Imogen

“You don’t have to keep going.” A small voice said from behind him.

Atlas looked back at Imogen. “Do what?”

She gestured at the tents, the people around them. “All this.”

“Of course I do.”

“You can stop.” Her hands were balled into fists.

“Gen, I have to do this."

“No you don’t!” She shouted.

Atlas shook his head, shocked. It was the first time she’d ever raised her voice with him. “Don’t you remember what the Empire has done to us? To our parents?”

“Of course.” She echoed. “But you’ve done enough. We’ve had our due. We don’t need to keep fighting anymore.”

“If we stop now, everything will go back to how it was. The Empire will go back to how it was. Nothing will have changed.”

“And if we don’t stop now, we’ll be no different from they are.” Imogen stepped closer, her grey eyes beginning to glisten with tears. The wind flicked her hair around her head. “Can’t you see what’s happening? What you’re becoming?”

“What would you have me do?” Atlas stepped towards her, his initial shock turning to anger. “The Empire needs to be overthrown. If not for us, then for everyone else, the generations to come.”

“Then let them fight this war.” She threw her hand out at the encampment. “Not you. You’ve done your part.”

Atlas looked at her incredulously. “Are you giving up?”

“No!” Imogen ran her hands through her hair. A tear escaped her left eye. “I’m not giving up, I’m letting go.”

Atlas looked at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, “What would you have me do?”

“We’ll sneak out while they sleep. We can take a boat, sail off in the night. We can come clean, start over.” She stepped closer. “Atlas, we have the rest of our lives. I don’t want to see you die for this cause.”

The wind died. To Atlas, the whole world ceased to move. The noise of the camp around them faded out of existence; all he could hear was Imogen’s breathing. Her heart thudded loudly in the silence, threatening to break free of her chest.

“I’m sorry, Gen.” He said finally. “I started this. I have to see it through to the end.”

The tear began to make its way down her face. She turned and began to walk away. “Then you’ll have to go on without me.”

“Imogen, stop!” Atlas grabbed her hand.

“No!” She yanked her hand away and stepped back. Her face was filled with fury, but none of it touched the sorrow in her beautiful grey eyes. “When I first met you, you knew what you were trying to do. You were trying to help people. To stop the suffering the Empire wrought.”

“I’m still trying to—”

“No, you’re not.” Imogen shook, her jaw clenched almost as tightly as her fists. “This isn’t about helping people anymore. You won’t stop until the Empire and everyone in it is either dead or in chains. You’ve long since stopped giving them a chance to redeem themselves.”

“They have killed our friends! Our family!”

“And we have killed theirs!”

They stared at each other, three feet apart and miles away. The camp around them truly had gone silent now, anyone nearby either politely leaving or listening intently.

“Why can’t you just let this go?” Imogen asked. “Why can’t you trust anyone else to do it?”

Atlas shook his head. “I just can’t. I need to finish this.”

Imogen stood for a long time, tremoring faintly. “Fine,” she said finally, running her hand through her hair. “Fine. But I won’t follow. I can’t watch you, what you’re becoming. I wish you luck, Atlas. And I hope you realise before it’s too late.”

“Gen, please…” Atlas held out his hand, but the grey-eyed girl just turned and walked away, disappearing in the maze of tents. He felt a drop of rain land on his outstretched hand, then another on his shoulder. The rain gradually increased, pouring from the grey sky, until Atlas felt he might drown under its weight.


Look! More Fifth Citadel!
Feedback and criticism is welcome.

The Slow Regard of Silent Things.

I finished this novel a few days ago and I felt the need to write about my feelings at the time of finally shutting the book. So I wrote.

The Slow Regard of Silent things is a book that ends on paper and not in your mind, a book that you close and hold and feel with your eyes closed and heart open and you feel. I have read books like this before, books that whisper to you when they're nearby, books that fill a hole in your soul that you didn't know existed and yet you know you are bigger inside for it. The Slow Regard of Silent Things is a rare thing, an experience more than a story and yet a story still. It makes me want to write and think and feel and laugh and love and look at the world in a way I haven't done before, in a way I'm not sure I can. Much of the book is spent finding things that are perfect, that fit in their place. This story fits, perfect and whole inside of you without pretending to be something that it is not. And if that's not enough to make you want to read it, I don't know what to give you.

