Rising Ch.4

Methaniel fell silent for a moment, nodding to himself before turning his eyes back to the girl. “We held as long as we could. Many died. Many Naemer fell, too. We retreated into the inner most ring of defenses and fought with all the passion and strength we could muster as the Naemerians came. 

“I took a deep slash across my chest…” here his hand came to briefly touch the area where his scar would be, “But I was too far into the rage and heat of battle to let it stop me. Your brothers… they swear I fought as a demon that day, but I believe we all did. I just knew that if I fell, more of my men would die.

“We thought ourselves finished. Of the eight hundred men stationed at Fort Balor, just over fifty survived. Just when we knew our deaths had come, reinforcements broke through the enemy surrounding the fort and routed them.”

Ahma’s heart pounded at the tale, her attention drawn by the emotion and memories heavy in her Master’s voice.

“Those who survived swore fealty to me and vowed they would not serve under any command but mine. Your brothers were foremost of those supporters. I took up the reins of command, and new soldiers were distributed to me. Those who were with me at Fort Balor hold my highest regard, and your brothers are my closest advisors.”

“So they are well, then?” Ahma asked anxiously.

Methaniel nodded, his eyes holding hers closely. “Do not fret, Ahma, I know how you wish to see them. I will send them on extended leave as soon as I return to the front. I would have allowed them to return with me, but I needed someone I could depend on to watch things in my absence.”

Ahma bent down to rub Nemia’s neck. “I’m glad they do so well for themselves. They make me proud.”

“Surely you knew all this, though?” Methaniel asked, his brow furrowing with confusion. “I know for a fact that they write you often.”

“Well, yes. They do,” Ahma said haltingly. She sighed softly. “Once the Steward began running the house, he had any letters sent to me thrown in the fire pit.”

A dark cloud passed over Methaniel’s face. His bright eyes danced dangerously. Ahma shivered. She hoped he never had reason to turn such displeasure on her.

“Unforgivable. I should have had him flogged before sending him away.”

“You sent him away?”

“Indeed.”

Ahma suppressed the urge to clap her hands in delight. “I’m glad,” she confessed. “I’m sure he would have gone back to abusing us all once you left for the front again.”

Methaniel shook his head, his scowl fading somewhat. “I think not. I would not allow such a person to remain in my household. I will find a new Steward and be sure the position is well filled this time. I will not abandon my people to such cruelty again.”

Ahma gazed silently at him for several moments. Nemia shifted underneath her. She caressed the mare’s mane soothingly, her eyes never leaving Methaniel. His eyes glowed with agitation and his face still held traces of a scowl. He was so very big, his body packed with muscle, though he moved with a noble grace and agility that bellied his size. He was intimidating to be sure. Even now, she found him to be so. But his heart was that of his father, which was to say, not that of a nobleman. Warmth radiated from his rare smile, and his every action seemed dictated by conscious and justice.

“You are a very kind man, Master,” Ahma said softly. “I didn’t think I would be happy to serve anyone after your father passed. I was wrong.”

His smile peaked, erasing all sign of displeasure from his face. “I try to do the best for my people.”

The wind gusted up, blowing through the naked trees behind them. It pulled at the heavy braid of Ahma’s hair. She shivered and pulled her wings tighter against her body and snuggled into the folds of her cloak.

“We should head back,” the Master sighed. “The day wanes and it feels like the night will bring the cold in all over again. We’d best be back inside the city walls before dusk.”

Ahma nodded and took the reins up in hand. Both gazed at the view upon the ridge for one last moment before Methaniel led them back through the quiet woods.

***

It was full dark by the time they arrived back at the Manor. Ahma was quite sore after dismounting Nemia. So long away from the saddle had taken it’s toll on her, it seemed. Still, she enjoyed it thoroughly. She unsaddled the mare and brushed her down, clicking and murmuring affectionately to her all the while. She fed her another handful of oats for being so cooperative and amiable during their ride, then turned her care over to the stable hand and followed Methaniel back to the Manor.

As soon as they entered she changed from her soft riding boots into her more comfortable servant slippers. Methaniel turned to speak with a servant for a moment. Ahma’s heart felt warm. It surprised her. It was the first time she had felt anything but sorrow and despair since the Master’s father passed. She smiled softly as she glanced over at Methaniel, considering him.

The two men looked little alike. Where Methaniel was a massive, muscular man of such height it made her dizzy, his father had an almost diminutive stature and little physical presence. Methaniel had a closed, reserved way of handling himself, always keeping his expression neutral and unreadable, while his father had seldom been seen without a wry grin on his face or boisterous laughter at his lips. The differences were such that Ahma wondered what kind of a woman Methaniel’s mother had been, that he contrasted his father so sharply in appearance and mannerisms.

But for all that the two men were different, the son resembled the father perfectly in matters of the heart. Both men had kind, warm, rich hearts. They adhered to a conduct of honor and generosity that was unheard of in either noble or commoner. They treated all with respect and kindness, regardless of their place in society. They both had strong convictions of justice and proper conduct.

