4.5 - Remara and the Book Thief

He crouches in his lair under the left side of the desk. Remara told him that the whole room is dark except near her, but he feels more comfortable knowing he's beneath a structure, deep in its all-encompassing shadow. He will enter from here.

She talked for hours. The endless words soothed him even as he hung on every description. She spent all her time describing the rooms she had seen; where the Skytes were held, the study the two of them were in, and the intervening stairs and halls. After a time, her words began to slow. She jammed together as many as she could, but each one became a struggle to start and end. Eventually, she stopped altogether. There was no point if finishing one sentence took until morning. They didn't have the time.

Now it is up to him.

Step one. Get to Skytes room.

He rocks forward a little on his claws, touching his snout to the floorboards. The shadow is warm. Familiar. Inviting. Like a steam pool in the middle of winter.

He trembles from snout to tail. It has never been this terrifying.

Going to big, echoey room. Shelves all along wall on right side. Shelves near open doorway in shadow, always, because most sleeping done there. More light opposite room-end from doorway, close to fireplace. Light from firelight and candle. Come out in shelves near doorway, nice'n'dark, on top shelf only little bit from ceiling. Shelf is wide as my wings stretched, don't fall off sides. Little sleeping pallets all over, might land on sleeping Skytes. Careful with claws.

He has it in his mind. He tries to make it as real as anything he's seen with his own two eyes, but he hasn't even been to this room. His insides clench. He said he was already in death, yet he can't bring himself to tip over the edge.

Have to jump! Study door locked, have to jump through shadow to the out!

His body stays crouched in the same position, trembling even harder.

For a moment, he sits back up.

Okay. I forget this. I never do the dive. I stays here. What it look like?

Look like Merchant take away R'mara. I ride on shoulder of terrible monster, however long I lives. Blind forever, no new stories, only scary stories from Merchant about himself. No build grand library in cave. Starving for sun until I gives in and gives name away. Always cold. Live near deathspill. Burned if Merchant feel like it. Never fly. Never mate. Never get big enough to challenge hawk. Gives up and dies in year or less.

He jerks his chin down and tucks his claws in. Fixing the Skyte's furthest top shelf in his mind once again, he dives into the shadow, away from the terrible future breathing down his tail.

For a moment, he exists in between, enveloped in the warm shadow. It is almost as if it strokes his scales in delight as he passes. Missed this. If die here, could say was happy again.

An image of the great, swallowing depth of water waiting for him surges through his mind. Saltwater beads the rim of his nostrils. He snorts sharply, jerking his nose out and wrenching his thoughts back to the Skyte room. The smells change, and he tumbles out of the shadow and plummets through thin air for a second before he snaps his wings out and beats them.

His heart hammers against his ribs. That wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to land on the shelf, but he fell further than expected. He hasn't exited over the shelf like he thought. Where did he exit? Is he even in the right room?

He lets his body hang and keeps a steady wingbeat. Hovering in one spot is draining, but he can't risk falling to the ground if he's on the first floor. "Hey!" he shouts. "Hey you, Skytes! Is Skytes room?"

Nobody answers him, but he can hear a fire crackling further off.

Remembers getting new book stolen from you. Angry. Angry!

He pumps his wings and yells, "Am here 'cause stupid Merchant gives blind dragon delivery work, thinks is funny. Sends me down. Is right room? Is Skyte room?"

A reedy voice calls from behind him, "Yes. Which craft?"

Ha'Drak exhales in a rush, his body rising a little.

Made it. Step two. Get lotsa flameweave.

"Where's you? Can't see. Say words, lots, so I hears. Need get over to you. On shelf, yes? Merchant said I be fine if I stay on top shelf. Top shelf, talk!"

There's a long, creaky sigh. A rhythmic clanging of metal on metal starts up. Ha'Drak swivels his body around and angles his flight toward it. It is the most awkward flight he's ever taken, darting forward and hovering to listen, then darting forward and up and hovering. His wing joints hurt already, and his hovering bobs lower each time. Finally, he crashes into the wall and drops, stunned, to a flat surface.

The clanging stops. Feet pad toward him, but small feet. Smaller than his. Barely any noise, but he flicks his earfins open and catches the whispery approach.

"Which craft?" the voice repeats. Ha'Drak shivers, instinctively curling his tail around his hind legs at the voice which sounds less like a person and more like wind keening mournfully through tree branches. Remara said these Skytes had no wings anymore. That they lived in a room where the floor was deathspill. That she watched them reach into the deathspill and pull long, tar-like strands of it out to spin into thread and cords for weaving.

