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ALL THINGS FALL APART

RANNOCH

S he is curled up, folded into the smallest version of herself, body still, face blank. Her only tells are her hands — one is wrapped in the string of bones hanging from her neck, the other crossing her chest, resting on her exposed vertebracelets as though for protection.

As if she needs any protection. From anyone.

Still, as soon as I’d brought her back to the Council House after she collapsed, I’d passed her to a stunned Silas with no explanation, and ran to get her armor for her.

I’m a stupid man in many ways, but it’s rare for me to make the same mistake twice.

I’d left her without her bones once; it will never happen again.

Moving quickly enough that she was still lost to the world when I’d returned, I’d carefully laced her bracelets on her unresisting arms for her, fiercely grateful for their cold embrace.

And though I can’t see them beneath her tangled clouds of hair, I know her ears are encased in the delicate bone cuffs that arch along the translucent curve of her ear.

I am desperate to clothe every inch of her in bone, to give her some outlet of comfort she won’t accept from anywhere else, but I only know the way these few pieces fit, her patterned skin guiding my hands.

She didn’t question their presence when she finally woke, blinking blearily like a newborn kitten, unspeaking.

Didn’t adjust them, or alter them in any way, which filled me with a strange, undeserved sense of pride at the time.

But it’s faded since then, as she still hasn’t moved, hasn’t left the crook of the bone chair where Silas set her hours ago.

Against my will and better judgement, I glance at her for the fiftieth time in the space of as many heartbeats.

It’s hard to pull my eyes from her, even knowing the weight of my stare makes her uncomfortable.

I wonder if she can tell I’m studying her body to see where I can add to her armor, where I can craft stripped bone into something beautiful for her, or she thinks I’m judging her actions, acting as silent Justice over her choices.

The memory of Nickolas stepping through his own flesh flares to life in vivid detail when I close my eyes, but I keep my face level.

And try my best to ignore the feeling of vicious satisfaction in my stomach that the little ghost that has haunted my every waking moment was able to do what Silas and I couldn’t.

In front of me, a small boy stands straight and unwavering, eyes narrow, thin limbs locked at his sides, and stares at Silas with a surprising amount of animosity.

“You’re not in trouble, Marrin,” Silas begins gently, and the child’s mouth curls at the corners in response.

“I’m not worried about that, Father,” he replies, just enough respect in his voice to offset the edge that is also there. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’m just looking for…your story of what happened last night. We have five Councilmen missing, reports from villagers in the First Ring of screaming and…Someone heard your name shouted.”

“Marrin is a common name here, Sir.”

It’s true — common enough in the Third Ring anyway, and I have to fight against a wholly inappropriate grin.

There’s nothing funny about this moment, about what is happening and what is still to happen, but this little orphan who is angling his body between Wren and Silas is showing more fire than the whole of the Council, and I can’t help but admire him .

“I’ve already heard most of the story, child. But as Father of this village, it’s my duty to look for all sides before the whole.”

And he has. This morning at first light there was a line of people outside the doors of the Council House, telling tales of screams in the night, of the wet sounds of blood moths feasting, of the smell of bonfire smoke in the darkest hours.

And the evidence left behind on the stage outside our door could not be ignored.

A still simmering pile of embers on the ground, burnt out torches, drying pools of mud red with blood.

No witnesses, though, only missing bodies.

Raek has been almost Ender-crazed, demanding answers, flesh, blood, punishment of any sort, sending scouts out for any sign of his brother.

But he can do nothing without some proof.

If Nickolas wandered into the wilderness of his own accord, what is there to be done?

Officially I have no story to tell. The only names we have heard mentioned over and over again this morning are Marrin, and Nickolas, and the BoneKeeper.

Raek wanted to be here for the questioning, but he came in with hands already outstretched into claws, and had to be removed.

Instead we have two of his friends, sitting silently in the room as witnesses to a trial with no Justice.

And everything rests on the scrawny shoulders of a boy still in the schoolhouse with no idea of the board or the game.

Marrin tilts his head, eyes darting like a bird between me and Silas, before risking a quick glance at Wren, who finally breaks briefly from her stupor to offer him a small smile.

Looking back at the Father, Marrin shrugs almost carelessly, the shallow curve of her lips enough to shore up his courage to unbreakable walls.

“I was taken from my bed by Councilman Nickolas. He and several others dragged me to the square. He seemed out of his mind, and was mumbling strange things. He cut me here,” Marrin motions to his throat, “and here, and was screaming about blood and breaking the BoneKeeper, about hurting her over and over in terrible ways. About sacrifices and Offerings.” The Councilmen on the wall shift uneasily.

There is no denying the truth in Marrin’s tone, and there is no reason for the child to lie.

If nothing else, the vivid lines on his neck offer proof .

“Was the BoneKeeper there, Marrin? Did you see her?”

“I lost consciousness, Sir.” I can tell how much it pains him to admit it; it lends credence to his story.

“But was she there? villagers are saying they heard her voice calling out, heard her speaking with Nickolas.”

Marrin glances again at Wren, takes a deep breath and continues.

“He, uh, his voice was changing, going all low and high, and he was…saying things as her and then as him. So maybe that’s what they heard?

The shutters were all closed, you know. Nobody opened a single one.

Nobody opened a door to help me. It was full night.

” And now his voice trembles, despite his best efforts.

He’s only a boy, after all. “Who would be crazy enough to leave their home at that hour for a Third Ring child? You’d have to be out of your mind.

We all know it would be the wrong choice to risk death like that.

” Marrin’s tone turns almost chiding here, and Wren’s lips twitch despite herself.

There’s clear truth in these words as well — who would risk such a thing?

The Councilmen exchange glances, lips tight. They’re not supposed to speak, just let the Father question, but one leans forward anyway, interrupting.

“How did you survive then?” He is hard, but the question is fair.

Marrin drops his eyes, staring at the ground, as though in deference to the Councilman, but I can see his shoulders tighten slightly, see him take a steadying breath before looking back up and meeting the Councilor's eyes. “I…I…when Councilman Nickolas put the knife to my throat the second time, I lost consciousness. And woke up on the ground to a flurry of blood moths, and the sound—” He chokes briefly on the words, then continues in a rush. “It…I couldn’t open my eyes again, but I could feel a wet cloak beside me, and I just pulled it over me, as tight as I could, and didn’t move until morning. And then I ran, and ran, and ran.”

The Councilors exchange grim looks again and nod at one another. Silas waits a beat, then, “Do you have other questions, Councilmen? I’d like to make sure you feel all have been asked and answered, so there is no feeling of missing information. ”

It’s a dangerous play by Silas, and shows a startling amount of faith in the abilities of the boy before us.

“Only one, Father, if you’ll indulge me. Why you , do you think, child?” And there’s the rub. Why Marrin?

“Oh, he mentioned that. He said he thought I was important to the BoneKeeper.” Marrin straightens, a small, proud smile on his face, and the Councilor's eyes widen in surprise at Marrin’s ready answer. Even I’m taken aback at his reply, and not a little worried.

“And are you?” There’s a curling curiosity, the hint of possibility.

The boy puffs out his chest, somehow seeming much more childlike.

“She came to the Second Ring school and I got to talk to her there. I told her I wanted to be a Protector someday, and she didn’t say it was a hopeless aim.

So she knows me a little I think.” Oh, he’s clever.

Clever, clever boy. He’s telling the truth, but in a way that makes it…

if not laughable, at least said in the way where adults will humor him, and then exchange rolled-eyed expressions over his head.

“Maybe someday I’ll even be a Councilor, like you! ”

The two men smirk at each other. “You want to be a Councilor someday?”