room was a long hallway that stretched either way, lit softly by high light fixtures that weren’t entirely working. There were entrances on both sides of the hallway, neither of which had doors, but rather fire that bellowed from thin chasms in the rock.

Probably gas powered,he thought as he noticed the bluish tinge of the fire towards the floor.

The other cells across the hall were all full, but the prisoners were presently sleeping. Somewhere beyond these walls, it was night time…or early morning.

How long have I been asleep for?

The hearthfly was now hovering towards one corner of the room, keeping itself in the shadows.

“So…where am I,” he thought aloud.

“Prison,” hissed a voice from the cell beside him. He couldn’t see him, but the cell neighbour had a husky voice, as if he had not drank in a very long time. “So shut up and get some sleep.

“Sorry,” Nataniel whispered, as he returned to his bed. He pulled the blankets up but didn’t lie beneath them. He didn’t intend to sleep any time soon, so instead he stared at the ceiling, and the hearthfly that circled above him.