Chapter Six: Terror and Tattoos
He hummed to himself looking down at the white worksheet on his desk, eight times four… thirty-two! Eagerly he scribbled the number down and moved onto the next question a wave of pride filling his chest as he breezed on to the fourth and fifth questions with ease. His neighbouring peers were struggling with theirs only two or three problems him while he was finishing his first row.
He could not wait to show his mother; her hazel swamp brown eyes would flash with pride, and her soft honey voice would praise him as she embraced him. They had spent over an hour last night working on problems to help him in class and he could not wait to tell her that the time had paid off. It was just the thing to help her get better, she had already been so much healthier last night when he had showed her his A in science.
The silence of the classroom was broken up by the shrill ringing of the phone. All thirty eyes turned to the black corded device near the teacher's desk, as the education profession flailed underneath the stack of paperwork. Large grey framed glasses slid down her nose, emerald eyes flashing wildly under thick curly red hair. With a heavy thick Irish accent, she answered the phone. Her lips pulled down as the voice on the other end informed them of the reason behind the impromptu call. Her eyes locked onto his as she answered the intruder with an affirming rumble.
"I'll send him down," She spoke into the phone, placing the weighty plastic back onto its holder. "Fyn, they need to see you down at the office. They said to bring your things with you."
He could feel the pressure of his words baring down on him as the curious eyes of his peers bore into him. Watching as he shifted the things from his desk into his bag and stood to leave. All previous thoughts and pride over his worksheets forgot and gangly limbs propelled him from the classroom and across the faded blue checkered hall.
The fluorescent bulbs grew in intensity as thoughts of danger and death swirled about his mind. He was not in any clubs, had no tormentors, or got into any trouble, he was not a stellar student, nor was he failing. That left the only options being something outside school had happened. His pulse quickened, legs increasing their speed. Was it his father? had a shooter walked into the station and killed everyone? Was he on a car chase and got in an accident? Had he fallen on the ice outside someone's house and bashed his head open on the cement? Was he attacked by some wild dog that someone did not tie up? The image of his dad lying bleeding on some sidewalk or hooked up to various hospital machines tortured his young mind.
He rounded the final corner of the school, slowing slightly as he approached the glass walls of the fishbowl office. Reality froze as his eyes registered the hunched man holding a Styrofoam cup as his father. The old secretary, a nice but awkward man, had the same grim look on his face as he held onto his father's shoulder in comfort. No… he thought shutting down, but as the hollow haggard, and swollen expression of his father grief locked eyes with him the youth knew he could not deny what his gut was telling him.
No! his mind screamed, heart breaking as he rebelled against his father's grief. She was fine yesterday, she was better, she… He bolted away from the vision of grief hitting the metal school doors at full speed, half falling down the stairs into the parking lot. No, it is not true… He ran away from the school, tears threatening to fall. If he could just make it to the hospital if he could just… She has to be okay.
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Anger flared a deep hot red within Alwyn as he watched the shifter's face crumble. His expression filled with pain as the memories flooded back to him. Losing his own mother Alwyn could sympathize with the grief of losing a parent, but to have them murdered... He struggled with how to respond, wanting to ease the shifters pain, wanting to make those that hurt him suffer, wanting to know what... happened. The question poised on the edge of his tongue, threatening to fall off and push the Wynter back into the moment he had lost his parents. He desperately tried to fight the words, but they still slipped past his tongue; dropping like a bomb in the room; "What happened?"
Wynter flinched, but the curve of his shoulders told Alwyn he had known the question was coming. "My kind aren't cared for by the majority of Fae – they blame us for the closed borders, and in a way it's true. My father gave his life to allow the creation of a treaty that ultimately ended the war and sealed the borders between worlds." He started, pausing to see how much of Annwn history the brunette already knew. When no questions or confused stares met his gaze, the Gwyllgi continued. "My mother felt his death the hardest, losing your mate is unbearable but she was so strong, and so kind." Even now Wynter could see the strong way she held herself, the way her silver hair would dance as they ran and played, he could almost even hear her velveteen voice as it sang him to sleep.
