Acier nodded and greeted the workers of the printing press that morning with an eager smile. As they went about their work, they whispered behind his back that their young employer had finally gone mad living in that mansion by himself (as they were unaccustomed to his friendliness). The Gras Militia crowded and manned the streets, making the people uneasy. Would a civil war really begin here in Elbrus, the little mountain town in the snow that could disappear in the blink of an eye?
Mr. Bruyere seemed not to notice or care. For once in his life, he didn’t feel oppressed by the smell of ink and paper and the sound of the loudly humming and rumbling machinery. Occasionally, as he made his rounds and waved hello to everyone, Acier would pull a long gray and white mottled feather from his breast pocket and run it beneath his nose.
Smelling rain and roses and sunshine.
Eden.
He had to see her again.
Under normal circumstances, he would never leave work, but…
Acier hastened to his office to get his coat and give his manager leave to take charge when the main doors of the building burst open abruptly and a dozen or so uniformed men marched in unannounced. Two of them headed in his direction.
“Are you Mr. Bruyere?” one of the two asked curtly.
Acier looked from one to the other. “Yes, I am. What is the meaning of this? My people are trying to work and I am on my way out.”
The rough-looking man who seemed to be heading the group went over to a press and snatched up a sheet from an incomplete section of the Elbrus Times that they were printing for the morning release.
“Excuse me, sir, you can’t–“
The soldier held up the printing–it was E’s latest article, a sharp piece criticizing the Militia’s interference in Elbrus’s peaceful existence.
“Do you have any idea who is behind this? Who is E?” the soldier demanded.
Silence reigned all around as the press’s employees stopped working to watch on bated breath. E’s articles were always sent in anonymously to their editor, of course.
Acier said nothing. His night with her seemed miles away, as if it hadn’t just happened only hours before that very moment. Still, he could feel her with him.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “The articles come in the mail. I just print them.”
“Treason,” the soldier murmured, “against the powers that will rule this town soon.”
“No such thing, sir.”
The soldier ignored Acier’s denial, saying, “No matter. We have ferreted out the rebel journalist. Come with us.”
Acier was gripped roughly by his arms and forced from the building. The Militia soldiers marched out into the snow, two of them dragging him along in their wake.
Acier did not fight. “I demand to know where you are taking me.”
Their sound marching was his answer.
They were moving toward the outskirts of the town in a frighteningly familiar direction through the town square. People had stopped to watch, cowering away from the armed soldiers in fear. Acier caught a glimpse of Robin’s pale face in the crowd, heard him whisper a name, before they swept by him.
A small, shabby cottage came into view. Behind it, loomed a cliff surrounded in this fog and falling snow flurries.
Acier shook his head. No…it couldn’t be. Eden wouldn’t be hiding the rebel journalist….
Eden.
E.
This rebel journalist they keep writing about seems determined to start trouble in Elbrus.
The matter interests you.
Very much.
“No,” he breathed.
“COME OUT WOMAN!” a soldier yelled. Several of them ran forward and formed a line at his command, shouldering their weapons. “YOU ARE WANTED FOR TREASON, E!”
There was no motion inside the cottage, no movement in its darkened windows. He shook his head in horror, praying that she wasn’t in there, hoping that she was sitting calmly in Acier’s Parlor in her elegant top hat, men’s clothes, and gloves, sipping on emerald absinthe and waiting for him.
But no.
The door cracked open slowly and Eden appeared, just as she had the night before only with deliberate mistakes. Her tie was undone and her hair fell down her shoulders in a heavy silken tumble. She wasn’t wearing her suit coat, only her silken, burgundy vest. Her feet were bear, save for delicate black silk socks.
Eden closed the door behind her gingerly, her face expressionless as it had been the first time he had seen her a few seats away in Acier’s Parlor. She didn’t look like a woman facing a firing squad for treason. Acier’s fists clenched.
Her expression was calm, unconcerned.
Eden walked slowly down the three steps and turned toward the cliff, slipping between the chunks and piles of gray stone that constituted the remnants of the sanctuary walls, some of them still formed on the ground.
