Show Me the Way to Go Home
Episode 3 of A Light in Her Violet Eyes
A Story of the Second Realm
By R.J. Davnall
Copyright 2013 R. J. Davnall
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The Second Realm
Season 1: The Second Gift
Season 2: Children of the Wild
The Rabbit Hole:
Episode 1: Through the Fire and Flames
Episode 2: The Sins of the Brother
Episode 3: Did You Never Dream of Flying?
Episode 4: Catch Me When I Fall
Episode 5: The Only Thing We Know is That We Know Nothing
Episode 6: We Have to Go Deeper
A Light in Her Violet Eyes:
Episode 1: Wolves at the Gate
Episode 2: Dragon Fly
https://itsthefuturestupid.blogspot.com/
Contents
Show Me the Way to Go Home
About the Author
A Light in Her Violet Eyes
3. Show Me the Way to Go Home
The oncoming horde of feral Wildren was a tidal wave cresting in Atla's mind. Drawback under it sucked his thoughts away toward the vortex where the Separatists' lair had been. Gritting his teeth, he clamped his hands to the sides of his head as if to hold his skull together. It certainly felt like he wasn't succeeding. He'd felt fatigue before, but nothing like the hot line of pain carving through from just inside his right eye to the centre of his brain.
He turned and broke into a run, downhill, past Rel, past the startled pair of Pevan and Chag, still half-holding each other. They'd picked an odd time to kick off their relationship, but Atla hadn't missed the look on Pevan's face when she'd realised their mad rescue attempt had succeeded. Chag had clearly finally earned the Gatemaker's trust.
Atla put it out of his burning mind, shouting for them to follow. There was no time to make a proper Route anywhere, they just needed to get away from the torrent of hunger and menace boiling out of the remains of the white cave. He'd have to navigate as they went, until they could catch a breather somewhere.
Disrupted, half-torn-apart by the overload and resulting collapse behind them, the local Realmspace didn't favour them. Down at the bottom of Atla's brain, where he kept his Gift, chaotic currents raced back and forth, scattering and reforming like shoals of fish. There were pockets of stability, trapped bubbles of air beneath a roiling, boiling ocean, but none of them were large enough to last very long if disturbed.
Further afield, things did start to stabilise a little, but it was as if there was a hidden reef to mark the boundary of the devastation. It would slow the pursuit down somewhat if they could get past it, but it would slow them down first, and they didn't have much of a lead to play with.
Beneath his feet, the green grass of the hillside gave way to what looked like a carpet of mushrooms. They wobbled under each step, threatening to turn his ankles or trip him, but he forced himself to concentrate on the way ahead. This wasn't the First Realm. Here, if he willed it hard enough, he could ignore what his logic told him physics ought to require.
"We need a Route!" Pevan's voice, harsh but as fierce as ever. She barely sounded out of breath. What did she expect him to do? The words struck past his ear, trailing fire that he had to flinch away from. "Rel, stop! We need to buy Atla some time!"
Atla almost stumbled. He couldn't find wind to shout back that there was nothing he could do.
Rel's reply was hoarse, "No time. He's too green!" In Atla's Gift, the Clearseer's judgement boiled almost as much as it stung in his chest.
"Only thing he's done wrong... so far," Pevan shouted back, finally showing some sign of human lung capacity, "is... helping you get your... self captured."
Atla's foot bounced off a particularly springy mushroom and he tumbled into a rolling, sprawling fall. Fragments of the surface rubbed off under his hands as he stretched out to try to keep himself upright. His flailing made no difference, and he got a face-full of whatever the stuff was. It didn't smell like a fungus, close up; it was too sour and inorganic, with hints of pitch and charcoal.
Somewhere behind him, another bitter gripe from Rel blew a gout of steam through Gift. Blood roaring in his ears stole the words, but he didn't need to hear them. He could feel his own fear writhing in the deeps of his Gift, a minnow trapped ahead of the onrushing bore of the Wildren. It was that sensation, second-hand and detached, rather than anything his body felt, that drove him back up onto his hands and knees, scrabbling forwards, already feeling the futility of it.
Hands seized his shirt, pulling it tight at his throat and launching him onwards, just enough to steady him and get him running, bent double. After a few paces, he managed to straighten up and look back in thanks. Pevan, her argument with her brother forgotten, waved a hand at him, pointing ahead.
The reef where the edge of the distortion met stabler Realmspace came into view. He could feel something of its wrenched structure, oddly similar to a Sherim, through his Gift, but visually it looked completely different. Instead of tightly-knotted currents flowing around a webwork of hidden corals, a curtain of thick brown hair fell across the world, waving back and forth as if in a heavy wind.