Chapter 2: Broken Arrow
Cita clipped his compound bow into its sling and let it rest at his left side, then shifted his shoulders to make sure the strap was secure. The bow twisted awkwardly, so he adjusted it again.
He looked up to see Bilal's golden eyes watching him and flushed. He knelt to pick up his quiver and pack. His ankle howled in protest, but he ignored it.
"Are we ready?" Cita asked as the quiver found its home at his right hip. He fingered the rough cloth of the pack, trying to identify the contents without opening it. 'That boxy shape should be my bow kit. Is that all I have?'
He slung the pack by its strap, keeping it clear of his bow.
Wordless, Bilal turned into the rising sun and strode through the dew-soaked foxtails. His pack rode low on his hip, leaving his back clear. The black, membranous wing stretched once before tucking tight to his left shoulder. Dark cloth wrapped Bilal's torso, revealing melted skin and a deep, jagged scar marring his right shoulder blade.
Cita stared, mouth agape and breath pluming, before hurrying to catch up.
'He hasn't said a word all morning. We didn't have breakfast either. Is he just not a morning person, or is he mad at me?' Cita bit his lip.
"Where are we, anyway?" Cita asked. The ground rolled smoothly up and down, blanketed in a sea of unending, dry grass. 'It's like an old game where they copied the same scenery over and over.'
Bilal turned to him and Cita's heartbeat rocketed. He skittered away from the one-winged man and held up his hands.
"No, nevermind. Forget I asked. It doesn't matter." 'I shouldn't make trouble, or he'll leave. Then I'll be in the middle of … wherever with a bow, some arrows, and a couple of daggers.' Cita's hands shook at the thought. 'No. I don't stand a chance out here alone. As long as he keeps his hands to himself …'
A furrow grew between the golden eyes, and Bilal stopped.
"Boy."
He waited.
Cita's babble died. He panted and watched Bilal.
"You are safe here, boy. I swear it. Ask your questions, and I will answer if I can." Bilal resumed walking only after Cita nodded.
Cita swallowed and trailed after him. 'Don't call me boy.'
"This is the edge of the dunes. Sometimes they are called sandhills." He glanced back, catching Cita shutting his mouth on another question. A half-smile broke over Bilal's face. "It does not look sandy? The grass covers it, but it is there. The locals have learned to be cautious in their planting and grazing."
Cita kicked at a clump of grass while a blurry, grayscale image of a massive dust cloud swallowing a farm overlaying the landscape.
"Because if they peel back the sod and the wind picks up, their soil is gone." Cita blinked and the image was gone.
"Yes. So it is said to have happened in ancient times. You sound familiar with this place. Have you been here before?"
"I …" Cita stumbled and a red haze clouded his vision. His ears rang and the screams drowned out anything else Bilal said.
"... so, I had no supplies left for breakfast." Bilal's smooth stride carried him down the gentle slope while the grass brushed at his thighs.
"Breakfast?" Cita croaked. He swallowed and massaged his throat before trying again. "We're talking about breakfast?"
Bilal's left hand rose to hide his mouth for a moment before he answered. "Yes. We were talking about breakfast."
Cita fought to smooth the confusion from his face.
Bilal sighed. "There is a settlement ahead where we can reprovision, and an inn that should accept our custom so we can have breakfast." Golden eyes drifted to the sun, resting a hand's width above the horizon. "Or lunch. But there should be a stream over the next hill, and we can refill the water skins."
'Custom.' Cita mouthed the word and tried to puzzle out the riddle through a headache that turned the morning light into spears of agony. 'Like, business? Why would anyone not accept business, as long as you can pay?'
*And how will you pay?* a voice rang out.
Cita shivered in the sudden chill and looked around. The sun shone brightly, but he felt drowned in shadow. The hill flattened before they started climbing the next.
Bilal watched him, eyes intent.
"Did you hear that?" Cita asked. 'Please say you heard that. Please please please.'
Bilal's head tilted. "Hear what?"
"N-nothing." Cita shuddered. "How far to the stream?"
Bilal pursed his lips before replying. "Not far."
"Race ya?" Cita forced a tight smile before jogging up the hill. His breath wheezed before he'd gone ten strides, but he kept going. Light, rapid steps kept pace behind him. 'That's Bilal. It has to be Bilal. There's no one else here.' His breath sobbed in his throat.
As he crested the hill, Cita stumbled. He caught himself on his aching ankle and hissed in protest. A hand grabbed his elbow, and he jerked away.
"Don't touch me!" he shouted, twisting around and shoving at the hand. He stepped back before meeting wide golden eyes that floated up.
'No, they're not floating.' A sickening sensation grew in Cita's stomach as he fell backward. Not my bow!
He grabbed it, still clipped to its sling, and held it aloft. Striking the ground drove the air from his lungs, and he fought against a roll. Instead, he skidded down the hill on his back until stalling out on the gentle incline.
"Boy!" Bilal hurried after him and crouched at his side.
"Don't call me boy," Cita mumbled between his coughs and sputters. He tried to catch his breath.
"What did you say?" Bilal frowned. "Are you alright? I had not meant to startle you."
"My bad." Cita waved a hand before allowing it to resume clutching the bow. "Just let me … catch my breath."
Bilal's left eyebrow rose, and he glanced downhill. "Once you can rise, let us walk to the stream and rest. You keep running ahead."
"Running?" Cita asked. He blinked, squinting to see through the red fog.
"Nevermind," Bilal sighed. "Do you think you can stand? The stream is there."
Cita tipped his head backward and could see a few trees and a line of green grass threading along the bottom of the slope. He rolled to his side, cradling his bow to his chest, and forced his wobbly legs upright. A shower of crumbled sand, broken straw, and black arrows fell as he ascended.
"Shoot!" Cita reached for the arrows, overbalancing again.
Bilal caught, steadied, and released him before he could react.
"Wait," Bilal commanded. He watched to ensure compliance before kneeling to collect the arrows. Without another comment, Bilal assisted Cita with emptying the sand from his quiver. They replaced the bolts before walking sedately to the creek.
Once there, Cita sat on the eroded bank and looked down. A dusty brown face with sharp cheekbones and red-orange eyes stared back at him. Short-cropped black hair stood in soft peaks, just at the point where it started collapsing under its length. Cita frowned, fingering it. 'I'll need to get it cut soon. But I'm not as grey as I was in deto —'
Cita hissed as a stabbing pain shot through his head. He ground his palm into his throbbing eye.
"Careful," Bilal cautioned as he removed his soft leather boots. "Do not fall in."
"Right," Cita breathed through the pain and focused on not collapsing.
Barefoot, Bilal climbed down to stand on a worn rock in the stream and fill a waterskin. He handed it up to Cita, who shook his head. Bilal frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah." Cita paused. "My stomach's a little unsettled."
"Hmm." Bilal studied Cita's face. "Perhaps you would like to wash up a bit?"
Cita ducked his head to avoid that gaze and caught sight of his arrows. "Not yet. I need to check my arrows first." He pulled them out one by one and smoothed the dust from the matte black shafts. On the third arrow, a splinter from a hairline crack stabbed his fingertip.
"Ow!" He raised the finger to his lips, blood beading on the surface. As the coppery flavor filled his mouth, he couldn't pull his eyes from the broken arrow. No. It's broken. I need that. No. No no no.
"Boy?" Bilal called.
His voice echoed in Cita's ears. 'Someone's making an international call. Wonder what area code this is?' A giggle escaped his lips and a wave of blue fire rose from his belly.
"Cita!"
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone