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(A little lost? Read the Intro, the Prelude, and if you’re game, Chapter One)

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Arc II, Chapter Three

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Maedoc sat in a chair, his arms bolted to the armrests with thick metal bands.

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Radiant golden light served as Maedoc’s savior, breaking him away from the frightful scene. Sleep slowly seeped from his body as it woke from its slumber. Sunlight beamed through in a chorus of buttery lines, all but impervious to the window’s old and molded shutters.

Within the scope of a wary blink, the boy made sure there were no invasive funnels looming above his skull. After a patting of his scalp with not one, but both hands, he determined his surroundings to be secure.

Waiting one extra second, just to be sure, he then allowed himself an exhale of relief.

It felt good, to lay in a room free of strange and imminent dangers.

Maedoc grabbed his pillow and snuggled into it with vigor. His eyes closed softly as he relished his perfectly empty mind.

This peace was short-lived, for Maedoc suddenly remembered his Ray. Face erupting open in shock, he eyed his perfectly empty hands with dismay.

Where had it gone?

Adrenaline coursed back through his body as though it’d never left, his fingers raking the sheets with no small sense of urgency.

I can’t have lost it . . . !

Upon him reaching his pillow, his fingers dove beneath it and brushed against a smooth cylinder. Cool to the touch. Slightly carrot shaped. Maedoc smiled with relief, his search concluded.

Pulling it from its cottony depths, he studied its dazzling sheen under the filtered sunlight. Perhaps it was due to the natural lighting, but he found himself noticing colors he hadn’t before. Much like the interior of an oyster’s shell, the silvery hue contained within it a pearlescent smattering of tiny blues, greens, pinks, golds — all colors appeared accounted for.

As he spun it slowly between his fingers, they readily drank in the Aether’s otherworldly sensation. Subtle energy spun its way up his arms, reaching his heart in record speed. Like a cool, clean breeze from a hilltop’s perch, he found himself feeling quite minty and invigorated.

The boy gave the air a sniff, half expecting the smell of grass, wet soil and pine. No such luck.

He gave his pillow a probing stare, weighing his options. To stay in bed, or . . .

Ah! Suddenly the entirety of last night marched across his brain. The bar. The twins. The match. The loosening of his heart’s stitching, or whatever the hell that was.

It was all too bizarre. He was thirsty for answers.

His mind made up, he leapt out of bed. A little too eagerly as it turned out, for he very nearly fell flat on his face. The blanket had grown attached to his foot and did its best to deny him his escape. Landing on his knees, Maedoc bit his lip as he held back a variety of verbal garbage.

Getting to his feet more carefully this time, he approached the stacking of crates he considered a chest-of-drawers. Grabbing whatever looked clean, he dressed himself and hopped his way down the stairs.

Door slamming open, Maedoc emerged from the back entrance of the bar with a formidable gusto. He wouldn’t be needed back until late evening. The fields were freshly harvested at this time, so his presence wasn’t required until the planting of autumn crops a few weeks later.

He had almost the entire day to himself.

Grinning ear to ear, he set off towards the mill, eager to seek answers to his dizzying array of mysteries.

“What are you doing, smiling so big?” he heard a girl say.

Another girl chimed in. “You look like an idiot.”

Peering to his left, he witnessed a trio of young ladies who shared his age, and were thus quite mean.

Aila, Adaira, and Annis were their names, respectful of their ordering from left to right. This order never changed, and whatever attempted to shuffle them never succeeded. As yielding as water, they regrouped instantly upon division.

If only they could show a sliver of that same camaraderie with boys, Maedoc wished silently.

Instead they were the human manifestation of venom.

Adaira marched forward, hands affixed to her hips, squinting hard at the face that had so irked her. Maedoc felt a little like he was under a magnifying glass. Being held by a sun.

“What are you, drunk?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Maedoc exhaled dully. “I work at the Glen, so of course I’m drunk all the—”

“He smells like beer.”

“I know. It’s gross.”

Annis and Aila chimed their contributions from the back. At this point in his life, Maedoc was well aware there was no winning with a teenaged trio of girls.

“I don’t even like beer . . . ” he mumbled, looking for a graceful exit. He was typically unable to find one, instead relying on long pauses and awkward segues as his sole methods of escape.

” . . . so I’m gonna continue not liking beer in this direction,” Maedoc quipped lamely, hobbling his way out of the conversation in a stiff, mechanical manner.

“Wait,” Adaira stated, her tone impassive and therefore impossible to predict in terms of emotional damage. Maedoc slowed to a stop, looking off in the distance as he awaited his sentencing.

“You really arm-wrestled those twins?”

The boy’s ears perked up. He turned to face her. Maedoc had failed to think of how the town might react to him getting in what was essentially a seated barroom brawl.

“Well, yeah. Err, one of them. And I didn’t win or nothin’,” he mumbled in reply, his cheeks reddening slowly. He stuck his hands in his pockets, for this maneuver offered him just the slightest bit of comfort. Adaira’s eyes were squinted and deeply studious, yet curiously lacking their typical malice.

