Growing up

Demaren stood beneath a thick, old, uninhabited Lowe tree. The black-blue bark loomed up the entire seemingly endless height. It disappeared into the darkness of the canopy, entangled over a mile from the ground. Out of sight, where the branches grew and the leaves sprouted, Demaren knew wide purple leaves overlapped for another half of a mile. Only then, would the open sky be even visible.
He glanced to his right, seeing his best friends standing beneath their own trees of choice. They all examined them carefully, as he had, then crouched at the base when they were ready. Demaren crouched at his base, waiting until the rest had chosen to do so.
"On my mark!" He shouted. From their backs, his friends wings unfurled from resting position. Huge wings of black and blue and brown, all arching and flapping in preparation. Demaren stretched his own wings, unusual as they were for a Syla. Not only were they white, but they were all lightly flecked and tipped with gold--like the precious metal from the merchants. Not like the sun or the flowers. And on top of that, they seemed to glow in the darkness of the canopied forests. He pulled the muscles tautly, reaching the huge appendages as high as they would reach. The joints popped, and the muscles pulled joyfully. Feathers spread and the gold in them glinted in the light from the lanterns.
"Show off," whispered Nek, from his left. Demaren glanced at him, and narrowed his eyes playfully.
"Get set!" He shouted, then adding quietly to Nek, "You ain't seen nothing yet."
"You better hope you picked the tallest tree, or you're gonna owe me a fan made of your feathers." Nek muttered back, smirking.
"In your dreams." Demaren whispered, then he shouted, "GO!!" And the Sylan boys took to the air. The air thrashed violently near the ground, dust and small rocks whipping the trees. But the boys were gone.
Each to his own tree, they shot up towards the canopy. Carefully flapping their wings in practiced motions, they hovered like water bugs along the sides of the bark. Up and up, closer, trying to outstrip each other. The branches began to appear beside Demaren and he had to modify his motion. Weaving now between branches, his slid by. Leaves were slapping and stinging his arms and chest. He even caught the thin edge of a leaf and felt blood drawn on his arm. But he smiled triumphantly as the light came into view and his burst into the sky. For that moment, he was alone. No darkness, no trees, no other wings. Him and the clouds, the sun and span of the tree tops.
He landed swiftly though, on the top of his tree. His barefeet--equipped with a few extra joints than any other sentient species--half stood, half gripped the highest point. And as his feet held tightly, his friends sprung into view. One, then two, then three at once and so on until the twelve of them stood on their trees. They swayed in the cold wind as it came from the sea, the salty air leaving a waxy condensation on their flesh.
Demaren enjoyed the view, their birdlike forms standing starkly against the blue sky, looking small and distant and insignificant. But the shouts from his friends brought him back.
"Not again, Demaren!"
"Every time!"
"Why do we even play!"
Demaren folded his arms. He knew his tree would be the tallest--it always was. He could just tell when they chose their plot to play on which one it would be. He was always ready to fly first, confident, and he was always the winner. He knew he should let them win now and then, but he just couldn't help it.
"You play because you hope you will win, boys." He laughed and leapt into the air, his wings still folded. He let himself feel the gravity tug, then he threw out his wings and sailed to the tree between Nek and Silo. "Because you might win."
Everyone laughed, each knowing they really wouldn't. Then they flew into the sky and played games of catch-me and there-and-back before racing to the beach. They flapped sand at each other and dove in and out of the waves. But as they played and relaxed, some Syla fliers came into view.
The boys stopped playing and watched. They were waiting for the fliers to pass over them and to head to the city in the forest. As they got closer, they could all see the special crest of the chests of the fliers--indicating their servitude to their king. As a result, his friends glanced at Demaren. He scratched his eye brow, contemplating heading back with the fliers to receive the news with the counsel. But the fliers began their descent far too early. And within moments, the boys realized they were heading for the shore, so they moved to the rocks.
Fliers are known for their dexterity and prowess in the air, but these men were tired and drained--and carried a heavy load. So their crash, though unexpected, was easily understood. Sand flew everywhere and groans were heard from the tangle of feathers and arms. The boys shot to help the men. Demaren pulled one man free and helped him sit comfortably.
"What happened?" Demaren questioned.
"Prince Demaren... Your father... Your m-mother..." The man choked on the last word, leaving Demaren feeling suddenly cold and ill.