"There is an open doorway with no door on their room and the ones without wings do not have shackles only the ones with wings are kept in cages so I do not understand why they do not leave but in their faces is something lost and hollow and starving and it frightens me to see it almost like they are not really alive anymore."

Ha'drak hears that fearful lostness in the spare words directed at him. He folds his wings and straightens, lifting his head haughtily even as his curled tail tightens. "Flameweave. Not have to be harness, can be just cord, but give all flameweave you has. And sun-dots!" he added quickly. "Very hungry. Wants two sun-dots now while waiting. Add lots more sun-dots with flameweave. All in sack together."

The feet shuffle away. Ha'Drak is surprised and oddly disappointed. Is stupid? Would ask questions if it me, like, 'Whycomes Merchant wants so late?' or 'Merchant never sends voidflyer before, not givings without proof,'or yell for Merchant to be sure. All kinds stories about clever thieves, I would ask if it me.

But she says they barely alive. Maybe does not care?

He heard Remara's words, but this is something he can't picture. He has seen some Skytes in the woods near his cave. They are like tiny, lovely humans. Smaller than him. Frail. Kind-faced with slender, nimble fingers always plucking some form of light out of thin air to weave. And their wings. Ha'Drak always thought their wings were the most incredible of any flying creature, like bird wings but intricately painted with unique designs on each individual feather. Always singing or laughing, grooming each others' feathers or concentrating on some creation in their hands.

No. He cannot picture them shambling, lifeless and stripped of those wings, living in a room full of deathspill, any more than he can picture a cracked sun or a tree stalking deer for food.

A few moments later, his scales tingle as the light of the sun strikes him square in the face. He spreads his wings, greedily drinking in the energy with every bit of his body that he can angle toward it. Rapt, he loses himself in gorging sunlight. The energy winks out far too soon. "More! More sun-dots!" he cries, furious at the crater of lack revealed to him by this splash of nourishment.

"No more," the voice creaks. "Merchant took the rest. Night is time for moonweave. Darkweave. Flameweave. Sun-dots made tomorrow."

He wrestles down the howling need for food, growling, "Fine. Bring all'a flameweave." He directs the new strength toward his wing joints where it is most needed. The strain from hovering eases and some limberness returns to his muscles.

"Here."

"What? Where?"

"In front of you."

Scowling, he flicks his tongue out and cautiously steps forward. He quickly encounters a sack. Exploring it with his snout and claws, he finds, to his dismay, that it is at least as large as the sack that caught him. "Can't take this! How I fly this? Is too big, stupid!"

There is no answer.

Ha'Drak fumes. He tests the load, shifting the bag. It moves easily when he pushes it. In fact, as he tugs at a corner of it, he finds it is no heavier than the empty sack would be. Still, it is filled to roundness, too large and bulky to fly with. "Hey! Skyte! Take it, break it smaller down. Smaller bags, um… big as me. Gimme bag big as me, and… no, wait…" he trails off. That won't work. Still too bulky. But he has to bring back enough flameweave so Remara can start a fire!

Step three is get back to the study. He can take the huge bag into the shadows with it, but death almost caught him on that first try, just like nestmother warned. Never jump blind. He did it, but could he do it again? Maybe he could do it again and follow the shadows backward into the study, but maybe it's a stupid, desperate idea to fly through shadows blind too many times.

How gets this much flameweave upstairs? No can touch ground. He considers the problem. In case he couldn't use the shadow passages, Remara also described the intervening halls and stairway. Trying to return while flying blind is risky, but a little less risky than diving back into a shadow blind.

He pipes up, "Hey. Nevermind that. Can take all'a flameweave and tie onto me?"

No answer, but the sack shifts under his claws. He steps back. A moment later many tiny fingers brush across his hide. He cringes from the touch, his earfins snapping shut, but then he holds himself still as nimble hands work themselves across his body. Bit by bit, warmth seeps through his scales. The warmth mounts as the hands work around him, binding more and more flameweave onto his body.

"Finished. Deliver it soon," the voice sighs. "Outside of sacks, darkness devours it fast. He will blame us."

Ha'Drak flexes his wings, legs, and tail. Nothing hampers his movement and he feels neither heavy nor bulky. He would not know he was wearing anything except that he can feel the tip of his tail for the first time in days. "This all'it?"

"Yes."

"S'good. Thank." He pauses, then mumbles. "No door for you. Really should go. You. Not blind, has legs. Run fast."

There is no answer from nearby, but across the room where the cages hang, a desperate sob breaks the silence.

No can do for them. Time too much gone. Get back to study.

"Walk me at edge, point me to doorway," he says. Tiny fingers press against his left shoulder and he follows the prompt a step at a time, re-orienting himself with the picture in his mind that Remara had painted for him. When the hand tugs at his wing, he stops, feeling the edge of the shelf with his claws.

Door ahead. Can do. Can fly careful. Is this or try shadow again.

He flicks his tongue up, licking his snout. He tastes a thin crust of salt. Getting out of the locked study might have required the leap, but getting in would not, and he'll surely die if he tries something that risky twice.

Door is close. Get through door. Get across hall by fly straight only. Bump nose to wall. Sorry nose.

With a deep breath, he launches off the edge and beats his wings, soaring forward. Panic immediately claws at the edge of his focus, screaming that there's no way to tell up from down, much less right from left. Is flying straight forward or straight down?!

He squeals, whimpering as he flaps his wings harder. He has to be right about which way is forward. If he is, he'll hit the wall any—

SMACK.

He scrabbles at the wall as he slides down, barely catching himself on the wing. His whole head rings. Clumsily, he keeps his wingbeats steady and eases forward, brushing the wall with his nose. He's across the hall from the Skyte room, just like she said.

Grimly, he turns his body to the left, angling far enough from the wall that his wings don't hit it. He lashes his tail around every other wingbeat as he inches forward, allowing the tip of his tail to inform the distance between him and the wall. Soon, the wall changes in an odd way, with two raised ridges and an indented panel set between them.

Doorway and door. She say three doors on this hallside. Three doors, then turning right for stairs.

His wings burn, protesting the odd, slow pace. He only has to make it to the stairs. Once there, he can drop to the ground and crawl the rest of the way.

Can make it. Can. Two doors passing. Where door three?

He hasn't found it yet. His forepaws are chilly. Has he dipped too low? He struggles harder, hoping he's rising instead of falling. His breath comes in great gusts and he mewls at the thought of crashing into the deadly floor.

Spits my bones out, clean. Or charred. Or nothing at all.

And then, he passes the third doorway. Surging forward, he banks hard toward his right shoulder, encountering empty space. Overjoyed, he flies himself nose-first into a set of stairs and sprawls there.

Kissing ground for being good, normal ground. Soon as can move.

No. No waiting, no rest. Up. Up, before dark eats flameweave fast! Too close to deathspill, get higher!

Limbs shaking, he reaches up. With a groan, he drags himself up and over the lip of a human-sized stair step.

How many? Think she say number to me. Can't remember. Get up one more. Okay good, now one more. One more.

He one-mores himself many more times until he reaches up and there are no steps left. His limbs give out and he buckles to the hardwood floor. Every muscle hurts from the all-wrong flight. Bones in his head might be cracked from hitting walls and stairs. He feels so very small, like he's just crawled out of his egg into a wide-open field with a hawk circling overhead.

Unfair. Unfair. Why? Just wants sun and sleep. Let me sleep. Tell myself favorite story and sleep. Once was a prince what was taken away and…

His breath catches. The prince in his favorite story was sold into slavery. The prince, who never swung a sword before, had to fight and grow strong to survive. He didn't lie down and go to sleep when he was so tired from holding the sword that everything inside him was shaking. He kept fighting, hoping to live and get free.

With a groan, he claws his way back to wobbly legs. His tail drapes over the last stair behind him, so he knows which way is straight forward. Go straight, find wall. Turning left. Study door is door two.

He staggers on, flicking his tongue out ahead of himself to spare his poor nose, and turns left, dragging his shoulder along the wall as he did when mapping out the Study.

One door. Two. Is here. She say Merchant drops key in candleholder by door. One more flying up.

At the thought of spreading his wings again, he wants to cry. He wants to scream. Neither will bring the candleholder any lower.

Baring his teeth, he growls to nobody, "I fly shadows blind. I do it and live. Am prince of all voidflyers! Am strong! Not tired at all!" Rearing back, he flaps his strained wings once more and lifts off the ground. He traces the door frame up with his claws as he rises through the air in short jerks. And there, just to the side, is the candleholder.

He knocks the candle out, grabbing on and clinging to the curved metal upside down for dear life like a lizard on a branch. He fumbles around in the cup of the holder, then all around it. Eventually, he finds a spare bit of metal that moves around.

Key.

He places this between his teeth, then clambers sideways toward the doorframe, clinging as if it's a tree he has to climb. He slides, leaving scratch marks on the downward journey, until one wing brushes a door handle. He digs his claws in hard and stops, then frees one claw to grip the key.

Please. Please. Please.

His body shakes. He fumbles, nearly dropping the key twice. He thinks that if he drops it, his heart will break.

Click.

It turns in the lock. The handle turns under his weight. The door swings open with a few desperate flaps of his wings, and he plummets, hitting soft carpet just over the threshold.

Made it. Back.