Falling Skyward

Chapter Twelve: The Pain of Sleep

"Attie, Attie!" the voice cut through the thin night air, heavy only with darkness.

"Shh, shh. It's all right. I'm still here." She grabbed his hand, now moist with sweat, smoothing out the rigidity of its grip. She was surprised by how small his hand seemed in her own, not only feeling but seeing the difference two years could make.

He whimpered, trying to wriggle free from the sheets twisted around his legs.

"Was it about mama?" she asked, her voice falling as smooth as a lullaby.

"Ahuh."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head, burying his face in her side, curling his body closer to her own. But the words came anyway.

"Her eyes, her eyes were gone—all white and gone. And she was on the rope again, but, but she wouldn't be still. Her body . . . it kept dancing on the end of the rope, and there was music and words in red on her arms and legs and her face."

"Shh, shh, it was only a nightmare. I'm here."

"But you weren't! You were gone. Daddy took you away from me. You left me with her. I could hear her dancing, and you weren't there."

The girl pulled him closer, tucking his head beneath her chin as she hummed.

As Lana heard the lilting melody drift into her mind, she could almost understand the words. She could see them burned in red across her mind before they toppled into another dream.

The tears and shivering no longer came from her brother's body, but her own. Yellow roses dangled above and around her. Someone was whistling, roaming on the other side of the hedge. She tried to muffle her hiccupping sobs. The whistling stopped.

"Hello?"

The girl's breathing stagnated in her chest. Her shoulders tensed from her unnatural stillness.

Just when her muscles began to relax, a mass of dark, curly hair popped through the bushes. Her breath shot from her lungs in a squeak. The boy's thin, flour-speckled face crinkled with a smile.

"Hello." His voice was fuller than his skinny form let on. "What do we have here? What a strange type of bird I've discovered lurking in my rose bushes."

"I'm . . . I'm not a bird," the girl sobbed. "And these rose bushes are mine, not yours. Leave me alone before I call the guards."

"Who knew that such a pretty bird could make such a terrible squawk."

"I said leave."

"Nope, I don't think I will," the boy said, crawling further beneath the bushes to prove his point. "Not until I discover what a strange bird is doing hiding in the bushes."

She didn't answer. She just glared at the boy, anger replacing her sadness. Before he had time to react, she kicked him in the shin and then scurried from underneath the climbing roses, running for the gate.

The vivid colors blurred, the summer wind shifting to a smoky heat as Lana stirred. Hands caressed her forehead and a woman's face, round and gentle, came into sight. Dim images floated above Lana, their corners warped and incomprehensible, as though the smoke in the room were searing the edges of her vision. Lana struggled to look around her. She struggled to fight off the coarse covers covering her arms. She struggled to slow the spinning inside her head. A jagged scream scraped her throat, bringing a flash of pain. Lana shuddered and convulsed, trying to break free, trying to beat away the pressure inside her skull.

Two arms wrapped around her body, cradling her head, easing away the intense cold crawling beneath her skin. She felt warmth from those hands and a steady stillness emanating through her body. A man's eyes the color of a clear, autumn sky hovered in her sight before she fell into their gossamer blue.

Laughter. She spun around on her horse, looking for the source of the sound. The boy from the rose garden hung on the corral gate, but he was taller now, his shaggy, unkempt hair curling around his freckled cheeks. She reigned her horse to a stop and lifted her sword threateningly.

"Would you mind telling me exactly what it is you find so funny?"

"You, up there on a horse twice your size, carrying a blade far too long, and wearing pants that are bound to slide off at any moment. How are you even keeping them up? Rope?"

"That's none of your business," she sniffed, raising her head haughtily. "Besides, these are the only pair of pants I own."

"You think a member of the court might be able to afford better clothing."

"Daddy doesn't approve of me wearing pants, you know that. Besides, these were my mother's."

"Well, you are going to need a better pair if you are serious about riding." With those words, the boy flung his knapsack over the corral fence and pulled out a pair of worn leather pants. He threw them at the girl with a mischievous grin.

"Okay Lark, enough with the secrets. Now, what's the sword about? Is this why you haven't been coming to our hideout anymore?"

Lark looked around cautiously, then dismounted her horse, having to hop from the stirrup to reach the ground. "All right Wren, I'll tell you," she said in a whisper, glancing around in good measure. "I'm learning how to fight."

"I can see that," Wren said with a chuckle.

Lark slugged him in the arm with all her force, silencing his laughter. She scowled. "I'm being serious. I'm tired of always being the one who ruins everything. So, I figured, who cares if I am a girl? Why can't I still be the one to fulfill the prophecy? Why can't I hunt the nightstalkers too?"

"For one simple reason—you aren't the heir. You're a girl, so you don't count."

Lark's head and sword drooped, her words limp and crestfallen. "So then, you think I'm a screwup, like everyone else? You think that I ruined everything the day I was born?"

"Now don't be like that. You know that's not what I meant. I'm just saying stop worrying about some dumb, old prophecy that doesn't make any sense. And stop caring about your father. You are much more than you give yourself credit for."

Lark used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her nose and looked up with a half-smile. "Does this mean you'll teach me how to fight?"

Wren shook his head with another laugh. "You're incorrigible and stubborn as a griffin, did anyone ever tell you that?"

Lark perked up, her mouth curving into a full-fledged smile. "Is that a yes?"

The edges of the vision curled, then erupted.

Flames. Shimmering fire licked the open mouth of Lana's home and leaped behind its glassy eyes. The quivering light illuminated a shape—a limp body lying sprawled near the open doorway. Darker shapes hemmed in the vision, their cloaks billowing as they flowed across the smoldering fields into the forest. Then, Lana heard the screaming. A familiar voice, pleading for the pain to stop, screaming her name.