Reaching For Stars

𐂷Scraps of Sky

A character study of Journey, one of the important characters of the King's Line series, when he is shattered and drifting between lucidity and the past. It is also one of the first times I wrote in First Person and it shows... It's not my best writing!

I held a tattered, weathered, and faded piece of fabric in my hands. The material was coarse and threadbare, strands of blue handing from the edges of the many holes. Darker patches here and there suggested where stains once were. A bit of a hem lay in my palm, the silver stitching still as bright as when it was first tailored.

I knelt and set the piece down beside the others, gingerly arranging the scrap into the shape of a well-loved cape. From the pile beside me, I picked up a small scrap, bringing it up to the light. It was mostly part of the hem and stained a violent dark blue, hints of maroon flakes blooming inside of it. The memory of the incident that stained this hem rose to my mind, unfolding before me.

The forest was dark, drenched in shadows and void of the soft rustles of midnight creatures. I awoke with bated breath, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as I sat up, peering into the gloom. The embers of our fire were whispers, barely able to penetrate the night, but enough to illuminate the monster's eyes as it was about to strike.

My staff was not the best weapon against the monster's teeth and Zarkim had not vanquished it before it dug deep into my thigh with its claws. Thankfully Prince Edvard had the gift of healing; I would not have survived long with that wound.

Fondness twitched my lip upwards. I would have died many times over if not for him. With care, I placed the corner in its place. It settled near a piece more intact than the rest, completing enough of the cape that I could see the pattern.

Slight outlines, faded from countless years of neglect, slinked around curves, forming a familiar insignia: a tormble sitting erect on top of a crown, nose in the air and tail gracefully curving underneath. The insignia was too faded to be clear, but my memory was enough for me to recognise it. I had seen it many times before, with the moment when the King gave it to me the clearest.

That day had been clear and bright, filled with festive ceremonies. While thousands of citizens watched, the King, amethyst crown upon his head and tormble seated on his shoulder, lifted the cape up for all to see then settled it over my shoulders. Back then it had been a lovely shade of dark royal blue, silver thread embroidered along the hems. It glimmered in the light like glistening waves in the sea and flowed around me as fluidly as water.

Shaking the memory away, I picked up another strip and tucked it into its place, its story echoing back to me. A grey, gloomy expanse of storm clouds stretched above our heads farther than the eye could see. The sound of thousands of hooves beating the ground thundered under the melody of jingling tack, snorts of horses, and heavy sighs, marking the end of another weary, bloody battle and tear in my cape.

Slowly, my cape took shape as I put each tattered scrap into place. Each one had a story—a glimpse of memory, a touch of life—flying to my mind and filling my vision as clearly as it had been when I had lived it. But there were holes. Many holes. Too many holes. Holes in my memory. Holes in my cape. Holes in my life.

I sat back on my heels, gaze tracing the gaps in my cape. The scraps' threads fluttered in the gentle breeze, just snippets of past blue skies cut out and laid bare on a bed of earth. Blue skies I had fought under, laughed under, bled under, survived under.

Snippets of blue sky that I had died under.

The soft soil gave slightly under my feet as I stood. Shoots of green poked their heads out of the earth, reaching for the light filtering down through the rustling leaves. The scraps of sky lay in the middle of the small glen, protected by a ring of trees, their colour—though faded—standing out among the greens and browns.

I pressed my hand to my chest. It came away red. Holding my hand out, I compared the fresh crimson stain to the darkened one on the heart of the cape. The contrast is stark, like the way I am now to the way I was before. Mist curled around my ankles, tugging me away, and I turned, stepping out of the protection of the trees. The scene faded into the grey, and I dissipated into the thickening fog, losing myself to it again.