Aching Horns

The Sliver

Siegrain walks the vast expanse of darkness alone. The always stagnant air burns his throat-- it's freezing. The cold, however, had stopped bothering him long ago. The withered and dead crunch beneath his feet. No remorse is felt.

Odd thorn-like structures the size of small rocks ornate the ground. He kicks one. It shatters. With a frown, he loses all pissible interest and continues on his way.

He doesn't know where he's going. After a short conversation with Gajeel awhile ago, he'd decided that meandering was an idea. There is no compass. There is no map. There are only his feet.

A long way into his journey, a strange and rather sudden change in the atmosphere befalls the area. His steps falter some, then pick up the pace. The cold breaks in the slightest.

A pull at his core. A beckoning force. A silent voice in his ear. He is in the middle of nowhere. Be quiet.

Siegrain removes his cloak, then holds it in a single hand. He shoots into the grand darkness above. A strong tug on his being lures him in. He remains unaware of where he is headed. The allure is all that steers him.

A site far away. His eyes close as he breathes in deep. He can smell the soft aura, almost feel it. It doesn't make sense, though. There has never been anything like this before. He's sure he would've known if there had.

The silent voice gets louder. He flies faster. Siegrain opens his eyes to see an oddity: a hill. There is a hill, and upon it a shrivel. His wings stop beating and he descends slowly.

From the base of the hill, it seems rather tall. With his wings furled on his back, Siegrain prepares to put his cloak back on, but a sensation stops him. It's. . . not as cold.

The cold from before receded. Siegrain decides to leave his cloak off; he wants to feel more of this receding cold. He begins his trek up the hill, occasionally looking around.

About halfway up the mound in the ground, something else touches him. He sees it. It's stronger than the receding cold, but not quite heavier. It's softer.

His arm extends and his fingers reach out for it. Whatever's producing this contrast to the darkness. He runs up the hill with furor.

At the top of the hill, he places a hand against the side of the shriveled tree. His lungs still burn from the freezing air, but are beginning to feel assuaged.

His gaze is fixated on the streak in front of him, but his other senses are on high alert as well. The rough surface beneath his hand makes his hairs stand on end. His skin prickles with the feeling of further receding cold. Beneath his feet is shifting land.

He closes his eyes. Another deep breath. Against his face sweeps non-stagnant air. His lungs fill with moving air that drives out all of the static air he had breathed in momemts before.

His eyes open. There, up above, is the source of his sensations: the rip. Unlike anything he had ever seen. Curiosity builds within his system, and he finds himself needing to be closer to it. The silent voice screams.

Siegrain drops the cloak onto the ground without care or notice. Both hands grasp the tough, rough surface of the tree beside him. It no longer appears shriveled, but a flurry of different looking hues and has small, ovular things stemming from it's branches.

He climbs the tree swiftly amd with ease. In seconds, he's at the top in the outermost canopy, as close to the tear of the void as he can get.

Once again entranced by the utter intensity of the contrast between the vast darkness and the streak, he stretches his arm out toward it, desperate for a touch.

Just as he came close to eliminating the freezing cold on his fingers, he jerks away and hid. Within the thick brush of the tree, out of the way of the streak's aura, it is cold. Beyond freezing. Way colder than he remembered.

He peeks inbetween the small, ovular pads and stares on in wonder. He grasps a single pad in his fingers and relishes in its smooth touch. The smoothness of the pad is nothing compared to what lay beyond the streak.

A being too different. A presence too strong. A world too perfect. The silent voice is howling now.

He chokes on the stale air, his body already used to the moving air. His deep green hues latch onto the scene just meters away. How interesting.

Siegrain is sure to stay out of sight. If he can see her, maybe she can see him too. He decides, despite his soul raging in protest, to drop down from the tree.

A final, fleeting glance at the entity above brought him a harrowing headache.

It is as bright as it has always been. He runs quick, hair wisping against his porcelain face, save for the crimson that paints it. He leaps forward, unfurling his wings from his back for the first time.

A smile spreads across his soft face. His wings beat (a little unevenly as he tries to learn how to balance the force) and he slowly ascends to the sky.

"Wait! No fair!" he looks behind himself to see the pouting face of his best friend. Her fiery hair swims in the air around her as she fights to catch up with him.

He smiles mischievously.

"Try and catch me!"

"Siegrain!"

The moment fades. Darkness shrouds his vision and he believes himself asleep until his eyes focus on the person before him. "Siegrain. Explain."

Siegrain groans lowly as his headache recedes an his mind whirs. Gajeel. Explain. "I uh, I found this place wandering around," he grumbles, "I felt an odd tug towards this direction, so I let it reel me in."

Gajeel does not look pleased. Siegrain can feel a lecture coming. "This place is not safe."

"A lot of places here are 'not safe.'"

"Of all the other places you could've chosen to jack around. Why this place?" as Gajeel got angrier, his voice, surprisingly, got lower.

"It doesn't matter whether I'm here, or there, I'm still in Hell." Siegrain replies bitterly. Gajeel sighs, giving off an air of hopelessness and giving up on the matter.

"This isn't bad, Siegrain. I don't want to see you back here. And if you do come back, just. . . "

Be quiet. "I know."

Gajeel left him there. He didn't know how long it was before he left.