Lost Destinies

↳ 06: For Better Or For Worse

The man Sicilienne had no name for yet leaned forward onto his ruby-encrusted scythe, a question hovering on his lips.

"Goldi—"

"Do you want to die?"

"Aurele, my sincerest apologies." So that was Goldilocks's name; Aurele. The young man's hazel eyes—swirling with blue like the untamed ocean that perhaps lived inside him—flickered with something mischievous, the edge of his mouth twitching slightly upward. "So sensitive."

Aurele's response was biting and instinctual. "Not as sensitive as your balls, Radiata. Want to find out just how much damage I can do to them?"

His expression shifted within a millisecond. "Do you want to see what a scythe can do to your pretty face?" he hissed.

"We don't have time for arguments or anything worse today," the Sandman interrupted calmly, stepping between them to lay a detailed map of Snow Castle across the tree stump. "Everything must go perfectly as planned, which means we need to work as a unified, well-oiled machine." He looked at each and every one of them in turn. "Today will be the start of your redemption. Fate never ran smooth. But freedom is your path to paint..."

"Ridiculous," the Writer mumbled, tearing at his hair again. He gestured to Sicilienne with his cane. "Sicilee, come. We have to get to the palace before they do." Sandman's continued speech and the rest of the meeting faded away as the two of them trudged back the way they came, headed for the looming structure of luxury and beauty that was visible all the way from the forest. Although the Writer was crippled somewhat, Sicilienne had to jog a little to keep up with him. She suspected his emotional turmoil was pushing all else, including physical pain, from his mind. She had asked before what happened to his leg. He'd answered vaguely that his youth was filled with many an ill-advised adventure. Sicilienne had always wanted to go on an adventure, somewhere deep down in her curious soul.

Perhaps one had found her.

"We will exhaust ourselves considerably walking all that way," she said hesitantly, squinting up at the palace. The Writer paused and turned to her, offering his hand.

"We don't have to walk." The twinkle in his eye she knew meant he had found a learning opportunity. "Simply concentrate on when and where you want to go. Time and distance are irrelevant in memories."

Sicilienne worried her bottom lip. "You think I can do it?" She wasn't much good with magic, even her own. The Writer had told her he would ease her into the abilities he intended to pass on, but self-consciousness always overtook her when those times did come.

"You're plenty good with magic for your age," he assured her. "Go on. All you have to do is picture yourself in whatever situation you'd like to be and you'll be there. Think of it like a dream."

So, hesitantly, she did. In a blink of an eye, they were at the palace gates, and some time must have passed because the first thing that caught her attention was the girl Piper leaping from tree to tree like some kind of silent wood fairy. Sicilienne didn't have time to be proud of herself, and instead watched, mesmerized, as she made her way quick as a thistle to the foot of one of the four watchtowers that surrounded each main wing of the castle, hooking her feet through a vine and beginning to make a treacherously long climb. She had angled herself so carefully that none of the numerous guards posted outside could catch her in their sights, and she was so small that no one in the watchtower was very likely to notice her.

"She's going to hypnotize the guards," the Writer mused. He flicked his fingers in the air, and time sped ahead, slowing to normal again once Piper had reached the top. There was immediately a loud commotion as the guards stationed in the tower confronted the stranger, but Piper was quick to silence them, only needing to lift her little golden flute to her lips. A wonderful tune played, dancing across the air and reaching outward toward the guards down below, making everyone freeze. As a flutist herself, even Sicilienne had to respect her musical talent—criminal or not. Then the Pied Piper placed her instrument in her teeth, swung out of the tower room to the rim circling around it, balancing on the edge and gripping protruding rock with sure fingers. From her belt she uncoiled a rope and hook, tossing it towards the palace roof some ways away, and clambered onto it like a koala, hanging upside down and inching to her destination with quick hand movements. Sicilienne couldn't feel anything except for impressed. Once she was no longer hanging precariously in the air, she settled onto her perch on the roof and began to play again—this time, some kind of vibrant pop song.