Remember

The angel was heavy in Stacy’s arms, but still lighter than a person its size would normally be. Its eyes were open, staring, less a single colour and more a prism reflecting all light in different, constantly changing directions. Its skin was alabaster, not in colour but its smooth and unyielding nature. No, it was paler than alabaster, an almost blinding whiteness matched only by the wings that unfolded from its back. The wings were spread wider than the angel was tall, the tips only just brushing the ground, far to each side. The feathers that touched the ground were wet and gold from the pool of blood that spread gradually around Stacy, steadily dripping from the gaping hole in the angel’s chest. The angel’s eyes moved slowly, ponderously, until they met Stacy’s.

“You caught me.” It said. It did not speak the words, but Stacy heard them regardless.

Not trusting herself to speak, Stacy simply nodded, tears streaming from her eyes. She couldn't remember when she had started to cry. The angel seemed to sigh, although whether it was capable of breathing Stacy was unsure. The prismatic eyes burned brighter for a moment and Stacy was aware of the angel’s hand at her temple. She hadn’t seen it move.

“Remember this, Stacy.” The angel spoke-without-speaking. “When the darkness draws close, when you feel you have lost your way, remember this.”

Stacy felt a searing pain in her temple and screamed, her entire body convulsing, soaking her jeans further in the golden blood. Before she was aware that she made a noise, the pain was over and the angel’s arm was back in its lap.

“How do I fix this?” Stacy’s voice came out cracked and broken. She didn’t know how long she had been crying for. “How do I help you?”

The angel smiled, an expression so full of kindness and benevolence that Stacy almost forgot that it was dying. “You cannot help.” It replied. “My time is done. Such is the will.”

The angel drew in a breath and let it out slowly, the sound like a flock of doves taking flight. By the time it had finished sighing, Stacy was alone, kneeling in a room she didn’t recognise, her hands soaked with the blood of an angel. She stayed in that position, crying until her eyes dried up and then for a while longer. The blood dripped like honey, each drop swallowed eagerly by the pool under her. Her temple throbbed in time with her heart, but somehow she knew that it wasn’t her heartbeat she felt.

When her chest finally stopped heaving, she stood up. She had not noticed in her fugue state, but the golden blood had been slowly moving, draining from her jeans and forming a large shape around her; a circle but more complex, although she couldn’t say where or how. The blood began to glow softly, then brighter, then brighter still, until the entire room was awash in the golden radiance, so bright that Stacy had to close her eyes.

When she opened them again, she was in her room. Her jeans were dry, her hands clean, but she could still feel the blood on her palms and between her fingers. The pulsing in her temple had stopped, but not gone away. Stacy could feel it lurking just out of sight, waiting around the next corner, waiting until it was needed. A tsunami of exhaustion nearly brought her to her knees and she stumbled over to her bed, lying down fully dressed. She closed her eyes and within moments, woke up.




This was inspired by a couple of lines from Bridges, by Rise Against. If you listen to it you'll hear the ones I mean.

1.5: Infiltration

Estelle strode through the gardens with a confidence she did not feel. Her golden gown felt too long and she had to constantly try not to step on it lest she damage the material, or worse the facade of nobility she was trying so very hard to project. She could feel the two vials hidden in the cole at the back of her neck, the slim glass tubes cold against her skin. She imagined she could feel the one with the Taint inside pressing harder into her neck than the other, reaching for her. Shivering slightly, she walked a little faster.

The gardens were unlit save for the dim moonlight, but even without the broad path she would have had no trouble seeing where she was going. The sculpted mixture of vines and flowers, so vibrant in the sunlight, were now dull, muted. The night sucked the colour from them, leaving them looking grey and dead.

Ahead, Estelle saw a statue outside of a grand building that slowly seeped light and laughter and life. The statue faced the overflowing building in mid-stride, a spear held in his outstretched hand, as if he had been midway through charging the occupants when the lack of light froze him, locked his limbs and stole the fire from his eyes. Estelle hiked up her skirts as she made her way up the stairs, trying not to look down. A Lady knows where her own feet are, and does not trip or stumble. Estelle didn’t understand why they didn’t just wear longer pants.

