The King Chronicles Ch1

1

The impact still rings in my ears, but I have no idea where I am.

Did I just black out?

I’m laying on the ground, trying to connect the pieces, but no explanation comes to me. Nothing is the same. Nothing looks like it was just blasted apart. My ears ring and my skin feels raw like I’ve been sandblasted, like I’ve been sunburnt, but the grass under my fingers is moist and soft and bends under a silent breeze. Behind me and to my left, I see an expanse of water shockingly vast. The hill slopes down to a rocky beach where I can’t hear the waves slushing the sand around.

I can hear my breathing now, muffled, but there. I’m glad of the reminder that I’m still alive.

I’m surprised to find none of my bones broken. My movement isn’t hindered as I ease down the hill onto the rocks. I feel like the water is calling to me, and I submit. I’m still wearing my shoes, I realize with a puffing laugh. I take them both off and place them side-by-side further up the beach, nestled under an underhang of grass. The water is warm when it slides up to meet my feet. Not Pacific. I reach down when the water comes back up the rocks and let it rush over my fingers. I lick one and decide I am also not at a lake. I am starting to hear the hush of the ocean now. The ringing in my ears has lowered to a loud mosquito noise and it somehow bothers me more than the ringing. I keep on looking left to right, left to right, trying to find the mosquito despite my knowledge that it doesn’t exist. It’s infuriating.

--

The ringing has left my ears but now I’m assaulted by the silence. I’m sitting on the beach, feet resting just where the tide reaches, staring off into the ocean. Maybe the Atlantic. All I can hear are the gentle waves, just loud enough to cover the sound of my breathing. Not loud enough to block the sound of my heart beating in my ears.

But no humans. No animals. I’ve been alone on the beach for a long enough time for the tide to drop a meter. I haven’t scooted any closer at risk of my pant bottoms getting soaked in the still slushy rocks. There’s a chill in the air but I’m not sure if it’s from the day waning or from me sitting here.

Or from me hating the silence.

--

My feet have dried off now from the slow drop of the tide. My butt is cold from the rocks and my back is stiff, and I might have added a sunburn to my already raw skin. The sun is going down far to my left, almost behind me, and I can’t remember what that means. It never occurred to me to remember if the sun sets in the East or the West. Or maybe it sets in the North. I don’t doubt that I’ll have plenty of time to try to remember. I think I have another hour, maybe, until the sun sets. I’m hoping it won’t get too cold at night, because I’m still wearing leggings that say “Cutie” on the butt and a thin sweatshirt. Not much for outdoor-weather clothes.

I stand up precariously, still expecting to hurt a lot worse after the explosion that wreaked no havok here. I get my shoes from under the grass and put them on as I look around once more. I don’t think I’ll be returning here. As far as I can tell from this vantage, I’m at the tip of a peninsula, or some smaller jutting out piece of shore. That leaves me only one direction of travel, because there is no way I’m chancing the ocean. I could fly for hours and not reach a single island, for all I know.

But whatever the case, I’m definitely flying. I need to make the most out of the remaining sunlight, and if I fly low I might not even get cold. Low and slow, baby.

Hopefully I find some shelter. And if it’s a house… I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

I clamber to the top of the hill again and turn to the ocean, and sprint to the beach. Wings out, full out, up-beat, jump over the last bit of grass before the rocks, down-beat, and repeat. After gaining a bit of height, I veer right to get back over the peninsula, and I follow the coast. The blood pumping through me is warm. It’s been awhile since I flew.

--

I’ve been gliding over the coast for about an hour, I’m guessing, because I’m not wearing - have never worn - a watch. Everything is turning blush pink and orange, and the land below me looks mottled but beautiful. I’ve yet to see any people or houses, but I’ve seen some deer that look similar to the ones near my home. Atlantic Coast. East Coast or Europe? I don’t know how I could figure that out without someone telling me. And I won’t get that done without first finding a person. A cold wind has been whipping up over the ocean, and it’s rushing over me as I fly. I don’t think I can handle the cold much longer, but I feel like if I just keep going for now, I can get to shelter. I trust my instincts.

