Volume I: Forged

Chapter 4: First Comes the Sun, Gleaming like Gold

He didn't know how long he had been running.

He didn't care.

Get away, get away, get away—

He dodged the people in the street, ignoring their griping and complaining when he ran into them. His arms pulsed with phantom pains that lanced up to his shoulders every time he touched something.

Get away, get away, get away—

He was scared—he had never been this scared in all his life.

But he was free.

He dodged into an alley and collapsed into the far back corner, behind the garbage bins and some cardboard boxes.

He tried desperately not to hyperventilate; that would only make him sick with the smell of rotted garbage permeating everything.

He laid his head back against the rough brick wall, forcing himself to relax. He needed to relax, calm down. He was useless to himself if he didn't get his own brain under control.

Get away, get away, get away—

His stomach stabbed at him, annoyed at being jostled after being ignored for so long. He couldn't remember the last time he had been given food. It was a wonder he hadn't passed out from sheer starvation at this point.

I don't have time to cry.

That didn't stop the tears from burning the corners of his eyes.

Angrily, he brushed them away and stood, shaky knees barely taking his weight, the cold cement bruising his bare feet.

I don't have time for this.

Get away, get away, get away—

...

Phil worriedly brushed his palm over Wilbur's forehead. The pale child whimpered and leaned into his touch with the desperation of a kid that wholeheartedly believes that no matter what is wrong, the parent can fix it.

" 'S hot," Wilbur murmured, voice slogged with mucus and exhaustion. His sweat had practically soaked through the sheets and sopped his pajamas. The smell of sickness hung heavily in the air, sour and thick.

The boy's wings, dapple grey with and covered in soft black down, had appeared only the week before. Phil's joy of having his son, his baby, take after him had been marred by his child descending into sickness that wracked the tiny frame and rattled the thin chest.

To say Phil was worried for his little boy would be an understatement of the century.

"Kristin?"

His wife's footsteps came up the creaky stairs slowly, then into the room. Her dark hair was frazzled and messy, face drawn and concerned. She hadn't changed her shirt in three days, and her hands had started wringing constantly.

"He's gonna need a potion," Phil sighed, dragging a hand through his own mussed hair and over his unshaved face.

Neither he nor his wife had been sleeping since Wilbur had gotten sick. The boy's wet hacks were almost constant—it sounded like he was trying to cough his lungs out.

Kristin bit her lip and joined him at the tiny avian's bedside. The boy responded to hearing his mother by reaching for her with pale, clammy hands.

Kristin pulled her baby into her arms and exhaled shakily. The sweat-saturated baby-wings hung limply and the boy coughed weakly as he snuggled his feverish forehead into Kristin's neck, smearing snot everywhere.