The sunrise as seen from the eastern shore of Tumhai was always a beautiful sight to behold. One could look out to into the sapphire waters, peppered with lush emerald islands all the way to the horizon, and marvel as the sun spilled gold over it all. A priceless thing to witness, and a morning tradition among the island's inhabitants for generations. On this morning in particular, thin, wispy clouds were dancing in the distance, guided by the line where sky met sea. They brightened in colors from blood-red to magenta; as an iron over coals, so the clouds were set afire by a sun who had decided to put on a more extravagant show this morning.
It was a shame, then, that no one was watching today.
Though entirely innocent, Tumhai had experienced a heavy assault in the last few hours. A vigull flew peacefully overhead, its sharp silver beak glinting in the sunlight as its even sharper eyes took in the horrific scene below. Along the north shore of the island, its only village had been razed, the remains of structures still smoldering, adding a heavy black tone to the morning tapestry. The fire had spread from where it began at the island's tip, and what was once a beautiful green oval in the sea now appeared one-quarter blackened to the vigull soaring above. Not to mention the massive hole in the island's center.
The bird landed quickly at the edge of the crater, snapping up for breakfast a few of the many specklins that were clambering out of the hole. Other specklins seemed undeterred at the loss of their brethren; they feared far more what lay at the bottom of the pit: the mangled body of a full grown Sur.
Begrudgingly, Wyre opened his eyes.
He sat up slowly, waiting for the familiar itching sensation that told him his bones were knit back together. His arm was the first, thankfully; he grunted angrily as he used his one working limb to swat away the few braver specklins that were traversing his lap, threatening to ruin his favorite - and only remaining - baham.
The other limbs soon followed, and he dug his claws into the wall of the pit he'd made to hoist himself onto his still-wobbly legs. As he settled into a standing position, he made a feeble attempt to stretch, quickly realizing even the pit his impact had made was too narrow at its base for his massive frame. Frustrated, he gave a tremendous kick against the crater floor - which now pooled with water - and in two sloppy bounds he stood at the edge, tiptoeing to avoid the splintered trees that prodded at him. Here, in the open air, Wyre could stretch as he was meant to. He felt the final tingle of healing shimmy along his back, and extended each extremity as far as it would go. Outstretched hands to the sky. Legs spread wide as his bare toes dug into cool soil. And the strong morning breeze catching in just the right way against his wings as they unfolded from his back.
For a moment, Wyre forgot his pain. For a moment, the only pit that mattered was the one he'd emerged from, not the one that sat in his stomach, refusing to go away. For a moment, Aastar Wyre was connected to the world around him, and his anger and grief were all but gone. But only for a moment.
Though the morning sun and wind together made a wonderful sensation of hot and cold along his wings, he folded them back as he trudged into the jungle. The space between the trees was barely wide enough for his frame, let alone his full wingspan. It was an odd morning; Wyre felt too hot in the sunlight, but the shade of the trees made him uncomfortably cold. Good thing he had a remedy for that on hand.
He found what he was looking for without much diffuculty: the darab tree did glow, after all. The pulsing light thrummed steadily, a warm pink glow traveling from root to leaf with each beat. It always reminded Wyre of a heartbeat...the way he could hear his father's heartbeat when he'd hugged him tightly as a young boy...
A heartbeat he'd never hear again.
No! Wyre pushed the thought from his mind, closing his eyes and facing his head toward a sunbeam traveling through the leaves. The warm light helped focus him, helped him clear his mind and think of the Trivan. He spoke a short prayer to them now and continued walking, reaching the base of the darab tree.
Wyre scanned the ground for a stone, brushing aside leaves and pebbles with his foot until he found one that looked strong. It was oblong, and while fairly round on one end it had a natural taper on the other that made it perfect for Wyre's purposes. Picking up the rounded end with one hand, Wyre dug his claws into the bark of the darab to brace himself, and swung the stone into the trunk with all his might. He heard a satisfying crunch; it helped dispel some of his anger this morning.
His reprieve was short lived, however, for he pulled away the stone only to find that it had split in two; the sound he'd heard was its own, and the tree before him only feaured a small dent, barely any sign of injury.
His frustration mounting, Wyre threw the shards of his weapon and picked up stone after stone to swing repeatedly, continuing his assault of the darab. Crunch. Dent. Crunch. Dent. Crunch. Dent.
Having littered the base of the tree with stone splinters, Wyre kicked down smaller trees surrounding the darab until he'd formed a small clearing. Gathering a contingent of stones, he tried a new approach: hurling rocks at the tree until he finally broke into the treasure within. He'd made a sizable dent, and that was where he now aimed as he launched a volley at the tree with impeccable aim, hoping to make a crater in it as he'd made in Tumhai this morning.
Whether it was from his anger at the world, the loss of his father, or his inability to break into a simple tree, Wyre knew not, but tears were streaming down his face as he threw each rock. He wished he could gather each issue into a rock of its own and shatter it as these stones shattered against the shimmering darab. His father's death? Shattered. "Uncle" Nelson's betrayal? Shattered. The deaths of his people? Shattered. Being completely alone, without a shred of hope? Shattered.
His failure to do something as simple as killing himself?
Shattered.
Wyre leapt high into the air and towards the darab, holding the final stone above his head and spreading his wings for just a moment to gain a little extra lift. Then, in one fluid motion, he dropped from the sky and brought his rage down upon its trunk, the impact echoing through the forest and startling vigulls as the splinters shot across the clearing.
Wyre was breathing heavily now, the thin white fur on his face slick from tears and his hands raw - just for a moment as they healed - from the stones. Thankfully, his efforts had paid off: a sizable trickle of dar was flowing out, a glowing pink snake slithering down the tree's trunk. It was a viscous drink, slow-moving enough that Wyre took a moment to take a piece of wood from a smaller tree he'd splintered and, using a single claw, carve a piece of it into a shallow cup.
He sat with his back against the darab and sighed. With his shoulder just below the trickle of dar, he filled his makeshift cup as he pleased and drank with reckless abandon. It took a great deal of dar to inebriate any Sur, and a great deal more to do so to one of Wyre's stature. So he drank uninhibited. Hoping to forget, to numb the pain of his life. It was a temporary respite but a respite nonetheless, as his head began to spin and he grew lethargic, slumping against the tree now and spilling more dar on his baham than he did into his mouth.
The drunker Wyre got, the more he lost the ability to push away the thoughts that plagued him. He felt as though he was falling now as he had last night, zooming past the horrific scenes of the past few days.
Finding his father's body, a Sur finally at peace after all he'd been through.
Building a grand pyre for the dad he loved so dearly, tears streaming down his face for hours as he threw log after log together, tearing down the walls and homes of his now-abandoned hometown.
Looking down upon the blaze as he flew higher and higher, feeling the air thin and caring not.
Seeing the Gems of Thieves. Once his favorite constellation, it had looked beautiful against the black sky as he reached flew higher than any Havasur had ever before.
And closing his wings to do what no Havasur was meant to do.
Fall.
Aastar Wyre shook his head clear. He groggily stood up and began to walk away, the darab's wound now running dry, much to his displeasure. There were legends of Sury that had drank unholy amounts of dar, enough to bring them before the gods for their final judgment far sooner than they were meant to. But Wyre was certain: if his fall from the edge of the world couldn't kill him, dar was no match.
No, there were only two things that could kill a Sur. The first was old age. Aastar Garbov was proof enough of that. Indeed, the first way a Sur could die was rare, and by no means reliable, as the younger Aastar had yet to even reach the prime of his life.
But sadly, Wyre had none of the second.
The dar had nearly worn off and Wyre had reached the edge of the forest. He took a deep breath of the salty sea air as he stepped into the sand, curling his toes in its warmth and basking in the bright midday sun. As he neared the water, he picked up his pace, making enormous bounds aided only slightly by his wings. He took one final leap into the air before diving deep into the water, a distance from the shore many times his own height. Wyre loved the water almost as much as he loved the sky; as did the wind, so the waves seemed to gently change their course to suit Wyre's desires. He'd never felt that way about the ground or the trees, and wildlife certainly ignored his wishes, as the specklin dung on his baham could attest. But the sky and the sea loved him as one of their own, and he loved them as though they'd raised him. He could feel the current picking up against him now, somehow holding him in place as it cleaned the matted dirt from his fur. What had been a light grey with a brownish tinge now shone its natural bright white color, clean fur cropped close to his skin along a boulder-like frame. He folded his membranous wings parallel to the stream, and they too were stripped clean of their dust. Their smooth fuzz sent a tingle to Wyre's spine as he felt the cool current along them.
