Micol Fusca - Breathes

Dalain hesitated. «Why do you love me? I am completely useless. »

The boy knew he had heard that whisper from the lips of many: servants and relatives. His fragility led many to ignore that the mind was ready to make every whisper its own. That expression made him look more like him than he would have liked. Their facial features, their colours, were not so different: both light skin and hair, both with long facial features and a thin nose.

«Because I admire your courage: you fight for your life from the first breath. I do not know if I could carry the weight that weighs you down. It is easy to be strong when you have nothing to fear. You are not useless. I will never be equal in intellect. The Henders have been watching over you for a long time. »

He turned his back to him, kneeling on the ground. Waiting.

«Do you want me to climb on your back? » He came a few steps closer, intimidated.

Nephelim nodded, gazing over his shoulder. «You know how to do it, it's no different than when we climb the stairs. Hold on tight. »

Dalain squeezed his arms around his neck and when he lifted him off the ground, he felt he could touch the sky with his finger. He hooked his legs on the boy's hips with all the strength he had, letting him wrap his arms around them. He was used to being carried by him when his breathe was so short that he could not even walk.

He felt the Nephelim's confidence through the fluid movement of his back muscles against his lean chest. He stood up straight to look out over the meadow and when he started to run a spontaneous smile widened his lips.

As his cousin's long legs were slitting thorugh the sea of grass in front of them, he knew that he had pretended not to care about games like that. He had locked himself in his room, excluding any sound in the backyard, letting his mind run and punch for him.

They reached the barn very quickly, overtaking the group of boys who had gathered there. Some pointed them out to their comrades, surprised.

Dalain felt his heart beating: emotion.

Nephelim was used to running long stretches of country road. His walking pace had become regular: he was able to transmit to him the strength of his moving muscles. It seemed to him that his muscles also responded to some extent and moved in harmony. The sensations that enveloped him had no comparison with those created by his imagination.

He only realized he was laughing when his own voice came to his ears in a euphoric scream.

Nephelim decided to return home as soon as he heard him taking a breath from the laughter that had overwhelmed him. Although Dalain responded well to the medication at the time, he did not want to let his guard down.

He knew he deserved a slap from Alissa, and he did not want to endanger the baby's health.

He found his nanny on the doorstep of the mansion, with folded arms. One of the children must have told her that he saw them running over the barn.

The woman looked at the little boy's red face on horseback, winking like a witch. She took him in her arms without giving Nephelim time to complain, clutching him like a furious hen. «I hope you know what you're doing, wise guy! »

She was the only one who called him like that. She was the only one he would allow doing it. «He's all right, can't you see how happy he is? »

Alissa looked at Dalain with a critical eye: he looked drunk. He kept giggling, clinging to his neck. She took a disdainful look at the older one. «With all the money you spend to get him medicine suitable for a king, you should treat him like a crystal vase!» She returned to focus on the child, looking at his face. «He's all sweaty... he needs a hot bath. Make yourself useful and ask Glinee to bring a couple of buckets to his room. »

Nephelim gave her a half bow. «It is done, my lady. »

The roar of laughter, like rain in spring. Thin, intense. Magic.

An indigo sea caressed by clouds of white foam.

The Eye of Zephirot has shone for thirty years, as bright as the first morning star. Magic had returned to cross the borders of the Western Lands.

The Henders had strengthened their armies, establishing new Readers and Paladins. Their symbols, rod, and sword were forged by the same fire: filled with God's blessing now they were placed next to the precious crystal, the Eye, now of their investiture.

Nephelim had coughed blood, burying the pain of detachment in the darkest part of his soul: it was what he had wished for himself since he had had the power of intellect. The birth of Dalain had only strengthened his purpose.

He found it bizarre that his people should fight magic by using it.

A Paladin had to owe his soul to its protector: accompanying his footsteps wherever his intervention was required.

The Soul Reader saw beyond all appearances: his mind possessed the agility needed to unravel the most tangled skeins.

He was able to discriminate against every emotion, inflection, reaching the most hidden truths.

Nephelim was preparing for a new wait: he hoped not to have to preside over the interrogation of a poor woman, accused of witchcraft for having served a healing herbal tea to the mayor. It had happened many times. Too many.

The nervous smiles of the stable keepers made him fear that the Reader would have been late: they looked away from him, fearing some reproach.

He was happy to see his companion coming down from the Temple steps.

«Whisper Forest. »

He approached him, making it clear that the help of others was not welcomed. Dalain was still light-hearted, so much so that he made no effort while he was helping him up in the stirrups.

He took over his patch and climbed on the saddle, taking one last look at the boys. He did not bother to leave, directing his mount towards Porta Grande.

«You're always unpleasant. » Dalain reached him, curling his nose the same way he did when he was a child. An expression that expressed both reproach and amusement.

«I am not trained to collect benevolence. » He waited until he was beside him.

The Reader smiled. He knew the origin of his cousin's unhappiness: he was not happy to escort him outside the confines of the capital. Nephelim would have preferred keeping him confined under a glass bell.

He supported his curious gaze. «A witch. So, say the wives of the Central Counties. »

«Do you already have your own thought? »

«Reports from the priests in the area confirm the hypothesis. Many peasants disappear into thin air without a trace. Others show a violent personality unfamiliar to their temper. »

Nephelim had plucked his eyebrows, waiting.

«A Maldana. She's not the Witch the Henders are looking for. »

The Paladin nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.

They found the witch in a wooden cottage, which was once the Lord of the Shire's hunting lodge, in the middle of the Whisper Wood. They tied their horses to a tree not too far away: they had become bizarre as soon as they reached the thick of the forest.

Dalain had decided to wait until the morning to enter the mist that enveloped the place.

Nephelim carefully observed the bare, thin trees. Hunched trees: the tree-trunk was growing curved, forming a wave that was rising from the ground straight up to the milky sky. He could feel the magic even though he was not skilled in it.

He waited for them, still, in front of the ruined fence. A good-looking woman.

The Reader stopped walking, holding on to the decorated stick: the crystal on the top had turned coloured. He closed his eyes, letting the essence of her filling him.

The dark aura that overwhelmed him became as cloudy as tar. He felt pain, pleasure, greed. She had given herself to the Nameless with full awareness: she was God's vehicle in spreading hate and despair.