Caesaria

XIII

It was the heart of night was when Jackson returned to the village.

The City of the Bear had been a resort before the end of the world; a place where people came to enjoy the wilds, away from the man-made spires of smoke. Biking and hiking in the woods, skiing and snowboarding on the overgrown hill before it was overgrown -- he knew what these things were, judging by the pamphlets and faded pictures. But it all seemed so strange -- nature was nature. It was a feral thing. To think the old humans had looked at it as anything but, as a sight to see, a thing to tame... even he scratched his head at it.

This place had been built in the shadow of the Blue Mountain, great buildings by the dozens, nestled in the grassy hills and the sparse evergreens. They were towering things, made of stone of beige and green, red and white, yellow and brown, blue and black. Each had hundreds of rooms, enough to house thousands of the tribe.

Against the night, the great fires burned, casting flickers of dancing shadows. The streets were bustling, filled with glee and music and drunkenness. The cheers of the people -- cheers of life, of renewal, praises of the Spirits -- were music to his ringing ears. All they did was make his journey up to the chief's abode even faster, blurrier, almost. Up and up the winding hillside, clapped on the back by friends, comrades, even his father's men. She's alive, Jack. The Spirits have saved her.

Spirits. Spirits indeed. In the form of a golden-haired man.

The great double doors grew bigger. Up the landing, onto the porch, he held his breath as he entered. The calm before the storm.

When Jackson shut the lodge doors, the noise dimmed. The silence and solitude of the room, save the ticking of the ancient, standing clock, deafening. High above the City of the Bear, even higher still, was his sister, alive, at the top of the broad curving stairs.

With a shaky breath, he began his ascent. Will she remember? Will she hate me? Will she forgive me? Past the framed artwork of long-dead men, past the bannisters, past the doors, down the hall. Before the dreaded room.

You killed your sister.

He opened the door.