Jay Posey - Morningside Fall

Swoop sat up, momentarily dazed. He held up his weapon, but it was useless now. The old man had sheared the end of it off, just ahead of where Swoop usually gripped the front. It didn’t seem like the old man had cut Swoop at all, though, only knocked him down with his charge. Still, Wren couldn’t believe how far the old man’s attack had thrown Swoop. Swoop was a good eight feet back from where he’d started. Which meant there was now no one between Wren and the old man.

The old man turned his face towards Wren. “You,” the old man said.

But that was his only word before something streaked past Wren from behind. The old man spun just in time to avoid the impact, but the Thing that had pounced at him redirected and was on him in an instant. The two exchanged a lightning fast barrage of blows and then separated for a moment, long enough for Wren to identify the Thing.

Mama.

Wren wanted to call out to her, but fear seized him — fear of fatally distracting her. They stood facing one another, Mama panting for breath, and the old man called Justice still as a stone. The snow swirled gently around and between them, crackling softly as it met the frozen ground.

And then, like hammer and anvil, they clashed.

It was nearly impossible for Wren’s eyes to follow what unfolded before him. The speed was terrifying to behold, almost as if time had been compressed. Time and again the old man’s sword sang, and time and again his mother twisted away, only to snap out a deadly strike of her own. But neither fist nor blade found its target, so quick were they to dodge and counter.

Hands grabbed Wren’s arms and lifted him out of the snow. Swoop was pulling him backwards, away from the fight. Painter was there, watching the fury in shocked silence.

The speed was frightening on its own but it was made all the more mystifying by how precisely the blindfolded man judged Cass’s actions. Cass seemed far faster than the old man, but the old man’s movements were so efficient and fluid he was surprisingly able to match her. His quickness was unhurried.

Though it was too fast to see exactly what happened, for a moment Cass seemed either to grab or strike the old man’s forearms, and in the next instant his sword catapulted from his hands and tumbled into the snow several feet away. Yet the old man wasn’t disrupted. In nearly the same motion, he grabbed Cass with both of his now-empty hands and quickly spun, throwing her over his hip.

Cass flipped headlong, but somehow managed to arch her back enough to get her feet on the ground first. With her body parallel to the ground, she clung to the old man’s arms and launched a kick back over her head. Wren couldn’t tell if she connected or not, but the old man came free and collapsed backwards into the snow. He rolled like a shadow spilling across the ground and in the next instant was back on his feet, blade in hand.

Cass twisted into a low crouch. A moment later, the old man closed the gap between them with a single lunge and attacked with a downward slash, followed instantly by an upward stroke. Cass evaded both, and closed in tight, once again inside the range of the sword.

He fought to trap her hands, but her elbow flashed upwards and snapped his head back. The old man stumbled backwards, skidded in the snow, but as he did his blade flicked out and Cass flinched. For a tense moment they stayed separated by about ten feet. Cass was breathing hard, her hands held up in front of her to guard against the next assault. A thin black line welled from cheekbone to jaw.

The old man’s sword tip was pointed straight at her, steady and calm, like a knife in the hand of a surgeon. He seemed as relaxed as they’d found him, as if the combat had been no strain at all. He straightened slightly and gradually allowed his sword to lower, so low it nearly brushed the ground. And then he turned sideways and shifted his stance so the blade was pointed behind him, away from her. The two held their ground, each seeming to wait for the other to make a move.

And in that moment, something about the old man’s silhouette — the way he stood, the way he held the sword — came together with the way he had spoken, in a flash completing the picture that had been struggling to form in Wren’s mind. Before he’d even had time to process the thought and doubt it, he called out, “Chapel!”

It was impossible. Utterly impossible. And yet his heart was sure. The old man remained completely still, and Cass held her ground. Wren tried to run forward, but Swoop snatched at his coat and stopped him in place.

“Chapel, stop, please, it’s me, it’s me Wren!”

Still neither of them dared move. But the old man spoke.

“Chapel,” he said, as if some distant memory was awakening within him.

“Wren,” Cass said, despite breathing heavily. “What are you saying?”

“It’s him, Mama.” Wren managed to yank free of Swoop’s grip and he raced between the two fighters. He stood right in the middle of them with his hands up and out to his sides, facing the blindfolded man he’d once known as Chapel. Now that Wren could see him up close, even through the blindfold, grime, and wild hair, there was no mistake that it was indeed Chapel. But something was far different about him.

“Chapel, don’t you remember me?”

“Chapel,” he said again, more certain this time. “Yes. That was once my name.” He stood straight and relaxed his grip on his sword, but did not sheathe it. “I was at a place of refuge then. You were there for a time.”

“I was,” Wren said. “You saved me. From the Weir. You, and Lil, and Mister Carter.”

“What is going on?” Cass said from behind him.

“I don’t know,” Wren answered. “I don’t understand. They said you were gone. Lil said you’d been taken.”

“Taken, yes,” Chapel said. He stood silent for a moment. And then he sheathed his sword in a fluid motion, and it disappeared within his large shabby coat. “For a time, I did not know myself, and was lost.”

Painter cautiously approached. Swoop wandered over and picked up the missing chunk of his rifle.

“What happened?” Wren asked.

“I strove. And I again became master of myself.”

Wren couldn’t understand what he was saying, how that could possibly be.

“You’re Awakened?” Cass asked.

“I do not know the term.”

“You were once a Weir? And now you’re not?”

“That is true.”

“You were going to kill me,” Wren said.

“If I had determined the stories to be true, yes.” He said it without any hint of remorse.

“But you’re not gonna try that anymore,” Swoop said. He came by Wren’s side and stood just a little in front of him, with controlled menace. There was no doubt that Chapel was a foe far beyond Swoop’s skill, but it didn’t seem like that would keep Swoop from giving it a try anyway.

Chapel made no reply, and didn’t even react to Swoop’s voice.

“We came to find you,” Wren said. “At the village. Everyone thought you were dead.”

“Not yet,” Chapel said.

“Are you really yourself, Chapel? Now?”

The old man inclined his head towards Wren and paused before responding.

“I am who I am meant to be,” he answered after a moment. “Perhaps no longer who I was.”

“So, are we friends or what?” Swoop said. “Because if we got things to settle, we oughta get it done. We’re losin’ daylight.”

“These Awakened,” Chapel said. “Who are they?”

“They’re like you,” Wren said. “Except they needed help. To get free.”

“And you helped them?”

Wren nodded.

“And then?”

“And then what?”

“What becomes of them?”

“We live our l-l-l-lives,” Painter said. Chapel turned his face towards him for the first time. “As best we can. Wren ssss-saved me. And others.”