The undertow began to change as Wyre turned his wings, and with a tremendous kick of his legs, stroke of his arms, and flap of his wings, he shot out of one domain and into another. His favorite.
The sky.
Wyre soared higher and higher before snapping shut his wings, letting his momentum carry him to a stop in the sky, just for a moment, before he caught another gust of air to glide back to his town. He closed his eyes; every fiber of his being was one with the wind, and it would guide him as it always had. A too-tall tree is ahead of you!, one rush of air told him, as another guided him above it, prodding his wings to do what was needed. Another gust whispered of a flock of vigulls directly above, threatening to ruin his now pristine fur, and he was nudged to the left, out of their range and toward his destination.
Eyes still closed, Wyre listened for heartbeats. Not his own, but those of the world around him. His father had always told him that the world was alive, a being with three hearts instead of one.
One heart beat for the living, giving them the fruits that it bore and the joys that it brought into the world.
One heart beat for the dead, giving them a guide, a rhythm by which they could find their way to their one true home.
And one heart beat for all that was in between. Mountains formed over eons. Clouds that nurtured the soil. The coursing river that turned a plain into a canyon. All that which could not die but did not truly live.
Wyre chuckled softly and opened his eyes as he descended, wiping tears that he told himself were from the stinging wind. Only a few Mandwis, with ages of practice, had ever come close to hearing the faintest of beats. He was certain he would never join their ranks.
Even so, now more than ever, Wyre wondered which heart beat for him.
Wyre recalled a time when he was young, still unsure of himself and how the world worked, and had become separated from his parents in the desert of Uta Möt. He could remember it as clear as day. the terror he felt, all alone. He'd heard his heart in his ears, his voice catching in his throat as he tried to yell out into the empty land. He had trembled, almost shivered, even in the heat of the harsh landscape, and had fallen to his knees, feeling as though his legs themselves had been knocked from under him and he would never stand again.
It wasn't too hard to remember, for Wyre felt that way now, standing in the ashes of the village that had once been his home.
A part of him regretted burning his village, but he overwhelmingly felt indifference. He was the sole inhabitant; it was his to do with as he pleased. Better to avoid living his remaining days as a hermit in a ghost town. Perhaps the ashes could help Tumhai return to its natural state.
Trudging along, Wyre walked through the blackened streets, trying to recall the life and vibrancy the town had once exuded. Here there had been a fish market to his left, and a dar merchant, Ueto Ingi, to the right. He thought back to his father scolding him for spending too much time talking to Ingi, afraid his son would grow too fond of the thieves' venom, as Garbov called it. It brought a wry smile to Wyre's lips now to think his father had not been entirely wrong.
He stopped abruptly; the house before him was on the western edge of Tumhai, the last house in the row, with its back to a short field, leading to cliffs that fell sharply to the ocean below. It was his own home, and, though scorched thoroughly, it seemed to have weathered the inferno far better than the other buildings in the village. It was as though the winds themselves had protected it, sensing in Wyre's heart that he would not have wanted his childhood home reduced to unrecognizable ashes.
Heart heavy, he stepped inside.
The cottage was modest; for ages it had only been Wyre and his father living here, and though both were massive Havasury, the space suited them just fine. Wyre dragged a hand along the wall as he solemnly stepped through the hallway, his fingers drumming out of habit. The subtle shaking sprinkled soot around him from the ceiling, a solemn, shadowy snowfall. He didn't even bother stepping into his own room, for he knew there was nothing for him there. A couple trinkets he'd collected as a boy, a small empty satchel, and a cot barely fit for a Jadsur; the room had been bare before the blaze, who knew what unimpressive belongings the fire could have left him.
Instead, he stepped into his father's room immediately sitting at the foot of the blackened bed and turning to face the headboard. He'd spent many months in this very position, soothing his ailing father as his life had reached a close. Wyre felt the lump in his throat that signaled he was to cry once more, but found that the tears did not flow. One Sur could only hold so much sadness.
Creaaak.
Snap!
