Eighteen

Chapter 2

      The woods are quiet. Peaceful as he leans against a tree and tries to breathe. Pressed tight against it, he doubles over, fingers clawing at his neck as he gulps in air.

      It’s not enough.

      Each inhale brings with it something that isn’t air. Something thick and musky and it clogs his airways, keeps him from being able to pull in the oxygen he desperately needs.

      ‘It’s just the smell of the woods,’ the rational part of his mind tells him. But that part is small and so very, very far away. ‘Stop panicking.’

      He’s not sure when he sits on the floor. One second the world is a bleary mess as he gasps, doubled over in exhaustion. The next his rump is pressed firmly on the cool forest floor.

      Just a suddenly, there's a hand in his hair.

      It runs through the blonde locks, attempting to comfort him. Another hand rubs at his back, occasionally patting it, as the owner says, “Breathe, just breathe.”

      The voice is soft, soothing. A melody on the wind that caressed his ears. He tries to follow her order, he really does. But his throat is still blocked by that musky smell and what has driven out here in the first place. What has caused him to seek shelter in the woods.

      Away from the world and all of its troubles.

      Grief.

      It chokes him. Sits heavy in his throat and constricts his chest. Making it impossible to draw in the air he desperately needs after such a long run. Having run without a thought, feet flying over dirt and fallen leaves, he has no idea how long he’s run. Or how far for that matter.

      All he knows is that he’s winded.

      “Breathe with me now,” she says, crouching down in front of him. He tries to focus on her but his gaze stays blurry. “Inhale.”

      All he can make out is blue. Icy blue eyes that promise a storm is on the horizon. They all but stare into his soul, searching for something as he struggles to do as she asks.

      He pulls in a shaky breath that’s still thick and musky but finally brings with it the relief of oxygen.

     “Good. Good, now hold it,” she tells him, holding her hand in front of him. With the rush of oxygen, his vision clears enough for him to make out three, pale fingers. One goes down as each second passes. “Exhale.”

      It’s just as shaky as his inhale but it helps clear his vision and eases the panic. So he keeps it up, inhales at her command and holds it until she tells him to let it go.

      His eyes roam over her as he does. Taking her in pitch-black hair, long and flowing and so, so thick. With her crouching, it skims against the floor but it doesn’t seem to bug her as she takes a moment to brush it away from her face with a pale hand. It looks almost white against the black of her hair. Her wrist is thin, lithe, and so fragile, as is the rest of her.

      “Who…who are you?” he asks once he has the breath for it. The words come out breathless and shaky but at least they make it out past the lump in his throat.

      “Just a lonesome traveler passing through your neck of woods,” she says, standing now that it’s clear he’ll be alright.

      She's young, small, and petite. The thick leather and cloth that all but swallow her thin frame backs up her story. Its meant to shelter her from the harshness of the wilderness and the state of it proves she’s being out here for a while.

      While not threadbare, her clothes have obviously seen better days. The trousers on her legs have had quite a bit of repair work done to them so that they're patchy and mismatched in spots. Even the boots on her feet are scuffed and worn.

       But despite all the wear and tear on her clothes, the sword that dangles from her hips is spotless, pristine. The leather of the sheath shines almost as brightly as the sliver of the hilt. It gleams under what rays of sun manage to make it through the foliage of the trees.

      Still, nothing is as strange as the number that hangs over her head. The inky black, blob continues to shift. The number changing and morphing from one number to the next. Sometimes it small, just two digits, others it goes up to three or four.

      But it never stays the same.

      “Thank you,” he says, watching her move towards a horse. A white one that stands a few paces away, saddlebags hitched to its sides as it grazes on a patch of grass. “I’m Daniel.”

      “Trixy,” she replies as she reaches the beast’s side. Running a hand along the horse’s neck, she wraps her fingers around its harness and pulls it’s head up long enough to remove the bit from its mouth. Once done, she hangs the halter on the saddle and lets it go back to its grazing. “Now tell me, child, what has sent you running to me, Daniel?”

~oOo~

     The dream replays in his mind on the way to the funeral. The grief still thick in his throat keeps him from speaking most of the way there, despite his mother’s continued attempts to try to pull him into a conversation.

      “I don’t think we should be doing this,” he finally says, voice low as he stares out his window. The busy city streets he’s so used to have turned in to the rolling green hills of the suburbs and it’s such a surreal sight to see that he can’t help but watch as they pass.

      “Nonsense,” his mother says, grip tight on the steering wheel. Her face is hard, eyebrows pulled together and a frown on her lips. Her eyes, hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, are narrowed, daring him or anyone else to contradict her. “You have as much a right as anyone else to be there.”

      ‘But you don’t,’ he wants to say. Not to hurt her. No, he loves his mother too much to cause her any pain. But to protect her.

      If he says those words maybe it'll be enough to convince her to turn around. To go back home and avoid facing the chaos that them turning up will no doubt cause. Not that he’s afraid to face the family that abandoned him.

      They don’t scare him. He couldn’t care less about them but his mother does care. She always has. Even after being tossed out of the family. So he can’t imagine the pain she’ll be in when someone says those words. Because someone will say them.

      ‘You don't belong here.’

      And it’s better not be Felix who does.

      The thought is almost a growl, one that promises pain if his father opens his mouth and lets those words flow out.

      “We won’t bring attention to ourselves,” his mother decides, voice firm and grip still tight on the steering wheel. “We’ll pay our respects and leave.”

      He really does wish it will be that easy. But it won’t and only hard-earned control over his mouth keeps him from pointing it out.

