Aeolia

49: Frenzied

Frost vomited. His insides curled and smoked, filled his lungs with burning heat. He shook uncontrollably.

     Beside him, Spire whistled a lullaby. It held only four notes that repeated, growing softer every time until it was no longer audible.

     He closed his eyes as the kind gray bird sang. When it ended, the only sound left was the great crashing of the waterfall, the river that fell from the Mist and soaked Aeolian soils, colored the roots and leaves of the Spectrum's trees, wound east in amethyst banners, and at last, roared off the edge of the world.

     The Kingfisher had brought him to this waterfall. Its waters had made him wiser. He couldn't bear to hear it anymore.

     "Sing, Spire," he said.

     The bird looked at him, tried to match their gazes, but Frost turned his head. He saw again the Dreamfisher lying far below, just a blurry outline from such great heights.

     He needed to sit beside the grand bird and press his forehead against its unmoving breast. He had to see its eyes, see the glass over its pupils, to know it was dead. Because it couldn't be. It just couldn't.

     But if it was—and it wasn't—where would it have gone? It had to be some-where. Maybe it had bled away into the river and turned the Spectrum a somber blue. Maybe it dissipated into the Mist. Maybe it would rot forever in the dizzying tunnels of the mindfield. Maybe it would fall for eternity, suspended between the lands of living, dead, and dreaming. Maybe gravity had nothing on it now. Maybe it had no form at all, no energy, not even a central point.

     It had been the central point of Aeolia. Of this planet.

     So it couldn't just be gone.

     Years ago, on the savanna, Spring and Summer had held each other close, swaying in tranquil steps. The deep goldenrod rays of Summer billowed throughout Seasons' Spiral, scented with Spring's hesitant blossoms. A low, lazy rhythm had ebbed across the plain. Frost felt two beats waltzing in his heart now, warm and comforting and slow. His pulse, and the Dreamfisher's. Two unlikely forces merging. Dancing close.

     This meant the Kingfisher was alive.

     Frost's insides swelled in a wave of euphoria.

     It was alive.

     He unsheathed his claws and began to tear at the leaves, his breathing feverish. He cracked limbs in two and slashed apart snarled roots. He ripped great holes in the floor of Dreams' Lattice. He would leap through and fall an exhilarating fall until he reached the waiting kingfisher. It had been waiting for him a while. He couldn't be late. He had to see his friend. He dug.

     Through all this, Spire screeched and darted about the whisperer's head. The letters that made up FROST and STOP fell from his mouth, bold and black and lined with red. Hopelessly, he finally screamed, "Ravine!"

     Frost paid him no attention. Though his muscles ached and his claws had snapped, still he wrenched and ripped at the tangled cords.

     The next thing he knew, Ravine was at his side, her black hair falling in her face as she yelled. "What are you doing?" he heard her scream. "Frost! You're going to kill yourself!"

     Hard hands pulled at him, tugged him away. Guttural protests rumbled in his throat. He twisted and spun in the woman's grip. He flailed and lashed out wildly, trying to mar anything he could. Then he felt her skin tear.

     Ravine cried and dropped him. She backed away as she held her arm, torn and bleeding. Frost turned to face her, to raise his hackles and strike again, when suddenly the flashing lights in his head went out.

                                               (

When he awoke, he was up to his stomach in cold water. His skull throbbed. Before him, rain thundered—it was harder than any downpour he'd seen before. He stood on aching legs and staggered into it. And he was clean again.