Chapter 24 — End of the Flight
Morning stretched long and bright across the land, then thinned into a clean blue that tasted of snow and woodsmoke.
We circled the city of Andilain one last time. Bells chimed somewhere below and kept chiming until the sound became part of the air. The sleigh glided without complaint.
The rails sang.
Even the harness bells sounded content rather than busy.
Chuck guided us along the base of the mountain where the immense capital sat.
We followed the dirt roads, still covered in snow, until we reached the market square where farmers sell their wares to travelers along the outer wall.
The first stalls were opening.
Lanterns winked in doorways. A woman stepped outside with a broom and paused to wipe her eyes with the back of her wrist. She didn’t notice us…just leaned on the handle and listened to a quiet only she could hear.
“Last pass,” Chuck said. His voice starting to sound tired, with a hint of gravel to it. “Then home.”
“Why Andilain?” Dax asked with a lazy grin, feet on the railing, chewing on a dead cigar.
“Aren’t you curious how far this has affected our world?” Chuck asked. “How it’s affected the largest population?”
The coal in his pocket kept a steady warmth. The scraps of the bear glowed where it sat between us. No pulse. No urgency. Just that soft approval that had threaded our whole morning.
We skimmed the old north wall, flying over the water channel of the whole city. Fresh mortar filled the cracks. Someone had hung evergreen across many of the stones, not for holiday, but for thanks. At the far end, where the wall once fell away into rubble, Gwen’s rune had been chalked on a new arch.
The chalk glittered in the light.
“Who drew that,” I asked.
“My guess is someone who understands,” Chuck said.
We turned east, up and over the main wall…swooping down towards the various sections of the city. We slowed as children ran along the high road and kept pace for a time, cheeks red, breath steaming.
Dax waved both arms, then nearly fell out of the sleigh and had to grab the rail.
The children shrieked with laughter.
I wrote that down.
History is built on the moments that keep people laughing.
The city dropped behind us. Forest rose ahead. The trees were dressed in frost that caught the sun until whole swathes of hillside looked like spilled sugar. We flew low between the trunks where shadow still held the night. The reindeer spirits moved their heads and their breath made little clouds that drifted behind us in neat rows.
“Question,” Dax said. “How many souls did we accidentally save?”
“No way to tell,” I said. “The only way we’ll know is watching for variance over time.”
“High variance,” he said.
“That would definitely be a sign…but not completely accurate.”
Chuck laughed and let the sleigh climb. We broke out above the trees and the world widened. Lakes lay scattered like old mirrors. Far out on the tundra a caravan moved in a thin line, tents already packed, sleds pointed south. We watched a woman kneel in the snow and lift her face to the sun. She held her hands like she was warming them at an invisible fire.
“Do you hear it,” Chuck asked.
“Hear what,” I said.
“The relief,” he said. “It has a sound.”
I listened. Wind played the railings and made a low silver hum. Distant water cracked on a lake. Farther still, someone sang to a baby and did not mind the tune. That must have been it.
The world sounded like people who had set something heavy down.
We angled toward the shore. The sea waited calm and flat, a great piece of metal hammered smooth and left to cool. The aurora had thinned to pale threads. Daylight owned everything else. Still, when we looked out toward the horizon, a faint band of green pressed against the line where water met sky.
The old promise had not left.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
Chuck shrugged. “I think it’s about time for that drink.”
Dax grinned. “Now yer talkin.”
Chuck took the coal from his pocket and lifted it so the light moved across his fingers. The rune on its face caught a spark and held it. He closed his hand and rested his fist over his heart.
He took a deep breath and let it out. “That,…was definitely an adventure, boys.”
We turned inland again, following a thin ribbon of road until the hills opened into the wide pasture north of the Tavern of Lost Causes. Smoke lifted from the tavern chimney and drew a line through the clear air. Fresh boards patched the roof. Someone had raised a little pole out front and hung a small sock on it.
Not a stocking. A sock.
Honest and neat and already stiff with frost.
Dax saw it first. “That for us?”
“No clue,” Chuck said. “But we’re about to find out.”
He brought us down in the pasture. Snow puffed around the runners and sat back into itself. The reindeer stepped forward, hooves ringing on the packed crust. The sleigh settled. The rails purred once and then went quiet.
