I can help you it calls and her ears immediately go flat.
She would not be fooled. Not again.
But this time, the voice does not mask the sound of rushing water. This time, the water does not echo into the depths; it does not sound like death at all. This time, the water runs and tinkles and calls out quietly to her. She is, suddenly, all too aware of how dry her throat is—how swollen her tongue is in her mouth.
She would not be fooled, but she still needed help.
She is thirsty—
and she is alone—
and she is still, oh, she is still so young.
So she climbs to her feet and steps forward, each movement forced, shoulder throbbing from where she had collided with the rock. She moves into the center of the formation and then startles when she sees the creature, the thing, that looked so much like Time and yet nothing like him at all.
She lets her guard down—ever so slightly—and takes another step forward, tongue seeming to swell in her mouth at the sound and now sight of water. He offers and she prickles a little, still sensitive to the last time that she had accepted someone’s “help,” but she cannot deny the fact that she is dehydrated.
So Hawke just nods and dips her head into the cool water, gulping greedily. It is then that she hears the sound, her initial yelp of terror turning into a snarl when she sees that the formation had closed in on her.
Traitor. He was a traitor like the last one.
(And she was nothing but a young, silly fool.)
Hawke does not quiet at his reassurance, does not soften again; instead, she seemingly ignores him in the way of the young and stubborn. She fixes her gaze on the doors and the creatures that shimmer into existence before her, ignoring the possibility of the door behind her. That is not an option. It never was.
He leaves and she exhales—whether in anticipation or relief, it is impossible to say. She thinks of the strange light she had encountered in the mountain. She thinks of the two-faced creature. She thinks of the way Time had spoken to her. And, ultimately, she thinks of the scream. Of her. Of who she is saving.
She turns her head toward the strange creature of feline and bird and nods.
(“Okay, I will go,” she thinks, more personal mantra than anything at this point.)
As she walks toward the door, it yawns open before her and then snaps shut, leaving nothing but her and another path, twisted and too narrow and cold—so cold. She shivers and finds herself desperately missing the humidity of Tephra, of the warmth of her mother’s side, of the security of seeing her father.
She misses home.
But she doesn’t turn back.
No, she continues onward, dragging herself forward, feeling flesh prickle with anticipation at each sound of rock scraping against the ground—waiting, just waiting for that strange creature to appear before her.
The path that she is on opens, ever so slightly at first and then wider; emboldened by the ease of the path, Hawke breaks into a trot and then into a canter, forgetting all about the creature and just thinking of home and Time and the way that she had promised she would save the mysterious she.
Hawke does not notice when it gets lighter, when the wind in the tunnel dies down; she does not even notice when the path spits her out into an opening. In fact, she only notices when she collides into the side of something large and warm. She only notices when that thing turns, screams, and lunges at her.
She cannot move, at least not fast enough, and the beak of the Griffen grabs a hold of the base of her mane and yanks. As Hawke scrambles out of the way, the mane gives way and pulls apart from her flesh, leaving her with a raw, bleeding wound that smarts but is ultimately not fatal. At least, that is what she tells herself as tears spring to her eyes and she runs back to the beginning of the path, seeking out shelter.
When she is several feet away, she notices that the creature is not following her and so she slows and then comes to a stop, curling around in the shadows to peer out to see where the Griffin paced. The ground beneath both paws and talons is trampled thin and flat—worn from years (decades) of its motion.
Curious, Hawke takes a small step forward. Why hadn’t it moved? Why this spot?
Then she sees it. A small glint that catches the light and reflects it, the gold of it washing over the curve of the tunnel ceiling. Behind the Griffen is a stockpile of gold and silver, rubies winking out from the rubble, sapphires and emeralds encrusting the edges of things in shapes she had never seen before.
She begins to notice that the Griffen’s path curves in front of it, walking from wall to wall, its great eye often rolling in its head to look back toward its pile possessively. So that’s why it was here. That’s why it lunged at her when she got close. That’s why it didn’t pursue her when she left.
But how could she convince it that she had no interest in its jewels? In its shiny rocks?
At first, she tries calling out to it. Reasoning with it. Begging. She tries telling it of her mission, of the scream and the she that needs saving. Either the Griffen does not hear or does not care because the creature either ignores her and continues along its worn path or screams angrily in her direction.
Finally, throat sore, Hawke gives up and leans against the wall.
This couldn’t be how the story ended. This couldn’t be where she fails.
The filly stays there, quiet and miserable, for what seems like hours, racking her brain for ideas, trying to think of what her parents would do, wishing desperately that she was older, tougher, bigger—that she could somehow just make her way to the other side of the path with brute force and strength.
The Griffen yawns.
She snaps to attention.
The Griffen continues on its path as if nothing happened, but she does not move, mind whirling. More hours pass and although it is barely perceptible, she feels as if it grows darker, the light of the opening dimming. The Griffen does not yawn again, but it does slow (she thinks). It does begin to move softer, not going fully from wall to wall (she thinks). More hours pass and, finally, without ceremony, the giant creature lowers itself to the ground, spreads its wings out and then, seemingly, falls to sleep.
Hawke can almost not believe her luck.
Minutes tick by as she is aware of nothing but the sound of her breathing and that of the Griffen. When she finally does move, it is slow, deliberate, the filly terrified that the creature would open its beady eye and see her. The Griffen does not move. So she takes another step and then another. She moves out of the protection of the narrow path and into the Griffen’s lair. Her heart pounds against her throat.
She continues to sneak onward, shoulder pressing against the opposite wall, neck throbbing.
With each step, hope thrums in her veins and her breath comes easier. With each step, she begins to think of what will come next and what lies beyond. Step by step, brick by brick, she sneaks past the sleeping creature and almost, almost reaches safety until she stumbles, her tiny hoof hitting against a rock.
The sound is deafening—and everything happens at once.
The Griffen awakens with a howl, lunging before she even registers the noise. Again, Hawke finds herself scrambling for safety, racing against the clock, running hellbent for the small path that opens up before her. As she nears it, she feels the creature overtake her, feels as it rears back onto its back legs and reaches for her with the talons, the claws catching on the hide of her right flank and then yanking.
She screams as her flesh rips, as the blood streams down, but she is already in the path and she does not stop. Protected by the narrowing of the walls, she can hear the Griffen’s furious roars behind her, but she does not pause to look back. Tears stream down her face and her legs ache, but she does not stop running until the path once against spits her out unceremoniously, this time into a bright white room.
And then, finally, she stops, lowers her head, and cries.
hawke
I’m a princess cut from marble
{ smoother than a storm }