"Where are my parents?" He gripped the man. But the only response he got was an arm and finger pointed to the other fliers.
Demaren ran to the other fliers, who had been moved and sat to rest. Three of his friends stood beside each other and stared down at the ground. Blocked from view, Demaren could not quiet see what it was. But he could see the shredded leggings and bleeding feet--equipped with some extra joints--and his heart fell. His friends moved and Demaren fell to the sand beside his father.
"Fah!" He shouted as his knees pressed into the grit. His father lay in a hanging carrier, used to transport emergency vicitims. And it was an emergency. Blood covered his father, both in black feather and on tan flesh. His eyes were closed, and his skin was cold. His black hair fluttered in the wind. Demaren could see the gashes on his chest and arms. The breaks in his wings. The bruises still coming into bloom. The vile taste of hate, hurt, and fear broiled in Demaren's throat.
"Fah..." He pulled his father into his arms, undoing the straps from the carrier. As he did so, his father stirred.
"Demaren." The dark eyes of the king opened, black and tired. He still looked like Demaren and his friends, as the Syla did not show signs of aging until they neared 100 years. His father could not have been more than 65, though Demaren wouldn't have known his father's age anymore than he would have known his own.
"Fah... Fah, what happened..."
"Your mother and I. Star mountain." Ben looked back towards the ocean. He raised one arm weakly. "Across the ocean. Far. Ice and snow. Towers." He looked back at Demaren again, and smiled. "You are strong. Like your mother. Not me. Couldn't save her." He closed his eyes as tears slipped out.
Some of the fliers came to move his father. Demaren wanted to stop them but knew they had to try to save him. He watched them adjust him in the carrier. Demaren watched as they strapped him in again. And watched as they carried him, slowly, towards home. All of his friends but Nek and Silo left to fly on ahead. The two of them stood beside him, stoically waiting.
The two of them, sons of key advisors to Demaren's father, had been with Demaren his whole life. They were his best friends and self proclaimed body guards. They were always there. Demaren looked up at them finally, the sun having gone down and leaving them three of them in moonlight. They looked tired.
Demaren got up suddenly, making Nek and Silo start. He flexed his wings once and flew into the air, hesitating to ensure they followed, and the three flew back to the city.
The city was deep in the Lowe forest--miles in from the outer edge, where they played their games. The flight was quick, though, as they boys were excellent fliers. As the first lights came into view, they shifted their flight level higher. The trees, oldest here in the middle, were so thick and tall, that a mile up from the ground, the Syla people had built their homes. Only, they had built them inside the trees themselves. Hollowed out portions of the trunks. So the trees themselves had windows of glowing light--warmth of a home and love from the families. The boys swished past home after home, hearing brief flashes of conversations or songs. On until they reached the central tree--the oldest tree.
This tree had served as the "palace" for the Syla kings and queens. Demarens father lived there with his mother, and Demaren would live there with them until he was married or given a career and thus declared a "man." After all, boys and girls live with their parents. Men and women live on their own.
He didn't feel any bitterness towards the title of "boy." He and all of his friends still had those titles. A few of his friends were married and taken on the title of "men" but they seemed to drift away when that happened. They didn't play the games anymore. So Demaren didn't mind his title. Silo did, though, and didn't like the reference to it--but he wouldn't stop playing the games out of pride.
As it was with everyone, no Syla knows his or her true age until their parents die. And Demaren had a feeling he'd be finding out his own age very soon. He looked at his friends, wondering how old they were. If they were the same age. Or if he was old enough to to be their fathers. Or visa versa. He frowned to himself. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
They landed on the balcony to the main hall. Some servants opened the windows for them, shutting them fast again once they had entered. Demaren ran up the stairs to the room his father would surely have been laid. Sure enough, in his parents room was his father. The bed half empty, a spot saved for mother that would never be filled again. Demaren felt sick at that thought. He loved mother.
But no sooner had he come in, then the nurses and doctors rushed him out again. They told him in a jumble of voices that he couldn't see his father yet. He had to wait. It turned into mush. He pulled his arms free and glared straight ahead. They all stopped talking.
"I will see him now." He said, turning around to enter. A nurse made to stop him but he moved her with his hands as he would have moved a doll. He was well over 6 feet, nearly 7 feet actually, and the woman couldn't have been more than half of 5 feet. It was effortless for him and unnerving for her.
