Air Awakens

SHE FLOATED IN the air. No, not floated, she was being carried. Her right ear rested against a man’s chest, a frantic heartbeat underneath. Why were they going so fast? Vhalla wanted to tell him that it was all right, that he could slow down, but nothing seemed to be connected to her mind. It was as though she was trapped in her own body.

But wherever she was, it was warm and the pain had gone. That was good enough for her. Deciding she was tired again, she went to sleep.

She jolted back to awareness when she felt her body being put down. She heard talking again, but she couldn’t quite seem to get her ears to work. The man was asking her something. What could he possibly want? Didn’t he see she was in no position to give anything? Then he was gone. She could feel that he was gone, something in her just knew.

More darkness and silence. Vhalla sat in the confines of her own mind wondering how she got here. Her body still refused to obey her.

“I’ll be back with help.” That’s what he had said, her mind put together. More people were coming. He was going to bring more people. She had to wake up. But it was too late, they were already here. More familiar voices, rushed speech, who were they this time?

There were hands, more hands, different from before but not completely new. A woman’s hands this time. She was carrying her to another location. Vhalla wanted to feel terrified at the prospect, but she found herself unable to feel much of anything.

The world shifted around her, the air changed. It was once more different, yet strangely familiar. She’d been here before, even if she didn’t know where here was.

She was placed on another bed. Trapped within her mental prison, Vhalla rallied against the silence. She slowly stretched outward, and the world built itself before her.

The room was unfamiliar, but Vhalla instantly recognized the dragon molding near the ceiling; she was in the Tower. There was a wardrobe, Vhalla had expected it to be black but it was a gray, ashen-colored wood. A small desk, chair; her eyes fell on the bed, and Vhalla panicked.

She was there. Motionless, hardly breathing, Vhalla did not know if she was alive. The foreign room aside, Fritz’s and Larel’s presences ignored, Vhalla stared at her corpse-like form. Dead, she was dead, and this was the start of the afterlife.

“We need to get the minister.” Fritz pulled at his hair, pacing.

“She’s breathing. She doesn’t look pained. Check her Channels.” Larel remained calm, situating Vhalla’s legs. The rise and fall of her chest was so minimal it was almost invisible, but Vhalla was relieved to hear it was there. Whatever was happening she wasn’t dead, yet.

Larel? Vhalla whispered. Fritz? Neither seemed to hear her wispy words.

“No, I can’t. I’m not a magical healer, Larel. My lessons have only—” Fritz was leaving himself breathless in his panic.

“Check her!” Larel demanded sharply.

Fritz finally obliged. His hands rested on Vhalla’s throat, fingertips behind her ears, delicate and gentle as though she was made of glass. With closed eyes he ran his palms over her shoulders down her arms, flat against her stomach.

“I can’t find anything wrong.” Fritz shook his head.

The slamming of a door, echoing from the hall beyond, momentarily paused all response from Larel.

“Check her again,” the dark-haired woman demanded before dashing out the door.

Fritz returned to his duty. His palms slid down the outside of her thighs and down to her feet. Suddenly Larel’s door was thrown open so hard it almost bounced against the wall.

Aldrik stood in the doorframe, both commanding and disheveled. His white coat was unbuttoned and hung loosely around him, a plain shirt underneath. His cheeks were flushed, and his breathing hard. Even his hair looked less than perfect, long strands hanging over his eyes.

He stepped in quickly, Larel shutting the door behind him. Fritz looked as dazed as Vhalla felt. The crown prince did not stand in an apprentice’s rooms, but Aldrik did not seem to care. The only thing that bothered him was the sight of her lifeless body.

“My prince,” Fritz squeaked.

Vhalla took a step away, a window to her back.

“Out.” Aldrik hardly seemed to notice the presence of the Southerner. With one word Fritz had diminished to less than a fly on the wall.

“Larel?” Fritz glanced over at the woman, but Larel only shook her head. “Right, well, I can’t find anything wrong with her.” He inched toward the door, removing the barrier of his body between Vhalla’s form on the bed and the prince. “Should I get the minister?”

“No,” Aldrik replied with a glare. His hand shot out faster than a viper, Fritz’s collar balled in his fingers. “If I hear you breathing a word of this to anyone, consider your time in the Tower finished.”

A threat lived in Aldrik’s last word. It made Vhalla uncomfortable just to hear. The library boy gaped, frozen to the spot.

“Now, out,” the older man hissed. Fritz bolted from the room as though his life depended on it. Vhalla didn’t want to even entertain the idea that it did.

Neither Larel nor the prince said anything. Fading sunlight filtered through the window behind her, and Vhalla noticed she cast no shadow.

“What’s wrong with her?” Larel asked. Her voice had a surprising amount of emotion.

“I don’t know,” the prince sighed, shaking his head. As though deflated, he leaned against the desk for support.