The Winter Sun

Chapter 36

Lach's eyes shifted behind the redness of his eyelids. The images came into flashes. The sun soaring in the clear sky, high and glaring, his dad waiting in the carriage full of merchandise bags, his sun-burned skin tearing as he smiled. His mom leaned against the open door, her jet-black hair slick and bright in a long braid that covered the length of her protuberant belly.

He saw the purple hem of a dress teasing him behind wooden poles and a burst of laughter sweet and vibrant like riped orange trailing behind. The sun poured from a blurry smile, and her eyes lived like carved diamonds.

He saw a blooded-color gem shimmering like a light on a mirror, its color spilling on a small pale hand, and that was when he remembered that day.

Two knocks on the door, resonant and loud against the door of the little cottage, disturbing the laughter of the family inside. Lach's father stood up from his chair, and Lach tried to scream, to reach him, for he knew what was coming. Don't! Don't open. But his voice was but a faint cry that failed him at that moment. A blow, harsh and vengeful, tugged at his hair and outfits in every direction as if a storm barged into his uninvited. A shadow grew over the windows, spilling darkness inside the tiny home, the sun hiding.

His father reached for the doorknob as if deaf to Lach's crying voice. He couldn't move, as if the grip of his mom on his shoulder kept him chained to his chair. The door blew open like an explosion, leaving the house ravaged, the cottage in ruins of flames and sorrow. He coughed, the ash infiltrating his mouth, and through the thick, suffocating smoke, he could see it. His father was tied to a wooden pole, and in the center, red angry flames, swallowing languidly despite pitiful and agonizing cries.

Dad!" Lach screamed. He was older now; his boyhood left during that explosion. He kept crying for him, but his voice had left him. Sobs. His mother kneeled, hands in prayer, pointing the sun over her tears-ravaged face. But when Lach looked up, the sun was red, angry, swimming in clouds of ashes.

A howl of agony, like the last sound of a cry for help. The flames were now melting the skin. Lach ran despite the flames, the dark clouds, and the burning air inside his lungs. I am sorry. His own tears blurred his vision. I am so sorry. His dad smiled at him before the flames flickered angrily and devoured him all, only leaving a pile of ashes. Lach cried, gathering the ashes. He wept hard, his hands and face covered in black. Please come back. A shadow loomed over him, a horrifyingly tall figure, taller than a church tower made of a thick black smoke with eyes shining red like ruby. Lach froze, and the black smoke surrounded him until he was entirely in the dark. His lungs burned. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't-

"Dad!" His eyes jolted open, his vision blurry as his chest heaved.

"Lach?" Something touched him, and he jerked away. "It's me, Amaya."

Lach's vision cleared, and he saw her hovered over him. The morning light formed a halo around her, like a bright crown. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust. "Amaya..." he said, his voice hoarse, tongue thick and heavy with the ash still palpable.

She looked worriedly at him. "Are you all right?"

Lach inhaled deeply. "I-" his eyes darted around. He was sprawled on a chair beside a bed in a foreign room. "Where are we?"

"In a room up the tavern. Kristina brought us here. Do you remember?" Lach passed a heavy hand on his forehead. It was moist and wet. "Are you sure you are all right?" Amaya searched his gaze. "You were crying." She pointed softly. Lach wiped the wetness on his cheek as he sat straight on the chair. "And screaming for your dad."

Lach's jaw tightened. "I am fine. It was- it was just a nightmare." The concern on Amaya's face didn't soften despite Lach's tentative smile that was so crisp he was sure he was grimacing. Amaya sat on the bed next to his chair. He must have let her on the bed and fallen asleep on the chair.