Abducted

16

Nevada shot up, clenching his chest. He drew his knees into his chest and began to weep, his hands tangling into his hair. He felt Blackjack burrow his beak into his shoulder, turning around to face the griffin.

The animal breathed steadily, and he tried to match pace, trying to slow his racing heart. He didn't understand why he was getting nightmares now, like when he was a toddler. That was something he thought would never happen. They were as bad as they were in October.

He'd despised that experience. Locked up like that while his people were killed. He got to see the entire thing, got to feel the bullet wounds cutting through him, even if they didn't actually. It seemed that after three months it still wasn't better.

Has it been three months? It seemed impossible, now. But yes, in three days it would be January 1st.

He looked out over the lake- the sun was beginning to set, creating a glistening pattern of orange and blue over the dark water.

Nevada looked at Blackjack curiously, before looking back at the lake. He sighed, before sitting down. He was hungry, but didn't want to walk into town. To tell you the truth, he just didn't feel well. All those six months he'd just wanted to go home and now he was denying his base urge.

It was getting him nowhere.

"Blackjack," he looked at the griffin, "let's go home."

He took out a deep breath when he was in the sky, keeping his eyes tightly shut as he extended his arms. Unlike some of his siblings, he'd never been one for planes. If it didn't make your eyes sting and your chest hurt, he didn't usually care for it.

The air was cold. He tried to squeeze a little closer to his animal companion, ignoring the numbness in his spine. He would be fine. The mountains were cold, and they were him.

The clouds were wet. Everyone always seemed to forget that. He brushed the water off of himself, rubbing all he could off of Blackjack's feathers.

It got progressively colder as he flew further north, and he almost wished he had a jacket. He wasn't hyped up on adrenaline, and it was getting later and later.

He held his hands out in front of him. They were turning a shade of blue, slowly going to red, and he didn't want to touch them anymore. They tingled in the way a needle tickles, something sharp and stabbing unless you were used to it.

He was not used to it.

Gradually, he imagined fire coating his hands, and he felt them heat up. He was about to do magic, but his voice caught. He couldn't. Not now, it wouldn't be right to do it. He didn't know why- he never did.

It was late when he swooped down, before immediately pulling back up. Tears stung at his eyes and froze on his cheeks. He was right. They had stuck around.

He flew over the valley. From above you would never know, it just looked like a place that had been put through hell- it was the spell that made the area made to look like drought and forest fire had struck it. There was no evidence of houses, or a landing strip, and if he went any lower he'd subconsciously pull back up.

The only way in was through the entrance, and that was blocked up. He heard a bang and jumped, almost falling off his griffin's back because of his cold hands, but he managed to steady himself at the last possible moment.

He flew towards the entrance, his curiosity getting the better of him. He watched as they started to rig up explosives where the door would open, before backing up and letting it blow. His mother's spell was holding it up without a care, his own land being particularly fond of his magic.