Chapter 7

  Alexander

  Alexander was calmer than he wanted to admit. The song, Weighted wings was a common flocktale song that even his mother would sing to him. The low, soft tune that stretched each word to form the song of an angelic choir in the middle of a bloody thirsty war. And such a beauty of words should not be sung in a village of dog-eared fools who leash bypassers.

  ¨Zorche, untie their hands and tighten their collars to the chairs. My table and our manners will not be disgraced by a bunch of outbounders eating like pigs.¨ Fiona demands, stuffing the meat and sweet boiled vegetables into the peppers.

  The steam rises over the peppers like the ribbons to a dancer, frantic, all over the place and as beautiful as a winding flower. It smells sweet,too, these damned villagers probably put a whole Shmak of sugar in there. Alexander's thoughts hiss as he watches the orange-curled girl plate food.

  Alexander then jumps like a cat, like the cat on his necklace, Like the cat back home. Before him, kneeling, was Zorche, rough hands whisking away the ropes around his wrists like nothing. Damned show off.

  Once free, Alexander's hands snatch straight to rub the ache left behind by the tight knots of rope, their imprint left on his reddening skin. It made quiet the contrast, a bruising red blooming upon his pale-porcelain skin. Porcelain. As fragile and beautiful as the falses he lived with for years. His hands then move to his hair pin, still secure, because of the damned blond across from him, Yet, it was scratched, a small chip missing.

  Clink. A plate is set before him, the sight alone teasing all sense. It was a burning red sweet pepper. The juice of the meat glistens across the skin of the sweet pepper, carrots and rice spilling out the top, with only the cheese holding it all in. Just like Alexander, Only holding his hunger and restraint down by the strength of a strand of hay. Alexander's stomach grumbles quietly, going unheard over the door swinging open from the little children rushing in at the sound of plates clinking.

  Fiona sets food before everyone, reluctant to give the outbounders an equal amount of food.

  Once everyone has a plate, Alexander looks around, poking his food with a fork, his eyes looking over everyone. Fiona then sits down across from him, next to the little dullard who kicked his face into the ground an hour ago. ¨Himen krah sanmmm, su lah ra don. as a dawn a blon, bareya, budyasa. Las la don'ce. ¨

  ¨Look to heaven's stars, and pray for the right wings to grow and farm. The brightened rose grows bright. Bless me, with health, Like thy flowers.¨ They whisper together after Fiona says her prayer.

  ¨Bless us, with health. like thy flower. bareya, budyasa. Las la don'ce.¨ Alexander churns the syllables in his mouth like stone, ¨What an ugly flower it must be.¨

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  ¨wei grocado!¨ Zorche barks, anger flaring through his voice, ¨That was rude, and disrespectful to the gods and angels. ¨

  ¨cedese, rak almiyan.¨ Alexander snarls. ¨cedese indrese.¨

  ¨he wished hell upon almiyan¨ Porter whispers to Bailey, shock crashing through his voice.

  ¨Cedese, rak Almiyan.¨ Alexander curses under his breath, ¨la don'ce es wiltarco. Every flower withers. Including the one of health. ¨

  ¨The gods flower has not withered.¨ Fiona snaps at him, her nails shining almost as brightly as the Gramba or Alexander′s teeth.

  Alexander just looks away, facing the floor. ¨Cedese. Don′ce′s… tch¨

  ¨Stupid cur.¨ Fiona growls, cutting her butter knife into the pepper. Heat rises in a burst, puffing up like the dust in a storm, quickly fading into the hot air of the room. The table is silent, everyone nibbling on their foods like rabbits, twitching in fear of a predator that wasn't there.

  The food was sweet, but only by natural reasoning. Better than Alexander had expected, and after a few bites he was gobbling it down like a starving street cat. The other outbounders followed, children too. The only one not Chewing like a pack animal being Fiona, whose green eyes burned with the threat of a forest, and the hidden storm on a sunny day.

  Alex's eyes water against the savory food, though he refuses to admit it. It tastes like his food. No. It isn't as good, I just miss him.

  ¨La don'ce wiltarco es youm ¨ Fiona snarls, half under her breath. The wilted flower is nobody, but you.

  Alexander's eyes widen, only to narrow until they became nothing but a sliver of broken glass.

  Who was she to judge him? To say he is wilted when she knows nothing of him. Nothing of his past. Nothing about what he knows.

  Alexander felt his nails digging into his flesh like the claws of a predator. The heat of anger rising up his neck in heat, words of hate bubbling in his throat. Threatening to erupt into a problem he can't fix.

  So he just clenches his teeth and scoffs, pushing the plate of sweet glistening food away. The sound of the fragile plate clattering across the table cracks through the room, as loud and plain as his lie.

  ¨And you can't cook.¨ He crosses his arms, a petty childish gesture. He knew that, but he didn't have anything else he could do. Not when he's stuck in a room of air-heads and children with a talent for knives. ¨I′ll die of a sugar overdose before I could ever finish that.¨

  The other outbounders' eyes look around the room, deciding whether they should intervene or not. They had owed Alexander, and they had loyalties to him and each other since he helped them. But they also desired to make peace with people, help others and escape everything horrid. Everything to remind them of their past.

  ¨Where are we to sleep then, oh so mighty mouse?¨ Alexander asks, trying to get him, and his… Acquaintances out. This was too much like it, and according to the way Bailey's hand was pinching porters' trembling one, it was too much like the shrizen? cam.

  ¨The barn with that attitude. ¨

  ¨Isen′t the worst we′ve slept.¨ The haystack blonde whispers to Fiona, eyes scanning the room. ¨Just depends what barn.¨

  Porter suddenly stands up, a smile as bright as a Quokka, ¨We understand our presence is a bit frustrating, invasive like a bug perhaps. We believe that, ¨ Porter's voice cracks, gaze splintered between Alex's narrow gaze to Fiona's, ¨If we sleep we can smooth things over.

  ¨Get them out and to the damned Rinnock¨ Her voice booming as loud as the slammer her hand makes against the stone table, ¨Quenral has set somebody up to help.¨

  Zorche's curly hair, now wet with steam jumps in its coils—almost as fast as he does from his seat. ¨Understood, Fiona.¨