Falling Skies

Twenty Eight

As if a mirror to Ryder, Jax's hand swipes through his own blackened locks, thick lips curling in on themselves as his smile finally begins to crack. "Well-"

"That's quite enough." A voice interjects, a threatening chill placed behind each syllable carrying along with it a presence that can only belong to Sasha.

Red eyes scan the small trio before falling upon Wren in the center, the man taking a deep breath of exhaustion as his thumb and forefinger pinch the ridge of his nose. It's a poor attempt to sooth away the headache sure to sprout from the group's hastily crafted explanation, but he continues the small movement in desperation all the same.

"Now," he breathes the word out slowly, shoulders raising in the slightest from the lengthy inhale. "I don't know what is happening here and I'm not entirely sure if I want to know what's happening." He admits, red eyes slightly rolling. "However," with a swift maneuver his hand is wrapped around Wren's wrist, pulling him from the small group with a jerk that leaves the small boy stumbling for a footing. "you will have to excuse Wren from whatever petty argument you're having as he has duties elsewhere to attend to."

Without hesitation he's leading the small boy through the crowd. They dodge between guests and weave through conversations before arriving in an empty corridor where his hand finally releases the tight grip he had held on Wren's small wrist.

Rubbing at the sore bone, Wren merely huffs before meeting Sasha's blaring gaze with soft eyes. The contrast between the two is more than jarring, red stares competing with one another until Wren ultimately backs down. "What are we doing here Sasha..." The words roll out slower than he meant them, the truth already known to him yet he asks regardless, the slightest of prayers gracing his lips as he silently begs for himself to be wrong.

Somewhere in a drowsy memory he knows this corridor, the pitter of his bare feet dragging across the marbled flooring and the cold that pierces through each sole somehow familiar and foreign in unison. His eyes squint as if forcing himself to remember this familiar sensation. To recognize the large wooden door ahead of him adorned with smooth crystals and jewels and remember why it's faceted surface is so warm against his memories.

Glancing back at Sasha, the man gifts a slight nod before opening the door to a small room tucked away in the corner of the palace. It's out of place, the room too mundane to belong to the remainder of the ornate castle. Inside is merely a circular rug strewn across the middle of the room, the hand woven material slightly frayed as if it's been used well past its prime.

The grooves of the rug dig into Wren's feet as he shifts his weight from one leg to the next, feeling the frayed fabric gently brush against the arch of his bare foot. He balances his weight on a nearby rocking chair placed in the center of the room as memories seem to flash by but they're too hazy to grab hold of. Rather it's just an unnerving sensation of deja vu, as if this room has been visited in a dream but his flesh has never graced these walls before.

The rocking chair creaks from age, the paint on its wooden arms cracking and sticking to Wren's palms as he attempts to wipe away the residue on his sheer robes. Each wall is split through the middle by shelves, meeting where  an old armoire rests abandoned in the far corner of the room. The room has a faint odor of dried herbs and lemons but the scent comes and goes as if it doesn't belong to the room, rather flowing in from a far off source and vanishing as quickly as it came.

Sasha takes a seat in the old rocking chair, the seat creaking from the weight of not being used for what must have been years. The man pulls at Wren's arm until he's sat between his legs on the floor, fingers fumbling with the frayed fabric before glancing up at Sasha. The slightest hint of confusion flitters across his burgundy eyes before quickly dissipating.