She then looked down at the dirt, lifting her heel as she ground the tip of her shoe into the grass. Without lifting her gaze, she spoke quietly.

“They live in the house next to mine. And they’re such a pain,” she muttered. “Always banging on the furniture, yelling at each other. Doing their dumb, synced up laugh. But not last night.”

After a short pause, she looked back up at Maedoc. Her eyes were fierce, yet curious.

“Last night they were dead silent.”

Annis and Aila gave each other looks. They appeared clueless as to where this was going. For once, Maedoc and them saw eye to eye.

“This morning I heard what happened at the Glen,” Adaira continued, her face scrunched in a puzzled expression. “Those boys left in a hurry, even though Bearnard won.

“I can’t figure it out. What did you do?”

Maedoc was floored. He barely knew anything about it himself. And here he was, being interrogated by someone who wasn’t even there.

This was turning into a bit of a thorny situation.

“I . . .  Well, I . . .  Um . . . ”

He wiggled the fingers in his right pocket. The Ray lay buried at the bottom, rolling in place from his touch. Should he tell them? What would he say? Would they even believe him?

“I . . .  guess he was just surprised I took so long to beat,” Maedoc said finally, looking at his feet. “I mean, look at this arm,” he joked, flexing his spindly limb. “No one would expect much from it, right?” He gave it a few playful pumps, conjuring muscles of an uninspiring nature.

Maedoc’s mind was racing as he performed his misdirection. Choosing to evade the question felt right for now. This was already becoming a bigger mess than he had hoped for. Telling others what happened wouldn’t help one bit. Not until he knew more himself.

Despite his best efforts, Adaira failed to budge. She stood still as a statue, adorned with a probing stare that reminded him much of Cynwrig. The only difference was the utter lack of mirth.

After what felt like a lifetime, she spoke.

“Maybe . . . ”

Her gaze softened as she looked off in the distance, lost in thought.

“Well,” she began, having apparently made up her mind, “for once I got a proper beauty rest. So, thanks for shutting them up.” She looked at Maedoc in a militant fashion and gave him a quick, acknowledging nod.

Maybe he was an easy youth to impress, but Maedoc found himself experiencing chills up his entirety.

“I . . .  Sure.”

Satisfied with the exchange, Adaira marched herself across the road. Annis and Aila were not used to polite exits, thus they were unsure of what to do with their mouths and faces. They simultaneously settled on them doing nothing at all, and quickly followed after Adaira with blank expressions adorned.

Maedoc took a deep breath as he pulled his hands from their burrows. Unfurling them, he noticed they had become rather dewy from the encounter. He wondered if Adaira could tell he was lying? The boy mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. Upon inspecting it, he found zero moisture.

This was comforting.

Wasting no time, he briskly made his way up the winding road of compacted soil and stone. The sails of the windmill could be seen faintly in the distance, further up the misty hill Donnegal rested on.

Maedoc had zero desire to have any more probing questions launched at him before he reached his destination. He picked up his pace until he was nearly at a sprint. This served double duty, for he figured that if he was already sweating when questioned, no one could ever tell he was fibbing. It was a foolproof defense.

He was never able to test this perfectly crafted scheme, for the road remained empty until he reached the acre of land surrounding the mill. Long grass swayed gently in the cool and silent breeze, which ate away any tension Maedoc was feeling up until now.

All that awaited him now were answers. Freedom from the mental burdens of mystery and confusion was imminent. Excitement was beginning to swell up inside him.

” . . .  aaaeeeeedoc . . . ”

The boy held his breath, certain that he heard a man’s yell. He froze, uncertain if it was friendly or malicious in nature. That’s the thing about yells; they all sound so very similar.

“Uuup heeere . . .  stuuuupid . . . ”

Maedoc’s face fell flat. At least it wasn’t endangering — not yet anyways. Though he wouldn’t consider it all that friendly, either. Cynwrig was always one to tread that thin line between best bud and best bully.

The voice identified, he set about trying to locate it. All Maedoc knew was that it was further uphill, near the mill itself. The sun was directly behind it, thus he was going in essentially blind.

“I can’t see you! Where are you, Wrig!” Maedoc yelled in return. He squinted at the mill as he approached it, unable to see anything resembling a man. The youth stood before the mill for a moment, utterly lost. He began to despair that he was being subtly coerced into a game of hide and seek.

He hated hide and seek.

“Lo, Maedoc.”

The boy looked up to see a wiry silhouette standing on the roof, waving at him slowly.

“Could you really not see me? I’d never have thought the roof was a good hiding place. But it must be!” he mused to himself. “What else could explain this embarrassing display . . . ”

“Hey now, who would expect to see you on the roof!? I assumed you’d be on the ground like a normal person,” Maedoc retorted in a huff.

Cynwrig laughed. “Hah, don’t mind me. Most everyone expects typical human behavior of their peers. It’s a rather large trap we place ourselves in, cognitively.” He twirled a tuft of hair from his beard, looking off at the seas beyond the village.

“Logic and probability — damnation in disguise.”

The boy scrunched his face as he computed what he was being told. Cynwrig interjected a second later.

“Seriously though, don’t mind me. And don’t you go telling your instructor I said these things. She’s already certain I’m an educational contagion.”

Before Maedoc could blink, the silhouette vanished from sight. “Wrig?” he asked aloud, eyes burning from what was certainly far too much sun exposure. “You still there?”

In response, a spindly ladder slid down from the roof, sticking a perfect landing as it struck the ground a foot from Maedoc’s body. The boy winced in surprise, but let it be known that he did not yelp.

“Climb on up. Give me a hand, will you? Let’s fix this sucker while it’s sunny out.”

The man once again disappeared. Maedoc felt like he was trying to corner a mole in a fiendishly large field.

He took hold of the ladder and hoisted himself up, relieved that he would finally get to spill all that had happened to him. Keeping it a secret had taken its toll on him, and he felt ripe to explode. Each rung he summited felt like a stitch being undone from his lips. As he neared the top, he could hardly keep the words in.

Blinded by golden light, he breached the skyline with crinkled eyes. One final push boosted his body over the edge of the roof. Steadying himself on all fours, he waited patiently for his eyesight to return before attempting any movement.

But he was still able to speak without a problem.

“The MacRath twins are . . .  they’re . . . !”

Maedoc suddenly realized that he had no idea how to communicate any of this. At least, not in a single sentence.

“They’re a real pain in the ass, I know it. Hey, come here and hold this steady for me.” Cynwrig could be heard near the opposite end of the rooftop, dragging something along its surface.

Maedoc opened his eyes to a slit, slowly adjusting to the intensity of the morning sun. A hunched figure could be seen lugging a rather large square — almost half his height — to the other end of the roof. Finding his bearings, he eased his way up to a standing position and shakily tip-toed his way over. The roof was flat and fairly safe, but the ominous creaking that each step summoned had Maedoc thinking safety first.

Suddenly remembering that he was on a mill, he ducked his head. Any incoming breeze could cause the sails to spin and knock him off the roof, potentially breaking his spine and forever leaving him a vegetable. Much like the sorts he harvested for a living.

The beautiful irony of it was not lost on him, but he had no interest in becoming an artistic statement.

Craning his head towards the middle of the roof, he was surprised to find that the sails had been tied down. Maedoc was impressed, for he had seen the sails at full mast only moments before. That old man sure can move.

It seemed the only thing that would be crippling him today would be his own none-too-bountiful grace.

Taking a deep breath, Maedoc took his final steps and knelt down next to Cynwrig’s mysterious task. A chunk of the roof had been removed, and the wooden beams that made up the roof’s foundation could be seen through the hole. His opportunity to speak now secured, he decided to begin his story.

“Here Lassie, take the brush and splash a bunch of that goop along this beam.”

Cynwrig used his sizable eyebrows to point him to a tin bucket full of what appeared to be black slime. In the next second he wrangled them in the opposite direction, pointing to a particular beam that the boy was somehow able to identify.

A sticky looking painter’s brush lay across the bucket’s opening. Taking a wary sniff, he could detect an acrid, rubbery scent permeating the air. Wrinkling his nose, Maedoc grabbed the brush apprehensively and began to paint.

Not letting his chance slip away a second time, he began speaking right away.

“Hey Wrig. Something odd happened last night.”

The man must have had an expository sixth sense, for Cynwrig immediately stepped in front of his oversized roof tile, tilted it forward a smidgeon, and leaned back against it with arms folded. Miraculously, it held him up just right. It was easily the most peculiar chair Maedoc had ever seen.

“Something odd, eh? Sounds like my kind of story. Please, go on.”

Thankful for the warm invitation to divulge, Maedoc wasted no time getting his beans spilled.

“Well, for starters, I got in a fight.”

Cynwrig just about fell off his tile as he rolled his head back in shock. “You got in a fight? You’re the most mild mannered youth I’ve ever known! There are pine cones more aggressive than you, Maedoc.”

It was true, Maedoc was not one to seek out altercations. He already felt misplaced in Donnegal. Violence against other villagers wouldn’t earn him any points. Nor would rudeness, talking back, or even standing in someone’s path. He did his best not to be a burden in any way possible.

It’s also worth noting that when pine cones fell from the local trees, they hurt. They were quite large, with pointy little spikes on each — no, no, stay focused! Maedoc wrangled his brain back on track.

“Yeah. Well, I mean, it was like a fight. An invisible fight. But physically we were just arm-wrestling.”

Cynwrig stared at the boy, transfixed. His face was entirely unreadable.

“Though before that, I walked next to them and felt this weird panic. As though the air became heavy, and my heart got all leaden, like it was being squeezed . . .  Wrig?”

The man’s eyes had widened to maximum capacity.

“You . . . ” he stammered with some surprise, “are the worst at telling stories. Dear Lord . . . ”

Maedoc blinked as Cynwrig looked off in the distance, brows furrowed. He stroked his beard once, then twice, before he spoke again.