The fond smile faded from Ahma’s soft lips. Soon, Methaniel would have to return once more to battle. It wasn’t fair, she thought. Whether the new Steward was a worthy and kind person or not, life would be lessened with him gone. His presence made the entire estate alive, just as his fathers presence had. The Wingling girl hoped he would stay for a few weeks, at least. Or perhaps, if he did not find another attendant, she could go with him to the front to see her brothers.

And, part of her admitted, to be with him. Methaniel was foreboding at first, but he had a humane and warm side once she saw past the gruffness of a military man. He was pleasant and enjoyable to spend time with. He also took care of himself rather than let an attendant or servant do every little thing for him. It showed a level of self-reliance that she found shocking in a nobleman.

Methaniel bid the servant a good evening and slid the cloak from his shoulders. He hung it on a sturdy wooden peg beside the door and then nodded to Ahma.

“Sorry about that,” said he.

“Not at all, my Lord,” Ahma smiled. She felt a yawn coming on and suppressed it, instead stretching a bit and blinking several times.

“You look tired,” he commented.

“I’m fine, Master Methaniel,” she replied despite the tug of weariness. She felt a tingle of sweat around her collar and the base of her wings.

The Master made to reply, but before he could speak a short young lad marched to him, a prominent look of apprehension creasing his face.

“M…m’Lord…I have news. Urgent news,” The youth stuttered.

Methaniel glanced at the young man, his face expressionless. “Can it wait?” He asked.

The young man swallowed heavily. Methaniel noted the sallow palor of his face. 
“No m’Lord”

Methaniel nodded and let out a soft sigh.

“Take an hour to clean up and relax,” he said to Ahma. “Then join me in my quarters.”

“Yes, Master Methaniel,” she replied. She curtsied and watched as Methaniel led the youth into the dining room.

Ahma returned to the servants quarters and spent some time brushing and re-braiding her hair. The tresses curled from the tight mesh of her daily braid, even after she brushed them. Her hair fell easily back into shape as she braided it back up.

Once she finished her hair, Ahma unlaced her bodice and removed the front of her dress. She grabbed a small rag and toweled off her neck and chest. Despite the chill, the exertion from the ride and day outside had left a light sheen of sweat upon her. She cleaned the droplets of sweat from her heavy breasts, wiping the undersides of them where extra sweat collected. She shivered as a draft blew through a crack in the wall and played across the beads of wetness on her bosom. She ignored the pleasant sensation as her soft pink nipples began to harden. She hadn’t had time for pleasure in some time. Still, now was not a time for such things either. She pulled her dress and bodice back in place. She glanced over her wings, pleased with how well the underside of them had taken on the pale blue so well. She arranged and preened a few feathers into place before deciding they looked properly presentable. 

Nearly an hour passed before Ahma headed to the Master’s room. She paused to admire the Dragon upon the door, appreciating the elegant and powerful form and the considerable skill of whoever crafted the image. She noted that Master Methaniel had left the door slightly ajar. Taking it as a sign for her to come in, she entered and shut the door behind her.

A dinner was placed on the table much like the night before, and the heart was again lit and crackling. Methaniel sat in a chair by the window, gazing into the dark night. The cheer of the afternoon was gone.

Whatever the messenger told him was bad news judging by the set of his posture. Ahma thought it must be about the war, or perhaps the attack yesterday morning. Still glancing at Master Methaniel, Ahma began to lay out the dishes and utensils upon the table.

“Master, are you ready to eat?” She asked after she finished and he still hadn’t acknowledged her.

Methaniel jumped and noticed her for the first time. He glanced back out the window, then rose, stretching his legs as he nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Ahma, I hadn’t noticed you come in. Has it been an hour already?”

“More than an hour,” she replied honestly.

Methaniel motioned for her to sit across from him as she had the other night. Ahma took her seat and he served them both. Their meal was taken in silence, but it was not the easy and comfortable meal it had been last night. Something clearly troubled Methaniel. 

“Did you enjoy the ride today, my Lord?” Ahma asked when she could stand the tension no more.

“It was pleasant, yes,” Methaniel said. His eyes did not meet hers.

“Master? I was wondering about something,” She said after another long pause. “How did you know which dye to purchase? My wings…this shade…I’ve been fond of it for a long time. I wore it often when I was younger. I know feather dye isn’t very common, but…it seems strange that you would know.” She was grasping at straws, anything she could think of to break the silence that felt suffocating and dangerous all the sudden.

Methaniel’s gaze shifted to the hearth. “Azure tail drops. A rare dye, even in such a prominent market as Durinum. Your…”

His words faltered, he swallowed hard. A muscle in his cheek jerked. His eyes went suddenly cold.

“Your brothers told me of their little sister and her love for the dye.”

Ahma’s heart lifted and her wings fluttered softly. Her smile was bright and wide. “They speak of me! I am glad. I had hoped they wouldn’t forget me too much.“

The Wingling girl’s smile died on her face as the Master turned empty eyes upon her.

“What is it? Something…to do with my brothers?” Ahma’s voice quavered slightly.

Methaniel stood slowly and walked to her. He towered over her. She craned her head back to gaze at him, her eyes begging him to tell her all was well. Her mouth went dry as he laid a massive hand on her shoulder. It nearly covered her shoulder entirely. She began to tremble.

