Worlds Splitting

Do you still want to leave?

Manon had been watching the camp for three days. The males acted like typical males: strutting around with their wings out and constantly challenging each other's masculinity. She didn't see many females. The ones she did see were carrying baskets of cloth or bowls of food, their wings low on their back, as if unneeded. 

The camp seemed to run in some kind of military fashion. The males went through hard daily drills, both in the sky and on the snow-covered mountain top. Their sharp precision and relentless strength was intimidating, but as Manon watched she learned. She saw their weaknesses. She saw how ready each of them was for a fight and thought about how she could use that to her advantage. 

The young returned from the 'blood rite' a day after Manon located the camp. The first ones to return were parading brutes with blood on their stolen blades. They were clapped on the back by the older males and they ignored their weeping mothers. 

Over the next few days more and more of them arrived home. As the days went on, the children became less and less thug-like. They smiled weakly as they were slapped on the back instead of roaring about their blood-thirst and actually hugged their mothers instead of acting like they were made of stone.

Another thing she established while watching the illyrian camp was that she definitely weren't in Erilea. Not only was it colder than anywhere apart from maybe Northern terrasen but there weren't even any legends about winged warriors, and you can normally assume if there are no legends about something, it doesn't exists. 

She didn't know how she had gotten here but she knew that Abraxos was far, far away. If he was near, he would have found her by now. That wyvern would travel to the world's ends looking for her and she knew it. And he would find her, eventually, because Abraxos didn't give up. 

The illyrians wouldn't discover her unless she wanted them to, but she had another problem: food. There seemed not to be a living thing in these blasted mountains. She alternated between hunting, watching the illyirains and sleeping in trees. The warriors in the camp were constantly scoffing some sort of meat that the women cooked but Manon was having no luck finding. She was a witch; it would be a  long time until she was in any sort of danger from starvation, but the hunger was weakening her senses and slowing her reflexes. She debated eating one of the illyrians when they left the camp but they always seemed to move in groups and Manon didn't know enough yet to engage in a fight with too many of them.

So she turned to the only option left. She reviled herself to them. She didn't just want into their midst and announce herself their prisoner, no. She prowled through the tents, wind-cleaver in hand, looking for food. Two of the illyrians found her and neither lasted long. It took very little effort to engage their over-confident strokes and invade their flimsy defences. She took a moment to lick their blood from their blade and enjoy the fresh taste before moving on.  

She stopped at a tent that smelt of smokey meat and a log fire. Not bothering to prepare herself, she ripped through the fabric with an iron tipped hands and marched inside. 

The tent was empty save a spitting fire and a hanging pot, probably filled with stew. Behind it cowered a female. She gave Manon the impression of a frightened rabbit, clutching her wooden spoon. Her small frame and bony face were the very image of vulnerability. Her wings would have presented some intimidation if they weren't vandalised to the stage where there was no hope of healing. They were shot through with shimmering red scars and torn around the edges. One of them was held lower than the other on her back but both of them hung as if she'd lost all feeling in them. 

Manon stared at her. She was pathetic. She was quivering, her eyes closed, muttering to herself. Maybe a prayer. Cursing herself for taking so much time, Manon strode forwards and scooped some of the stew with her hands, fishing in it for the meat. She forced herself to ignore the female. Drinking the stew the best she could, she savoured the warmth of the meat and the flavour in the sauce. She found herself wondering how the woman had manged to make something so tasty in such a barren landscape. 

Licking her finger's clean, she was tempted to say something to the female. Apologise? Thank her? She still hadn't decided when she spoke.

"What happened to your wings?" 

The woman opened her eyes but still took a long time to answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was cracking as though it hadn't be used in a long time. She paused between each word like she was looking for the next one carefully.

"I loved to fly too much. I wanted to fly away and they made it so I couldn't."

"The males?"

She didn't reply, as though the answer was obvious and she was waiting for the next question. 

"Do you still want to leave?" Stupid, stupid. Was she really asking this female if she wanted to come with her? What could she offer her in a way of safety or joy? She should take it back. She should- 

"I have a son. I need to stay here. I am waiting for him." 

She didn't know what to say to that. From what she had gathered, there was a low probability of the females son ever returning from the blood rite, if that was where he was. There was shouting outside. The bodies had been found, then. 

"Thank you for the stew." She spluttered before turning to leave. But she looked back. And when she looked back at that female she didn't see a frightened rabbit. She saw a caged wyvern with stolen wings. 

She ran through the camp. They'd seen her. They wouldn't stop looking for her now. She had lost any chance of peaceful negotiations. Pushing herself forwards, she managed to get past the boundaries of the camp and into the thin forest beyond. She knew this forest ended in a sheer drop to a frozen lake, but they were pushing her, herding her towards it. She could hear them either side of her now, shouting, laughing. She reached the edge of the forest. They expected her to stop. She could hear them decelerating either side of her.  Petty mortals. 

She threw any remaining strength she had into the jump from the cliff. The illyrians swore at her, attempting to speed up in time to catch up with her. She folded herself into a ball and prepared to hit the ice. The wind pulled her hair around her, and she gripped wing-cleaver close to her. One piece of home in this strange land. 

The impact sent pain through every vein in her body. The agony was so great it was a full thirty seconds of sinking before the felt the cold. The skin-numbing, bone-cracking cold. It pulled at her fingers and feet and burned against her like fire. She tried to turn away from it, but it met her which ever way she went. So she stayed in a tight ball, drifting. 

She didn't know how long she'd been asleep. Her body wasn't freezing anymore; if anything it was gently warm. As if someone had been holding her. She was in some sort of cavern. Water dripped from the spiked ceiling and the lake pooled over her feet. 

"You've changed, Manon." That voice, the laughter, the wildness. It couldn't be. 

Manon jerked to her feet and faced the voice. 

"Asterin?"