On a Mountain of Purple Roses

The lightning ended its merciless assault, yet the fractured sky remained balefully, while the aftermath continued to burn without sign of stopping. Miles of civilization destroyed in just a few hours. The Reapers would be busy for a while. But still, hordes of Fliers made it out alive, gathering on the mountains and cliffs, decorated with purple roses – as was common in the region.

For the moment, they were safe, a fair distance from the fire that made their cities shed bright with orange and yellow. The air carried the scent of cedar and pine reduced to ash. There were many who cried, just as many who gazed on in disbelief without uttering a sound… But Madigan just laid in the grass, studying the crack behind the haze above.

“I’m so sorry… You must feel miserable,” he heard Isolde say to him.

“Miserable? For what?”

“What do you mean? Your home was just destroyed. Don’t you feel at least a little, I don’t know, sad?”

“One way or another, this was already going to happen to Arenard. What difference does it make if it’s sooner than later?”

“Maybe, but – if this occurred in Showyth… I’d be devastated.”

He yawned, resting his hands behind his head. “That’s because you actually have something there. The same can’t be said for me.”

“Your wife?”

“Oh, right. I am married, aren’t I? Only technically, at least.”

“I um, won’t encroach…”

“As you shouldn’t.”

Isolde sat beside him, hugging her knees. She too looked fixedly at the slit across the sky. It served as a sign, a foreboding reminder that disaster could appear at any unsuspecting moment – and what could be done to prevent it? Nothing. All they could do was flee, as they did that night.

Madigan peered to his right, taking in the skin below her elbows that still seemed painful. Feeling in the mood to pry, combined with the smallest hint of gratitude for saving his life, he asked, “So, what’s with that going on? Never seen it happen to a Weaver before.”

“Oh. I guess it is pretty abnormal, huh?” she said sheepishly, hiding her arms under her skirt. “I, uh – had an ‘injury’ when I was a kid. The only Mender we found… Wasn’t the best, per se. She mostly fixed the outside, but internally, the threads are a jumbled mess. Resulting in, well, this.”

“Can’t you just get another Mender to undo her crappy job?”

“I wish! But no, it was too long ago. They’d have to be amazing to heal me.”

“Really, eh? Well, that’s tough. Still, I have to give it to you, brat – you held your own back there.”

She scratched her scalp, and there was a faint twitch of a smile, but it soon subsided. “Not really. I was a nervous wreck.”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I’ve seen you ‘nervous,’ and it’s an embarrassment, honestly. But that time? Nah, that wasn’t it. What caused the change?”

“Him,” she pointed to the boy they had met, who was happily reunited with his family. “I wanted to be brave for him… So, I put on a façade,” and with a chuckle she said, “I’m glad to know it was convincing enough.”

“Ah, I got it. Basically, you can get it together for his sake, but not for mine against those darned anomalies? Must be favoritism.”

“N-No, it’s not like that!”

“Relax, I’m joking. Trust me, I couldn’t care less about being your ‘favorite,’” he shifted, rolling onto his side as he asked, “Plus, thought you said in some cringe-inducing line that being ‘scared’ was a good thing?”

…

“It was – cringe-inducing?”

“Yeah, for sure. But what matters most is that it worked.”

Madigan focused on the family afar, the man and woman embracing their child with tender arms and grateful tears. He wouldn’t be truthful with himself about it, but he was envious – of their closeness, their immense feeling of relief, alongside uncontrollable joy… And most importantly, he desired their love.

In his picture-perfect world, they would be him, Jaswyn, and Luka – he imagined them as so. But the world, especially his, would never be such.

“They must’ve been thanking you at your feet,” he said.

“Um, no, not really… They were actually very upset to see him around a Weaver, and shooed me away before I could even explain. Never knew I was so ‘dangerous.’”

“Really? What morons. Just ignore ‘em.”

“If this sentiment against Weavers spreads – that’s going to be hard to.”

He watched as Fliers took to the skies, likely off to get help from Visea and Elakin. When he saw just how many there were, far more than any troop he’d been part of, was when the severity of the situation dawned on his aloofness.

His tribe, who were already struggling due to sheer numbers alone, had even less land for themselves. There was no way they’d have enough territory to survive, not when even the vastness of Arenard wasn’t enough. The only solution was to spread out – into the other regions. Taking up their space, using their resources.

Just how long would the precious unity of the tribes last in the face of a crumbling Nexus?

“You know, Isolde, I might be able to somewhat relate to ya one day.”

She jumped as if startled by something, her blue eyes wide and alert. “What’s your problem?” he asked.

“I think – that’s the first time you called me by my name, instead of ‘brat.’”

“And now it’s the last.”

Her face gave off the words, “Dang it.” It humored him.

“Seriously, though,” he continued as he lifted a wing. “These boys are busted for now. Can’t fly you around anywhere for a while, so I doubt we’ll be seeing each other again.”

“Oh, you’re right… Sorry, I must’ve gotten too used to you.”

The whistling call of lightly blowing wind replaced the quietness that fell between them, since Madigan felt the conversation had become too “sentimental,” and thus refrained from contributing further. Soot-like particles traveled through the air and tickled their noses. The inferno was still progressing, swallowing up whole everything in its wake and threatening the refuge of the farther mountains.

He sighed at the idea of departing again – ironic, considering he was a Flier, but the circumstances were beyond tiring.

Isolde, seemingly bothered by the silence, opened her mouth to say something – but before she could, hooves clomping against the rocky soil drummed in their ears. Coming up the mountain were riders, donned in black cloaks and avoiding their nemesis, the purple roses. It only took those two aspects for them to be identified by all – Reapers.

“The heck?” Madigan spat, jumping to his feet. “What are they here for?”

“For wandering threads..?”

“Obviously, brat. But think about it. This just happened, and Fliers ain’t that fast. How did they know about this already?”

“Can’t Reapers sense death?”

“From miles and miles away? Yeah, right. They knew about this, and didn’t warn us!”

He glared at the Reapers dismounting their steeds, the forged compassion plastered on their faces and the fake sweetness behind their “supportive” words made his blood boil – how could it be genuine? Noting the bronze pin attached to their clothes, he said irately, “Freaking Cyrus family…”

“S-Say that again?”

“Cyrus. Family.”

“Oh, oh, yes! That’s it! Thank you, Madigan, thank you!”

“Weirdo,”  he thought.

Whatever the reason, hearing the family’s name was a cause for celebration, Isolde smiling widely and on the verge of joyful crying. For Madigan? It brought scorn – granted, that was his feelings towards all the elites, but the Cyruses were a special case. He never understood their prominence. Nobody did. All they knew was that the Elders licked their boots, and everyone had to just run with it.

But who would know the family better, than one of their own?