"She took charge of the Gwyllgi and tried to protect us from the cruel tricks the Tylwyth Teg played. Still, she could not prevent how their anger continued to simmer. One night they snuck up on us and placed buried iron chains around our home to lock us in, before proceeding to burn it to the ground." Phantom voices of screams filled Wynter's ears as he relived the memory. Smoke clogged his lungs as his sister pulled him from bed, disoriented and confused – half dead from smoke inhalation already. His lungs burning, eyes water as they ran to get free. So many people were trapped in already blazing rooms, others by fiery timbers that blocked their doorways. Even outside the torment was not over, they could do nothing but watch in horror as their home burned, the arsonists sat just outside of the barrier, throwing twigs and stone and anything else they could find. But what he remembered most was their cackling laughter.
"So many people died before my mother managed to break the barrier. She sacrificed herself, so that those in the house could be saved. She was so noble, so fair, so loving and the fae. Those disgusting creatures laughed as she died, as my family screamed, dancing as my home burned – I'll never forget it." Anger was a thick venom rolling off Wynter's tongue as his temper flared in remembrance.
Alwyn's mind reeled, trying to fit the image of the utopia from his mothers' stories to the picture of vindictive cruelty he was experiencing. He had always hated seeing injustice done to others – perhaps the side effect of growing up the son of a sheriff – this situation was no different. He wanted to tear down the door and call them out on their cruel trick, but more than that he wanted to see them on their knees apologising to Wynter as they were made to feel the same pain that haunted him every day.
"And now they get to take another life from your family when that door opens, right?" The words fell like daggers from his tongue as he glared toward the door. It was going to be his fault that Wynter died – Alwyn knew that. If he had not been out in that forest, if he had just been quiet when asked, if he had just run when told, if he had remembered his phone; none of this would have happened, and the Gwyllgi would be safe at home with his sisters.
He barely registered the cold that had begun to re-establish itself in his bones, or the feeling of being moved away from the door till he found himself folded into Wynter's embrace again. He smells like forest the random thought settled into his mind as the scent washed through him calming every nerve that had been sizzling with anger. He felt safe with the shifter, even with the knowledge of imminent death waiting for them, it took Alwyn off guard.
You have always been so much like your mother, quick to feel for others. Not everyone you meet is worthy of that trust. It was what his dad had told him after he had brought his girlfriend over for the first time. It was only after she had stormed out on him that he realised his father was wrong – he was not quick to fall for others he just craved for love. He had known she was trouble, had ignored it, but after she had left, he had felt relieved. We had only been dating a month when your mother proposed to me, I do not know what possessed me to agree but it was right, and she had known it from the start. I know that like her when you meet the right one, you will know. But how? he had asked, his father had just clamped a hand on his shoulder giving him a sad smile, though he never answered the question.
He wondered now if this is what his father had been getting at. They had barely known each other for a few days and yet each touch of Wynter's hand could calm the wildest of his tempers, and the warmth of his arms could chase away every fear. When they talked about their pasts together the world had faded away, even now with the never-ending stream of anxiety running through his veins he felt safe.
Do I love Wynter? He asked himself, watching the shifter run a hand through his snowy hair. Stray strands continued to stand after he removed his hand, it made him look younger, more puppy-ish. When he glanced down to look at Alwyn, his amber eyes pierced through him, and he felt himself smile, warmth spreading through his chest. Did he love the shifter? He was not sure, but he knew given the chance he would.
Perhaps I am like my mother. He thought to himself as he enjoyed his time with the Gwyllgi. Running his fingers along his arms, trying to memorise every movement he felt under the others skin. He stilled when his wandering limbs brushed over a glossy, ink texture near the crook of Wynter's right elbow. His eyes narrowed in on the swirling letters, written unmistakably in his own handwriting.
Alwyn
Breath caught in his throat as his mouth fell open. It was his name, written in his own script, its appearance matching his own strange brand. He could feel Wynter's eyes on him as he ran his fingers over the name once more, an absent itch running along his own arm. His eyes snapped up to meet amber, trying to work through the emotions clouding his mind. Looking down at him with the same fond and admiring expression as he had earlier Wynter waited for him to form the question he knew must be on the tip of Alwyn's tongue. Before he could utter a sound, a metallic clang killed the words on his tongue and shattered their bubble of warmth as it vibrated through the air. Fear gripped his heart as he watched three armoured guards enter their cell; their time was up.
