Chapter Text
Note: It is recommended that you read The Secrets We Hide from the Dark before reading this story. Otherwise, at times, you will have little to no idea what the main character is talking about. Also, for all those who are wondering, Sgian/Sgianthar is pronounced SKEE-an/SKEE-an-thar.
I’m at my old house. My childhood home. The house I used to live in. With my family. It’s the house in which they were murdered.
He’s alive .
The creature who killed Evalin and Michael still breathes. It’s suffocating, knowing that I was so close, and yet so far. If I hadn’t lost precious seconds to my flashback, maybe he’d be dead. If my signet had manifested earlier, maybe he’d be dead. If I hadn’t slowed the whole squad down, maybe he’d be dead.
“Hello, little Riorson. I’ve been looking for you.” he had said. He said it to instill fear. He said it to bring back bad memories.
I’ll be looking for you, too .
“It’s not your fault, you know,” Sgian says. Her pathetic attempt at comforting me. “What’s past is past. You can’t change it,”
“But what I can change,” I say, walking away from Sgian’s comforting shadow and into the foreign shadow of the house, “Is that future,”
I walk around the house, trailing my fingertips millimeters away from the walls of the house. The wood is rotten and worn away by rain and wind, though it still manages to hide the dark events that happened here.
I round the corner and find a large hole in the wall. Peering through it, I see that the inside of the house is covered with dust and cobwebs. Not surprising. What I do find surprising is the fact that there are no bones. They’re gone. There’s nothing for me to bury. Nothing for me to sing to. The other villagers must have come and buried them. Brave of them.
We weren’t the center of town, but we were well known. I remember walking through the town, holding my mother’s hand while she carried Michael with her other arm. The townspeople would greet us and fawn over Michael, complimenting us on how he was a cute, healthy baby. I could tell that they all loved Evalin.
I don’t really remember all of this. The only reason I know is because Sgian managed to dig it up. It appears that dragons can do things in the minds of riders that they themselves can’t.
“I’m going into town,” I tell Sgian. “I’m going to ask where they buried their remains,”
“I’m coming with,” Sgian replies, getting up from where she was lying, smacking into countless trees.
“Oh, no you’re not,” I say. My dragon is nuts. Going into a town? Not only is she going to scare the sheet out of everyone, but she’s also going to leave a path of destruction.
“But what if you get attacked?” Sgian asks. “And don’t you dare use your signet as an excuse. It’s only manifested for two days which is not enough time for you to have control over it.”
“No one is going to kill me,” I say, exasperated. Sgian has become overprotective recently, possibly from the nightmares I’ve been having.
In my nightmares, I watch my mother and brother die. Over. And over. And over. And each time the moment replays, everything becomes more vivid. I can see the specks of blood. I can see wrinkles in my mother’s nightgown. I can see each individual scarlet vein on the face of The Sage.
“I’m going to walk to the edge of town. If someone so much as lifts a finger in the wrong direction, I’m smoking the whole town,”
“No, you’re not,” I snap. “You’re going to the edge of town, hidden and out of sight. I’m going to ask where they buried my mother and brother, go there, and then we’re leaving.”
“Fine,” Sgian grumbles. “But I still like my plan better,”
I start walking in the direction of the town, letting the almost non-existent muscle memory guide me, not looking back to see if Sgian is following. “Actually, that wasn’t my plan. That was an in-between plan. My plan was to have you stay right where you were,”
Sgian doesn’t respond, but I hear or rather, feel her take a step. It shakes the ground and I’m surprised that my old house hasn’t collapsed yet. Eventually, a dirt path emerges, winding its way between the trees. And then it gives way to a patch of ground. I stop.
It’s my mental grounding place.
I forgot that it was on the way to town. Flowers are starting to bloom, filling the entire circle as there aren’t any children to pick them. The beautiful white flowers seem so happy, not at all sad that one of its playfellows was brutally murdered. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, going to my mental grounding place. I place my mental hands on the ground, willing flowers to grow. But instead of the white flowers I wanted, red flowers start to bloom. Red. Red, the color of blood. Red, the color of the veins on the unnatural face of The Sage.
“Kathleen,” Sgian warns. “Snap out of it,”
I open my eyes and look at the flowers one last time, soaking it in. I might never see this place again. I walk through the beautiful white sea, letting my hands hover over the surface. After two more minutes of walking, I see the first house of many. It looks different, not at all like the ones I remember. It’s also closer to the woods than before. I guess a lot can change in fourteen years.
I walk out of the woods and step onto the stone path, looking for someone that I recognize. Looking for someone who would recognize me.
“Hello?” I ask, walking around. There are a lot more people, hustling and bustling. “Does anyone here know someone named Evalin?”
At first, no one answers or moves. And then at least a third of the people who had their backs facing me turn around.
“Who are you?” One of them asks, narrowing their eyes at me.
“We do not speak of her,” another says, fear in their voice.
Okay. Guess a lot of people here know Evalin.
“I,” I start, but looking at all the staring faces, I feel my courage start to wane. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Keep going,” Sgian encourages. “You have nothing to fear,”
“I’m her,” I say again, but then stop. I can’t. It hurts too much. “I’m her daughter,” I choke out, hoping that no one notices.
A few people in the crowd gasp, and an old woman steps out.
“Kathy?” she asks, tilting her head from what I assume is wonder. “I don’t believe it,” she says, tears streaming down her face. “Kathleen,” she sobs, walking over and wrapping her arms around me. It’s…
“Milda,” I breathe. “Milda, oh Milda,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. She often came to our house to watch Michael and I.
“I thought you were dead,” she continues to sob. “We thought you were dead,” she looks up at me with a tear-stained face. “I’m so sorry about Evalin and dear little Michael,”
I look away, at anywhere but Milda’s face.
“Me too,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
“Do you want a cup of tea? Do you want to talk about it?” Milda asks, removing her arms to put them on my shoulders. “I’m not sure that I can talk about it, but anything you need,”
“I’d love a cup of tea,” I reply, managing a slight smile. Milda makes amazing tea.
“Come,” she says, taking my hand. “I suppose we have a lot to catch up on,”
Yes, we do. And if anyone knows where my family is buried, it’d be Milda.