“Alright. Maedoc, let’s start from the beginning. Where was this?”

Aware that he was spilling his beans most haphazardly, the boy nodded to himself and began again.

“Last night, after I left the mill, I went to the Glen for my closing shift. In the beginning it was all pretty normal. Same people, same chores — but I was curious to try out that Ray you gave me. I wondered if it would do, you know, what you said it would do. Show me who was dark.”

“Yes. Yes. Go on.” Cynwrig wore a face that revealed nothing. Maedoc, having exhausted the brush of its viscous cargo, dunked it once more into the grimy can as he continued its application.

“Well, I walked through the bar, real quick at first, didn’t notice anything. A little later I went to clean up the MacRath twins’ table. And that’s when it began. That anxiety. I came back and forth a few times and I can guarantee it, that feeling was felt only around them.”

“Really now . . . ” Cynwrig mumbled, mainly to himself. “And you had the Ray on you during these moments?”

Maedoc nodded silently. The man across him looked glum, and as serious as he had ever been, and yet the boy could tell something was bubbling underneath the surface. But what?

“I see. Yes. Right. Well, it’s clear then,” Cynwrig spoke, quick and resolute. “The MacRath twins are NOBs.”

“They’re a — knob?”

“Well, sure, they’re likely equivalent to a conventional knob, but they’re also NOBs. N-O-B,” he mouthed, writing the letters out into the air. “It’s an acronym that stands for ‘negatively oriented being. Guess I’ll call them N.O.Bs for now, avoid the confusion.'”

Maedoc opened his mouth to continue questioning, but Cynwrig raised a finger and spoke first.

“I know, I know. You wouldn’t think so, right? Those twins are mainly little comedians, cracking their myriad jokes. Most would never think to call them negative. At least, not on the outside.”

Appearing to finally tire of his makeshift seat, he turned to set the roof tile on the ground, slowly kneeling as he set it down carefully.

“That was starting to smart.”

With the speed of a scorpion’s sting, he whipped his head around and spoke with eyes burning, “but if the Aether reacts, and the air becomes anxious, that person’s an N.O.B! It’s simple as that.”

Cynwrig closed his eyes slowly, drawing out his breath as he appeared to relax slightly.

“An individual can lie in a million directions, but physics will always reveal the truth. You just have to look deep enough.”

Maedoc was taken aback by the sudden vigor being displayed. He remembered Cynwrig darkening a little when he first discussed the concept of negative individuals, so he couldn’t say this reaction surprised him too much. It did make him wonder all the more what had happened to the man to make him so reactionary to the topic.

Shifting gears, the boy could affirm without a doubt that the Ray had stirred up something nasty in Bearnard. It was the only possible explanation for why last night was different from the hundreds upon hundreds of other nights. Be that as it was, Maedoc didn’t yet share Cynwrig’s certainty.

“So Wrig, I’m a little lost. I’ve got a few questions.”

Cynwrig squinted as his eyebrows rose playfully. “Oh? Let’s hear them.”

“Just two actually. My first one, uh — it’s more of a general confusion, I guess. You say that whoever causes a reaction from Aether is an N.O.B. We’re both pretty sure that the twins are N.O.Bs. But here’s the thing, I did a quick walk through the bar, and I definitely passed by them and didn’t feel anything happen. No nervousness. No Aether, uh . . .  spurt. Nothing. Why did it happen later, and not then?”

Cynwrig spoke almost immediately. “Well, Lassie, you mention a quick walk. I have to ask, how quick?”

Maedoc raised his fingers and mimicked legs with them. Pointer and middle finger showcased the quick trot he had performed the night before. Cynwrig raised an eyebrow at the display, but was satisfied enough.

“That’s an awfully quick trek. Not much time at all for your piece to ‘bite into’ anything. From what little experience I have with this aspect of Aether, I can tell you this: a tangibly strong reaction takes a little time. Half a minute, I’d say. Maybe more, maybe less. Depends on the person.”

Maedoc nodded intently.

“So if I were to guess, you being near the twins for a longer duration is what revealed the anxiety. Or, I should say, it was what allowed you a glimpse into what they really are.”

Maedoc nodded, but slower this time. It seemed that the more he had to digest mentally, the less speed he was able to allocate to the rest of his body.

He shuddered as he considered what it would be like to live in Bearnard’s shoes. To have a heart that, at least to him, felt so massively dark and suffocating.

Tearing himself away from this morbid line of thinking, he pressed on.

“Okay. Second question. Is there any way the Aether can react, but the person near it isn’t a . . .  a N.O.B?”

Cynwrig crossed his legs as he summoned his first mirthful grin of the morning. “Now there’s a question. Good thinking. How horrible would it be, if your Ray gave you a false positive? Think of the friends one could lose. The family that could potentially be distanced. You’re very right to ask these inquiries.”

A second passed. Then ten. Cynwrig looked down at his knees, searching for an answer. Once it hit the fifteen second mark, Maedoc leaned down to get a look at the man’s face. Was he still awake?

The second the boy moved, Cynwrig spoke.

