Write To Rank 2022 | Contest Entries

of death and time | blue belt

Gale couldn't outfly the fire.

The smoke chased him, the flames licked at his feet.

His wings beat a desperate rhythm, singed feathers just barely supporting him.

Worse than the heat, worse than the acrid bite of charred flesh and bile at the back of his throat, though, was the pain.

The pain was everywhere, and all-encompassing.

Gale had never been a stranger to pain, but this— this hurt in body and soul, this ruined the very magic he held.

A hoarse cry was ripped from his throat when the fire leapt up at him — the mice in the underbrush fled, the trees screamed in agony.

Lilith paid them no mind, reached for him again, high, higher, and—

A stupid maneuver, frantic but still a second too late, and the flesh on his left leg sizzled. Gale drew in a breath that was more pain than oxygen; tried, desperately, to see a way that would get him out of this mess, just for a few hours, just long enough to... process, think, to figure out where to go from here.

He didn't want to die just yet, didn't want to follow in his mother's footsteps, not without at least making the most of her sacrifice.

But he didn't know how, not with Lilith still hot on his heels (way too literally), with the fog in his mind and shock and pain, such sheer hopelessness.

He kept moving, though; weaved through the trees, on paths a human couldn't possibly fit through, but Lilith didn't let that slow her down, not when she knew exactly that Gale was getting weaker, with every beat of his wings that didn't lead to freedom.

Then—

His wings clipped a branch, he tumbled, and—

Lilith stumbled on a river-crossing—

Then—

The chase went on.

Night had turned into day when Gale finally broke free of the barrier of the trees, when Lilith was left roaring in frustration, held back by a skeleton hand on her ankle, by bones that refused to turn to ashes, no matter how hot she burned.

Gale's mind was hazy with pain by that time, and his form flickered.

He wouldn't be able to hold out much longer, not with that last burst of death-magic he'd just expended.

He almost didn't care anymore.

Underneath him, the forest gave way to the outskirts of a town, buzzing with life even this early in the morning; unaware of the horrors taking place so close by.

Gale breathed, and he smelled gas and exhaust fumes and the dust of city streets instead of blood-wet dirt and fire and ashes and for once, it almost felt like relief, or home.

It provided a distraction, a momentary reprieve, but only served to remind Gale of how desperately he needed a safe place to hide, to take care of his wounds, assess the worst of the damage, and try to stop his magic from disappearing entirely.

(He refused to think further along that vein, though; refused to be destroyed quite so completely.)

He concentrated, instead, on his memories, the silly nursery rhymes his mother used, to make him remember all their contacts in various cities, but he didn't think that there had ever been a mention of this specific town.