《Witches of the Cycle》 Gliders A playful and warm breeze danced out over the island, leaving plants and trees rippling in its wake. A small symphony of nature. On your planet, you''d call it a natural reaction of air molecules, pressure, and atmosphere. On this planet well... things were a little different here. The wind gallivanted through the island, easily distractable, flitting from one interesting sight to the next - an inn with the scent of chocolate chip cookies, a group of woodcutters singing rhythmically, gliders in colorful designs soaring and yelling encouragements to the wind. To the gliders, the wind gave a big jaunty wave, almost knocking them over. Oops. It hadn¡¯t meant to do that. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. As is the nature of the wind, it kept moving, never stopping. It dashed, meandered, skipped, soared, flew, and ran, but it never stood still. Sometimes it wanted to, but it could not. If the wind stopped, it would no longer be the wind. It moved, continually chasing the wake of Air¡¯s last breath and kindness, moving westwards until it returned in it¡¯s next revolution around the planet. The wind waved goodbye, and the gliders sang their farewell. Then it was gone. Knees Glider woke up screaming. He sat up with such force that the burlap covers (burlap? Where was he?) on him flew through the air, and landed at the foot of the bed. Heart pounding, head dizzy, he slammed a closed fist on his chest and tried to catch his breath. Poor lad. He¡¯d been through a lot. ¡°Where am I?¡± he said shakily. He was in a small room, on a scratchy bed that barely fit, wedged against the walls, with a small door in the corner. It smelled of sawdust, spilled beer, and his own body. Not a great smell, but he¡¯d slept in worse places. Glider just about tripped over his feet trying to get off of the bed, his arms had woken up, but his knees hadn¡¯t yet, and he took a slow steadying step, one hand still on the bed. At this point, his knees decided they were fully as asleep as a bear in winter, and he promptly crumpled down to the floor in an untidy pile of knees and lanky limbs. He leaned backwards, resting against the bed, and rubbed his forehead with his hand, feeling a strange hollowness in his chest. What had happened? Why was he here? All he remembered was a glide, heading out on a routine delivery mission. Two mail deliveries and a priority ore delivery to a prospector. Soaring together with¡­ a friend? A conflict, or a fight, or a storm? And a sensation in his chest. A horrible sensation. One that hurt a little too much to think about right now. Glider gasped, sucking in air, and shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Again. I felt incredibly sorry for Glider. It isn¡¯t often one flies straight through the manifestation of a dead god¡¯s anger. That does tend to leave a certain shadow on one¡¯s mental psyche. But he didn¡¯t know that. ¡°Come on, Glider. You got this.¡± He thought to himself, ¡®Be brave. Be bold. Be kind.¡¯ the motto of the very first Glider that he took his name from. ¡°Alright, lets get out of here.¡± Glider tapped his knees gently with his hands, trying to convince them to wake up, and lo! They did. Thus healed, he forced himself up to standing, and proceeded to push open the door. As he did, heard a warm bell of laughter, of mixed voices, men, women in a way he hadn¡¯t heard in a while. This wasn¡¯t the raucous laughter of a drunk group - no, this was softer, more good-natured. Glider froze, door half-pushed open, foot in the air. Whatever he¡¯d expected after waking up from the storm, it hadn¡¯t been this. ¡°Hey there! You¡¯re awake!¡± cried the brown-haired woman standing by the bar. She dropped the mug she was cleaning and skipped over to him, pulling the door open and warmly clasping his shoulders. She was quite suddenly, very close to him, her eyes enthusiastically gazing at his with a smile, bright as a button. ¡°I¡¯m so glad to see you up and about! I wasn¡¯t sure when you were going to wake up - how are you feeling? What¡¯s your name?¡± Glider paused, slightly overwhelmed by the cascade of questions and energy, and shook his head. ¡°I uh. I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t remember very much. Where am I? What is this place?¡± Glider swayed and leaned against the door, wincing at his bruised side. ¡°Give him some space, Sel. Poor glider looks like he¡¯s had a rough time.