” . . . the thing is, Aether can react to all manners of negative phenomena, which can take place next to you, or many miles away. Even a world away. Energy of this nature is not bound by time and space. It can be in multiple places at once, being extra-dimensional and all. If some form of, shall we say, darkly polarized energy interacts with it, no matter where it originates from, you will notice a surge in the Aether’s activity.

“That being said, nothing really compares to the surge you get when an N.O.B is in proximity. The sensation is in a league of its own. That, coupled with the tell-tale sickly anxiety, is typically enough for you to know what you’re dealing with.”

Cynwrig nodded to himself, satisfied with his answer. He then froze, exclaimed a soft “ah!”, and stuck his finger in the black goop Maedoc had finished slathering earlier. Bringing his finger up to eye level, he squished it against his thumb, gauging its stickiness.

“Hmm! Better stick this fella on now, before it hardens. Please, continue.”

Maedoc watched the man hoist up the massive tile before he spoke again.

“Yes. Well, don’t ask me how, but I ended up volunteering to arm-wrestle Bearnard. There wasn’t any other option.”

Cynwrig, standing next to his upright tile as he calibrated its descent, looked up to eye Maedoc imploringly. It seemed the man would not accept convenient plot shortcuts.

” . . . if I didn’t, they would’ve bugged everyone in the bar for the rest of the night. They were being a royal pain. You should’ve seen the way the customers looked at me, Wrig. It was like I was their only hope.”

Thinking back to what he felt at the time, Maedoc remembered perceiving only the fear and pressure of the situation. There was no room to perceive the third feeling, one that the boy had never encountered before.

A hint of heroism.

Only now, upon being free of the situation, did he possess the emotional space for it to unfurl.

” . . . and I liked it. Yes, I liked it. I liked being hope.”

Cynwrig’s gaze softened a little. “Yeah, it’s something, isn’t it? Being the light. Not many get to feel that these days.”

A goofy smile crept across Maedoc’s face. “Hah, well, gee, I dunno about being the light or anything, but yeah, it was something different, alright.”

His calibration complete, Cynwrig commenced his lowering of the roof tile into place, gently allowing it to descend upon the gummied wooden beams. Exhaling with relief once it landed, he wiped his fingers on his pants and planted his feet on top of his handiwork.

“Just needs a little pressure before it’ll bond . . .  Right, now then, you found yourself drafted into this dueling of dunces. Dunces who, from what you perceived, gave off a feeling of anxiety due to the Aether. Now I have to ask, upon encountering this, did you think to use the Aether to combat it?”

Maedoc’s insides lit up like the horizon. A pride of his own ingenuity sprang forth. He had indeed thought to do just that, and further still.

“Yes! I almost forgot. That anxiety that I felt around them, it was — sticky. It hung onto me, even after I walked away. All I had to do was put the Aether in my hand, and it would go away in less than a minute. It was truly, truly amazing.”

“That’s good to hear, Maedoc! You always seemed to me a bright boy, an aware and sensitive boy, and thus a terribly anxious boy. Those with constitutions like yours tend to pick up on others’ energy the strongest. In a perfect world, that would be considered quite the gift. But I wouldn’t describe ours in that manner. Not yet.”

The boy cocked his head as his self image did a somersault. Maedoc would never have thought that his emotional permeability to his surroundings could be considered a gift in any sense. It only seemed to hinder him, or cause him to lock up and lose the ability to think entirely. He had felt that way for as long as he could remember.

“Yeah, I get anxious sometimes. Or, sure, a lot of the time. But I think it’s only because that’s who I am. Stuff makes me anxious. It’s how I was born. I’ll admit it, you were right, some people — well, at least two — can make me anxious just by being near them. But are people like that — I mean, are N.O.Bs,” he corrected himself, “the only source of that? That seems impossible to me.”

The old man nodded in agreement.

“You’re right, it does seem impossible. I’ve wondered the same thing too.”

A cool breeze wafted over the roof’s surface, funneling straight through Maedoc’s shirt and chilling his bones. Looking down he realized there was not one, but two medium sized holes directly below his right armpit. He groaned silently to himself. Wardrobe maintenance was never his specialty. Covering the exposure with his upper arm, he returned his focus to Cynwrig’s words.

“All I can say is this. Whether it’s in your head, or a product of your surroundings, Aether is somehow able to make it vanish. Aether is manifesting a continuous source of positive energy at all times, which leads me to think that anxiety is related to negative energy in some manner. And I’ll tell you what, negative energy is harder to conjure than you might think. It’s not the same as a bad mood. Only a certain degree of darkness can access it.”

Every time the man mentioned darkness, or negativity, or any of these amorphous meanings, Maedoc had no idea what to make of it. These weren’t terms the boy was used to taking seriously. They were vague descriptions of personality and mood, at best. To see them as tangible qualities — qualities that directly affected his well-being — was putting a hurt on his brain.

