Tempest Reborn (Jane True) - By Nicole Peeler Page 0,1
with her.
We mourned then, crooning into each other’s minds.
[Join with me,] it pleaded, and I instantly understood. We would live together in my mind, until we could function again. We would support each other, and we could heal.
I will never heal, I told the creature, that pit of hopelessness I knew so well yawning in front of me.
In my own mind, I took a step toward that pit.
But the creature was there, appearing as a single great eye. It flooded my consciousness as it went everywhere, wrapping around me, cocooning me…
Awake, I slept.
The pyre had long since burned out, but we could still imagine the heat on our face. Behind was more heat – Gog, Magog, and Hiral were pressed behind me, literally guarding our flanks, our back.
Combined together, an amalgamation of creature and Jane, we hadn’t moved in a day.
Instead we let the cool, wet English air blow the ashes of our friends and enemies against our cheeks, into our long, black hair, and we refused to think. We lived in our memories – a steely gray gaze, the flash of a tattooed bicep, the touch of a strong hand, a wave of power so unique it could only be our child…
The part of us that was the creature touched the part of me that was Jane again, a mental stroke as if to assure the other we were there.
Because alone we might break.
Our friend, daughter, ally was dead, and our lover was gone. Blondie had fallen at the claws of the Red, while Anyan had become the White.
We’d watched Blondie burn, thrown on the same pyre as the allies of the Red. Lyman, the rebel leader’s brother, and Jarl, the Alfar we had thought our greatest enemy, had burned with her.
It wasn’t logical to build an extra pyre when one would suffice.
Together they’d all turned to ash as Jane and the creature leaned on each other, together, here in this body where we could take shelter.
‘Jane?’ came the squeaky voice of the gwyllion, Hiral. ‘Are you about ready to leave?’
We ignored him.
‘She hasn’t moved in twenty-four hours,’ the raven, Magog, told her lover, the coblynau Gog. ‘Nor eaten. Nor peed. Nor slept.’
‘Is she blinking?’
‘Rarely,’ replied Hiral.
We ignored them all.
‘What do you think is happening?’ Gog asked, his voice concerned. For even though he and Magog had originally been set to spy on Jane, the creature knew they’d come to like the girl.
‘No idea. What should we do?’ Magog said.
‘We’ve got to keep her from the Alfar,’ the gwyllion said, referring to the official supernatural leaders of the Great Island, or what the humans called Britain.
‘We can’t do so forever,’ the raven responded in her singsong Welsh voice. ‘She is the champion, after all.’
The part that was Jane stirred nervously, but the creature responded with a warm rush of power. Nothing would keep us from our grief.
‘They’re going to want her to, er, champion,’ said Gog.
Hiral snorted. ‘I don’t think she could manage “champion”.’
Magog’s retort was sharp. ‘Don’t mock. She’s lost everything.’
‘She has people, doesn’t she? Do we contact them?’ Gog was, as always, kind and practical.
‘The Alfar will have our hides if we let the champion get away,’ Magog said, a tone of warning in her voice.
The gwyllion spat. ‘They won’t have my hide. You get me names, I’ll get them word.’
Gog and Magog looked at each other, whether in agreement or in fear was anybody’s guess.
‘But if she goes, what will we do to fight the Red and the White?’ Gog’s question was fair.
‘Don’t be stupid, coblynau. Can she fight as she is now? She’s like your girlfriend with clipped wings – useless.’
Gog put a protective arm around Magog, as if to ward off Hiral’s cruel jape.
In the meantime, we went inward. We were tired of the others’ words, tired of their concern. We were in mourning…
More memories came flooding in, at our beckoning. The first time the girl who would break our world used her magic. When we realized the dog was a man. The first time…
There were sounds around us. A car arriving. It had come once before.
‘Is the halfling recovered?’ came a new voice. A cold voice.
Alfar, we recognized.
Our friends remained silent.
‘Well?’ asked the voice again.
‘No,’ said Magog. ‘She’s not moved a muscle since you first saw her. Nor said a word.’
A lean, handsome face appeared before us. Griffin’s dark hair brushed his cheek and we thought of the feel of wiry curls under our palm, and a pink Mohawk that defied gravity.