The Prime Of The Outcasts

Part 14

••• (Lark's Dream PT1) •••

A burst of amber light awed my eyes in an instant. My focus was dazed and delirious- torn from my own control that swirls were engulfing me in my own trail of madness.

Voices were ringing in and out of my ears, some distant, others impeccably loud and irrevocably clear. The different tones were difficult to identify. One was bound to be Lark's, this fantasy was his and I was stuck in the direct focal point of it. Another was shrill and feminine, a somewhat bossy voice that you could put next to Astrid.

The third was bumbling and timid. It was masculine, but it was shrieking. A sound beyond compare that begging not to be killed. My teeth shivered in the ambience glow that unbuckled before me.

The clarity of the coming image settled into my vision. Anxious twinges vibrated my shoulders, because I was scared. Nothing about where I was made any remote sense.

Once my body regained its sense of touch, I looked around to take in the sights of a windy, woodland forest. The sky was yellow and radical, beaming down on a tiny cottage in the centre of two great oaks. It was ramshackle, but the family sobbing inside of it appeared loved and tended to.

When I urged myself to take a closer look, the force of Lark's hand - that had arrived promptly before me - held me back.

'They mustn't see you, Serena,' he reasoned. 'You don't belong in this world. And neither do I.'

My freckled gaze met his aggravation.
'Where are we?' I asked.

Lark stumbled in his cloak towards the door ahead. The tiny cottage windows were aglow with amber light, where a tiny plaque baring the year 1899 lay blankly in the corner next to the name Pavock Territory.

A burst of immediate fear overcame me.

'This isn't my house,' I responded. I'm not from the woods, I grew up in Tarmonte. I've never been anywhere else since 1999.'

'Why, is Tarmonte,' retorted Lark in a grumble. 'A hidden part of it, don't you recognise the filthy, unmagically atmosphere?'

I shook my head.

'Please, Serena, no more accusations. You'll find out why you're here soon enough.'

Gulping, I stood inches behind Lark's velvet attire as we irked ever so nearer the old, carved door. Lark explained that this was a prophecy. A prophecy that applied directly to me (and no such other).

As acknowledged before, an old couple dressed in dish rags were sitting in their tiny living room. The dim candlelights appeared to be keeping them warm, but the way in which they were sobbing suggest that a problem was stirring.

The old man with the rounded glasses and an oddly shaped moustache scuttled to beside his wife; where a baby lay restless in her arms. The elderly woman with silver hair and a twinkle in her eye, jerked her husband softly in the rib to hold the baby while she had a quiet cry to herself.

'What's going on?' I questioned Lark, feeling every touchy emotion that was spreading within the household. 'What does any of this have to do with me?'

I looked into the house closer, keeping my distance even from the window so the couple wouldn't see me. No sign of the little events had any relevance to my life, whatsoever. But, to Lark, what he saw couldn't be any more clearer nor simplistic.

'The baby is sick,' he said, drawing in a deep breath to turn away from the bawling couple. 'That little girl, the couple holds in their arms... will die.'

An abnormal sense of stress fizzled in my brain. The couple were leaning into each other, exchanging kisses and gestures of reassurance whilst cradling their little bundle of joy. The girl was remarkably pale and skinny in size. She couldn't have been more than a quarter of a year old.

'The point is, Lark?' I mumbled.

'My goodness child, I overestimate your intelligence!' Snarled Lark. 'This baby, was you...'

It was my turn to exhale and send my system into a midst of overthinking.