      The car ride is silent from then on. His mother finally gets that he doesn’t want to talk, so she fills the silence with pop music. It streams from the radio, low and mostly ignored as he continues to gaze out the window.

      When they pull up to the Church, he stares up at the big towering cross. It unnerves him, fills him with unease as he exits the car. Where church fills most people with hope and relief, it offers none of that to him.

      It never has. Instead, it fills him with something akin to dread as he passes through its wide double doors. Rather than bringing thoughts of peace and forgiveness and an afterlife, all a church reminds him of is death.

      Funerals and graveyards and loss.

      “It’s all so final,” he thinks as his eyes roam over the stain glass windows and wooden pews. All decorated with flowers and ribbons for the occasion.

       The casket stands at the front. Thick expensive oak, polished to a shine, with the lid lifted. An open casket where many people gather and say their last goodbyes.

       He can make out his father seated at the front pew. Even though years have passed since he last laid eyes on Felix, he recognizes the wide-set shoulders and carefully combed blonde hair. Even with his back to Daniel, he recognizes that man—always a head taller than the others—and his father’s family.

      The aunts and uncles who abandoned him too.

      “There’s no salvation for sinners.”

       A hand on his arm chases that thought from his mind. Looking towards his mother, he follows her as she motions to one of the few empty pews. It’s a remarkably full house, he realizes as they wedge past a few seated grievers and claim their seats.

      It’s a sea of black. All guests dressed from head to toe in black and impeccably dressed. He feels a little foolish for wearing converse and a black tee. Never mind that he’s sporting a pair of gray jeans. At least his mother wears a black dress. Nothing too fancy but formal enough that no one should give her any grief over it.

       They fold into their seats without a word. Eyes kept towards the front, they share no more thoughts. Though it’s disrespectful to the church itself, his mother does not remove her sunglasses.

      ‘She’s trying to hide,’ he realizes a little surprised that she would when she’d been so willing to come. But she won’t be welcomed here with open arms and she knows it, so she hides behind her glasses even though it’s so obvious who she is.

      At least to those who know her. She’s made no attempt to hide her strawberry blonde locks and, while the sunglasses block her eyes from view, they’re not clunky enough to shield her oval face. One look and the Stidolph’s will come down on them.

      He just hopes she has enough sense to avoid approaching the casket. Or to make him approach it. While his father invited him, the rest of the family could very well not want him anywhere near them. Which would make more sense than if they did. Seeing as his aunts and uncles had all turned up their snobby noses at him and never tried to contact him again when his father left his mother.

      Which brought with it it’s own type of pain. He’d been close to quite a few of them. Wil being the main one. She’d been his mother’s best friend once and his favorite aunt. It’s why she features so much in his dreams.

       At least he figures that’s why.

     The mass drones on. It goes on for what feels like hours as person after weepy person takes their turn at the pew to sob out their share of memories. All around him people whimper and sob, dabbing at endless tears.

      There are more people than he'd honestly been expecting. Though, he guesses she didn’t go around treating everyone like dirt the way she did with them. Despite her faults, she must have been an overall good person for this many people to cry.

      “Go,” his mother whispers, voice low as she nudges his side. He zeros back in to see people standing and making their way to offer condolences to the family. “Then we can leave.”

       It’s partially the promise to escape this place that drives him from his seat. Mostly, though, it’s that his butt has well and truly started to hurt from sitting on the harsh wooden bench for so long.

      It doesn’t take long for him to reach the grieving family, all lined up in the first row of seats. Despite how many people are attending, they move quickly from one Stidolph to the next. They offer their condolences quickly. A few whisper words of encouragement, a shake of a hand or hug, but nothing more. No one lingers to talk to the distressed family.

       They all seem as eager to leave as him.

      Though he could just be projecting. Everyone knows nothing comes quicker than something you don't want to do. So, of course, all too soon and way before he is ready, he ends up in front of his father.

      The first in a long line of relatives that abandoned him.

      “Daniel.”

      His name is said in a strange mix of shock and confusion. As if his father can’t believe he’s here despite that the very man was the one that invited him.

      “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, quickly, blatantly. With absolutely no pity or sympathy or anything other than complete disregard.

      If his father is anger by his words, he doesn’t stick around to find out. He scuttles down the line, repeating the words like a mantra and ignoring the few faces that look at him in shocked recognition.

      Its smarts something in his heart when it turns out less than half the family even remembers the face of the boy they abandoned.

      It’s not until he reaches the end of the line of grieving family members that he stumbles. Both figuratively and literally. It's as the line of people comes to a sudden halt, and he stumbles to a stop that he ends up in front of her.

      Icy blue eyes, pitch-black hair—long and flowing, and so, so thick—, and stark white skin.

     He's never seen her before, but her eyes fill with instant recognition. They lock on him, bright and eager and not a tear in sight. She even goes as far as smiling at him, pink lips pulling into something that resembles more of a smirk.

      “Well, would you look at that,” she whispers, not really talking to him as she takes him in. “You did show up after all.”

      The line starts moving again before he can even think of what to say let alone actually reply to her. So he just mutters his line and scurries away, back to his mother and the promise of freedom.

     “There, I did it,” he announces once he reached her. She starts walking the moment he does. Together they make their way back out the double doors and into the crisp, clear morning. “Can we go home now.”

      “Yes,” she agrees, hands already clutching the car keys as they start towards the parking lot and both of them ignoring the fact that they’re clearly running away. “Would you like to get some breakfast on the way home?”

      “Yes, please!”

      There’s a smile on her lips when he all but chirps his reply. It’s a fond one that crinkles the corner of her eyes and soothes some of the lingering grief from his dream.

      “Daniel!”