Lyon, France, forward dated to Christmas Eve

There is that one moment when you realise your life had just begun. The sun is shining so bright and the world itself is alive, lined in gold ahead of you. How the flowers suddenly seem to gleam under December’s gentle frosting of ice. How the naked trees still sway blissful despite the winter chill, in tune to their whistling dances. How the birds who had not took flight for the further south tucked themselves in, chirping as they returned to their little nests and alcoves. How beautiful was Lyon over Christmastime; it made Archer want to burst into song. He shall turn thirteen today, and he felt truly fearless, stood atop the whole world. So there was the young Duncan, so content with his soon to be thirteen years of life. Feet planted firmly atop the hill, he called to his following father with that innocent, joyous laugh, “Papa, come on!”

It was late into the night of Christmas Eve, the clock ticking towards ten with a sky already brimming with stars. His father was not yet in his forties, and Archer had easily deduced that he had let his son win. As he feigned panting, the Scot grinned and extended a hand to him, who took it gladly and, squeezing it tight, hauled himself up to the small peak. Thumping down the basket Archer held onto the ground, the birthday boy allowed his father to lay out upon the blanket foodstuff, never a grand feast but always enough to warm his heart. Soon he knew Maman would come with the centrepiece of it all: finally, this year, a black forest cake he had been previously denied due to the alcohol content, even if he argued it would have been evaporated in the first place. How that would be a perfect first present.

Laying on his back on the fuzzy blanket, he tipped his head up in the familiar action of counting stars and identifying constellations. There, painted in dots of silver were his two bears: Ursa Major and Callisto’s son, Ursa Minor. His mind flashed back to the night with that enigma of a girl he was still yet to learn the name of - and perhaps for a good reason, he never would. Smiling as he recounted the story with his fingertip drawing out the tale in Lady Night’s black veil, he turned to his father, who had closed his eyes, lost in the moment, and whose own lips tugged into a content grin. “My little boy,” he murmured into the darkness, still clasping Archer’s hand, “Grown so big already. You’re almost thirteen.” Warninglessly, he pulled the child in and tickled him, their merriment echoing through the hillside.

Still with breaths made heavy from joy, Archer rolled over, almost toppling off the stretch of grass the midnight picnic had been positioned on, but managing to grab ahold of a rock to steady himself just in time. Clutching as his side still burned from the laughter, he sat himself back down again next to his father. Noticing his eye on the watch, Archer himself found a frown inching up his brows as he questioned, with a tinge of wariness at his voice, “Where is Maman? Shouldn’t she be coming already? I don’t think a black forest cake is that much harder to bake, is it? And it's not really in her to be tardy.” Archer was overthinking, a predicament he experienced far too often, but he could not help it as his eyes wandered to the direction of the villa. Nothing wrong, lights on in the kitchen, his mother’s silhouette dark agains the countertop as she stood waiting for the oven.

Archer’s gaze followed as his father sat up, tensing, though he quickly allowed himself to relax. “Don’t worry, I think this recipe might be a little challenging. Let’s give it another five minutes, maybe the oven’s just slow, and if she’s not done by then we could go check on her if you want.” Archer himself eased at his father’s words: surely, like every other birthday there was nothing to worry about. Yes, Maman herself had complained this recipe was harder, but of course being the adventurer of the family she had still been hellbent on trying it. They had made the cake batter together, and Archer smiled in memory of how the flour had powdered him mercilessly and how he had regretted offering to help out with his criminal baking skills. Oh how his mother had always managed to make such dear memories with Archer.

Leaning against his father’s back, Archer rested his head and looked up towards the heroes forever immortalised once more, from the undefeatable Herakles to the hunter Orion. Yet then a distant commotion caught his attention - in the distance, it was as if someone had lit a thousand candles in the town that was his second home. Yet then he had the strangest realisation: they were not candles set to illuminate the eve, but the northern lights, a miracle of a performance so far south from the Arctic Circle. Even the gods above, whoever they were, wherever they were, had him in their special books. There was an odd orange hue he had never seen in pictures before, but although later he would defend his sluggishness at acting with how the trees blocked his view, but for now, this exclusive show was just for him. “Papa,” he said, pointing with wide eyes through the trees below, “could that possibly be the northern lights? It’s…” He paused with the intake of breath, “Oh Merlin it’s beautiful.” He felt so special.

