Harken

Chapter 6

He packed everything he could think of. Harken closed the small leather satchel, slinging it over his shoulder. A week had passed since his first dream with Jainko; every night her presence haunted his dreams and she floated behind him with every step. The only way to rid his conscience of her was to leave but that wasn't the only reason he had to go. Nekrah was planning something, a way to throw Harken away like a rag doll and secure his throne. And he needed to find that red man-boy anyway, so now was the perfect time to do so. Especially since he saw the hideout: a raggedy shack of corrugated metal in a hill, with armoured men outside. The man-boy had been inside, ringing his hands, cursing the angels hold on him. He knew he wasn't well liked by the man but Harken needed a trusted ally.
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Harken thrust open the decorative window, with its lily flowers and religious symbols, and let the birdsong seep in from outside. Sparrows swam through the sky, staring into his eyes and singing for salvation. They wanted him to be free again. Harken stepped over the windowsill, feeling his foot touch air and then the metal pipe below. He took another shuffle out, until he perched on the ledge with both feet on the drainpipe. He stood and swivelled, holding onto the metal shaft for dear life, shuffling down inch by inch. It felt like an eternity until he reached the bottom. His fur lined boots were damp from the dew collecting on the bluebells and crocuses around him but he paid no mind to their pitiful cries. He lurked round the corner of the grand palace, watching as a maid crossed the garden and then he crept to the next shady area he saw. It took him only a few minutes to reach the rose garden, where he had previously had a conversation with Nekrah. It was as bittersweet as ever; the roses added colour and scent, yet they were beginning to rot. He pushed through their mob, tilting his hair to glance at the top of the bordering wall. It was a couple metres tall, with faded red bricks lined with grey mortar. It was riddled with small holes and several engravings of hearts, forgotten romances and abandoned feeling littered the bottom. Harken took a deep breath and began to climb. His boots scuffed the brick as he scrambled to find purchase for his hands and any form of ledge for his feet. He hauled himself up, up, up ignoring the voices behind him. The sounds of alarm, anger, arming of the guards and a crazy tyrants scream of senseless threats. Harken climbed faster and cut his hands on the wall. The blood spurred him on, pricking his ambition of achieving some form of freedom. He stood his feet up on the top up of the wall, stood to his full height and glance back. Scared eyes stared up at him, full of the swirling storm of uncertainty. He jumped. It felt like forever.
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Alexiares perused the rows of poison in the rebellion apothecary. He knew that angel was a threat now. Escaping the palace was a crime, the dictator thought it such a great privilege, so he was destined to die. Maybe he would get him first: bash out his brains and feed it to his trusty wolves, turn his skin into a jacket or... make the real Alexiares watch. He'd turned his little army into monsters, and they've accepted the change. They all knew he was really the man's younger brother under the influence of a potion. But people prefer brutality to the righteousness of heroes.