Page 47 of Aubade Rising

With nothing else to focus on, no stars to watch over me, the gentle lap of water against the stone walls of the aqueduct is deafening.

My eyes remain closed and my forehead feels permanently wrinkled from the deep creases I’ve imprinted between my brows.

I cling to the heavy rucksack as I’m swept along, knuckles aching from fighting to balance it on my stomach as it threatens to tip into the current and sink me with it.

My legs are stretched out in front of me, often hitting the stone walls of the aqueduct as the current buffets me.

As long as I’m suspended, Eskar is alive. Alive and fighting.

Several times I feel the cushioning impact falter and I drop lower in the water; each time the movement jostles my stomach and my muscles tense even further. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t let go of the bag. Hours pass and dawn breaks, grey light shining through my closed eyelids.

A strange, metallic smell invades my nostrils.

It’s subtle at first but becomes all encompassing, as if I’ve walked into the meat market in Pentargon after the abattoir has finished for the day.

Frozen in place by Eskar’s magic, I dare not open my eyes but it’s impossible to ignore the smell.

My empty stomach roils but I purse my lips, sucking air in, tensing my jaw.

Another jolt and I inhale abruptly through my nose. My stomach protests at the cloying smell, forcing me to vomit violently to the side. My eyes open on reflex and all I can see is the glassy rose-pink water around me. I’m floating in blood. So much blood.

More heaving and coughing, I fight to keep myself away from the darkening water. Then it hits me: I can move. And I’m getting damper by the second, the diluted blood soaking through my clothes. The rucksack is a dead weight, dragging me lower and lower. I panic.

Eskar’s magic has gone. Is he…? The tinted water around me is evidence enough. I can’t bring myself to think about it and push my grief down and kick my legs, twisting to keep my head above water.

I can’t swim properly with the rucksack of rocks dragging me under.

I tell myself it’s only water, as it floods my nose and burns my throat.

Spluttering and coughing, I refuse to sink, to give up the serpentine we risked so much for.

I go under, the cool water closing in over my hair and my wet clothes adding to the weight of the serpentine.

I sink until my toes find firm ground and the lazy current gives me traction. Kicking against the floor, I push my way to the surface to breathe and sink again.

Panic barely under control, I fight my way to the wall of the aqueduct, using my spare hand to feel for purchase, so I can hold myself above the water. It’s futile: the walls are old and worn smooth and I’m quickly tiring. Fighting the current to stay in one place feels impossible.

Panic wins the fight and I thrash and kick, mind and limbs jumbled.

The burning lack of air confuses me and I lose track of the surface.

I’m blind, trapped in a liquid prison, twisting and turning underwater.

By sheer, dumb luck, as black dots fill in my vision, I break the surface and gasp a final lungful of air.

The black dots recede. I’ve delayed death for another minute.

The magic in my chest will not give up: it rebels at my hopelessness and my hands burn. Strong light colours my eyelids white as my magic fights desperately to keep us both alive. I wish I’d had more time to explore this wondrous piece of me.

I think of Eskar in Tanwen. Perhaps our bodies will wash up together. I feel my own burnout approaching: my light flickers. The urge to breathe becomes stronger. I hold out for a few moments more but I know as soon as I try to breathe my lungs will fill and it’ll be over.

Then a tug, a small boost upwards. Then another.

My eyes open in surprise and the water is clearer, the surface not so far.

I feel a niggle as the last shred of my magic nudges me to reach for the surface.

My hand breaks free, there’s another tug and I’m up.

I’m suspended again, my face breaks through the water and I suck in a lungful of air, choking as the churning current splashes over my head.

The relief is temporary – Eskar is fighting. I cling to that fact, but his magic is fading in and out; it’s not stable and I won’t survive if it disappears again.

The niggle inside me draws my attention again.

It’s the strand of Mordros magic I took from him in Cathair.

The strand that refuses to bend to my will.

In my desperation to help Eskar, to make it easier on him, I draw that last scrap of magic to me and this time my intent is so strong, the magic obeys.

I direct it to the rucksack, winding it round the straps to give it buoyancy, to reduce the load on Eskar.

The effect is instant: the stuttering lessens and I begin to hope.