Then, panic. “Archer, that’s not the northern lights!”

Panic.

Just Panic. There could not be any other word to describe the emotion. Archer's body grew numb as his father grabbed his hand and shouted for him to stand up. But he couldn't hear, couldn't move, couldn't do as much as breathe, it was almost as if the smoke had already reached him and was choking him, without even the blessing of a slow death. He felt rooted to the earth, as if someone had cast Anathema Daphnis on him and he was trapped. But his father was already on his feet and leaving and running and was calling for him to, for Merlin's sake, just follow. He couldn't, and the man, concern flashing under his furrowed brows, had to pull his son onto shaky feet and tug, one had still tightly clasped on the young boy's while the other batted away at stray tree branches in their way. He would find the boy's hands tremble in his hold, and squeezed even harder, more so to comfort himself than the younger Duncan, both just trying to anchor himself onto something. As if without regard to the distant strife, the night was deadly quiet, with only the rhythm of quick, panting breaths.

Run, but didn't know to or away. Run, but why when every step threatened to be a tumbling fall? Run, but how when his heart was skipping all its beats and his chest was in such agonising pain, less from the speed and more so from all the apprehension tearing away at him mercilessly. "Papa..." he murmured softly into the night, volume barely audible. Letting himself trail off as anxiety clenched his mind hard: what the hell was happening, what the hell was going to happen, what the hell, what the hell, je ne sais pas... je ne sais pas...¹. Taking a deep breath - one that had completely failed him and in fact made his lungs feel even more frail, he tried again, voice catching and breaking. Somehow he managed to get out a sentence between panicked ins and outs in broken French and English, "Will she be alright? Elle le fera... elle le fera... elle le fera², right? That's... that's what Extinguo's for?" His father said noting in response, but even through the darkness, he saw him tightly nod his head, and he knew this man he so looked up to didn't even believe himself.

Hope was a delicate thing. Dickinson described the odd human phenomenon as a "thing with feathers", and she had not been incorrect. Just like little birds however, their bones were hollow, and crushed easily. Hope was easy to kill. But to rekindle the flame? Just keep on hoping, he told himself. With fear enveloping, Archer wanted to curl into a small ball and just scream his life away. But no sound was made, for even the light was held in tension. He felt sweat down his face and perhaps he would have welcomed the exercise, but they were cold as the "white Christmas" snow he had so loved. He couldn't even bring himself to wipe it away. So hope he did, hope he had to, because hope was all he could do now. Because his mother, as strong as she was, would be fine, would walk out of that fire without a scratch on her. She had climbed every mountain she had seen and been on every road ahead of her. She had adventured over the world. She was the world. She had been through so much; how would she die this way? She couldn't. Marguerite Duncan couldn't. Impossible.

"Archer." That firm voice snapped the child out of his spiral. The first time his father spoke since they had started their run. His voice almost sounded foreign to the boy, for all his attention was focused on one place. Then, a pause. A long, freezing, terrible pause. "Mon garçon...³" Both their eyes were drawn simultaneously forwards.

Skidding to a stop before the house, he had to prevent himself from rushing into the fiery inferno before him. In a very small, fragile voice, he said, tugging on his father for he might as well be all he had left, "Où est ma maman?⁴"

1: I don't know.
2: She will
3: My boy/son
4: Where is my mum?

Suddenly, through eyes glazed over with salty tears, those melted hazel remnants of that signature sharpness, the vision known to be flawless still somehow made out in the hazy distance a dark ashen figure of earth brown as it rose from the burning ruins below. Haloed in light as the orange blazes reflected off her dusty feathers, barely discernible as they seemed to taper away at the ends, almost as if they too, the precious, shining plumage, were not to be spared. The tendrils of the inferno licked at them yet still she rose, through the winter air, no longer bitingly cold but made hot and suffocating by the spreading smoke. The gales seemed to shimmer and part around her sending her higher and higher, spiralling into the forbidding sky as if she could not quite control herself either. Yet in that brief fire-born moment she looked like an angel sent by all the deities Archer had never believed in. She was glorious, adored in light, a phoenix, but yes, but taking to the skies once more. For that brief moment brimming with a sweet anthem on his pounding heart Archer allowed himself to hope against hope.