Wyre was given short warning before the bed collapsed under his weight. He flailed to right himself but only succeeded in cracking the frame further, dashing himself to the ground next to a partially-splintered bed and a now-lopsided mattress. He coughed as he inhaled some ash from the floor, contemplating laying on the floor for the rest of the afternoon, hoping to sleep his pathetic life away. But, as he blinked away the dust from his eyes, Wyre's attention snapped into focus for the first time since his father's death.
Beneath the bed, somehow seemingly intact, were a few short stacks of books. Notebooks written by Aastar Garbov himself.
Wyre scrambled to reach them, his bulky arms unable to fit into the small crevice between the broken bed and the dirt floor. Undeterred, he jumped to his feet and, in one swift and simple motion, overturned the bed, carelessly splintering the few unbroken bits that remained.
It didn't matter. Wyre had just found a treasure that meant more to him than anything else. He hadn't even realized his father still had these notebooks at all, let alone that he'd stored them so close. He thumbed through them, looking at the intricate writing and beautiful markings his father had painstakingly made over years of work. He began gathering as many as he could, folding his wings so they curved upward to carry some of the load. With armfuls and wingfuls of books, he hurried to the backyard and into the pleasant afternoon sun.
For the first time in ages, Wyre was smiling. Not his usual sarcastic smile, either, which often betrayed his hollow bemusement at his own misfortunes. No, Wyre was grinning, ear to ear. As he piled the books neatly in the yard and lay down to enjoy them, he scolded himself for ever being short with his father for making him learn to read and write. Sure, Sury hadn't written in ages, or needed to, for that matter, but the ever-archaic Garbov insisted that no son of his would be untrained in something "so simple".
Wyre was glad for his insistence now, as he opened the first notebook beneath the shade of his own wings. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but he thought he caught the faint smell of his father lingering on the pages.
The elder Aastar had always been so guarded of his notes, and it had piqued Wyre's curiosity from a young age. With nothing else left to do, his town in ashes and his heart in pieces, Wyre began to read. His father's words echoed in his head: whether simple platitudes that the old Sur had repeated often to chastise his son or notes about his work and the world around him, Aastar Garbov's notes captivated Aastar Wyre now as nothing had before. A intricate, hand-drawn map of Gnizai was more beautiful to him now than seeing the island itself from the sky had been, as a young suro journeying west. His hatred for handwritten mathematics now cowered before his love for the short computations he saw now, littering the margins of pages as Garbov had tried to come up with correct figures to show his superiors. His admiration for his father only grew as he devoured page after page, book after book, the Sur's words ever eloquent and profound, pure poetry spilling off the pages.
A few notebooks were dedicated to poetry, in fact. Wyre found himself simultaneously rolling his eyes and feeling his heart swell, his fathers verses often saccharine and yet, sagacious nonetheless.
Only a few notebooks remained untouched as the sun kissed the horizon, sending a gorgeous shimmering wave of light along the indigo depths. Wyre was consumed by all that he'd read, and absent-mindedly reached for another volume before his heart stopped, aghast at what he held.
The book was a beautiful orange color, a holy symbol, but Wyre recognized it as the gift of a traitor. A meaningless gesture from his wretched "Uncle".
He fanned the pages slowly, debating whether he even cared to lay his eyes upon something from that man. He saw a great deal of white, however; it seemed that Garbov had rarely chosen this notebook. Good. At least the gift wasn't being given more value by his father's skilled hand.
He settled on skimming through it. That was all that was necessary, regardless, as even the pages with notes contained only fragments of sentences often incomprehensible. His father, oddly, had chosen to switch between languages often in this book, often even in the middle of a thought. Wyre tried to lose himself in the pages as he had before, but found himself skipping past more and more as less and less appealed to him. He wanted to move on from this, claim he'd read it so that he could burn it more quickly and be rid of that scoundrel. Maybe a small part of the fire was still burning somewhere, so he wouldn't have to light anoth...
Wyre froze.
He'd reached the last page of the orange notebook, which contained a single line. The only lucid thought in the entire piece, and Wyre had almost missed it.
Shak Rasan lives. Gnizai Mand.
Shaking, Wyre read the line over and over. It was askew on the page, written as though one had grabbed the notebook in haste and scribbled the words before forgetting them. And it was written recently, of that much Wyre was sure. The lettering lacked the clear artistry of Aastar Garbov's handwriting. If the old Sur had written this, it had been in his last, ailing days.
