Ghosts of the Past

Madigan slowly came out the black haze, greeted by the scent of incense, the sight of a wooden arched ceiling, and a fluffy blanket covering his body. A soft mattress enveloped his back, as a calm, whistling wind threatened to lull him back to sleep.

But Madigan wouldn’t have it. He didn’t know this place.

He sat up quickly in spite of hangover. Scanning the unfamiliar room, he found only humble household furnishings, like a tri-colored rug and a rocking chair in the corner. And sunlight.

He threw off the blanket with a growl. Wherever he was, he had been there overnight. As the brain fog lessened, Madigan gathered his thoughts. The pub, a whole lotta ale, and some annoying brat who wouldn’t leave him alone… But nothing that explained his whereabouts.

The unknown rattled him, leaving Madigan with only one answer…

He was abducted, and who knows what the culprit had done to him.

The doorknob turned. With a flutter of his wings, Madigan lifted up and angled his talons to attack on sight – but when the door opened, rather than tearing into his “abductor” as planned, he halted.

Standing there was a terrified woman, who thanks to Madigan, was that close to dropping a breakfast tray all over her dress. Having the air of a lost puppy, she definitely didn’t seem “dangerous” – and in the middle of some very awkward eye contact, his memory of the night became even more clear.

Isolde, the “annoying brat.”

Madigan scowled as he returned to the floor. “You? Did you bring me here after I passed out?”

“Well, it wasn’t the wind…”

She laughed nervously, but her expression faltered into embarrassment as she saw her attempt at humor only added to Madigan’s irritation.

“Right. Well, I’m leaving,” he announced without a hint of gratitude.

“Wait!”

His sleeve was caught. He was convinced then – this woman was mad.

“What!” He spat.

“Don’t you, um – want to stay a bit longer? You must not feel too well…”

“No. In fact, you should’ve just left me,” he looked her up and down, taking in her smaller figure compared to his bulky stature. “How did you even manage?”

“You are in Weaver territory, you know.”

The hangover was messing with him. Like most things in existence, Madigan was made out of thread, making him vulnerable to a Weaver’s control. Dragging his limp body across the snow was simple for their kind.

“Ah, am I? Thanks for reminding me,” he mocked. “Now, if you’d be so kind to bug off—”

“Before you go!” she rushed in front of the door and held up the food, “A meal for your travels. Please, I insist.”

A cup of tea, a couple of eggs, crisp sausage links, and sugared toast. He glared, but his stomach grumbled, and the amount of time it had been since he had a proper homecooked meal was an irresistible temptation.

“Let me guess. Trying to butter me up so I’ll take you to Arenard, are ya?” Madigan said as he took the tray, plopping back onto the bed while silently hoping the food wasn’t laced.

“You were unconscious, and nobody else was doing anything to help, so… I had to step in.”

She sat on the rocking chair and watched him ate. Aside from Madigan’s chewing, the room was uncomfortably quiet. But as a guilty look crept onto Isolde’s face, it ended.

“No, you’re right. I was hoping to gain from this as well. I’m sorry.”

“Bingo.”

“But it really is important.”

Madigan continued munching, completely disinterested by her pleas.

Isolde sighed. Reclining back in the chair, she stared out the window with sadness. “I’m trying to know the truth about… Something. And in order to do that, I’ll need to go to Arenard.”

He frowned. A conversation was the last thing he wanted.

“Why didn’t you ask them Flier Elders from the Hall?”

“They already left a week ago to warn the Tribes… Did you not know?”

“A week? It’s really been that long?”

That made twelve days in total since he was in Section 54. With how rapidly the fire was moving, Madigan wondered if there even was a 54th section anymore, or even a 53rd.

“358 days left,” Isolde said, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been counting them down ever since.”

“353. Actually.”

The correction only made her drearier.

“Oh, yes… Forgot. It took time to get from there to here, of course.”

She wiped a tear. He was no mind reader, but anyone could see Isolde’s distraught ready to burst, kept at bay only by the thinning wall of her composure.

“May I ask you a question?” she asked weakly.

“I’m sure you’ll ask anyway.”

“Will you please take me to Arenard?”
He scoffed after gulping down the tea. “Sorry, sweetheart. Whatever your issue is, it isn’t my concern.”

“Sure, it doesn’t involve you, but – well, don’t you feel something similar?” she leaned closer, “A desire to fulfill before the end? I assume everyone does.”

It was the second time someone had asked him a question like that. Why were people suddenly so invested in his business?

“If I do?”

A glimmer of hope shone in her eyes. “Then maybe, if we worked together—”

“Save it. Unless you can lead me to a Mender called Yohan, that is. Which you can’t.”

“Yohan…”

Isolde got up and sprinted out the room, temporarily leaving Madigan in confusion. When she came back, it was with a book, and after further inspection he read “Client List” on the cover.

“Is this ‘Yohan’ a High Mender, by chance?”

“Yes?”

“Then I have it, I have his location right here!” Isolde exclaimed, her face lighting up.

Madigan jumped to his feet. His whole demeanor screamed “feral” like a caged animal, even making Isolde back away defensively. But he didn’t care she was startled. Lacking any inhibition, Madigan lunged to grab the book – only to hit the wall. She dodged.

“You’re going to make this difficult, huh?”

Isolde held the book tightly. “It’s only fair, don’t you think? If you’re not going to take me to Arenard, then there’s no reason for me to give you this book.”

He rubbed a hand through his red locks, only getting more agitated by the minute. “Ooh, okay… So, that’s how we’re playing.”

He took a step forward. A bold move, considering her ability to bend every part of his body to her will. Her weaving against his speed. But as Madigan got closer, he realized there was something “off” about this Weaver…

She cowered.

“Why are you acting as if you’re the one with a disadvantage?” he asked, annoyed.

Isolde lowered her head in shame. “Truth be told, I… Am not the most talented Weaver. My powers were stunted five years ago.”

“Well, that was honest,” he thought.

“In other words, I can just snatch that book away from you, then get out of here scot-free, right?”

Then, that’s exactly what he did. Without even giving her the curtesy of another word, he turned to the door. A step into the hallway, and—

A girl ran past him, tear-stained and disheveled, who was so sorrowful that she paid him no attention. Instead, she ran straight into Isolde’s arms and buried her face into her chest. Sobbing, she wailed out,

“I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die!”

The book fell from Madigan’s hand.

A scene played in his mind – that he wished he could forget, and that made his heart clench.

“Daddy, I don’t want to die!”

“Trust me, Luka, you’ll be fine.

They say Yohan is a brilliant Mender. He’ll help you!

Trust Daddy, okay?”