WE BECOME THOUGHTLESS

thirty-three | nightmare made flesh

There he was. Standing on a precipice.

Alistair inhaled a long, shuddering breath and exhaled a plume of white fog. Ivar had arrived early in the morning and tossed a bag as big as his own torso across his cottage floor, only to promptly demand that he leave. Now he had it slung over his shoulder, standing atop a hill a fair way away, the village splayed out below him.

No matter how much he urged his feet to move, they didn't lift from where they were buried in the snow. His new boots were big and heavy, but it wasn't their fault that he couldn't simply walk away– it was his own stupid head, and the fact that Cole had weaselled his way into it.

He could see flashes of imagery when he closed his eyes, of gilded soldiers and balloon ships, the general congratulating him on being alive. And then of more and more advena, and his outstretched hands, and suddenly Alistair's lip was bleeding as he stood silhouetted against the cloud-white sky. He hadn't even realised he'd been biting it.

How could he possibly leave now? It had taken all of his courage to get to where he was standing now, hours of restless energy cooped up in its human confines, but would he really have the strength or mind to actually do it?

Alistair could still feel Cole's rough hands wandering over the map of his skin. Imagine what he would think when he discovered that he had left without saying anything, like some used thing, shrugged off like an old coat. The idea that all mindrenderers were manipulators would solidify in his mind, because that was what he must've done – manipulated him.

The sun was setting. He had to make a decision.

His fingers tightened their hold on the strap of his bag, and he had to manually breathe in and out in order to keep him from forgetting entirely, his chest too tight and his throat even tighter.

He should've known better, Alistair thought. Should've known better than to let his feelings get the better of him. That was what he had been prepping himself for, wasn't it? Ever since General Tobias had it drilled into him that the army wasn't the place for petty human emotions?

Obviously he hadn't prepared him well enough, because now he was pathetically attached, fighting against his better judgement, battling parts of him that would've been better buried.

What happened to that unfathomable optimism?

It was an impossible choice. And one that was abruptly made for him when he spotted the balloon ships descending from the sky, the Chrysosian flag waving in the wind like some terrible omen of death.

The screaming began soon after. From below, Alistair turned his head to see warriors scattering, children disappearing into their homes, and people beginning to draw swords. It was suddenly an entirely new experience, seeing it happen from the other end. Usually he would've been up there in the clouds with a craned neck, a settling of cold dread in the pit of his stomach and ten crackling fingertips.

He groaned, shrugged the bag off his shoulder and hurried down the hill's face.

The village was already buzzing with activity when he arrived. Alistair was careful to shadow his face beneath his hood, and dodged around moving warriors, already strapped from head to toe in leather armour. His heart gathered in his throat. He could already feel the battle in the air, like sparks, lighting on anything flammable enough to catch.

Alistair clamped his eyes shut and focused on his breathing. There was only one thing he needed to do, placed at the very top of his mind-made list – find Cole. Everything else was fog in the background.

The ships landed over the next hill, and soon a steady supply of Chrysosian soldiers were pouring in like blood from a breakage. The fight was starting.