Dragon Knights Fan Fiction ❯ Goodbye ❯ Goodbye ( Chapter 1 )

[ P - Pre-Teen ]

The light that filtered through barely illuminated him, as he stepped out into the night. He moved slowly, silently, hoping that no-one would see him. He traced a path through all the old places: the trees he's fallen from as a child; the pond where he'd learnt to swim; the hidden grove from which he'd first heard that something was strange, was different about him; the first places he'd recognised, after he'd changed.

Once a happy home, a place to grow, the world, now it itched his skin. The grounds were a coat that had grown too tight for him. The grass he stood in, shoes too small almost to bear. The people he met, tiny loathsome insects that bit him, drank his blood and complained to each other that it was so bitter.

There was never enough air. He hadn't breathed properly in years and he couldn't remember what it felt like. He wondered if he'd ever known. Had he ever been clueless and carefree, or was that someone else? Was there another person that used to exist, with his name and face? Did this person do the things he vaguely remembered, laughing with his heart, enjoying himself, living? If so, then why were those odd memories with him, confusing him. He wouldn't have done any of those things, not the person he was now. Not the man he'd grown to be.

It was late. He had left them, relieved the itching for a while. Right now, they would be talking about him, wondering where he'd gone. The talk wouldn't turn to action yet. If he left now, fully, properly, he'd get away, but the ritual had to be followed. He couldn't leave until he said goodbye.

The lump started to form in his throat. Even though he was wandering the places belonging to a different person, even though he was saying goodbye to someone else's dream, it had started to hurt. Even if they were not the same, he'd pretended to live that life, hadn't he? Didn't a part of it belong to him? Was that what was crying, the echo of a remembered life?

"It's dead," he said out loud, the first words that he'd spoken, "and I'm leaving." The words meant nothing and he'd wasted ritual energy. It was foolish. He'd felt as though he'd let some of his true self out as they'd escaped. Now a part of him was out there, that they could sniff and track and use to find him. He wished that he'd said something a little cleverer, more meaningful. His phrases sounded petulant and he left them there, hanging in the air, betraying him and not the false skin he sought to shed.

The darkness hid time on him. It was impossible to know how long he'd spent, how long he spent each time he did this. Was it the same, always the same? His footsteps turned, a scuffle and a crackle, as he moved from stone path to forest floor. The final arms of his spiral journey lay before him. The air was warm and comforting, his skin bare and free. He was still alone. Perhaps this time he would make it.

The walls rose up out of the gloom. A final circuit, a final pass and he could climb over them, escape his false self and never look back. He counted down now. Two steps to the stream that used to be a raging river. Five steps to the bush that once was the noblest of trees. Eight steps to the mighty fortress built by tiny hands, now neglected and so small. Four steps to the tree he'd once hidden in for three days, a life-time ago.

At the final stage they were waiting, one to each side. He swallowed and walked on. He didn't know what to say. The wasted words came back to him, no, they wouldn't do here. He strode up, not looking at them until he was nearly past. He merely nodded to each of his phantoms and approached the wall. They turned in place and watched as he climbed, silent as the grave. At the top, at the border, he turned and looked at them, at the moonlight that shone though them.

"Goodbye," he said, softly and he was gone.