I closed my ledger and set my quill across the top.
We sat there a while without getting out.
Even Dax held still.
The cold pushed in a little, then thought better of it. The coal warmed the pocket it lived in. The bear scraps dimmed to a stitch of gold that matched the color of light on the tavern windows.
“You ever think about how many lives you changed over the years,” Dax asked. He said it to the air so Chuck could ignore him if he wanted.
“Every day,” Chuck said. “Which is why I stopped keeping score.”
“Healthy,” Dax said. “Maybe I’ll try that.”
“No you won’t,” I said.
“No,” Dax snorted. “Probably not.”
Chuck climbed down first. Snow creaked under his boots. He stood with his hands in his coat and stared at the tavern long enough for the door to open. The owner leaned out and peered across the yard. He saw us, or thought he did.
He did not wave. He simply nodded once and set a cup on the stoop for the cold steam to take.
We followed Chuck toward the fence.
“Time,” he said.
“For what,” I asked.
“For being ordinary,” he said. “It is the hardest good.”
Dax grunted. “One drink first.”
“Three,” Chuck said. “To get a jump start.”
“You’re buyin’,” Dax said.
Chuck opened his mouth, then stopped. He slowly grinned. “My treat.”
I took my spectacles off and wiped the corners with my sleeve. The cloth had frozen sweat on it. The lenses smeared. I put them back on and saw worse than before.
That felt right.
“Entry,” I said under my breath. “End of the flight. Condition of crew, improved. Condition of world, receptive. Conclusion, mercy is contagious when given permission.”
I tucked the ledger away.
Chuck looked at me. The coal was back in his pocket, his shoulders directly under his head…and nothing heavy was on them.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what,” I asked.
“For keeping the truth when I was too tired to carry it,” he said. “For mocking me when I deserved it. For making me laugh before I remembered how.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, and my voice cracked on the second word, which I will deny later. “Uncle Chuck.”
That made him smile. “I told your father you were going to be someone special.” He gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “Appreciate you proving me right.”
Dax coughed and looked away. “We going to stand here crying until the river freezes solid or we going to drink?”
“Eat first,” Chuck said. He opened the gate toward the tavern, then stopped and turned back to the sleigh. He walked to the rail and rested his palm on the warm wood.
“Rest,” he told it. “You’ve earned it.”
The bells gave a tiny friendly reply. The reindeer lowered their heads and nosed the snow like horses looking for grass. For a moment I could see through them to the pasture beyond. Then they deepened into slid color.
Myths purposefully stepping down.
The tavern door opened wide and heat pressed against our faces. Someone laughed inside. Someone else argued about the price of eggs. A stringed instrument complained in the corner while its owner tuned it. The sound made a knot open between my shoulders.
“After you,” Chuck said.
I bowed and swept my arm and ruined the bow by nearly tripping on the threshold. Dax laughed. I wrote that down in my head and promised myself I would pretend it never happened.
We took a table near the hearth.
A girl brought bread and thick stew and something that called itself coffee. It tasted like repentance with cream. We ate without hurry. People came and went. Some glanced our way. None stared.
The world had better things to do than point.
When we finished, Chuck set a coin on the table and stood. He looked around the room like a man who had been away too long from something that never stopped waiting. He nodded to the hearth. He nodded to the door. He nodded to us.
“End of the flight,” he said.
“End of the flight,” I echoed.
“Well I ain’t leavin’,” Dax snorted, “cause the drinking hasn’t ended.”
“You have coin, monkey?” Chuck asked.
Large green hands patted pockets you couldn’t see. He grumbled. He grunted. “End of the flight,” he sighed.
We stepped back into the cold. The sky had turned that pale blue you only get when the day is young and confident. Smoke climbed straight up. The sleigh had vanished. The reindeer were gone too. The pasture lay quiet where we had landed.
Footprints already softened where our boots had pressed.
“Home,” Chuck said again. It fit better the second time.
We walked together toward the fence, then along it to the path that would take us to everything that still needed doing.
The aurora had gone.
I opened my ledger one last time and wrote three words.
“Entry complete. Peace.”