Just as the sun sinks past the horizon, I notice the shoreline ahead of me rising steadily in altitude. The beaches - shallow and rocky before - are now sandy bluffs, visibly unsteady and precarious to venture on. I don’t take this as a good sign. Cliffs wouldn’t likely be the location of a settlement. And yet I continue on; there’s no use in stopping on a cliff to freeze to death if I can just keep flying for a while longer to stay warm. Anxiety is rising in my throat but I push it down for now. I’ll give myself half of an hour to go further down the coast, and then force myself to land and find shelter.

The cliffs have grown to be very irritating to my eyes. Drenched in the indigo of early night, they look like walls and vary very little. They don’t do much to keep my mind occupied, and I find myself thinking about things. Things like: Why am I in a strange place? How did I get here? And other unanswerable questions. I don’t like to get my mind stuck in a pointless place, but they impede me like open drawers and table corners in the dark.

All I can say in response to the questions is, “I don’t know!”

After another ten minutes or so, I force myself to stop. All I can think of to distract me is singing, so I do it. I’m at the second chorus when I see a light in the distance, off to the left of where the cliffs should trail indefinitely into the horizon. I’m so happy to see that light, I’m almost scared of it. I won’t be able to handle it if that light isn’t a man-made light. I’m a lot more worried about freezing to death than I let on.

Not that it’ll be a problem for a while. I’ve got a fresh dose of adrenaline running through my veins and I’m soaring like a hawk or some other really fast bird towards the light. The shoreline veers sharply to my right and catches me by surprise; I’ve been watching the light so intently I didn’t notice the expanse of black sea coming up below me. I hesitate, wondering if I should continue following the coast, but can only see the wisdom in going to the light, somewhat ironically like a moth. If there’s a light, there’s got to be a person.

I’ve been noticing for a while now that the light is undulating, twinkling light a little star. It occurs to me now that it’s quite obviously a lighthouse. That could be good news, but I’m a little wary of the type of person likely to live in a lighthouse. I would need to stay the night there at the least, and I assumed there would be a man living there. And maybe I was putting too much confidence in stereotypes, but the man would probably be pretty creepy if he lived alone there. Maybe I could just ask for a blanket or a jacket and find someone else further down the coast.

Maybe the lighthouse means there’s a town nearby.

Which could be good and bad.

I don’t see any lights from a town yet, so if there is one, it’s either hidden by a mountain or farther off.

The problem: wings.

If I go to the lighthouse, I risk the chance of one person seeing them. If I go to a town, that risk multiplies exponentially. It doesn’t mean certain death, or even certain danger, but my parents have taught me due caution on the matter of my wings. I can’t even really verbalize the dangers, but there is always an undercurrent of hatred or fear in public. I’m not sure I want to deal with that. But maybe I would rather that than a scary lighthouse man. Maybe I would rather land and get warm so I don’t freeze my ass off in the next ten minutes.

Ultimately I’m too cold to make any proper decision, so when I’m close enough to the lighthouse to see clearly the terrain around it, I make a shallow circling descent and land a little off the path near the front door. Surprisingly, I feel fine about just going up and knocking. I may be overly cautious in my planning, but when it comes down to it I just do what feels right.

I pull off my sweatshirt and work my wings out of the holes in it, trying to be quick so I don’t lose all of my precious heat to the wet coast breeze, and put it back on over my tightly tucked wings. I wish I had a rope or something to keep them nice and tight, but that is currently impossible. At least this will put off the inevitable.

The shrubbery I landed in is also unfamiliar to me, lacey and brittle and covered with little berries. The path leading from the lighthouse, or to the lighthouse, depending on which way you looked at it, is packed dirt, but fairly wide and well-kept; it’s an encouraging sign that whoever lives here isn’t a scary weirdo. I step over the leafy shrubs, unhooking the branches from my leggings as I do, and continue up the path to the lighthouse door; in the dark of the early night and under the thunderous crashing of waves to either side, it looks ominous and unfriendly, so I knock loudly to cover for my waxing anxiety.

