Aeolia

50: Lullaby

Spire felt as if he'd fallen from the nest. His body ached. His wings were rusty from lack of use.

     The last thing he remembered was drifting in and out of sleep, cradled among the low branches of an evergreen tree. Its dark feathers were warm from the touch of sugary pink sunlight. His mother fluttered by, a yellow orb glowing in her stomach. He sang her name. She turned her head. She drew fractured lines along the ground, thin and frail, and flew to greet him. Light bloomed, swelled. Her eyes glimmered and she said—

     Darkness. Ravine wept. Frost stood frozen. Spire was lost. He ached for his mother, for the pink sunbeams.

     But she was gone for good now, he knew. He shouldn't occupy his mind with longings for her.

     He should think only of his friends now. They couldn't stay in Dreams' Lattice forever. Frost would torture himself over the death of the Kingfisher, reminded of its absence daily, and Ravine might never truly believe the Ensnarer's hunt for her had ended.

     Here among the stars, it was hard to tell when night fell or morning rose, but judging by the pale light that glistened on the leaves, Spire thought the sun might just be dawning. A few hours prior, Frost had fallen into an exhausted sleep at the rim of the waterfall's bowl and still lay in slumber. Spire hoped he was dreaming of nothing at all. Nearby, in the shallows, Ravine was practicing some sort of meditation, her eyes shut tight, hands in her lap. Good. Neither of them would witness his departure or try to stop him.

     After Spire took a final glance at his companions, reaching for his courage, he plunged down through the crisscrossed canopy.

                                                                   (

The world was different down here. It felt as if the scents of fruited blossoms were even stronger now, and the gentle rain warmer than before. The air, too, was soft in his throat.

     As he coasted along the pleasant drafts, Spire whistled the lullaby he'd sung for Frost. He couldn't recall where, exactly, he had learned it. Not from his mother, he somehow knew. Maybe from a family in a neighboring tree, or a relative who would come to visit. Either way, he remembered adoring the lovely colors the song painted in the air. The hues shifted depending on the mood of the whistler. When he'd sung for Frost, shades of gray and periwinkle had wavered feebly before them—mourning colors.

     In Spire's memory, the song was orange and gold, which signified feelings of love and protection before the coming dark. He hoped to pass such warmth on to his young when he finally had a family of his own. He wanted to raise children that knew they were safe and cared for, and always would be.

     Spire felt a spike of hot anger in his breast.

     The whisperers had taken so much from him.

     His memories of life before the dark forest, before Ravine and the big snake, came to him in distorted images. He knew he'd lived in the forest called the Spectrum, its trees colored by the river flowing through. He'd gathered that from his time in the dreamworld, strange and frightening. And he'd had a mother who loved him, but his picture of her was stained by the Viper-induced delusions. She always hardened into clockwork and screamed at him.

     That was no way to remember a mother. That was no way to take away his youth. He was just an experiment to them, wasn't he? Guide the woman to Aeolia. Keep her safe.

     He still didn't know his purpose in full, or how the whisperers had stolen so much of his mind. What had they told him? Why had he gone? When the flock of birds greeted them at the overlook, he'd been overjoyed. He knew his purpose was to help, to dedicate his life to the happiness of others. And he loved Ravine so much—so much it hurt—but why his life?

     He didn't regret the course he'd taken. He just wanted answers for once.

     Spire forced these thoughts deep down, never to think of again. Haze had been kind to them. She'd given them names. He shouldn't be ungrateful. And Frost was a dear friend, unsure of himself, an outsider to the ways of his sister; he had nothing to do with this.

     As Spire flew eastward, a plan formed in his head. He sang the simple notes once more, the melody resounding through the trees. Colors spun and danced around him—now solely amethyst.