There was an armed guard standing by the heavy wooden doors. His weapon seemed to shine despite the minimal light outside, the curved blade of the axe appearing spectral. He did not question Estelle’s late arrival to the ball, simply turned and pushed hard against one of the doors before standing aside. Light clawed at the door, pulling it open all the way and bursting out into the darkness, scrambling over the statue and the flowers before escaping into the night. Estelle stepped gracefully—she hoped—inside and the door swung to a close behind her, cutting off her only means of escape.

The crowd before her was a convoluted mess of colours and personalities, with well-dressed nobles criss-crossing each other’s paths at every moment, yet somehow none of them colliding or even breaking stride. It seemed to be in constant motion, each person a part in an incredibly complicated machine. On a raised platform behind the crush of bodies, the Duchess and her husband overlooked the celebrations. High above the couple was a balcony, where she had to be for the plan to work. A man stood with arms crossed, his ripped and pleated sleeves stopping just short of his elbows. His face looked darker than his vest as he surveyed the congregation below. The Captain of the Guard. He would be her main obstacle tonight.

She had a moment of indecision. This plan was crazy. There was absolutely no way she would get away with it. There was no way any of them were escaping this alive. Panic rose from her gut, clutching at her throat and attempting to escape as a scream. She swallowed it down and took a deep breath to centre herself. In the end, it didn’t matter if she escaped or not. What mattered was that she had to succeed. If she didn’t escape, well, that would be one life weighed against thousands. Estelle exhaled, letting her doubts escape with the breath, and set off through the crowd.

She struggled a little at first to anticipate the movements of the people around her, especially in this damned dress, but after a few near bumps she settled mostly into the flow of the crowd. It seemed to swell and flow, an unseen force guiding each person toward and around one another. She felt like a virus, infiltrating the system, not quite in tune with the rest of the organism. By the time she made it to the door on the opposite wall, she found herself flushed and breathless, far more than she would have expected from walking across a room, even one as large as this. She took a moment to regain her composure and make sure her cole was straight before opening the door and slipping through.

The short hallway beyond was almost startlingly dark and it took her eye a moment to adjust, the sharp edges and corners of the walls and the stairs at the end of the hallway lighting up ever so slightly. She walked between the spectral lines, slowing when she heard someone descending the stairs. She ducked into an alcove that would have been nearly invisible but for the lines she could see. A young man with a torch appeared on the stairwell, sharply dressed in a black and crimson uniform.

Damn, she thought to herself. There was only meant to be the Captain on guard tonight, and this would cause… complications. Still… perhaps she could use it to her advantage. She carefully withdrew the vial containing the Taint from the back of her cole, handling it with extreme caution. She shrank back into the alcove as the torch approached, then passed her. She crept from her hiding place and took short, sharp steps to close the distance between them quickly and silently. Looking into the flame drew forth too many lines and hurt her eyes, so she focused instead on the back of his head, each of his short hairs showing as a faint light. Timing her steps with his, Estelle uncapped the vial, reached around the man and attempted to pour as much of the viscous smoke down his throat as she could. Almost immediately, he bucked backwards, knocking her over and sending the vial flying. It didn’t matter. One look at his face told her all she needed to know. His eyes were already lined with darkness and the skin at his throat had swollen from the contact with the Taint. He collapsed to the floor, gasping ineffectually. Estelle backpedalled as fast as she could, scrambling backwards across the stone floor. She examined her hands, praying that none of the Taint had spilled onto her. After a few tense moments, she sighed and lay back down on the cold, hard ground. So far as she could tell, she was clean. For now.