That distant smudge of an avian creature was no usual bird but his mother. Time after time ehe had seen her transform, feathers creeping up her arm as her body shrank, plumage adorning her chest as her human form disappeared, her mouth elongating into a beak as she stretched out the beautiful, powerful wings. She would have told the boy to stay put and wait as she retreated into the distance, overlooking the mountains below, waving her wing to Archer as she returned, sweeping down. Once she could talk again she would pat the awestruck boy on the head and smile, reassuring him that one day, he would be an animagus just like her. He knew, no different than any other expedition before she would soon return unscathed diving back to his side. That, Archer harboured with deluded hope, like it had the way times before, no different would happen, right? No bad resolution nor ending he did not want seen, just the sweet comfort of his mother’s arms around his shoulders once more, comforting her that she was alright, and soon all three of them would find a way to navigate forward despite the tragedy that struck tonight.

Life, however, was intent with playing with him. His hopes soared as she did, yet fell as she did all the same. All convictions that had built up dissipated as the wind tossed the peregrine falcon to and fro, a hauntingly real piece of body horror unfolding between very eyes, no more of the consoling fourth wall between him and the horrific descriptions in the books he once loved. Soon, the wings so powerful the world seemed to turn with its single flap would turn delicate and fragile, as if another stray gust of wind would surely knock it right off her arms. Suddenly, before Archer could summon any reaction, her form shifted, growing much more unwieldy in her original human state, the feathers disappearing away into arms, which could not even summon enough strength to flail as she dropped from the sky like a stone, showing no response to the unexpected transformation with eyes fluttered close. And perhaps, Archer thought, falling victim to the thought that enveloped him in a dark devastation as his father’s unsteady hand went slack on his shoulder, they would forever remain closed.

Yet there was nothing more horrifying in her incapacitated state than the burn mark visible across her body, disappearing into her clothing, which provided Archer at least some solace from seeing the terror in its entirety. The markings had been difficult to discern when she was a bird yet it must have been far more difficult for her to transform and take flight with such damage, pain, fatigue, and no doubt smoke inhalation above all that. It was as if the Fates had branded her as their hapless, unsuspecting victim. Why any force above or simply the strings of the universe would ever bestow such punishment upon a woman who had done nothing but love all her life made Archer yearn to scream up at the unforgiving night sky in desperation, coloured in all shades of the devastating reds and oranges, careless for what a feral banshee wail he would certainly let out. All his storybooks definitions of justice and fairness crumpled into dust as he watched, petrified in shock and fear yet completely unable to pull his eyes away from the figure tumbling through the sky, spinning and being thrown about in a way that even ceased to look human, but some crude imitation of the woman he had forever loved with all his heart.

Finally letting out the shattering cry it reverberated through the chasms of the French hills, his father’s palm so startled that his fingers crept up, then froze slack midair as both their deep brown eyes followed the figure of the most important person in both their lives as she fell into the trees, landing with a resounding crash on the forest floor, followed by the unmistakable sounds of cracking twigs beneath her. No, the Duncans were mistaken. That was no wood but bone; every single one in her body seemed to be as good as broken. Hurriedly brushing away the obnoxious tears that still stung at his cheeks he finally pulled away from his stunned helpless position in a sprint, uncaring for whatever words his father seemed to have called out as that coward did not even follow him into where she had landed, battered, burnt, broken, and no longer the mother he knew as an attachment of his very own body. His feet picked up speed as the dust and ashes were kicked into the air, causing his airways to complain as he swallowed down the coughs that surged up in his throat. No, tonight he only had one destination.

So soon enough, like a breeze that never existed, Archer disappeared into the woods.

Archer stumbled through the undergrowths of the forest, batting stray branches out of his way as they swept down on him like long swooping arms forcibly pulling him into suffocatingly saccharine embrace. Winter’s handiwork of fallen wood threatened to ensnare him in their treacherous twists and knots but despite the sinister hurdles of the woods he once loved like a second home, he was unrelenting as he approached, scrambling for any traces or signs in a desperate attempt to locate his lost mother. It had been as if she were Lucifer, cast down by the Heavenly Father. Except she had never done a thing wrong in her life, except she did not deserve to be punished for anything… except, Archer began to torment himself with the possibility, the reprimanding from above was directed at him, rather than her, a mere victim in the damnation prepared solely for him. Justice, fairness, morals, he grit his teeth as he pushed past bushes, wondering whatever use those words once idolised were of anymore in a world pumping entirely a blood of cruelty.

