The Goblin's Heir

Chapter Forty Four: Run For It

Again and again, Cat and I search the ruins of the city for survivors only to find equally ruined bodies and bloodstains, all that remained of those that once called the rubble home. The tower loomed ahead only two rows of houses away.  I glanced towards Cat. Her face showed the fatigue I felt in every ounce of my body. My muscles were screaming. Blood and sweat slicked my skin and the throbbing ache in my leg was growing worse and quickly passing the point where I could ignore it.

"We're running out of time." Frit said from the rear of our flock, his head turned toward the arc of Neasa's flight path for the thousandth time. The spread of her magic had lessened, her reach growing more restrained with each pass. She too was exhausted. With the gates still open, letting the goblins pour in, once she reached her breaking point...we'd be done.

"It's hopeless, Matilda," Cat said, sitting back on her heels while we tried to catch our breaths after another fruitless search. "The goblins must've hit here first, while we were in The Boughs. The Unseelie are done..." She clenched her jaw, staring off toward the tower listlessly. "We'll just have to hope that what we have is enough."

It wasn't. 

Hope. By god, I hated that word. There was no point in hoping. I could hope all I wanted, it wouldn't change anything. There was no way we were closing the gate with these few Unseelie. My fingers tightened around Snorri's harness, the bloodied knuckles turning white. I spotted a house below that looked mostly intact. "One more," I said, and urged Snorri into a dive before Cat could protest.

Cat and I entered through a chimney, leaving our rides on the roof. We coughed up soot, swatting black filth from our clothing. 

"Matilda," Cat gasped. 

I looked up and as the cloud of soot faded, the sitting room we were in came into clear view. This house wasn't decorated with the vibrant, clashing patterns and colors of other Unseelie homes. The colors were muted and dark, the patterns more simple, though containing little things like thorns and bones, spiders and rats. Instead of piles of overlarge cushions, proper couches and chairs furnished the house. I turned around and over the hearth hung a portrait of a young mother, surrounded by three boys and a dark-haired girl, with a man on her arm, his hideous face dominated by a toothy grin. I felt myself wince at the sight of it. The pain I felt didn't entirely come from my leg or sore muscles. 

"We're in the summer house." Cat said, sounding more surprised than I was. "I didn't recognize it from the air at all." She walked around the room, dragging her fingers over the velvet of the burgundy couch. She found a candle and a tinderbox on a table. She lit it and carried it with her, studying the old decorations of the room, the random toys still laying on the floor where here cousins had dropped them, the chess game left half played. The black pieces were winning. Her eyes were thoughtful. Memories must've been filling her head, thoughts of moments spent here with her cousins and uncle, Ib and Bran, free of me. I hadn't set foot here more than a couple of times, too fearful of leaving the safety of the Underground to stomach being so far away for long. Knut had taken the children here often enough, without me, though the frequency lessened by a large margin once Cat had her...accident. 

"The streets look different with most of the city in rubble." I turned my eye back to the portrait, frowning at it, at my past self. I was the only one not smiling. I couldn't even be bothered to fake it. I looked away from me, to the faces of my loved ones, both here and...not. Knut was smiling big enough for both of us, the very picture of fatherly pride. He had a hand on Frit's shoulder, the other on my own. Floki stood between us, his body turned slightly towards me, his smile shy. I held Odd in my lap. He was maybe three at the time the portrait was painted. His hair was even more disheveled than it was now, but his teeth were just as sharp, his smile the same as his father's. Bright and blinding. Cat was only a little younger than she appeared now. She stood at my other side, her hands resting on the back of my chair. The look on her face was lovely and warm. She looked more like her father in the portrait than she did currently in real life to me. Something about the way the artist painted her eyes, dark and glistening with pinpoints of reflected light...it was like he had peaked into my memories.