I plead to the lighthouse gods over and over again that a murderous man will not come to the door, but the more I think about it the more certain I am that I should try to find a village. When at last the door opens I jump almost a foot in the air, literally, because I’m really light, and hope the effeminate man didn’t see it. Or is it a manly woman? I don’t have time to ponder it but I do without meaning to, making my speech seem a little garbled, but maybe adding to the pitiable appearance of myself in the cold.

I think I ask if I can come in to warm up, but I’m busy absorbing details about his/her posture, body shape, and facial features. Large rib cage, small feet, columnar stance like he/she is made of stone, long eyelashes, and definitely boobs. Instead of eloquence, I am now armed with the knowledge that this is probably a woman standing in front of me. That will make everything a lot easier/less scary.

I realize now that she asked me a question that wasn’t heard over my thoughts.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked where you came from. Why aren’t you in town?”

Uhhhh… I am completely unprepared for this conversation.

“There’s a town?” That’s the best I can utter. I guess I’m going for the lost, cold, and scared girl act. Except that it’s not an act. I’m not acting scared only because I can’t let myself yet. I’m pretty good at making myself believe something, and I really need to believe I’m not in any danger yet. Just to keep myself cool and ready to react.

“Yeah,” she tells me, seemingly as worried to be talking to me as I am to be talking to her, “It’s just over the hill - you just walk down this path to get there. Are - are you alright?”

Again, I’m not sure what to say. I would conclude that my social skills are rusty today, but really they are always rusty. I don’t get out much.

Turns out I don’t have to say anything. My flustered expression and tense, shivering body must speak to my state. I think things are going well so far, but I’m not sure because I’m still not getting warm.

“Oh goodness sakes, come in girly. You must be lost.”

I follow her into the lighthouse, almost cozy against the deepness of the darkness outside. We enter into the living quarters, sparsely furnished but with endearing personal effects peppering the tables and shelves. Observing her house puts me at ease. She seems simple and timid, but kind at her core. At least I hope that’s what I’m vibing from her. The cold leeching away from me is a wonderful feeling, but I don’t want to let my guard down. Ever.

People = Bad

That’s what I’ve come to learn. It’s by no means all-encompassing, but true in many ways. I pull my wings closer to my back in expressed discomfort.

The woman comes back into the main room carrying what looks like a felt blanket. I haven’t ever seen one before. It itches my skin where it touches and smells like wet dog. She asks if I want tea or soup; I accept only the tea because it has the least chance of being weird or gross or having human meat in it. Despite not having eaten since this afternoon, I am too paranoid to accept real food. I decide I’m going to move on to the town tonight - as soon as I get warm enough. I’ll probably have to ask for clothes too. Maybe I can get out of here before she notices my wings, I tell myself with an angsty kind of excitement.

As she leaves the room to get me tea, which I now realize could easily - but not probably - be poisoned, I notice that her outfit is actually pretty strange: stiff, ill-fitting pants calf-high, and a long knitted shirt that may or may not be home-made. She’s also wearing thick knitted socks and no shoes. I would have opted for slippers, but her style is her choice.

I don’t really feel comfortable here, but I allow myself to perch on one of the cushioned wood chairs around the coffee table. I wrap the scratchy - wool, I remember - blanket close around my body, finally starting to feel warmth in my body. My fingertips are starting to itch from the return of circulation and my toes are getting tingly. I feel my tension releasing in stages as I continue to look around the room. There isn’t really much to look at, though. From this view I can see that there is a rustic fireplace in the room that must be supplying me with more heat than this blanket. I resist the temptation to sit right in front of it. It doesn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe it would make me seem too vulnerable. I don’t know, it just bothers me. The woman comes back into the room and I pull the blanket closer to my face in a defensive reflex. She tells me the water is over the fire right now. I’m puzzled by that statement.
“It’s on the stove?” I ask, wondering if I’m just on some foreign land where people call the stove ‘the fire’ for some reason.
“Sure, you could call it that,” she replies similarly confused. I think that solves the riddle, I guess. Maybe now she thinks I’m the foreign one. Maybe it would be alright to ask where I am now.

