Veriel

Chapter 7

Something eerily like the squeal of a toddler rattled in Veri's ears, shocking him out of a dreamy tangle of red ribbons and lovesick songs.

He blinked blearily and wiggled a finger in his ear, confused, for there was a distinct lack of babies or baby-adjacent beings in the pool. Perhaps a sprite had fallen in again. They tended to be quite shrill when they found themselves in water, the poor little tree-dwellers.

A few laps around the pool revealed no sprites. He thought of sleeping again, but too much energy swirled inside him now, so he propped his elbows upon the pool's edge, swishing his toes and watching the stars through the windows in the clouds.

His masterpieces from earlier had been diluted with gentle drizzle, but a bit of red remained on the ground. These makeshift watercolor portraits would mean nothing to most, but to Veriel, they were the exquisite proof that she had been there. That she lived and breathed and simply was, and that he lived at a time and place where he could witness it.

Movement from the villa caught his eye. Something flew out of a window, landing in the garden.

This happened now and again, when General Tullus Auranius was angry at an object for not doing what he wished or being too complicated. Often, those things didn't interest Veriel, but perhaps this one was something that he could present to Rikke when she returned that night.

Unfortunately, he already knew it was farther than his chain allowed. He pulled himself out of the pool, walking close to the trees where the remaining wood sirens dwelt. A pebble to the face awoke the closest one. A sleepy look traveled down her nose towards him, and he pointed in the direction of the object.

"Again? I thought I made it clear that I'm done with retrieving things for you," she snapped. With her nose in the air and a fluff of her feathers, she announced to all the world, "I am not a dog."

Were he able to talk, he'd remind her that she'd only done this three times in all of his existence.

No matter. Boys, as we all know, are gifted by Mother Nature with an uncanny capability to locate the finest sticks upon the ground. It only took him a few minutes of digging through the bushes to find what he needed. He walked until his chain was taut, and lay down upon his belly. He extended his arm, rifling the stick about until he managed to obtain the mystery object.

And what else should he find but the hapless headband from two nights before? Veriel smiled at it in his hands. His Rikke must have once again encountered difficulties in placing it properly upon her head. Or, perhaps, it was a reminder of her promise to visit him once again. Perhaps that was her window, and she wanted him to know.

With gentle fingertips, he traced the woven threads, crossing over the leather in intricate patterns. It made him think of his mother, and the way she used to weave little braids into his hair as she told stories of the tides and salt, the corals and shells.

And then something wrapped around his torso and squeezed tight. A giant fist, invisible, crushing him to powder.

A searing sensation ripped its way through the fibers of his neck. He gasped for cold air, and it only fanned the flames. Wherever his voice lived, it was trapped, crashing its fists against its cage. Shouting. Screaming, and for what he did not know. 

He tried to run to his voice. No logic, no reason, only instinct. He had to, or he would die, he was sure. No matter how he yanked, the shackle did nothing but bite further into his ankle, scraping off a scale or three. In desperation, he hurled himself back into the water, tearing his way toward the other end of the chain. But no amount of adrenaline-fueled strength could pull the anchor from the stone in which it was bolted.