Wyre stood up and began to pace, wings flapping erratically as he tried to piece together his mind after the magnitude of this message. Shak Rasan...this could mean a new hope, a way out of the bind that trapped him. The bind that trapped the Sury.
He had made up his mind before he had even had to turn back in his pacing. He rushed back into the house and to his own room, praying that his satchel had survived the fire. Luckily, it had, and he began to stuff it with books and much more. He couldn't take it all, and he quickly thumbed through those he'd read to see what would be most useful on his journey. Two books of maps made the cut, along with a particularly beautiful volume of poetry. He skimmed the few books he hadn't gotten a chance to read, hoping nothing new jumped out at him to dissuade him from the journey he was about to take.
Nothing did. He hurriedly piled the remaining books back inside the cottage before going to his room for anything else he might need. A small pendant - from his mother - caught his eye and went into the satchel immediately. Reluctantly, he reached behind his own charred bed and pulled out a small cruet of highly potent dar, weighing it in his hand as he weighed it in his mind.
Without another thought, Wyre hurled it into a stone support. A faint pink glow emerged as it shattered. He was done with poison; now he had something to live for.
Hastily bounding outside, he picked up the orange notebook where he'd left it in the grass, silently praying to the Trivan to thank them for the road ahead and their blessing to guide him along it. It seemed so silly now, to have hated an item for having crossed paths with the enemy; this book was his father's, the same as any other book in the bunch. He slipped it into the satchel, slung it around his neck, and took one leap from where he stood to the cliff's edge.
For a moment, Wyre looked back at his home, his town, his island. For a moment, he thought back to all the joy he'd experienced here, all the memories he'd cherished and all the love his people had given him. It was a to be a long journey, never knowing when he'd return, or when he'd build Tumhai back to its former glory...for a moment, Wyre was afraid.
But only for a moment.
Wings spread, Wyre dove off the cliff and caught the wind beautifully spinning and whooping as the salty spray danced along his body and the breeze quickened his pace. There was no one left on Tumhai, but the sharp-eyed vigulls could look off over the western horizon, and as the sun dipped behind it, Aastar Wyre soon followed.
Ten seconds.
Ten seconds were the hardest part of Rayan's morning. Most people were still asleep when he dragged himself out of bed, but that was not the hard part. Most people found Kur food to be bland and tough, but eating his breakfast was not the hard part. Most people were too scared of Leviathans to go swimming in the first place, but getting over that fear was not the hard part.
No, the hardest part, Rayan found, was standing where sand met surf each morning, and convincing himself to rush into the cold morning water.
Gods it was cold!
It usually only took him ten seconds, and he had a very specific routine.
One second to inhale deeply, the next second to exhale.
A third to close his eyes and feel the wind on his face. A fourth to open them.
A fifth to clench his fists, hoping to warm up his hands before the cold onslaught they were about to face.
And then he was left with five more seconds. With these, he simply counted down, promising himself that he would begin running into the water as soon as he ran out of numbers.
And for all his issues, Rayan Henley never broke a promise.
Two. One. Zero.
In mere seconds he had left the sand and dove into the water, focusing his mind on controlling his strokes and breathing, avoiding any shaking or shallow breaths due to the cold and tumultuous waters. It took a few minutes, but his body adjusted, and soon he was enjoying the swim, rising and falling with each wave, completely at peace with the silence of the morning.
Though the sun had not yet risen, the sky was still light enough that Rayan could see without issue. with every second breath, he looked to his left at the buoys that stretched out from the shore of Muertos. It took him about twenty minutes to swim the distance of the fifth buoy, beyond which it was forbidden to sail or swim.
It wasn't a rule that was always followed, but Rayan would follow it anyway, today of all days.
With long, expert strokes, Rayan soon reached the fifth buoy's distance, and began to tread water in place as he waited for his cue to return. He always tried to make it all the way out before the first sunrise, and was pleased that he'd done it successfully today. It was a good sign; he hoped he'd proved himself to the committee by now, but proving his ability to himself was an entirely different matter.
He took a deep breath to quiet the storm inside his heart as he tread water more strongly, getting a better look over the waves at the Skywall, the other storm before him. Truthfully, he knew not which he feared more.
