I'm sorry...
@Lili Shakespeare, Provider of Caffiene (FF, FAR, BLC, ASC) @Bats the ✨Sleep Deprived✨ FF Doctor (BLC, EDS) @dontthinktherewasanyoneelseletmeknowinthecommentsifimissedyou
No one spoke. Even Oscar had fallen silent, save a soft sigh as he cleaned his glasses as he stared at the damp wall, unmoving. The only other sound was Nia’s pacing—the soft scrape of her boots across the packed earth—and the occasional harumph Podo made, who sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes dark with thought.
When Podo finally stood, no one questioned him.
“It’s time.”
Nia nodded once, the movement so small it was almost unseen. Her face wore a queen's mask—no tears or protest—but her hands trembled as she slung her pack over one shoulder. "Come girls."
Oscar muttered under his breath, then on impulse grabbed Janner's pack, gently pulled out the First Book and placed it in his own. He grabbed the note they were going to leave and a quill and scribbled a short note before stuffing it back in the bag and the bag in the wall. Then they were on their way.
The torch Oscar held cast a feeble halo, enough to light the way but not enough to comfort their frayed senses. Water dripped from overhead, and somewhere far behind them, a faint clatter echoed—a sound you could almost mistake for footsteps if you were the kind to expect the worst.
Leeli limped along beside Rebekah, her crutch tapping out a slow rhythm. She didn't complain, though her lips was tight with unspoken grief. Rebekah stayed close to her side. They had lost the boys, yes, but not each other.
Not yet.
After what felt like an age—when the air had grown thick and their breath shallow—the passage began to slope upward. Podo grunted softly, pushing aside a patch of vines that had forced their way down through a crack in the stone. A faint, bluish glow filtered through the roots.
"Almost there," he muttered.
They pushed out from under a shrub in the forest above Dugtown. The hastily made wall of logs wasn't much, but it was there and guarded, a blockade between them and freedom. Podo watched from behind a tree as a Fang clattered by, huddled in a ragged cloak with his teeth chattering.
He wouldn't be back before they escaped.
Podo ambled up to, not the wall, but a large tree beside. Swooping up both Leeli and Rebekah in one of his arms, he climbed into the thick branches above, clambering the tree like a ship's mast. Nia followed, gracefully swinging up without a single tear in her skirts. Then the two adults above heaved the adult below, up.
After all had caught their breaths, Podo picked the girls up once more from their nook in the tree, and secured them safely on his back. Then he led the way, walking and jumping between trees whose branches passed over the wall. Nia followed, carefully steadying Oscar, who surprisingly had good balance. He attributed it to years of full arms and sliding ladders in his library.
Once a decent ways away, they dropped from the trees and sprinted.
Behind them, the forest swallowed their flight.
But Nia heard the echo of three missing footsteps with every one she took.
Tink ran until his legs burned and his breath came in ragged gasps, the stolen chief’s medallion thumping wildly against his chest like a second heartbeat. He was grinning—or trying to—his teeth bared in something halfway between triumph and panic.
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t want to.
The Strander camp came into view like a fire-lit dream: shadowy figures hunched around barrels, the air thick with smoke and boasting. The songs were off-key, the laughter rough as gravel. It was perfect.
Or it should have been.
He stumbled into the firelight, arms raised high, the pone swinging like a trophy in his oustretched hand. “Look who’s back!” he called. “And guess who’s in charge now?”
Silence.
A few heads turned. Someone squinted. And then, from the largest tent, Claxton stepped out—broad, bitter-eyed, and very much not impressed.
“You?” he said, voice low and full of gravel, but full of mirth and danger. “With me pone?”
Tink’s grin faltered. “Well... yeah— I'm chief now, and I want a feast!”
The punch came fast. Hard and brutal. Tink hit the ground like a sack of pride and dust.
Before he could even breathe again, Claxton snatched the front of his shirt, smirked as he dangled the trinket in front of the kid's face before stowing it in a fold of his muddy rotten clothing.
Then he smirked.
“You want a party?” the man said with a chuckle that made even some Strander's skin crawl. “Fine. You can listen to it from the cage.”*
Gracie was feverish. Her mind drifted through Green Ember stories, twisting them so much that if she’d been even a little awake, she might have been both horrified and amazed. But when she was awake, she barely noticed anything around her. She was packed into the hold with about two hundred other children and young adults, chained tightly so she had to lie on her side.
When food and water came around—unlike the slave ships of Origin's old, the Fangs had to keep them alive—she could hardly eat. The ship’s constant rocking made it worse. Thankfully, she had a small talent for hiding her nausea from herself until the worst passed, so she didn’t throw up.
She’d been sick for she didn’t know how long. It had started on the ride to the harbor, and now the whole journey was just a blur.
“Ey! This piggy’s too hot and won’t drink right. Is that normal?” a Fang shouted, more worried about his dust than her.
There were grumbles and some rough prodding before a claw shoved a spoon toward her mouth. It would have been a disaster—except it was mealtime, and she hadn’t eaten yet. A thick, slimy syrup slid down her throat, making her gag and dry heave. But once it reached her stomach, magic seemed to happen: warmth spread through her body, chasing away the chills. A warm haze of sleep descended
Gracie drifted between blank, blissful sleep and a hazy, aching awareness. The rough wood pressed against her shoulder; the chains bit into her wrist.
Then she shuddered, startled by a gentle hand brushing through her tangled hair.
Her Mama was there, somehow finding room in the crowded hold, lying down beside her.
Slowly, her mother wrapped one arm around her and sang a soft song, the words wrapping around Gracie like a warm blanket:
“May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord’s face shine upon you. May the Lord bless you and keep you, And give you peace. Grace and peace, grace and peace, always. May the Lord bless you and keep you, And give you peace.”**
The last words faded away—just like the dream—slipping back into the cramped, dark reality of the ship.
Yet somewhere far away, in the quiet of a sunlit room, her mother’s eyes opened.
A heavy stillness settled over her chest—a sorrow so deep it tightened her breath.
Though the dream was gone, the warmth lingered still, like the faintest touch against her skin, impossible to forget.
*This scene was so hard to write. I get second hand embarrassment easier than first hand... and I hate it...
**This is my childhood's bedtime song. so yeah.
I told you there would be more trauma and angst...
Hides in writing cave because she hasn't written more
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH THIS IS SO SAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!