That being done, he strode into the room and shut the door on everyone. It was just him and his father again. His father was bandaged now, so he didn't look as close to death as he had. But Demaren could feel that the strings that held his father to life were not as strong as they used to be. In fact, as healthy as his father was looking (despite the bandages and weakness) Demaren feared time was running short. His father, it would seem, felt the same way. He opened his eyes and stared intently at his son.
"They've gone, I see."
Demaren nodded.
His father leaned into the pillows with a sigh, closing his eyes, "Good."
Demaren sat on the bed. "Fah."
"Yes. I'm not staying long."
Demaren frowned darkly, "Why?"
His father opened his eyes again and sat up entirely. "I lived with your mother for fifty years. That is a long time. But it should have been longer. I should have had another hundred." He sighed. "She is gone now. Taken away by--" he stopped and looked at Demaren. "Well. She's gone and she isn't coming back, Demaren. And I can't stay where she isn't..."
"But..."
"You are my son. My pride. You are good and just and the people here know this. Despite laws that prevent you from inheriting this throne, the people will undoubtably decide upon you to be the next king. They've always decided and it is not an option once it is decided. If they decide on you, you will rule. And you will be outstanding."
"Father, I don't care about being King, you know that." Demaren burst, angry and frustrated. "I just don't understand why you are giving up on your life just like this."
Ben looked slightly hurt, but mostly piteous. "You will understand one day. I know it." Then he leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes. Demaren took the signal to go and rose. But before he had reached the door, his father spoke again.
"28." Demaren turned back, confused. "You're 28, Demaren. And a man. So says the king."
Outside the door, after the doctors and nurses had slipped in to continue care, Demaren felt sick. Yes, he was 28. Big deal. His father was dying. His mother had met her death--or something akin to death--at a mysterious place called Star Mountain. Demaren felt furious with everything and everyone for being so complacent. So when Silo approached him about dinner, it was understandable that Demaren punched him and threw himself out the window. Nek ran to the window and watched Demaren fly up to a high branch, but didn't follow.
Demaren stood, furious, in the darkness. The smells of night didn't bring him any comfort. The twinkling of the stars above him didn't make him feel safe. The barrier between him and the sky was no longer a bad thing. Anything to keep the world out. To keep his father here. His life together. If only he could bring his mother back into the safety of the forest. Perhaps his father would stay alive. It occurred to him that his father never said his mother had died. Just that she was gone.
Suddenly, Demaren saw a chance to make it all right. He would find his mother. He would bring her home. Save her and his father. He frowned again and looked back up. He'd have to leave the forest. The island. He'd have to go find star mountain. Across the ocean, right? Snow and ice. Demaren only knew of snow and ice on the northern tip of Tovsyla, and but that wasn't across an ocean. It wasn't even in the right direction! He would have to go a very long distance, it would seem.
He decided to go that night. After eating. After everyone else had gone to sleep. No one thought oddly of him not speaking through dinner. Nek and Silo talked to keep the air from growing electric, as it would whenever Demaren was upset, so bad were his moods. But even with his silence and their chatter, the room felt darker than usual. They adjourned quickly and said good night. Demaren didn't go to bed. He listened for their doors to close. He waited by the open window, listening for the rustle of their beds. Then for hushed breathing of sleep. They came very slowly. And with a quiet breath of his own, Demaren dove into the darkness.
Into the thickness of the canopy, careful to avoid branches. And when he go through to the sky, it was brighter. The moon was full, and the stars were out. An especially bright star stood to the south east, and Demaren decided to follow it. He blinked at him, almost tearfully. He felt saddened by it--reminding him of his mother--and resolved not to come back without the reigning queen.
The ocean looked very dark at this time of night. And it felt odd to pass over the beach. Strange to flicker by the outer rocks. And it was most bizarre when he looked back and couldn't see the forest, but merely the smudge of the island. Time seemed to have no grasp on him and he felt only the cold lash of the wind and water it carried.
Maybe he didn't realize how huge the ocean was, or didn't notice how tired he was, but whatever it was, Demaren suddenly found himself sapped of all his energy. And falling. The darkness of the sky, with it's twinkling stars, was soon distorted by the darkness of the water. And the water was discarded as he slipped into unconsciousness.