The dark clouds of the Skywall took a large chunk of the horizon. Their bottom edge was comparatively low, close to the seas surface, but the sun would still shine through the gap for a few minutes each morning, the first sunrise of Muertos.
Once the rising sun disappeared behind the wall of clouds, it took slightly longer than an hour for it to reappear above them, giving the Muertan village a little longer to officially start the day. Contrary to most of the village, Rayan liked the first sunrise far better than the second. Those few minutes were the only time when the storm was something everyone, Muertans and Kurs alike, could forget. Sure, the rain still poured and the lightning still struck during that time. But from the shore - or the water, where Rayan usually was - it was all washed away by the brilliance of sunlight for the short time it appeared between the horizon and the clouds.
And Rayan saw it now, as it set the water before him ablaze.
The morning sun pushed away his fears and his nerves for this monumental day, and for a moment he was alone with the world. He closed his eyes, partially to feel the peace and warmth of the morning light, but mostly because he feared the sun would blind him as he spent these few minutes staring at it. But he grinned nonetheless; he was happy, and for the first time in a long time, his deepest fears felt like they'd vanished.
It wasn't much to go off of, but Rayan felt in his heart that today was going to be a great day.
He turned and began to swim back to land, the sun's warmth on his back urging him gently to swim faster than he ever had before.
Rayan jogged out of the water and onto the shore, sand clinging to his feet and ankles as he kicked it up in his stride. Rayan's morning ritual for years, among other things, had helped shape him into one of the strongest members of the Muertan village. He hoped it would turn into a position at his dream job, but for now he pushed those thoughts aside and dried the seawater from his tanned brown skin. His black curls still dripping, he pulled a light garment over his head and picked up his satchel, grabbing his sandals from its pouch before slinging it over his shoulder. The beach was fine for bare feet, but they wouldn't fare so well where he was going.
Snap!
Rayan loved the sound of twigs and leaves beneath his sandaled feet. He'd lightly jogged into the forest from the beach, following a path he knew all too well; after so many years, he might as well have walked it with his eyes closed.
The path to the top of Mt. Nantri - a large hill, despite its name - was steep in some parts, but had plenty of hand and footholds in the form of the gnarled trees that lined its edges. Rayan felt himself rushing, and urged himself to slow down, so as to avoid injury on such an important day. He didn't like being late, but he had to remind himself of who he was meeting and of the minimal likelihood that he'd arrive second.
He chuckled, promising himself he'd buy Mikti a couple fried specklins if she had managed to beat him there.
Cresting the hill, he came to a clearing with a single massive tree overlooking a steep drop into the village below. Rayan sighed contentedly as he leaned against Nantri and looked off into the distance at his village and the ocean beyond. The Skywall had a slight glow to it at this time as the sun hid behind it, ready to show its face again in just under an hour. From here, Rayan could see just how truly massive the storm was: the island was far bigger than he or any Muertan had ever explored, but the storm extended North and South as far as the eye could see, following the land's curve perfectly. Rayan had walked the entire length of the shore that one could under Muertan law, and never had he known the storm to move closer or further from the shore. It was a perplexing prison to the village. No one, Muertan or Kur had sailed beyond the storm and lived. He gritted his teeth before calming himself down; no use getting mad at a wall of clouds.
Using his height to his advantage, Rayan leapt up to grab one of the lower branches of Nantri, shimmying along it to grab two motherfruits before dropping back down among its massive roots. He admired the pulsing purple pattern that danced along the roots, up the trunk, and into the tree's leaves. It always made him happy, and with a smile on his face he sat down among them, setting his two fruits to the side as he admired the morning light.
It wasn't long before he heard rustling behind him, very clearly from the trail he'd just followed. As quickly as it had started, it suddenly stopped, and Rayan was sure he knew what was about to happen. He grinned at the thought: she'd never been able to sneak up on him before, why would she think that had changed now?
"You're going to have to do something about those elephant feet if you ever want to startle me, Reine." He smirked, not even bothering to turn around as he poked fun at his friend.
Whap! Rayan spun around reflexively from the pain, only to see Mikti, displeased and with her hands on her hips. She had one sandal on, while the other was among the roots, where it had bounced after hitting Rayan in the head.
"Don't. Don't call me that, especially today, you know I hate it." A smug smile crossed Mikti's lips before she added, "Starblood."