Estelle picked herself up, dusting the dress off as best she could. She felt inside the back of her cole and was relieved to find that the other vial had not shattered. She allowed herself another breath to calm down once more, before leaving the Tainted man behind and ascending the stairs, staying vigilant for stray dress hems. The lines in the stone walls grew gradually clearer as light bloomed up ahead, the stairs opening to the balcony overlooking the ballroom. She hadn’t realised how quiet the hallway had been until the sounds of merriment swelled, washing down the stairs. Silhouetted against the light and laughter was the Captain of the Guard, Pret Deavos. He was facing away from her, thankfully, standing with his hands on the railing before him. His sword sat at his left hip, pistol at his right. He seemed intent on the scene before him so she took her chances, slipping each weapon from its sheath as quietly as she could. She’d barely unholstered the pistol when he reached down for it, nearly knocking it from her hand. She stepped back and pressed against the wall, out of his reach, and pointed the pistol at him. Despite the adrenaline coursing through her body, her hand stayed mercifully still. He looked down at his belt where his sword should be and moved a hand to the scabbard even as he saw that it was empty. Estelle decided to end his confusion by delicately coughing. Deavos whirled to face her and she saw in his eyes his decision to try to grab her, so she cocked the pistol and shook her head. His hair had more than a touch of grey in it, but judging by the rest of him that was due more to stress than age. He might not have quite been in his prime anymore, but he was still definitely solidly built. And, she had to admit, not unattractive.

“I was expecting more from the Captain of the Guard.” She said, trying to sound nonchalant. This was the Captain of the Guard, and she had just disarmed him without a hitch. Something had to go wrong. “You men are all so brutish, so heavy-handed. You don’t even notice when a lighter touch is used.” His face darkened further at her needling. It was perhaps unwise to intentionally antagonise him, but for this to work she needed him emotional.

When he spoke, his voice was rough, gravelly. “How did you get past Marc?”

“Oh dear, that wasn’t the man you sent to look after me, was it?” She brought her eyebrows together in exaggerated sympathy. “I’m afraid he won’t be waking up tonight. Whether he wakes at all… well, that’s up to what you do now. You see, he someone swallowed a lethal dose of the Taint. However, I happen to have a dose of the cure here.” She let the sword lean against the wall and reached into her cole for the other vial. It contained a curious reflection of the other vial, a faintly transparent liquid that danced around itself.

Estelle began to panic when the Captain seemed to lock up. Maybe this hadn’t been the right way to play this. She should have stuck to the plan, let the younger man go and use the Taint on Deavos. It was stupid to change it, stupid—

“For all I know, you’re lying.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying his fear. Estelle didn’t blame him. The Taint was an atrocious sickness, but her mission had to succeed, even with the possible damage the Taint would do here if left unchecked.

She tilted her head, trying to get a read on the man. This was the crux of the conversation. If she failed now…

“Can you really take that chance?” She asked. Then, before he could formulate an answer, she threw the vial towards the stairs and ran headlong for the balcony, leaping off and falling down toward the Duchess and her husband, followed by Deavos’ anguished yell.

Had a few short pieces lately, and I feel like this one sorta makes up for that. Didn't really mean for it to get as long as it did, but I think it worked out. Any feedback is of course welcome.

Hope

David looked down on the small valley from his hillside camp, down at the sprawling mass of bodies. Small fires flickered here and there, spluttering points of light dully illuminating the couple of thousand refugees, or rebels, or whatever they were. Most of the time, they were both. Those who had been prepared or were lucky scavengers rested in tents, while the rest slept on pallets or the hard dirt. Little grew in this harsh soil but a few brambles, stubbornly refusing to die. These people fit this place well, David thought. Repeatedly refusing to give in to punishment, abuse and starvation. Perhaps in future the brambles would be able to reclaim this arid ditch, soften the soil for trees and flowers to come.
   These people worked as one, sharing resources as best they could and marching together to Emerate, the last free city, which, for all anyone knew, was nothing more than a myth. Surely, they said, if Emerate had ever existed, then the Corporation would have found it by now. Found it and razed it to the ground. But the rebels pushed on, clinging to what little hope they had. Hope was all they had left. 
   David knew he should be getting some rest so he could think clearly tomorrow and lead the people--his people--further east.There was a faint glow on the horizon, and though it could be merely a trick of the light--Cayn knows how often that had happened--something about it made him almost certain it was what they were looking for. 
   He watched his followers for a minute longer, and then ducked into his tent and lay down to sleep.