Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Final Note on Follin Ryme

AN ENDING BEFOREHAND
"TO THE LAST GRAIN"

Don't even breathe, Follin.

One heavy thrum in his chest.

Don't even breathe.

Another one, quicker, followed by two more.

I can't breathe.

The thrums slowed, the beats stopped churning at the intensity they always had.

He took two steps, stumbled, caught himself. The gaping wound in his abdomen had been freed of the silver pole, but with nothing to plug the blood up he felt it falling down his stomach, past his bellybutton, across his waist, soaking his pants. It was warm. It was sticky. He didn't care. The tightness still existed; it pulled and stretched and knotted up his flesh, his skin, his veins. Everything coursed hot, then cold, then hot again. Briefly, he dabbed his fingertips to the wound and groaned before bringing them up to his face, staring down at the thick crimson solution that dripped along his knuckles.

The sight made a choking sound rise in his throat, something like a sob he could just barely hold down. Don't let them know you're scared, Follin. Heat welled at the rim of his eyes and he blinked, struggling to pull in a shaking breath. The blinks came and went rapidly, blurring the green and grey world around him. A lightheaded sensation struck him at the temples and he turned to the golden horn, nothing more than a blob at that point. His hands were cold in comparison to the icy surface. There, he reeled, groaning and spending what little energy he had left to remain on his feet. Don't let them know you're scared.

He swallowed, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

But I am scared.

His lips parted and he didn't bother to clamp them together again. A shiver had taken over him, and mist articulated in the air in front of him, spreading from his own quivering mouth.

And, in a nervous habit, he reached up to that little hourglass chain around his neck. He ran his thumb over the glass, pretending it was the bronze he preferred; the bronze hourglass Katherine had sent him. Then came thoughts of her - giving in to her little games and goose hunts on those letters she left him, following trails and winding through trees, barns, fields until he finally found her. Sometimes she'd tackle him and Follin, unable to support even himself on stable feet, would go careening to the ground, maybe curse a few times and yell at her to get off.

He acted like it hadn't been fun, but he knew better.

Similar games had gone on in his youth with his family. His mom would sit there asking them to pick dandelions and he never understood because they were just weeds, little grown pests. He remembered asking about it once, and she'd only responded with: "Well everything has roots, Follin, and we shouldn't be no different with the ones we don't particularly like as much as the rest." She would lean in, then, and smile wickedly. "They came from dirt, the same as us, and soon we'll be right back in that dirt they all sprout from."  

Katherine had a more positive view on such things, always saying that the dirt and weeds could come later. It would happen in due time, but not then, never then. She always had time but was keenly aware of running out someday.

At some point Follin had been tugging the chain so hard that it had simply snapped in his hands, the silver supports dropping to his feet in the grass where he knew he'd never find it again. Though it was blurry in his palm, he could see the familiar slosh of indigo against glass.

An unexpected spike of pain rolled through the near-numbness he was experiencing in his stomach. He let out a small yelp, quickly clenching a fist and pounding it to the side of the horn. When the spike had subsided he let his fist drop. His body was still stiff, still tense, and still filled with an incomprehensible amount of pain, but he could stand, he could stare. He unwrapped his fingers from the vial, huffing as he stared down at it. Now the pain was starting to have an effect on his breathing, and he just wished for it to go away.