Yet never before had these forests he thought he loved brought him so much horror. Now the familiar trees, barren and dead, grappled at his arms and legs, the hollow interior of their trunks no different form hateful faces, the tree stumps resembling decapitated heads as they stared at him with malicious intent. No more were the snow-covered pureness of the woods as they basked in the sunlight, only the menacing illumination of the fire now seemingly a world away, yet to be put out in its constant reminder. Soon Archer’s breaths grew heavy after the sudden sprint, yet adrenaline alone was enough to propel him forward, eyes flitting around the trees, so bare without their lives it should have been easy, yet with no lantern or lumos in hand Archer found no other light but an eery orange glow from above. Finally, after spinning himself in circles much to his anxiety, concern, and absolute vexation at himself, he thought he had located the direction in which he last saw the tumbling form of his mother, wounded, grotesque, and in some terrible way, less than human.

Archer froze, feeling an uncannily warm liquid surrounding his boots. Bewilderment struck the boy who did not dare to even glance down, content with the ignorant hope that he had merely stepped into a hot tub prepared with bath bombs and rose petals, where he could allow his tense shoulders to finally relax and forget all he had seen in what was merely a nightmare. But, alas, Archer was welcomed to no bath as the crimson seeped up his soles. In truth there was no doubt it was merely the devastated coping mechanisms of a brain in despair, willing to believe anything that seemed anywhere close to a sliver of truth, if only it could free him from the true veracity sprawled out before his eyes. Despite his deepest psyche having known all along and yet still in a wild denial, his eyes were stretched wide as his mouth gaped, his will ceasing to move, as frozen as the tears that stung his reddened cheeks. Kneeling down in shock, movements rigid and trancelike, he dipped his fingers into the ebbing pond, and allowed his eyes to trace the stream of blood to its route.

There.

She no longer looked like the mother Archer knew, not her sharp beauty nor collected calmness, yet he would have still recognised her at first sight. Burns mauling her face, her skin disfigured no one else may have known who she was. Running towards her he neglected all other thoughts nor sense, neglected that he should have been calling for help or at least trying his hand at some basic healing. Yet far too panicked to recall any of the first aid he had been taught, Archer doubted he would have done much even if his head was clear enough to think of any knowledge. Instead, he only threw himself upon her, overcome by emotion and nothing more as his fragile, trembling hand held hers, no warmth or beat in the grasp yet he still hung on desperately, his anchor even in her death. He found his lips moving, but he barely acknowledged the words that they formed, yet they were the same words that almost everyone else on earth would have understood, regardless of their backstories, origins, or life stories. All his life, that word had felt like it represented the most important person he could have ever known.

It was no film scene, and there was certainly no sudden gasp of breath or a stir that rekindled the flickered-out candle in Archer’s heart, and he knew he should stop waiting for a sign of life when tentative fingers placed on her pulse proved that the next time he saw her would be as a pile of ashes. His hand clasped tighter around her ice-cold one, her frosty right hand the only part of her body that did not seem to have been licked by the terrible flames. Yet despite it all he held her as if she was still there, as if this were just another pre-bedtime story she was about to read, and soon he would drift into a blissful slumber with an oblivious smile upon innocent lips. But his mother’s eyes did not even flutter open to mouth to him how much she loved him. Already sealed shut tight against the wind, he could not even close her same hazel eyes, the glimmering flecks of gold forever disappeared into the nothingness.

And then Archer felt nothing but sheer numbness. He did not know that his father had arrived before him, nor did he much acknowledge the… corpse in front of him as the world cut out completely around him. His throat felt far too dry to scream, his legs far to leaden to run, his tongue far too heavy to speak. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, salty droplets that he no longer cared enough for to brush away. Momentarily he stared into the distance, fingers still entwined with his mothers as his other hand moved to place upon her hot, breathless chest, before his eyelids themselves became far too fatigued to remain open. So alongside the unmoving body of the woman he loved, he slipped away into darkness.