“So, to sum up, I really don’t have a good answer for you. We’re all still figuring this out. All I can say is to be vigilant. Be observant. Make note of every possible aspect and detail of your situation until you arrive at the truth. This is as scientific and genuinely honest a route that we can take. True Aethernaut style,” he finished as he flashed a grin and a thumbs up.

“Anywho, we’re getting carried away. Please, go on.”

“Wait, wait,” Maedoc interjected, “what’s this new word, Aethernaut? Aether, Aethretics, Aethernaut . . .  how many of these new terms are there?” He should have expected this by now, but the instant he struggled over a concept, a new one was piled on top. The boy imagined this must be similar to how it feels to drown in a lake.

Cynwrig stifled a laugh. “I think that about exhausts the list, boy-o. I’m not coming up with these for the sake of unique lingo, you know. It’s an entirely new field. Thus, we require an entirely new vocabulary. Or, at the very least, a few words.”

Clearing his throat, he continued. “The concept of an Aethernaut is nothing complex. It doesn’t take training, nor certification, but instead a particular philosophical drive. It’s a man or a woman who is driven to pursue Aether technology and its effects on ourselves and our reality. To follow the path it unravels to the absolute deepest truth, no matter how gruesome or inconvenient.” Cynwrig, expending every last bit of oxygen to utter the last line, took a deep inhale before finishing.

“And, upon arriving at that truth, taking ultimate responsibility for it.”

Maedoc chewed over these words in his mind.

“Ultimate responsibility is awful vague, Wrig. Would that person have to, like, kill or something?” A small sense of dread began to creep up his neck.

Cynwrig shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. I really don’t. To be honest, I’m new to this boat myself. All I’ve been told is that the deeper one peels back the subtle energy curtain, the more distressing the data one will find. But, again, I’ve only heard rumors, seen shadows. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Besides,” the man concluded, “it’s not a job or anything. You’re not sworn in for life. It’s simply a title to describe a sort of individual, nothing more. Consider it a personality type, or a rather strong hobby. If you don’t like what you see, turn tail and run. Or, at least, that’s how I was told,” Cynwrig shrugged.

How he was told. The man kept saying this.

“So, who told you all this? Is it the same person who gave you the Aether?” Maedoc asked.

“It is, and we’ll have plenty of time to talk about him, but if we do I fear we’ll lose the rest of this story to the abyss. Please, please, go on.”

“Alright, alright, well, I sat down, or rather, I was sat down by Frang, and we were about to start, but I — I was so shaky from this nervous energy that it, well, it was embarrassing. I didn’t want anyone to see that.”

Cynwrig nodded understandingly.

“So I took my time. I asked questions, made jokes. Anything to give me a chance to recover. Holding the Ray did help, but it wasn’t like before, when I had my own space. It seemed like it couldn’t make it go away fast enough. Which, I guess, makes sense. If those two are the source of anxiety — being right next to them would make that tough,” Maedoc reasoned aloud. Cynwrig nodded again.

“The next part is real odd. As I whittled away the seconds, I decided to change the way I held the Ray. A little part of me wanted it to point at Bearnard, like a little spear. It just felt right. And almost right away, he got real serious. All I did was flip the Ray towards him,” the boy mumbled, eyes squinting down at the roof with evident confusion. He looked back to Cynwrig for answers, but he was squinting much like he was. The man chewed his lip a moment, and then—

“OF COURSE!” he bellowed, almost knocking Maedoc to his feet through sheer sound. Cynwrig couldn’t keep still as he walked himself in a loose circle, smacking himself on the forehead with no small sense of surprise and self directed dismay.

“I can’t believe I forgot. Your Ray, my boy, it’s a directional item!”

Maedoc found himself unable to relieve his squint, for he was entirely unaware of what he meant.

“It has range! But only in a particular direction. In this case, it’s towards the tapered end. Here, bring out your Ray,” Cynwrig requested in earnest, holding his hand out hungrily. Upon fetching it from his pocket, the man snatched it off his palm.

“Let’s see if I’m correct . . . ”

Holding the Ray in his right hand, he leaned forward as he placed the tapered end just an inch away from his left palm. A few seconds passed before a smile crept across his face.

“Yup. Just as it should. Hold out your palm.”

Maedoc, eager to get to the bottom of this, wasted no time in presenting it. The man turned his palm until it faced left, then angled the Ray so that the tapered end was facing directly into the palm’s center.

“Give it a moment. Feeling ranged energy is a somewhat more subtle process.”

Even more subtle than holding Aether? Memories surfaced of his painfully slow introduction to the sensation of energy. Maedoc quieted his breath, unconsciously assuming this would help him pick up on the subtlety, as he placed all his attention on what his palm was perceiving.

The morning breeze breathed lazily between his fingers. The sun’s rays heated the back of his hand ever so slightly, creating a small but pleasant contrast. He waited for something to happen.

Upon taking his next breath, that something did happen.

At first, it felt like the precise inch of skin the Ray was pointing to felt heavier. Thicker. This feeling soaked down through the palm under it reached the muscle and bone lying underneath.

