Cyrion (20 page)

BUTTERFLIES ASCENDING

Naeem sat in front of his desk in the study, tapping his grey goose quill on the half-written report before him. He would occasionally look out the window and stare at his grandson, sitting by himself amidst the riot of flowers Greta planted by the raven’s grave.

The mission had been hard on him. On all of them. Naeem sighed, tore his gaze away from Jon, and stared at the stack of reports on his left. At least the goblin settlement was going well. The inn and the forge brought in the much-needed income required to get the rest of the Outpost back on its feet. The Outpost should be self-sufficient by this time next year.

Naeem’s eyes dropped back to the report he was preparing.

There is irrefutable proof the elves are still among us. Further, they have taken the role of predator by using the lives of the Ha’rani young to power their enchantments. Based on eyewitness accounts, my squad and I conclude that the ratio of predator to prey is, and has been, out of balance and therefore, unsustainable.

He resumed tapping his goose quill against the fine rice paper, deep in thought.

We recommend tripling the Watcher squads patrolling the Northern border, and guarding or sealing all portals leading to the Northern Wastes to prevent further breaches into Watcher-controlled territories. Starved of a fresh source of life force to feed their enchantments, we believe it will only be a matter of time before Drow-controlled territories collapse.

My squad and I recommend that a detailed, verbal report be delivered in person to the Triumvirate at the Academy.

His attention strayed back to Jon, who seemed to be concentrating on nothing more substantial than thin air. Naeem shook his head, sighed yet again, and continued writing.

We will depart Linwood with all necessary witnesses and evidence as soon as possible.

He would give the children as much time as he possible. Hopefully, enough for all three of them to recover.
Or at least, time enough for the cyrion to finally pass.

* * * *

A month had passed. Jon sat on the grass beside the raven’s grave, amidst a riot of blooming rock roses, bluebeards and butterfly bushes, the sun warming his back. Grammy Greta came through. He looked up to the second floor of his grandfather’s house. Cheerful pink curtains, caressed by the light, warm summer breeze, fluttered out of a set of open windows. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

Pink. Typical girl.

Back at the Linwood side of the portal cave, Jon used the pendant and his bloodied hand to unlock a way out for all of them. Saul refused to relinquish his burden and carried Anya all the way home. She did not open her eyes once. Jon periodically checked her pulse and breathing, but there was no more he could do.

The days after they got home consisted of a maddened flurry of questions, hugs, and admonishments. Jon barely remembered half the things that happened. A settlement had been found for the goblins, he recalled hearing as much. He kept his promise. Sa’atha now ran his father’s old inn and tavern at the Outpost.
I guess it’s the
Goblin Outpost, now
.

The Goblin Outpost was too far out of the way for anyone to stumble across by accident, making it a safe place for its newest inhabitants. Jon ceased caring about the other Ha’rani in the goblin city.
They chose to stay slaves. They deserve their lot.
The grumps said something about the Northern Wastes being beyond the scope of their authority anyway.

The moment they returned to Linwood, refugees in tow, the three of them earned the rank of Apprentice Watchers. Jon did not care very much about
that
either. Not anymore. Saul had not left Anya’s room virtually the whole time they’ve been back. He and Greta took care of Anya as best they could. She could reflexively swallow when they held her up to spoon clear soup and water into her slack mouth. But otherwise, she lay like one already dead.

The first week they were back, Saul asked, screamed, and finally begged her to wake up. Now he spent his days doing nothing more than holding her hand and looking at her with haunted, hollow eyes. Every night, he slept on the floor beside her bed, in a nest of blankets and pillows. The grumps had done everything they knew to do and Grampa had checked every tome in his study. All for nothing.

She had not opened her eyes once.

Two weeks ago, on the verge of giving up all hope, something caught his eyes. A butterfly. A single iridescent green butterfly. He had an idea. An idea he kept to himself. Partly because he didn’t want anyone disappointed in case he was wrong. Also partly out of superstitious fear that the more people who knew about it, the lower the probability of success.

He did not want to risk scaring away the butterflies.

Every morning since that day, he gathered a bouquet of rock roses and bluebeards and placed them in a glass vase beside Anya’s bed. Then he spent the day keeping vigil by the raven’s grave. The first morning, he saw several iridescent green butterflies alight on the blooms by the grave, then ascend and make their way through the open window. With each successive day, more and more butterflies flew through the window. Yet there were no outcries from anyone inside. And Saul did not say a single word about them.

Yesterday, there were so many butterflies, they blocked out the sun. So today, he waited in hope.

He closed his eyes, then bowed and rested his head on his knees.

Please work. I don’t know what else to do. Come home.

Then he felt a familiar tickle inside. A surge of warmth washed through his mind.

“Jon! Come quick!” he heard Saul’s voice through the window.

Jon looked up, a bright smile on his face. His first in weeks. He rose in a single graceful motion, and raced into his grandfather’s house.

She’s awake.

Abigail is fluent in three languages, grew up in Asia, studied History in the UK.  She also holds graduate degrees in International Management and Special Education. Now, she calls sunny Southern California her home. When not working with flowers (and daydreaming about what a ranunculus flower fairy looks like) she sings about Winnie the Pooh while baking treats like pineapple tarts and sand dollar cookies for her son, El Kiddo.

She has an on-going love/hate relationship with all things chocolate, although coffee will always remain her first love.

* * * *

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