Rayan rolled his eyes, but didn't protest the nickname, knowing he deserved the jibe.
"Can you get me one of those before I sit down?" Mikti cocked her head at him before pointing her eyes up at a particularly juicy set of motherfruit. She wasn't short for a young woman, but Rayan stood taller by nearly a foot.
"Think fast!" Rayan grinned before he tossed one of the fruits he'd grabbed in her direction, hoping he'd be able to stifle a laugh in the likely event that his clumsy friend didn't catch it.
To his surprise, she did, with some effort, and trotted down a few steps to join him at his seat on the roots. They sat in silence for a few moments, munching on the tart fruits that gave off a small glow with each bite. It was a messy affair, and soon they both were grinning and chuckling as the juice dripped down their chins.
"Here," Mikti reached behind them to Rayan's bag, pulling out his towel and dabbing her face with one end while he used the other. Rayan found himself staring at her, wondering how two people so different could be so close.
Mikti sported a tan, much lighter than Rayan's deep brown, with freckles dotting her nose and upper cheeks. He rarely saw her outside of her royal garb, but this morning it seemed she'd taken her chances, wearing a much simpler shirt and skirt than usual, her blonde locks tied up messily atop her head. She was looking out into the distance as she finished off her motherfruit, tossing the pit aside before turning toward him.
"What?" Mikti eyed him quizzically.
"Nothing. What do you mean?"
"You're staring at me."
"I'm not! I'm just...uh...reminiscing." He gave a half-smile and turned away, hoping he wasn't blushing.
"If you say so Ray." She drummed her fingers on the roots, her tell-tale sign of nervousness. "Are you excited for today?"
The question was sincere, but Rayan sensed a trembling in her voice, something telling him that she, in fact, was not excited.
"I'm optimistic I guess? I'm thrilled to finally get Assigned, but I don't know if excited is the word I'd use." He turned to look her in the eyes. "You don't sound like you are though. Is Zo Rex giving you a hard time?"
Mikti sighed, and Rayan knew he not to press the question further. Her father Alonzo, the Rex of the village, was known for his jovial demeanor and for his high standards. It created an odd juxtaposition at times, especially for those closest to him.
"Mik," Rayan scooted closer to her, putting his arm around her shoulder before she began to cry. "You're going to be a great Reine, you know that. Everyone knows it."
"Yeah? Do they know it because I've been so good at leading all these years? Or because I've been so good at school?" She scoffed before adding, "Even Haddy doesn't listen to me! How am I going to lead a village if I can't get that brat in line?"
"Mik, Haddy doesn't listen to anyone. And you will be a good leader, you're not taking over for at least a few years. You just need practice, we all do." Rayan paused, choosing his next words carefully. "And you're perfectly fine at school, at least you're not last." He hoped he'd get a laugh, trying to cheer her up before the ceremony.
It didn't work.
"I am last you dork. You don't count. If it wasn't for that stupid rule we all know you'd be first. The only thing I'm good at is botany. How's that gonna help me as Reine, should I lead a bunch of plants out of the Skywall?"
"I...uh. Sorry." Rayan wasn't sure what to say. He moved his hand involuntarily to his collarbone, fiddling lightly with the twisted brand on his skin right beneath it.
Mikti's expression softened; she felt bad for snapping at Rayan. He meant well, even if he was obtuse at times.
"Hey," She gently swatted away his hand to stop him picking at the brand further. "Don't play with that, it's a bad habit. I'm sorry, I'm just stressed. Between Assignment Day and taking care of the Strufors, Papa's has been really overworked and I've been helping as much as I'm able to." She took a deep breath; Rayan didn't hesitate to place his hand over hers. They sat in silence for a moment.
"I hope they're doing okay." Rayan gritted his teeth, not sure if he felt more sad or angry for the Strufor family. He pulled away, but not before Mikti felt his hand tense up over hers.
"Hey. You're right you know, we can all probably relax a little. It's all a little dramatic, but I think we should both be excited for Assignment Day. It's going to go great." She smiled at him and hugged him tightly, hoping it'd calm them both down.
