The Way We Fall

Chapter 69 (Roche)

She came to consciousness in pieces, her memories floating by her in the dark cavern of unconsciousness.

"Xeosure."

Harold ducked beneath the invisible scythe she'd formed that could cut through skin and inkblood alike. It brushed over his head.

"Pity, you missed." Harold's ghostly voice brushed past her.

No, I didn't, Roche wanted to say.

She watched the sliced off hairs fall from his head, looping her inkblood around them and dragging them down with her as she fell.

Roche awoke, her ribs aching. She was still bound in chains, barely able to breathe. She bobbed up and down on the ice float her inkblood had made.

The hair. Where was the copy's hair? Roche twisted her head as much as she could. For a frantic moment, she feared that all of the delicate strands had been blown off the ice raft and into the endless, inky waters. Then she caught a glimpse of a thin brown clump wrapped in dark inkblood close to the edge of the raft.

Roche sighed in relief, falling back. So she had the hair, now she just had to get back to Verita and Leinos. She lifted her head, seeing nothing but open water all around her. Somewhere to the right she could see a faint rolling of fog. That must be where land was. It was very far away, and her little ice float was only drifting away from it.

The impact of hitting the ice seemed to have loosened the chains slightly, rubbing away at whatever incantation the Council had placed upon them. Roche briefly entertained the idea of smashing herself against her little ice float until the incantation wore off and Roche could break out of the chains. Then Roche actually tried to sit up and the ice float nearly flipped over. She yelped, desperately thrashing for a moment before she figured staying still was her best bet.

Roche lay there, watching the coast become smaller with every passing moment. How long had it been since she'd been thrown off that cliff? The sun seemed to have moved significantly in the sky, signalling that it was currently the evening. She swallowed, praying Tigris was still alive.

She had to get out of here.

But how could she do that without inkblood? She thought back to the moments on the cliff. Using her inkblood mentally seemed to minimize the tightening of the chains. Roche closed her eyes, focusing on the waning supply of her inkblood lazily thrumming in her blood. She shifted, stretching her fingers as far out from the chains as she could before letting her inkblood drain from her fingers. She wasn't sure what incantation to use. Each second pressed against her like a ticking bomb. Roche swallowed, some of her panic seeping into the inkblood.

"Ala." the voice thrummed through her, deeper and raspier than usual. Roche's brow furrowed.

"Circe?" she croaked, her voice coming out hoarse.

"Who is Circe?"

Roche instantly stiffened in alarm, the chains pressing against her lungs. "Who are you?"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Roche's inkblood stirred, a prickling forming at the edge of her consciousness. Something paddled through the water, cutting through it with ease. Roche felt the presence approach the iceberg. She lifted her head, forcing herself to keep her breath even as the water rippled.

"Who are you?" Roche repeated, trying to keep her voice steady.

Like the words were a summons, the water parted. The iceberg bobbed and Roche yelped. A large, webbed claw burrowed into the ice, nearly tipping it over.

Roche shouted in surprise. A chuckle vibrated through her inkblood again.

"Do not fear, Ala. I come in peace."