¡± a lilting baritone voice came from behind Sel. The voice belonged to a smiling man wearing simple working clothes, brown trousers and a plain cotton shirt, roughly buttoned over his girth. He was tall, enormous, and looked as gentle as the teddy bear that Glider had hugged to bed when he was seven. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. If I may be so bold, this man gave off tremendous dad vibes. Then again, I never quite knew my father, but I¡¯d like to think he was half as nice as Hayte. He walked over, extending his hand. ¡°I¡¯m Hayte, and this here is Sel. Welcome to the Everlit Inn. I promise I¡¯ll answer all of your questions as much as you can, but first we¡¯ll get some food into you.¡± Glider opened his mouth to protest, then as he inhaled to speak, smelled something absolutely wonderful. His stomach growled ravenously. He swayed again into the doorframe. Next thing he knew, he was sitting down at a well-worn oak table, with two pairs of curious, and enthusiastic eyes watching him eat. He didn¡¯t enjoy the audience, but took one look at the plate of sizzling corn, dumplings, and soybeans, and forgot all else. Seconds later, the plate was empty. Glider blinked. He hadn¡¯t realised just how hungry he¡¯d been, but actually - Hayte slid another plate of food onto the table in front of him, and placed down a carved wooden cup of water. ¡°Eat, drink - your body needs it! You¡¯ll feel better, and more yourself.¡± Hayte almost beamed in delight at seeing Glider¡¯s appetite. Moments later, Glider was relaxing back against the wooden chairs, briefly content with the delicious hot meal, and the cool cup of water. That had been¡­ wonderful. Still though, he should probably figure out some things. Glider paused awkwardly, and stuttered slightly. ¡°Uh. Uh, well. Thanks for the food. It was delicious. So delicious. The most! But.. where am I? Last thing I remember I was gliding, and a sudden storm rolled in. I must have hit something or maybe a spell hit me?¡± Never let it be said that Glider was eloquent. But¡­ he was earnest. And that counted for a lot. Sel piped up eagerly ¡°You¡¯re at the Everlit! We¡¯re the best island around these parts, apart from maybe Nissin. But we¡¯re nicer!¡± Hayte chuckled, a fluting, lilting noise, and rested his bulk back into a chair opposite Glider. ¡°Sel¡¯s direct but not wrong. I like to think we¡¯re friendlier than the lot over in the big city. This is the Everlit Inn, on Everlit Island. My name is Hayte, and I help run the inn with Sel, a daughter of one of my close friends.¡± He paused for a second, then continued. ¡°About three days ago, we found you in one of our soybean fields, unconscious with debris all around you. I was out farming, tending to the ginger plants, tying them into proper little stems and all of a sudden I stumbled over you - soaked to the bone with a nasty bump on your side! Don¡¯t have much in the way of healers on Everlit, but we took you home, looked at your wounds, put you in a bed, and here you are.¡± Hayte sighed, shifting his weight slightly, as the chair creaked. Glider realised that it was a sound of puzzlement, the innkeeper¡¯s brows creasing over his brown eyes. Still, he radiated a warming paternal energy, as he put one hand on the table and looked earnestly into Glider¡¯s eyes. ¡°I¡¯m very glad to see you awake and well, but I¡¯m very confused. What happened to you? You look like you¡¯ve been through one of the Winter Storms, but we don¡¯t get there for months!¡± The patterns on Glider¡¯s planet are odd, in that they some follow fixed meteorological patterns, and some defy any categorisation or reason. Storms exist and follow defined paths, rain comes and goes in regular patterns - with one notable exception - but the wind is unpredictable and uncontrollable without the help of windeels or magic. The Winter Storms are a set of three storms, each which freeze a path throughout the skylands, predictable and defined. The islands themselves travel on fixed paths, perhaps some unexpected gift from Air, and occasionally cross paths with the storms, entering Winter for a while. Glider shivered briefly. ¡°I uh, I don¡¯t quite rightly know what happened, but some bits are coming back to me now. I was taking a delivery, one out here to Everlit? I remember flying a long way, stopping at some islands, the storm, sounds and voices but¡­ ¡± he placed his hand, fist over his heart, feeling an ache in his chest. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t make much sense, does it?¡± Haytes warm voice poured over him. There isn¡¯t a storm nearby for months of travel, and we haven¡¯t seen any signs of weather changing. Odd, and strange. Might be some windeels or other creatures playing some tricks on you, or maybe that crash you took really disoriented you. Not to worry. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll be well and healthy in no time.¡± He leaned back slightly, then turned to Sel. ¡°Sel, would you fetch the Glider¡¯s pack from the storeroom?¡± Sel jumped up eagerly, dashing to a small doorway behind the bar. She emerged moments later, clutching a brown pack, lashed and surrounded by a long length of twine. Glider recognised it immediately - a standard Glider¡¯s Guild issue travel pack, designed for lightweight travel and mild weather conditions, with minimal enchantment or expense. It was a staple for Gliders everywhere. He opened his pack, still feeling a strange hollowness inside him. It was his pack, he even recognised some belongings, a spare uniform, a seal of delivery, but something was still missing, it wasn¡¯t his compass or his sigil, those were thankfully still there but¡­ He suddenly stood, proceeding the last few comments that Hayte had made. Crashed. Storm. ¡°Hayte.¡± His voice shook, wavering and uncertain. ¡°Where¡¯s my glider?¡± Glider ¡°A glider isn¡¯t made, but built. It already exists, in your minds, in your imagination. The glider exists in its spiritual form. What we will be doing over the next six months is simply giving a physical form to it. Listening to it. Building both your partner and your home. Respect your glider, and it will serve you well.¡± Excerpt from Delfor¡¯s Guide to Gliding, Chapter Four Glider stared in abject horror. I¡¯ve learned that there are many emotional responses to bad news. Anger. Sadness. Horror. Bemusement. Uncontrolled laughter. This one was horror, complete with open-mouthed disbelief, cold chills and a heavy chest. Glider had spent two years painstakingly creating his glider. He had twisted hemp, sanded wood, oiled leather, and completed the hundreds of other miscellaneous tasks required to create even the most basic of gliders. Granted, he¡¯d only graduated two years ago, but it had already grown with him - white cloud patterns decorated the tarp, the paint a gift from a priority delivery who had been particularly pleased to have a new cake delivered in time for a ceremony. This though¡­ this¡­ ¡°What happened to it?!¡± Glider burst out. Sel and Hayte glanced sheepishly at each other, and Sel stepped forward apologetically. ¡°Well, it was all uh, all broken when you crashed here. We found it next to you all in bits and pieces, you see. So I tried to fix it!¡± Gliders have three components, an upper triangular frame creating the traditional arrowrhead shape, a tarp stretched over it for lift, and a lower set of stirrups and bars for stepping into, leaning on, or resting on while gliding. This glider however looked like it was created by an eldritch monstrosity who¡¯d been read a mistranslated version of The Little Glider Who Could by aliens living on a planet without gravity. The triangular frame was lopsided, and the stirrups were missing a foothold. Rolls of unfinished rope trailed down the ground, and the wood had been enthusiastically but informally patched with large daubs of¡­ ¡°Is that rice glue?¡± ¡°Yep! It¡¯s actually one of our specialities, made it myself! Well, whaddaya think?¡± asked Sel brightly ¡°I mean, it got really smashed up, but I thought you¡¯d want it slightly more fixed up than it being just in bits so¡­¡± Glider stared, running his hand through his dark hair sifting from the front of his hair, running his hand through his locks, his scalp, and back to the end of his head. And then he did so again. and again. He couldn¡¯t even think. His glider¡­ The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°Well¡­ uh¡­ it¡¯s¡­¡± Gliders voice trailed off as he searched for words. How to express what he couldn¡¯t even express to himself? The loss of freedom, autonomy, and purpose? His forever home, his partner, his sense of security? The loss of his destiny? The loss of his very own heart? Never let it be said that Glider lacked a dramatic streak. ¡°I uh¡­ I¡­¡± Hayte gently steered Sel out the door, whispering something in her ear, and walked back to Glider. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? If it¡¯s the damage, I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s fixable, we¡¯ve got the materials and the time to fix something up you can glide in again, but I¡¯m pretty sure you could just buy another glider, or get this one fixed by the guild, no?¡± Now, here¡¯s what you should know about Glider. Most other gliders customised their gliders too, a coat of paint there, but by and large, they bought their gliders pre-made. Just as a farmer wields a rake, but gives no thought to its construction beyond its usage, most gliders treated the vessels by which they traversed the skies with a practical, if unromantic, care. Glider was not one of these. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ I always wanted to be one of the original Gliders, you know? The ones from the stories. Explorers. Adventurers. Boldly exploring uncharted islands. I did everything they did! I built this glider myself. It took years. It doesn¡¯t even fly as well as some of the pre made ones, but it was¡­ mine.¡± Glider confessed, almost embarrassed. Why was he confessing to a total stranger? Hayte¡¯s face softened. ¡°I see. You really loved this glider, didn¡¯t you?¡± his voice gentle, and unjudging. Glider turned his head over his shoulder to glance at the remains of his glider, unable to say a word ¡°I¡¯ve met other gliders who use their gliders as a tool, like how I might use a watering can. But for you, it sounds like you had a pretty special and intimate relationship with this glider and that losing it was almost comparable to losing a loved one.¡± Glider froze, feeling the hollow ache in his chest again as he looked at his glider. ¡°That¡¯s a nice way of putting it. I¡¯m sorry. I don¡¯t mean to offend you and Sel¡¯s hospitality but¡­ ¡± Hayte placed his hand on Glider¡¯s shoulder, radiating dad vibes in a calm voice. ¡°Hush. It¡¯s perfectly right to grieve. Take as much time as you need. We¡¯ll give you some time.¡± he walked back into the room with the glider, and Glider dimly heard his voice calling for Sel, then a door opening and shutting at the far end of the room. Glider slowly walked towards the - the remains of his glider. He knelt down to touch the foothold frame, grasping the solid wooden piece, still smelling faintly of lacquer and stormwater. One foothold was missing, exposing a jagged break in the wood. It looked like it had snapped off in the crash. Glider swallowed, suddenly feeling lucky. He could so easily have lost his foot. In fact, he was curiously healthy given the condition of his glider, and the presumed storm and crash he had been through. Shaking his head physically to mentally shake off his thoughts, he leaned backwards and sat back on the ground, planting his hands behind him as he stared at the glider. The tarp was practically gone - previously anchored and tied in three different locations, two of those anchors had torn off, and only a third of the original fabric remained, loosely tied to one remaining anchor. A burlap fabric had been clumsily but earnestly sewn to replace the lost fabric, and hung off of the triangular frame. It was ridiculous. It didn¡¯t make any sense. It wouldn¡¯t work. Burlap was too heavy and wouldn¡¯t catch any wind whatsoever. But still¡­ Despite himself, Glider smiled briefly at the small handwritten note attached to the top of the tarp. ¡°Check what kind of fabric is best for tarps!!! Fix it up good!¡±. Easy enough to guess who wrote that message. Glider¡¯s hand caressed the strong treated fabric of the tarp, breathing in deeply. He thought of the hours spent collecting materials, trading favours for help from an experienced weaver to weave the tarp, painting the tarp with the traditional symbols for exploration and luck, begging and bargaining with the witch at the Guild to help enchant his glider for speed and lightness. He looked down at the broken remains of his glider, and his shoulders started to shake silently. A mixture of grief, gratitude, anger, and frustration boiled up inside him, and he started to weep. He hadn¡¯t just lost his glider, his freedom, and his livelihood. He¡¯d also lost his dream.