The Broken Crystal

Chapter Fifteen

The sky had burned the moon down to ashes. Clouds, like whiffs of thick, suffocating smoke, hovered over the meadow, filling the air with their toxic breath. Nate and Ivaron stared into the scorching night.

People. In front of them. A hundred breathing lungs, beating hearts, changing faces.

A corpse. In the tent behind them. Still living. But not for long, because...

Because Nate refused to believe people were nothing more than potential corpses.

... because he deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it.

Nate closed his eyes. Massaged his stiff neck. And then came a punch, a sore shoulder.

"Evanna?" Ivaron's voice. As dry as the air.

"Is he there?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm going in."

Nate's shoulders rolled backwards, his eyes snapping open, looking at Evanna, the tent, the silence, Evanna. He shrugged. "Sure."

Before Nate had gotten the chance to move to the side, the girl pushed him away, and, nearly tearing apart the fabric door, entered the marquee. Then she frowned, blinked, played it on repeat. The tent looked and smelt, even felt, like a coffin, where air was no longer air, but an irreplaceable killing machine, so dry, so warm, as cold as the almost empty space that was slightly lit by the oil lamp hanging there, up in the ceiling; a memory to the dead moon.

Luke's shadow was splattered on the ground like black blood. He was looking at Evanna with a grin, of course, his stubborn, fucking, beautiful grin, that nearly, not at all, almost did, didn't make her blush.

"I have something for you." She threw a book at him. The heat in her cheeks disappeared together with the short-lived anger. "It's Narnia. Of course." Evanna smirked, the silence smiling right back. Until:

"You should read it."

Luke picked up the book, rotating and opening and closing it in his hands. He stood up from his sitting position, the chains around his legs yelling out in protest, almost making him stumble as they bit into his ankles. Nonetheless, he smiled, stretched, and said:

"I apologize, your highness, but I'll have to decline. Narnia seems like a quite lovely story, but today I'd like to read something even more extraordinary. Since, you know, I'm gonna die tomorrow." The sarcasm was practically dripping in his tone.

Evanna sighed. "You're still angry."

"No, of course not, why would I be mad? Just because the only person I've ever trusted doesn't give a damn? No, that would be silly." He shook his head in mockery, throwing his hands in the air as he spoke. Evanna sighed again.

"Sorry, okay?" She crossed her arms, her expression something between annoyance, amusement and guilt. "You should've known: I say stupid things all the time. Hell, I don't even know what I'm doing ninety-nine percent of the time. I thought you'd gotten used to it."

The pregnant silence was nearly as loud as the wind that kept banging on the tent's door, desperately trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. And, maybe because he took pity on it, or probably just to not feel so alien, so strangely alone, Luke said:

"You're right. I should've known." The boy sunk down, legs crossed as tightly as the chain would allow. "Come on, let's sit." He tapped on the grass. "And read." He tapped on the book.

And that was what they did. They read and kept reading and reading and reading... page... and reading... after... and reading... page, until death itself had died of nothing but old age, of imagination, of fate that was controlled by the gracious moon.