“DON’T MOVE!” a soldier yelled at her back.
Eden stopped, her hair blowing in the frigid air almost like a tattered ship sail.
Acier struggled against the hands holding him, managing only to wrinkle his coat in the soldiers’ iron grip. “No…”
Eden turned her head then, as if feeling him there. Her eyes were shiny. Were they filled with tears? Acier couldn’t tell. She looked at him over her shoulder.
“I heard the story of a boy who tried to leave this place once, Acier, and I met him,” she said so softly it was a wonder he could hear her from where he stood. With guns trained on her back, Eden remained calm, breathing with a strange easiness that Acier didn’t feel through the tightness in his chest. She looked toward the remaining feet between her and the edge of the cliff and a unfamothable drop to certain death. “He wandered and wandered endlessly through the snow and cold and wind, seemingly in a circle until he collapsed. When he woke up in a bed in town, they told him he had been walking around in a circle for hours in the blizzard, fighting his way to nowhere.”
“Eden…” What? What could he do?
“That is what this place is, Acier. A dream’s dream of a dream. That place between being asleep and awake.” She paused, giving him a half look over her shoulder. “Like this place, I thought you weren’t real either, but you are.” Eden turned and started backing toward the edge of the cliff. “Those who dwell on dreams often forget to live and this place has made you forget. You can leave here, unlike the boy, Acier. You can make it through the storm because you are not a dream. You can leave here.”
“DON’T MOVE!” the soldier yelled again in warning as Eden backed closer to the ledge.
“EDEN, NO!” The words were wrenched from his very soul. Acier fought the bruising grips holding him, digging his feet into the powdery snow.
Eden’s long, ebony hair lashed wildly around her in the stormy wind like a thousand whips. She stiffened, holding up her arms and the wind howled and whistled, tearing at her and gentling her all at once. Acier blinked several times, unsure of what happened before his very eyes.
Wings. Ange. Angel.
The sound of rending fabric echoed in the air. Gray and white feathered wings burst forth from Eden’s back through her shirt and vest as she doubled over. Great, majestic wings they were.
Eden straightened, her hair flying around her, russet eyes burning into Acier’s soul. Those mammoth wings, so soft-looking and beautiful in their intensity, flexed slightly. The soldiers backed away, eyes darting around nervously.
Be true, Acier. Tell me, if I told you I was leaving Elbrus tomorrow and this would be the last moment you would ever see me again, what would you do?
I would go with you.
And if you could not?
“Take me with you!” Acier called out to her.
“I cannot,” she replied, looking away from him.
“Why not?” he demanded. “Why tell me I can leave if you won’t take me with you!”
“It is my destiny as one of the Fallen to wander eternity in solitude. You would not understand.” Eden looked at him sorrowfully, h
er eyes glimmering. Her great, beautiful wings flapped, once, twice. “Goodbye, Acier.”
“WAIT!” Acier yelled, finally breaking free and running toward her.
The soldiers ducked with startled cries, as, with one mighty flap of her wings, Eden disappeared over the edge of the cliff and into the fog.
Silence.
Panting, Acier drew to a halt, kicking up snow. Nothing, There was nothing there in the fog and gently drifting snow. It was as if she had flown neither up nor down, right nor left, and simply was no more or never had been.
Something soft touched his face and Acier looked up, trying to hold at bay the emptiness filling him.
Soft gray and white feathers rained mutely from the gray sky, kissing him with scent of rain and roses and that all elusive touch of sunshine.
###
Thank you for reading my short story! Just a little side note: I took Spanish in high school. I studied Japanese in college and have very little knowledge of French pronunciation. For me, the title of this story will always be pronounce like this: Ah-cee-ay. That’s what I called it then and that’s what I’m calling it now.
If you enjoyed Acier, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer, on my blog, or send me e-mail. ;-).
About S.T. Rucker
S.T. Rucker is from Atlanta, Georgia, USA and got her BA in Creative Writing because that’s what she likes to do—write and imagine. She aspires to write at least one great high fantasy novel.
Other Books by S.T. Rucker
The Taker
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