An armoured guard's stern voice echoed into the room, their tongue forming sharp elegant words that floated and constricted around alien syllables. As they stood by the door, two more officers shuffled in to seize Wynter and Alwyn. Cuffs locked onto both of their wrists, the cold metal pressing uncomfortably into his skin. Whiskey eyes shot toward the shifter as a sharp hiss escaped his lips, the sound shortly followed by the distinct smell of burning flesh. Iron, Alwyn thought as anger flared within his chest; already he could see the Gwyllgi's skin peeling away from the offending metal. He wanted to make a fuss, to fight his way out of the shackles and free Wynter from his, he wanted to lock them around the exposed throats of their guards; but he could not. Alwyn let himself be pushed forward; ears trained on the laboured breathing next to him, each step bringing with it a crushing sense of hopelessness.
The raven watched the walls as they marched forward, eyes taking in the stone walls that encased the prison. He looked for a distraction in every doorway, in every turn, hoping to escape the fear, pain, and anxiety pumping through his veins. Alwyn took note of the U-shaped pattern of the prison, watching how symmetrical each hallway was; how cell looked as though the stone had naturally formed it. What really caught his attention was the differences in doors, some held cast-iron heavy-duty doors with small slots for food – much like their own cell – while others hissed and crackled, showing only shimmering air at the mouth of the cell shaped cave. Alwyn could feel his hair standing on edge as the invisible doors electrified the air around them.
Most of the cells they had past were empty but the few prisoners that notice Wynter all bowed or banged a fist to their chest in salute. It made Alwyn all the angrier at himself and the situations; he was going to be the reason a people lost their leader, and a family lost their son/brother/nephew. No, Alwyn thought, shaking his head. I will not let them kill him. He looked once again at the shifter, watching as he nodded acknowledgement to another saluting prisoner. The skin around the cuffs was red, and angry, with black veins leading up from them yet none of the pain showed on Wynter's face – Alwyn admired the strength he saw there and felt his heart flutter as amber eyes met his. I will not let him die for me. He allowed the thought to strengthen his resolve as they reached the end of the prison block.
The jail opened into a busy square that was lined with shops and restaurants. Endless rows of scattered stands filled the open area and any place that there was for walking was filled with people. The people were strange mixtures of mythical looking beings, with blue or green skin, and webbed or pointed ears, to average looking middle aged men with beer guts. But what really caught Alwyn's attention was the roof of the square; a visage of galaxies and night air which swirled and shifted as though alive. It was memorizing and enchanting, he had not even realised he had slowed till a sharp blade bit into his back tearing at his shirt and the guard snarled a brief phrase that he interpreted to be 'keep moving'.
The crowds parted for them, strange eyes tracking their movements as they shuffled toward a tunnel on the other end. Some people sneered, others spit at Wynter, and a few looked at Alwyn like he would make a delicious snack, a couple even reaching out to touch him – the action eliciting a deep growl from Wynter, and another sharp jab from the guard's sword. Alwyn was almost relieved when they entered the next tunnel. The people's reaction to them was unnerving, even more so than the thought that his death might lay at the end of this tunnel.
Slowly they were led down a straight path and into the largest arena he had ever seen. Fitting more than the population of Wyoming into a single rounded room with a small podium and long curved desk in the centre. Vaguely it reminded Alwyn of the pictures his mother had shown him of the colosseum in roman. Levels upon levels of seating carved out of the stone walls, starting roughly ten feet off the ground, and reaching up several stories before ending against the ceiling of the room which had the same memorizing animated galaxy as the marketplace. Four people sat at the desk, their eyes narrowing and following them as they marched out of the tunnel and onto the podium.
