A Broken Horizon

Chapter One

I'm not sure why I'm telling this story, or if I should. Most would have liked it to remain buried, like a shaft of rock hidden under layers of moss and dirt and mica. Yes, some stories are better told - those listening can learn lessons, or sympathize with characters from long ago. 

But other stories are vile, treacherous - some stories are poison to the very soul upon reading. And I'm afraid this story is one of those. 

How else could one explain why I now find myself, completely alone, at the end of the world? 

§

There was nothing sweeter than lying under the sun in the midst of a hot, dry summer, Azazel thought to himself as he bit into the soft skin of a cherry. He was lying on top of a flat rock, which was near a running stream that led to the edge of a small waterfall that cascaded into a clear river, sparkling in the light as if it was full of diamonds. Many days like this had passed, and so his normally pale skin had turned golden, and gold ran through the rough brown waves of his hair. 

This summer hadn't been particularly productive, but he had gotten very familiar with the forest that bordered his small village, underneath the shadow of the towering shaft of rocks upon which sat the castle, inhabiting the King and his family, the Roestihl family, which the town was named after. The towering cliff was easy to ignore, like the sky itself - until you looked up and saw the mossy underbelly of the cliff arching over half of the village like the wing of a mother bird. The cliff which the castle stood on broke into the clear sky like a jagged knife, and villagers had come to call it the Stihl. The village and the cliff was in the middle of a broad, sloping valley, and hills slowly raised up around them, shrouded with trees. Far in the distance, jagged mountain ranges cropped up. That's all Azazel had ever really known. Sure, he knew of the world beyond from his books and his classes - there were other towns and other countries and other people, but he and his family had never had the funds to travel far. They lived off the land - up till this summer. There had been a devastating heat wave, and all the crops had died. This was why Azazel had spent the whole summer lying on rocks and tramping through the forest, rather than heaving up bales of hay and clipping fruit from trees. Due to the lack of food, families lived off the parcels of food the King sent down - meager, grey little portions. 

That had been one of the reasons Azazel had felt drawn to spend his time in the forest - rather than the town center with the bubbling fountain where most people his age spent their time - there were cherries and berries and other sweet fruits that Azazel could scavenge in the forest, and these were a thousand times better than any metallic tasting package from King Samael. 

Of course, his best friend had been with him, too. Naomi. He had known her all his life. He didn't know anyone else who knew him as well as she knew him - maybe not even himself. His younger sister, Mallory, sometimes came along as well. Mallory was long-limbed and scrawny like him, with tresses of long blonde hair. She was a year younger, seventeen, but already she had exceeded Azazel in many things - her fondness for painting had developed enough that the town knew of her talents, and she was also top of her class in the small school that taught the youth of the village. 

Azazel sighed. He was mediocre in most things. He wasn't sure why - laziness? General lack of intelligence? Complacency? He wasn't sure, and at the moment, with the warm sun bathing his torso, he didn't care. 

Naomi hadn't come to the forest with him today, as she had to help her father with his business. She often did. His business was one of the few that didn't suffer because of the draught - he built things and fixed broken things, from houses, tables, and even, some townspeople said, broken hearts. While working on a thatched roof that had fallen in, those who had hired him were drawn to his warm energy and would tell him everything that weighed them down - and with just his nodding head and listening gaze, those who spoke to him felt immediately better. Azazel could attest to this. He had spent many nights sleeping over at Naomi's house and had devoured enough of her mother's delicious dishes and had spilled his own grief at the dinner table that he knew Louis Astaril could do magic with his listening skills. Naomi had developed her father's building skills and problem-solving skills - she could figure anything out in a minute, and Azazel was sure she could build a house without any instruction booklet in about a day.