But the words won’t come out, so I assume I shouldn’t say them yet. She looks at me like she expects me to tell a story of danger and adventure - some explanation of why I would be here, shivering and poorly dressed, with no idea of where I am. It’s too bad she won’t be getting one.
“Are you warm enough?”
“I’m much better, thanks,” I reply shortly.

Again she seems to expect more of me, or maybe she’s holding herself back from speaking more.

“Are you from town?” She settles on.
“No,” I reply.
“That’s why you didn’t know about the town,” she concludes. Not the sharpest knife in the shed. Or the brightest bulb in the drawer. Or the sharpest… well, you get it.

She gets up and walks past me, as I flinch, to get a metal rod and poke at the fire in the rustic fireplace. The kettle starts warbling from another room and she closes the fireplace again, tapping the rod on the stone before putting it back down. She passes me again and opens cabinets in the kitchen while I settle back into my seat. She comes back in with two simple mugs, a tea strainer in each.

“What flavor are these,” I ask.

She seems surprised that I started the conversation this time. I can’t help it; I’m still worried that the tea is poisoned.

“Mint,” she tells me cheerily.

I take small sips of it until it starts getting cooler, and then I take gulps, addicted to the warmth it brings to my stomach. By the time I finish the cup, I’m actually feeling a little overheated. It’s the perfect time to leave, but I’m not sure how to address it. As I’m hesitating, the woman finishes her cup and stands, startling me again.

“I’ll go make up a bed for you, so just wait here,” she tells me.

Oh god. No. I’m not staying here any longer. There’s nothing really creepy here, but I don’t think I can stay here. I would rather sleep under a tree - or in one, I’m glad to realize - than at this stranger’s house. She’s nice, I’m sure, but I’m also panicking. The extra adrenaline is also giving me a nice motivation, making me want to bolt out the door right in front of her eyes. But she doesn’t notice my rising fear and rises to leave; as soon as she turns a corner I throw off the itchy blanket and race to get my sweatshirt off, preparing myself to fly at the first moment I can.

I’m trying to get my right wing back into the hole when I hear a croak from behind me. I feel my face go cold like ice water is dripping down my head and slowly, carefully arrange my sweatshirt. My breath is audible in the silence of the room, like even the fire has been put out in shock. I can’t bring myself to turn around, so I keep my back to her - and thus my wings - as I blink slowly, purposefully, to calm myself down.

“What are you?”

She asks with a quiet, breathy voice belying her large, sturdy form.

Is she scared or is she angry?

“I’m… I’m lost. I’m confused.”

“Are you an evil spirit?”

I turn around at this. Evil spirit...

She is hiding around the corner, an eye, a nose, and a hand visible to me.

“No,” I tell her, to my disappointment. I realize now that I could have used her fear of me to my advantage. I could have, but I wouldn’t have; it was inevitable that I would say ‘no’.

“I’m a Gifted.”

She seems in awe of this. I’m not sure she believes me, strange woman. Her face moves away from the wall and I can see her conflictedness clearly written upon her mouth and brows.

“I’m not a bad Gifted. I’m lost. I’m confused. I need warm clothes so I can go on.”

“And then you will leave?”

My heart sinks when she asks me this.

People = Bad.

Her heart is warm, but even she wouldn’t be seen with a Gifted. I will never find a home in this world other than my home. I will never be accepted, but feared or hated. It has always been there. This woman had hid it well, but her true colors have been shown.

“Yes. I’ll leave you alone if I can just get some warm clothes,” I pacify her, but on a whim ask her name just before she turns the corner again.

“Merida,” she breaths.

When I don’t say anything more, but turn my head back to the floor, she leaves. I pick up her blanket and fold it tightly; over and over again until it no longer resembles a rectangle but a malformed log.

Merida approaches me once more, keeping her eyes on the ground near my feet. She has a knitted tunic and a long skirt in one hand and thick wool socks in another. I take them, put on the socks and skirt, and thank her for the tea.

I leave the lighthouse with warm clothes, but my blood runs cold and slow through my extremities.

This is my life.