A few seconds passed. Now “heavy” wasn’t quite the right word. It was now its own separate entity, with its own gravitational pull. Connected, yet separate at the same time. Maedoc’s forehead wrinkled as he attempted to crystallize this concept.

Another few seconds later, he felt one final shift in sensation. Much like the prior evening with Cynwrig, he began to feel a modicum of activity in select parts of his body. His shoulder, upper right chest and heart lit up to a small extent, as if the lightest pressure were being applied. Not at all like the unpleasant density he felt in the bar the night before.

Cynwrig had termed it the “Conduct” technique of Aethretics, he remembered. The sensation was nearly the same, though certainly more subtle. Apparently touch wasn’t required for it to take place.

“I feel it, alright . . . ”

Cynwrig grinned. “Neat, huh? Now see what happens if I move it.”

The Ray ever so slowly moved down Maedoc’s palm towards its base. Not too surprisingly, the energized inch of skin moved along with the Ray’s trajectory. What was surprising was the odd sensation of inertia. It didn’t WANT to move. It truly felt like it was grabbing on, resisting the motion as if a string had been glued to his palm. It was a strangely solid phenomenon, despite the fact that no physical contact whatsoever was taking place.

“Wow . . . ” Maedoc breathed. “This energy stuff, there’s really no end to it.”

“I couldn’t have phrased it better myself, Lassie,” Cynwrig drawled.

The boy’s mind raced with what this mechanic meant for his reality. If this is how it felt for Maedoc, then . . .

“So, what do you think Bearnard felt? When I pointed this at him.”

Cynwrig used his free hand to scratch his chin as he peered up to the sky, deep in thought. He dropped his other hand to his side. Even with the Ray no longer there, Maedoc could still feel remnants of its presence upon his palm.

“Well, the only way I could know is if I were a N.O.B myself. But I can tell you one thing: it’s nothing at all like what you feel. To them, it’s quite unpleasant. It is, after all, applying the exact opposite energy that comprises their core. That never seems to end well for other substances; can’t imagine it’s much different for people,” he remarked.

“I’ve heard stories of many an N.O.B who could grit their teeth and pretend nothing’s wrong, even with a Ray aimed straight at their heart. To be honest, I’m surprised those twins couldn’t fake their way through it. That’s pretty standard protocol… or, at least, so I hear.”

A light bulb suddenly went off in Maedoc’s head.

“That — that makes sense. I think they were trying to do just that, Wrig. Soon after I started feeling anxious around them, they became even more annoying than usual. Loud, laughing at every little thing, and just . . .  way beyond cheery. So cheery it was honestly a little creepy,” Maedoc mumbled, wincing as he recalled their cartoonish smiles and niceties. “It’s like they were trying to look like they were having a good time. But way too hard.”

Cynwrig nodded. “I suppose. Maybe you’re right, kiddo.”

A moment of silence followed. Maedoc’s mind was reeling from the rush of new data to the brain. Realizing his story was only halfway over, he caught himself, cleared his throat and continued.

“So . . .  once he got all serious, he didn’t waste another second. He gave me a look that was zero percent playful. It was like I could feel the playfulness sucked out of the air.” Maedoc looked up at the sky as he attempted to recall every detail of the instant it went from bad to worse.

“Mm. I remember. It was more than getting serious. It was like the air became so much more heavy. The whole situation became more hopeless. Scary. The Ray didn’t do much at all to help me then. I felt like I was drowning . . . ”

Even speaking of the subject made his lungs constrict. Instinctively, the boy brought a hand up to his chest. Cynwrig watched him with a soft expression.

“I honestly felt like running. And for some reason, one I can’t really put into words, I didn’t. Oh . . . ” Maedoc paused, suddenly recalling just what it was that made him follow through.

“I remember now. It was the furnace. It burst into my thoughts. Almost like it wanted to tell me something. To not give up. To press through. I don’t know why, but it made me brave. So I did it. I braced my arm like this,” Maedoc whispered, hugging his right bicep with his left palm, “so it wouldn’t shake. And I think I would’ve tore something otherwise.”

Cynwrig nodded. He paused for a second, suddenly lost in thought. He lifted his hands, glancing at them before he spoke.

“If both your hands were in use, where did the Aether end up?”

It took Maedoc a second to remember. “Oh, it kind of got sandwiched between my hand and arm. I didn’t think to put it away. I could barely think straight at the time . . . ”

“Perhaps it’s best you didn’t, Lassie,” Cynwrig laughed, excitement lighting up his face. “This may well have provided you with a one-of-a-kind research opportunity!” He placed his finger on his bicep, traced a path down his arm until it went beyond his fingertips, pointing at Maedoc’s heart.

“You had a chance to perform Conduct on an N.O.B.”

The boy looked up, as he often would when he was racking his brain for answers. Perhaps it was a primitive instinct to try and read his own brain. Not that it helped, when the material at hand was a stone’s throw away from gibberish.

“That . . .  is almost exactly what I did. I think.”

Cynwrig was immediately silenced as he stared at Maedoc intently. The boy could swear he saw his pupils dilating, and with record swiftness.

“What exactly did you do, Maedoc?”

