The Fickle Winds of Autumn

71. Run?

The shock of her scream still vibrated in Kira's mouth.

Her stunned eyes refused to see what they had seen.

The reeking air filled with smoke and debris; the glowing embers sparked upwards, then fell back and died into the blackened pile of ash on the guilty chair in front of her.

Behind it, the slow beads of sweat shivered down Ellis's pallid brow; his trembling hands tried to cover his vacant eyes.

A sharp scuffling of feet in the corridor jolted her frozen thoughts. The grey hair of the Librarian bobbed into the room; she looked distractedly down at the parchment in her hands.

"Talmadge, I've found that scroll you were searching for," she said absently. "I brought it straight to your room when I heard you had returned, as it seemed urgent...."

Her voice ran dry. Her mouth sagged open. The scroll rattled down from her quaking clutch, just as the final charred fragments gave up the weight of the Quillon and it clattered onto the unfeeling floor.

"What... what have you done?" the Librarian's words stumbled from her gaping mouth.

Kira's mind reeled to fill the burden of the calamitous, stunned pause.

The cold, uncertain silence collapsed into an agonising lifetime.

"Quick! Run!" Ellis shouted; the whites of his eyes still betrayed their disbelief and panic.

He grabbed her arm; her legs lurched up from the horrified rug and stumbled beneath her in his wake, past the petrified Librarian into the chilly draughts of the evening corridor.

Their heavy, running strides echoed along the unforgiving torch-lit passageways; every stone sat in judgement against them and their terrible crimes.

The constant frenzied tug of Ellis on her arm gave momentum to her dazed legs; her thoughts staggered and whirled beneath the revelations of her past and her present.

Could she really be a witch?

Those terrible creatures that killed the other novicellae?

But didn't they almost kill her too?

Was it really her legs that moved so urgently beneath her?

Their movement seemed strange and disconnected.

From behind, a distant world away, the accusing cries of the Librarian chased them through the cloisters:

"Murder! Murder! Stop them!"

Her greying age proved no impairment to the volume of her enraged voice.

But above the confused pounding echoes of the corridor, the remote sound of her own panting breath smothered and engulfed her stunned perceptions.

The slow, blurred images of bright tapestries flashed by her widened eyes; the jolting strides of the floor lunged up at someone else's feet while she floated serenely, untroubled above them.

How pleasant life would be lived like this - through someone else's body - from behind their unusual eyes.

How pleasant and how strange.

The familiar incense which drifted through the ancient corridors sweetened someone else's nose.

The shivering chill of the autumn draughts shocked the goosebumps onto someone else's skin.

But what about Aldwyn?

Should they really just leave him there?

What would happen to him?

Where had he gone?

And what could she do to help him now?

Or perhaps nothing had happened at all - she would soon wake up from the darkness of this dream?

Running.

That seemed a pleasant idea.

To run away from her past and her problems and her pain; to escape it all and live happily with Ellis, far from the world.

Surely they would escape?

And she had done nothing wrong.

She was not a witch.

She was definitely not a witch.

Wouldn't she have noticed by now?

The bold, dark outlines of the imposing South Door loomed ahead.

Its hefty wooden bulk was unexpected.

How had they got there so quickly?

How had they got there so slowly?

Why had it taken so long?

Without even running?

Ellis's hand stretched out in front of them and reached for the handle. It touched the dense wrought iron, and the heavy black stud-work which barred their way. His trembling, fragile skin pale against the gloomy oak of the door.

Surely they were free?

A huge expanse of possibility opened out before her - the chance to escape everything she had just heard and learnt; to run forever and not be caught; to be free of responsibility and guilt.

His fingers brushed the cold ironwork; pressing; reaching; stretching; pleading with the door to open.

A heavy sideways thud knocked her to the ground; the breath bashed unexpectedly from her lungs and spilled out onto the hard reality of the stone floor. The unexpected weight of bodies and Ellis on top of her shook her scrambled senses. Legs and arms tangled helplessly with hers. Somewhere Ellis was shouting, but the confused echoes of his distant voice made it difficult to distinguish any of his words.

The burly guards wrestled and secured her in place. The smell of their strength; the staleness of their odour; the anger in their breath.

The chance of escape diminished and disappeared from her grasp; her freedom vanished into nothingness with the bulk of every guard who piled in on top and pinned down her dreams to the harsh, smooth floor with a resounding thud.

Their voices slurred above her.

But it was pleasant to rest there, her arms spread-eagled; the callous stone floor was soft and warm.

How nice it was just to relax, not needing to move, or think, or run.

But just to float beneath a blanket of warmth - a blanket that pressed down and stopped her from floating off, up into the vast sky beneath the Cathedral's ceilings.

Her breath slowed; her eyes traced a slow path along the length of her arm, up near her wrist. A small speckle of ash nestled there, grey against the sleeve of her tunic; crisp and clear through the disorientated background. Its edges curled upwards slightly, but remained sharp and loud in their focus and intent; a tender, delicate flake that clung to her softly and refused to ever abandon her - a small flake of ash that had once been Aldwyn.