Fyra (First Draft)

Thirty

As Fyra walked down the alley, hand in hand with Athan, a pool of dread gathered in her stomach. Something on this day had been the trigger that signaled the collapse of her life as she had known it, and now she would finally learn the truth.

Past Athan stared at the ground as he walked, shoulders tense and drawn in. Gravity was weighing on him more than usual, for it seemed like he would collapse at any moment.

How in hell did I not notice? Why didn't I follow him?

She had asked herself those questions more than a few times in the last few minutes, glancing at Athan's face. His expression was hollow, a page-less book that was now illegible to her. Though she had once been able to read him, it was clear that she had forgotten the language of his soul.

A certain sadness filled her at the thought. It was more than disheartening to realize that someone who she had once known, or at least, thought she had known, could become a complete stranger to her.

"Athan?" she said, in a soft and tentative voice. When she spoke, the last syllable of his name was poised to lilt up, as if she were asking him a question. She swallowed, attempting to be rid of the lump that had gathered in her throat, but the testament to her nervousness remained.

"Yeah?" Athan, his hand still in hers, turned to meet her eyes. The warmth she had remembered them having was still there, though perhaps a little weathered and beaten down.

In that moment, she realized something: this hadn't been easy for him either. A rush of memories came back to her.

The friendship they had formed the night in the cellar, and all the times they had put trust in one another afterward.

The desperation in his voice after the ball; the way she had sent him off with a stinging slap.

Yes, things may be different than they were, and nothing would ever make things go back to the way they used to be, but that didn't erase the good things. They were still tucked away in her heart, and, she hoped, in his.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, after what seemed like a century of silence. 

"What the hell are you sorry for, love?" Athan said with a halfhearted grin. The attempt at his old humorous tone was appreciated, and Fyra reciprocated with a smile. 

"I should have let you explain. I shouldn't have slapped you." I should have been there for you before both of our lives turned upside down. I should have stopped you when I knew something was wrong. I knew something was wrong but I let you walk away.

"Don't be sorry. I'm the one who needs to apologize" 

The bitterness in his tone was somewhat hard to fathom. Athan was one to see the bright side, and though Fyra knew there was some darkness lurking beneath his surface, but he was usually at loathe to show it. 

The Athan she had met in this city had opened up to her slowly at first. The jokes he had cracked and attempts to make her smile often had a darker tone. He hid his aching heart behind a smile. Indifferent humor allowed him to detach himself from his problems. Eventually, he started to tell her what he really thought. The bitterness and pain in his tone was seldom apparent, and when it was, she knew emotion had truly overwhelming him. 

She said nothing after that, and neither did he. 

They simply walked down the alley in silence, hand in hand. 

A sense of foreboding had settled over her as the air around them grew darker, and a hazy scene before them assembled before their eyes.

What they were seeing now was simply a recollection of events past. There was nothing she could do to change it. That fact was agonizingly painful, yet also a strange sort of relief. It scared her because what she saw here could shape her perception of the present, and bring forth yet more regret.

She again turned her eye to Past Athan, who had stopped at the door of one of the buildings between the alleys. He glanced back and forth, searching for a stray shadow on his tail. There wasn't one, he assured himself, knocking a single time on the door in front of him.

The sharp sound seemed to echo through the empty space, a stark contrast to the softness his steps that had been audible before.

A shiver ran down Fyra's spine. Countless imagined scenarios zoomed through her brain, trying to piece together the fragments of her memories and assumptions. Was everything she thought she knew a lie?

The door swung open with a creak. Standing in the door frame was a cloaked figure, face shrouded in shadow. They reached to pull back their hood in what seemed like an agonizingly slow movement that made Fyra sick to the stomach.

As golden hair billowed over slender shoulders, the nausea in Fyra's stomach threatened to spill over.

Lily.

Lily, the same privileged Lady who seemed to have her claws intent on snagging Cirian.

Fyra had seen her around the castle before the ball, and had avoided her, lest the blonde ask her to spy on Cirian again. After her magical fiasco, Lily had been all but a half remembered whisper.

Could the airs she put on in the castle be nothing but an elaborate facade?

Fyra had always given credit to her intuition, but had she made assumptions about Lily and Athan both? Self-doubt, the shadow inside she was constantly struggling to master, gave a vicious snarl.

You were wrong; you were wrong, it whispered, growing louder in her head, taunting her with a singsong voice.

What if you're wrong about Cirian too? Perhaps you're lying to yourself, and you know that you're true nature is dark, dark, dark!

When will you admit it? Everything is your fault! You were a fool, and now everything is crumbling to ashes again.