Weave of Silver [ONC III | Fantasy/HistFic | Complete]

Chapter 9: Wrought of Silver

For a surreal moment, Meera thought she could fly.

Her stomach rose to her throat, a wholly unnatural and peculiar sensation. Her hair flew up with her, encircling her face in a scarlet halo and blending in with the crimson of the sky, stained by the setting sun. It was beautiful and free.

Then she fell.

Panic surged. Her arms flailed.

"Meera!" Mackleberry's holler came from far away.

Meera's arm struck a branch. Agony exploded at her elbow and radiated across her body. She cried out, desperate hands scrabbling for a hold. Her feet kicked at nothing. The branch snapped. Terror wrapped around her mind, emptying it of logical thoughts. Arms and legs flew everywhere, grasping at everything, anything. Roots snapped. Branches tore at her palms, drawing blood, and then released her to her demise.

She slammed into another branch. She yelped, clinging onto the surface with all her might. Her pulse raced. A flurry of fear and panic overtook all her senses. She stopped with a jolt.

Ragged breath tearing at her throat, Meera blinked. Her throat still throbbed from Fullerton's hold. She shifted her weight, forcing her aching arms to pull. Her muscles strained as if on fire. Her exhausted hands closed around the body of the branch and tugged her back towards land, one bit at a time.

Mackleberry reached down and closed around Meera's upper arm. Her lower body could barely withstand her weight. Voiceless with fatigue, she allowed herself to be helped up. Her legs gave way and she slid to the ground. Mackleberry held her shoulders. She could feel him shaking beside her. Fullerton advanced, his gun pointed straight at them.

"I hope you're fulfilled, having stooped as low as Thistlethwaite," Mackleberry said, his voice trembling with fury. He shifted, tugging Meera behind him. She clutched the back of his shirt, breath rattling. They were unarmed and alone. The men who came with Meera were nowhere in sight -- injured or dead? It didn't matter; she would join them shortly. "Do you remember what he did to you?"

Jericho Fullerton didn't blink. He pointed the gun at Mackleberry. He was only some twenty paces away.

"Tell me, Jericho. What do you remember from that day?" Mackleberry's hands clasped Meera's shoulders so tight she gasped in pain. Her limbs were weak, her hands numb. She scanned their surroundings with desperation.

Fullerton paused.

"Thistlethwaite took me hostage. We were on this cliff. He was going to throw me off. He told you to give him the secret to distilling Anastrazite." Mackleberry swallowed audibly. Suddenly, he didn't seem the stoic, aloof gentleman Meera had known. Suddenly, he was the scared teenage boy she met in his memories. "You gave him the formula. Then what happened?"

"I..." Fullerton frowned, thick eyebrows knitting together with doubt. The fragile insert must be disintegrating the more he recalled his native memories. He lowered his gun. "He pushed you to me. I caught you. Then--"

Meera leant forward, waiting for the moment his true memory returned.

"Then, my girls--" Fullerton's eyes flashed.

Meera's breathing stopped.

The pistol raised.

"Father!"

Fullerton spun, eyes widening with disbelief.

Everything happened in slow motion. The setting sun, violent shades of scarlet and vermillion and ochre clashing in a violent storm, sprawled in the sky and illuminated Fullerton's lethal figure. The pistol lowered, glinting in the sunlight. The air stilled.