“I…I am sorry, Ahma. The messenger that came…he gave me a report. My unit has been wiped out. Slaughtered. To the man. They took no prisoners. And your brothers…no one escaped.”

Ahma was frozen to her core. All the world disappeared before her. Her brothers were dead? How? How could that be? She knew they were always at risk, of course. They had served in the military since the three of them had arrived in the royal capitol when she was but a young girl. But they had remained alive and well for eleven long years, a span of time almost unheard of in such an intense war. To have them pass after all this time, both of them, was unreal.

Now she was alone. Her brothers would no longer write or visit her. Just like her parents, they were gone. The very last link to her old life was erased.

She choked down the food half chewed in her mouth. Her hands became cold and her vision swirled. Methaniel held her steady, but she felt her body shaking more violently than before.

“Their bodies will be coming into the city within a week. You may claim them, of course. I’ll pay for a proper burial, with full rights and honors to them,” Methaniel told her softly.

She shook her head, wordless. His offer was kind, but not needed. The Winged folk did not go back to the earth, but to the sky.

Methaniel watched her closely. Her eyes had glazed over, her entire mind shut down. He would need to take her back to her quarters. Looking at her, at the numb insensibility plain in her features, he decided to give her some time to collect herself.

Time passed, moments bending uneasily into what seemed to be an eternity. Ahma sat and continued to tremble. Her eyes shone brightly as she gazed into space. Three tears slid down her flawless cheeks. No sobs or wailing came. She was too heart broken and stunned for them. 

Just as Methaniel was about to collect her, he caught a whiff of something upon the air. He hesitated, inhaling through his nostrils.

Smoke?

A scream ripped through the hushed night, followed by a sharp crash and the sounds of a violent scuffle. A second agonized cry, then a third.

“No,” Methaniel whispered, releasing Ahma’s shoulders and rushing out into the halls. The haunting sounds of violence and death filtered into the room through the open door. A heavy, choking cloak of smoke drifting in thick puffs filled the room. 

Ahma froze anew when she heard the smoldering crackle of spreading flames licking close and closer through the house.

The Wingling girl scrambled back, falling out her chair and onto her backside. Her brown eyes slid up to the ceiling, to the tell-tale orange glow. Before her horrified gaze the flames began to swallow and spread through the ceiling, violently chewing through the wooden roof. Their shifting, undulating forms crept along the ceiling.

The Master leapt into the room, his eyes quickly darting about, ablaze with their own inner flame. His wool shirt was ripped and an ugly cut bled at his side, spreading a trail of red down his flesh. A dagger was grasped in his left hand, bloodied and nicked from where it had scraped bone.

He spun and slammed the door shut, bolting it firmly. He grabbed a chair and shoved it firmly under the door handle, jamming it into place, the only thing he could think to buy them precious time. 

As the flames spread and smoke began to slowly suffocate them, Methaniel rushed about the room and gathered things rapidly. He pulled on a new shirt after shoved a wad of cloth into his wounded side.

“We must leave now,” he spoke as he quickly shoved whatever he could find use for into his traveling bag. “I don’t have time to explain. All is lost if we are not gone, quickly.”

He shoved his heavy boots on and belted his sword to his waist while he snatched up his riding gloves and shoved them into his pack. He tossed in a bulging pouch of coins as well. His brow furrowed as he turned to the unmoving Wingling girl.

“Ahma?”

Ahma’s eyes darted around the room. She had a confused, scared look in her eyes, the look of a small, lost child.

In her mind, all Ahma could hear were the screams of her mother. Up until the soldiers lopped off her head, her mother had screamed, begging for mercy that never came. Ahma had stayed hidden in the feed shed until her brothers pulled her from the burning building. They dragged her from the flames and the death and the evil, horrible men. Fahl had one wing broken during the ordeal. Only later, when they returned to the charred remains of the small farmhouse that had been home to bid their final goodbye to their parents did they find how their mother’s death had come.

The Wingling’s had certain beliefs regarding death and the afterlife. When the soul left the body, it was said to ascend, rising to the heavens to serve Father Sky. A body without a head would never make the journey, however. The head was the guiding piece, and without it the way was lost. The soul wandered, aimless and blind, unable to see their way to heaven where Father Sky awaited his winged children. Without a head, their mother would be lost.

For one hundred days, amidst their mourning and heartache, Ahma and her brothers had prayed every night that their father’s departing soul could somehow find their mothers soul and guide her to the heavens. Sometimes, when two souls were joined so closely, one soul would not ascend without the other, and could guide a blinded soul. They had all prayed the love of a mate would be enough.

Ahma whimpered. She hated her mothers screams. They echoed in her ears clearly, deafening her. She wanted them to stop. She hated the way the smoke choked her and the flames licked slowly closer to her skin. The sight of the flames burning through the roof had drawn her firmly into her horrible past. Now her world was reduced to that horrible night, sitting in the burning shed as all she had ever known was brutally destroyed by sword and flame. Blackness closed in around her, but her ears remained open, filled only with her mother’s soul rending screams.

End Ch.4