The proceedings followed in a bur of fast-talking judges, their foreign tongue rolling off their lips with a blinding speed. Even if he had known the language, he would not have been able to get a word in. It made him even more anxious, he had vowed to save Wynter, to not let him die, but he could not even follow what was being said. It was the same language the shifter had uttered when the iron try had burned him, and he considered asking for a translation, but the weight of the room had him holding his tongue. If they survived this trail, he was going to have to try and learn this dialect. I wonder if this is just spoken in Annwn or if it exists in the real world too. He wondered briefly as the arbiter continued to speak. Suddenly Wynter's voice cut through the chatter, a deep growl in his voice as he spoke over the rambling of the crowd. Whatever he said seemed to still the room, an abnormal silence settling around him as all eyes fell onto him. Alwyn looked up at the shifter as Wynter repeated his words once more, only to be cut off by an annoyed sounding voice.
The Gwyllgi seemed to be trying his best to explain something to the council, growing angrier every time they cut him off. Till finally he grunts and grasped Alwin's hand, thrusting the limb outward toward the audience, right wrist facing up his tattoo on display for everyone. Next to him Wynter thrust his own arm out laying it next to his, the glittering black inks on display for the entire stadium. Alwyn felt as though he were suddenly standing there naked, as everyone gawked at him. He may not have a clue what the strange markings were, but he felt they were intimate not meant to be flashed so brutally to a group of thousands. He wanted so badly to pull his arm back, but refrained, gaze moving down to watch the way Wynter's fingers circled around his forearm. Trying to focus on the sensation of the shifter rough hands, and not the gawking stars of the audience. As he watched the tattoos slowly started to shift closer to each other, startling him and the crowd.
One of the judges stood up, gliding down from their bench, and moving toward the duo. They were a pale blue skinned female looking elf, with platinum flowing hair and pricing purple eyes. She approached them swiftly, her face a stoic mask of irritated indifference. As she closed in on their podium, the urge to pull his arm out of Wynter's grasp grew stronger. When she latched onto his mark, thin long fingers brushing over them, he felt violated. He kept as still as he could, trying not to focus on his discomfort – Wynter had to know what he was doing, and if it could possibly save their lives Alwyn would let this strange person inspect his wrist as much as she wanted.
While he was in his own mind, trying to hide his embarrassment the sensation of her fingers on his wrist shifted, suddenly his arm felt numb and cold, her touch sending pin pricks into his skin. Startled he looked down to see the ink of his tattoo floating above her touch, and her stoic facial expression falling away to one of shock. She said something back to the council in the foreign language before training her eyes on him, the purple piercing right through him.
"What is your name, and who are your parents?" She demanded throwing him back his arm.
"Ugh..." He looked to Wynter who gave him a reassuring nod. "Alwyn Novak. My father is Noah Novak, and my mother was Genevie Novak." The woman gives him a calculating look for a moment, before her expression hardens, the stoic mask falling into place once again.
"Halfling, do you have knowledge of your birth right?" The confusion that warped his features and held his tongue must have answered her question, as she ticked her tongue once before moving back to the table. The councillors whispered amongst each other, as the crowd murmured. His own heart thudded loudly in his chest, drowning out almost every other sound. He could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate, whatever the question had meant it seemed his response – or lack thereof – had sealed their fate. This was it, after they talked their sentence would be decided. It had been years since his last panic attack, Alwyn had thought he was over them, but as his throat constricted, he realized how wrong he had been. Wynter seemed to recognize his distress, a strong hand coming to warp around his neck, as his voice whispered soft reassurances into his ear. Alwyn tried to focus on the strength of the grip on his neck, the feeling of warm breath on his ear, and the vibrations of his voice as he spoke. The little sensations kept him grounded, until the magistrate's mallet rang loudly through the arena.
"Alwyn Novak, you have three days to prove you come from a worthy family, or you and your Gwyllgi will be executed." With the last word ringing in the stadium, the council seemed to vanish leaving the duo standing in the centre of a now empty stadium.
The silence echoed in Alwyn's ears. He did not know whether to laugh, yell of joy that the survived, cry with relief or demand answered on what the hell happened. Trapped in a turbulent wave of recycling emotions Alwyn began to feel the earth shifting around him. Cold rushed through his body, vision swimming with the whiplash of emotion. He felt fog descending on him quickly; Opening his mouth the halfling attempted to warn Wynter but darkness descended on him before any syllables could form. In a breath he fell, the shifter catching him inches above the floor.