A figure sat, motionless, atop a mound of stone. The cold wind bit at his exposed skin. His robes fell in a waterfall of white and blue, to gather in folds beneath him. A simple silver band wrapped around his head, and kept his stringy black hair from blowing amok. Despite the chill, he was unmoved.
He could feel something. It was a feeling, like a larger than life object had shifted, somewhere out in the universe, somewhere he couldn't see. But he could feel it. And although he didn't know exactly what it meant, he knew that whatever it was would change him. Change this place.
He stood up and leaned on his ivory-white staff. Long hours of sitting still, back straight, staring into the horizon without really looking, had left his joints stiff. The air was dry and smelled of salt. The Great Salt Plains stretched all the way to the hazy purple mountains, far in the north, and east to the icy waters of the Bay of Un.
Above him, tonnes of stone sat, frozen in space but not in time, suspended in the air. He oftened wondered what would happen when the magic wore away. Would they simply fall from the sky to the plains below? Would they shatter into ten million shards of stone on the salty ground? Or would they continue on their path of destruction, still filled with the force they had ages ago, plummeting like a meteor to gouge a scar into the earth?
He moved his gaze beyond the ominous stones to the darknening blue sky. Small stars of pure, bright white shone. Here, in the North, the sun never truly set. There was always light.
He knew he would have to wait. Day by day, the feeling grew. He knew that soon, very soon, it would come. His brothers had doubted him, scorned him even for his dedication; But that would be no matter to him now.
He bent down and carved a shallow furrow on the salty mound, a perfect cirlce, with his staff.
Then he sat and waited for the wind to take him away.
* * *
"We don't have much time."
There were shouts coming from outside, voices shrouded by the blackness of night. Young boys whimpered in the corners of the hallway, their white togas piling around their legs. The older boys, none past the age of fifteen, held splinters of wood like swords and the legs of stools and tables like clubs. They all knew the doors wouldn't hold for much longer. The fists on the other side had stopped pounding, and had quickly resorted to more intelligent means.
The doors shook from the blow of an improvised battering ram. Boys were shaken from their positions, desperately holding the doors closed with tables and stools.
"There's no point! We're all dead." One of the boys shrieked in despair.
This caused more of the younger boys to weep with their heads in their hands. They wouldn't be dead men- they would be slaves.
The hallway stunk of sweat, lamp oil, and urine. They had been trapped since the previous afternoon, and the sun had long since dropped off the side of the earth. It was a dark, moonless night. Room by room, floor by floor, hall by hall, the slavers had rampaged through the college. Royal blood, however thin, could always fetch a high price. The boats had come in broad daylight; all the boys had rushed to the windows to see the visitors in excitement. That excitement had turned into fear, then terror.
Now, boys cried for their mothers or desperately held the doors from being smashed open, their bare feet sliding on the smooth marble floor.
One boy stood back, unsure of what to do. He was fifteen, still young, but at an age where, normally, he would soon expect familial responsibility like the other boys. He knew that being ransomed was not an option for him. Of all the boys, he was unaware of any family blood that tied him to any royalty- or anyone at all.
He let the long splinter of wood drop from his hand. There was no use in fighting.
The boy walked over to the window and leaned out, peering into the darkness below. Water lapped at the rock upon which the college was built like the tongue of an immense sea beast. Further out in the water sat one of the slaver's ships, a long, low seated vessel driven by two triangular sails. It was lit by small torches that reflected eerily on the water.
A sudden crack came from the baricaded door. The head of the battering ram, a bare metal cone, stuck out from between the two wooden doors. The boys began to panic and abandon their spots. The brave ones who had previously chosen to stand resolutely, ad hoc weaponry at the ready, soon joined in on the hysteria.
The young boy turned back to the window. It would be only moments before the doors were forced open and all Hell broke loose. His options were slim- he couldn't stay here, but the drop was intimidating. A free fall into darkness, the freezing waters below, was hardly any better.
He sat on the ledge and swung his legs over the side.
"You aren't actually going to jump, are you?" A boy squeaked from behind him.
"You're crazy!" Another shouted.
He didn't answer, just breathed deeply and prepared himself for the plunge.
His meditation was suddenly interrupted by a shriek followed by a splash. Seeing his example, one of the other boys had leapt from one of the windows.
Faith bolstered, he pushed himself off the edge.
Wind whipped at his white robes for the briefest of moments, before his feet hit the water with a sting. The air was knocked out of his lungs and his diaphragm seized from the frigid water that enveloped him. He came up for air and gasped. Salt water droplets ran down his throat, and he did his best to keep his arms from being entangled by the white linen that floated around his shivering body.
Looking up, he saw more silhouettes gathering around the windows getting ready to make the jump. If too many tried to escape this way, the slavers would come after him.
He tried to gather his focus, tried to get better bearings amid the inky waves of the sea as salt water stung his eyes. Seeing a familiar sight just a ways off, he began to swim. There was a boathouse not far away on a rocky outcrop that had a few small, sailed dinghies. If he could swim there, he might be able to slip away using one of the craft. It was risky, but once again, better than the alternative.
He was less than halfway, but his body was already sore. The water was so cold and his toga weighed him down, his breath coming in gasps that were painful in his chest. Doubt crept into his mind about his ability to make it all the way.
Shouts echoed across the calm water from the college. The water was dark from lack of moonlight. He was able to see only by the lamps in the windows and the torches on the deck of the ship that was anchored on the side of the college from which he had leapt.
Rough, black rock cut his fingertips as he pulled himself out of the frigid sea. He was out of breath and aching, but relieved that he had actually made it. Pain stabbed at his feet from walking on the black rock. He didn't have sandals, since going barefoot was customary in a house of learning.
The boathouse was more like a long shack that covered just enough water to shelter a dozen sailed dingies. He selected one that seemed sea worthy, and inspected the rudder and sail.
Moments later, he pushed off and was out to sea. Aware that unfurling the sail might catch the attention of a keen-eyed slaver, he paddled feebly out past the ancient red stone wall that seperated the college from the vast sea before using the sail. The wind was weak but better than nothing.
It would be hours before the sun broke, but he knew roughly where the sun rose from living at the college for so many years. He shivered horribly, using one of the spare sails as a kind of blanket over his thin, soaked body. His long hair was matted and briny after his short but trying swim.
Looking out over the bruised horizon he directed the craft westward, and under the cover of darkness sailed out to sea with prayers for wind on his lips.