Rayan felt more at peace immediately, though he wasn't sure why his heartbeat began to quicken. He hugged her back, and for a few moments they were silent, enjoying the peaceful morning before their lives were to change forever. No Kur had been Assigned before, so Rayan wasn't sure what to expect. But Mikti's smile always put him at ease.
"We need to do something about this though!" She pulled away and tugged lightly at the scraggly hairs on his chin, flecks of salt from his swim still entangled in his unkempt beard.
Rayan gave her a look.
"I would if I..."
"No, I know." Mikti cut him off abruptly, but with a smile. "It's not fair though...especially to a hero like you, Starblood" She patted his cheek lightly and smirked at him as he glowered back for her comment. She liked pushing his buttons, but all it took was a nudge and and a laugh for him to lose his annoyance. "Anyway, I'll talk to Papa about it as soon as I can. I'm upset I didn't notice before today!."
"It's fine Mik, don't sweat it." He smiled and leaned back against the roots, and Mikti joined him in relaxing. Their calm silence quickly grew tense, hovering over them as they returned to their own tumultuous thoughts.
After a short while, the surrounding trees rustled slightly, and they both heard the sharp crack of branches breaking. Mikti bolted upright in fear.
"Leves!" She started to jump up to run before Rayan grabbed her arm, gently coaxing her to sit back down.
"It's probably not Leves, you know that. And if it were, we definitely should not move from here." He nodded slightly upward at the glowing Nantri above them. The Leviathans in the trees looked and acted much different than those of the water, but neither species liked getting anywhere close to motherfruit.
"Well," Mikti took a few deep breaths to calm down from the start, "we should definitely remember to report it to Papa or Admiral S-...uh, Gord when we head back down." She took a moment to clear her head, then leaned against Rayans shoulder as she began to relax again. Both of them stared out into the distance. The Skywall flashed and thundered every so often, though the rest of the sky was a beautifully clear blue.
"What do you think's out there Ray?" Mikti's voice was soft as she asked, as if she was scared of the answer. Rayan had barely been able to hear.
"Pain, Mik. The God Pain is out there, so the Painted Gods kept us on Muertos. You know that." He scoffed slightly, hoping she wouldn't press him further.
But she knew him too well.
"Nope. I don't buy it." She was smirking at him, but there was a depth to her look, a mix between frustration and curiosity. "That's what everyone else believes. That's what they taught us, that's what we're supposed to believe." She sighed and sat up straight to look him in the eye. "But for whatever reason it's not what you believe, and I don't need you protecting my feelings about it. What do you think is out there, Henley?"
Mikti never used his surname unless she was dead serious, so Rayan knew to tread carefully. He cracked his knuckles as he stared into the distance, giving himself some time to formulate a response.
"I...I don't know. If you're really asking me, it's not some evil god that the Skywall is holding back, and it's certainly not Pain. We have enough of that here already."
It seemed to satisfy her for the moment, for she slouched back down with her head against him again. He thought he was done until she spoke again.
"Well enlighten me then." He couldn't see her face but he knew she was rolling her eyes. "Tell me what's really out there, I know you Kurs have some unconventional theories about it. Let's hear 'em." She failed to stifle a chuckle at his expense, but Rayan found himself smiling anyway.
"That's a myth you know. We believe in the Painted Gods, same as you." He took a pause before continuing, making up a tall tale as he went along. "But I think there's new lands out there, lands where they don't have to worry about Leviathans or about eating unholy amounts of motherfruit to ward them off. I don't know if there's people out there but if there are, they're trying their best to save us from the Leviathans and the Skywall and they're gonna show up on that horizon any day now." Despite himself and his fabrication, Rayan was getting excited just thinking about it.
"They'll burst through the Skywall in huge boats like your dad talks about sometimes, and it'll dissolve into mist while all the Leviathans swim away faster than they ever have before. They'll come onto shore and take us out of here and into.."
He stopped, realizing Mikti had begun to snore.
He looked out into the distance one more time, realizing the second sunrise had just begun over the Skywall. He nudged his friend awake gently; she never liked to miss it. They sat in awe, watching the beauty as the darkness of the Skywall was replaced with the sun's warm embrace. As the rays of light hit the island, both of them stood up and stretched, feeling surprisingly ready for Assignment Day after all. Rayan grabbed a few more motherfruits for them to share with their families, and soon the pair were bounding down the trail, back to a village that had only just begun to stir.