Reidier

5: Astall

A/N: I think this chapter is slightly shorter. Oh well. XD Astall is pretty fun to write. He's such a sweet kid but I just can't help but heap on misfortune on him~ Rest assured it's not in this chapter, not really.

The goggles make his forehead unbearably hot, which is a strange contrast to the cold wind dragging its icy fingers through his wet hair and his face. And of course, his fingers. The steel of the steering is like a solid block of ice. His fingers are going to drop off after this, if there is an after.

He can only hope that his little dive into the moat has washed enough of the blood off. It is by chance that he ran into a chaffeur repairing this landau outside, and a quick fist of the back of the head took care of the man. Hopefully he is discovered soon. Though it is still autumn, nights in Yvette are unpleasantly cold to say the least. Being knocked unconscious and relieved of his clothes would make it much worse.

The landau purrs under his guidance. He has Setia to thank for his escape. The enthusiastic chaffeur got him interested in driving and steam machinary and technology in general. A year ago, he wouldn't even know how to start it.

The woods are starting to thin. Astall's heart finally drops from the incessant metronome-like thumping. This vehicle would be much more inconspicuos on Yvette's streets, among others of its kind. Though Yvette isn't condusive to capitalist's ventures, those bilgers have been appearing everywhere, like rats.

Now, where to start? A sharp pain spears his head, just behind his eyes. The everything is catching up with his mind.

Mother- dead.

Impossible. Astall always thought that she'd live to see him take over Yvette from his father. He'd always dreamt of the day when he did that and fixed everything and let his parents throw their endless parties.

He didn't even get to say goodbye. And Basalent- Astall-

Astall swallows. The road ahead blurs.

He killed his uncle. Uncle, who'd taught him how to ride, who'd gone hunting with him and his father. Uncle, who'd frowned at the accounts and the treasury together. Isn't it just last week when he'd complained to Basalent about capitalists terrorising the locals, undermining the Khary's authority?

He had not meant to kill his uncle. He'd just reacted to his mother's death.

He- he has blood on his hands. He is- he is a murderer.

He stops the car and climbs out onto the street on all fours. He is dimly aware of the cobble beneath his palms- since when did he exit the forest?- but nothing else really matters except for his churning stomach...

He coughed and threw up the little he had touched before the party. Images of blood, blood everywhere, and his uncle's throat, whole one minute, cut the next, and all that blood leaking out, all of it...

There's so much of it. Enough to drown a man in that stuff. Enough for dye a river red.

And it's so dark; it dyes everything it touches almost black, at least, in the light of his memory...

He tries to breathe. In, out, in, out, in, out... But the suffocating feeling does not go away. He stays there, staring at the patterns the vomit makes in the cobbles as it slides slowly towards the drain.

He does not know how long he stayed. Just that someone kicks him in the ribs. He barely feels it.

"Snap out of it."

He freezes. He can't move a muscle. A single thought runs through his mind. Am I going to die?

Then something else gives in.