This was the part of the story that would prove hardest to communicate, and he wasn’t looking forward to trying.

“This is hard to say . . . ”

Maedoc instantly recalled all that had led up to his brutal “experiment.”

He remembered the fear. The utter lack of hope. The second mental intrusion of his furnace escapade. The sudden knowing that he had to not only beat Bearnard, but extinguish him.

Yikes. This was going to make him look a little nasty.

So he did his best to put it in a softer light.

“It’s like you said. I, more or less, Conducted through his arm. It didn’t feel comfortable. Not one bit. It felt like I got close to him. Real close. To what his heart really was.”

Being so close to that dark, cold pit, my heart felt like it wanted to give way. To just fall apart. Like it had been left on a dusty windowsill, slowly dying all by itself. It was awful.”

The old man’s face was emotionless. Yet Maedoc could tell he was somehow unsatisfied.

“That does sound gruesome, Lassie. I’m curious though . . .  what did the Conduction feel like? What were you aiming for?”

The lad groaned inwardly. All the details he was purposely evading, Cynwrig naturally zeroed in on. It seemed he really had no choice.

“Alright, you got me. There’s a little more to it than I’m telling you.”

Cynwrig’s eyes widened. “You trying to pull a fast one on me, boy? You rogue!” His faux fury ended in a mischievous grin.

For whatever reason, this bipolarism never failed to evoke a smile from the boy. It was just enough to help him loosen up and feel comfortable sharing such dark subject matter.

“I wasn’t trying to do Conduction or anything, at least not intentionally. I couldn’t think to do anything at the time, besides panic. The only thing my brain kept going on about was that stupid furnace.”

“Oh, the furnace again?” Cynwrig spoke with a smile he couldn’t contain. “You are truly obsessed, Maedoc,” he laughed.

“I guess I am . . .  and I’m glad I am. It always comes at the right time, and tells me just what I need to hear.”

“I’m sure, the all important elements of ‘being brave’ and ‘pressing through.’ Where would you be now without these pearls of wisdom repeating—”

Cynwrig stopped himself, face blushing slightly.

“I’m sorry, Lassie. I’m not sure why I said that. I suppose I’m a little frustrated. And I’m not used to it. I’m not used to not knowing.”

Maedoc witnessed, for the first time ever, a sudden lapse in patience in the old man. He was entirely unsure what to say, so he waited.

After a small silence, Cynwrig continued.

“There’s something about this furnace that I cannot understand. Or perhaps, not the furnace itself, but what it is you felt. What it meant. For whatever reason, it is intimately tied into energy mechanics. This might explain why its image continues to plague you in notable and unstable energy conflicts,” Cynwrig mused, talking more to himself than Maedoc. He walked off a few steps, lost in thought.

“I’m sorry for interrupting. Could you please continue? And be as descriptive as you can. I feel we’re close to something here.”

The boy gulped. The whole event had been enough pressure as it was. To squeeze it all under a viewing glass was trying, to say the least.

“Well . . .  where was I?”

Cynwrig blinked. “You were saying that it told you what you needed to hear.”

The boy nodded. “Yes, yes, it did. Or actually . . . ” He remembered Cynwrig’s request. Shifting gears, he spoke again.

“It didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t hear a word. What it did was remind me of a feeling. It’s a feeling I’ll never forget.”

He lifted his hand, fanning out the fingers. His left hand, as was instinctive by now, resumed its position on his right bicep.

“The only way I was getting out of that furnace alive, without the whole mill burning down, was to stop it right there.”

“The mill . . . ?” Cynwrig whispered, eyes widened. It had become evident he was not fully informed of the danger that had transpired. He listened with hushed breath.

“I placed my hand where the air comes in. I remember feeling it rush past my hand. I plugged it as much as I could, but it didn’t let up. The heat was immense; it felt like I would boil alive. All I could do was . . . ”

Maedoc closed his eyes as he remembered the night all too vividly. He grasped for the right words.

” . . . all I could do was put everything I was into it. Hold tight. And press straight through.”

A clatter woke the youth from his reminiscing. He opened his eyes to see Cynwrig had fallen backwards onto his bottom. He was staring at Maedoc as though he were engulfed in flames.

“Maedoc, you brilliant son of a gun. You’ve done it!”

The boy stood there, frozen and feeling a little foolish. “Done what, Wrig?”

“Don’t you feel it? Your hand!”

Maedoc looked to his extended hand, unaware of what he was supposed to see. Cynwrig, aware of the unawareness, jumped back to his feet to assist.

“I suppose it’s hard to tell you’re doing it. Here, this should help.”

Stretching his hands apart from each other, the man took a step forward. He parted his fingers as he took a slow breath.

Right away, Maedoc was able to feel them. It was as if his hand were inside a massive bubble, and Cynwrig was pressing in on it. A heavy, almost magnet-like repulsion squeezed his hand on both sides.

“You know what this is, right?”

For reasons mysterious to him, he was afraid to say the words aloud. He crept his other hand forward, slowly moving towards his projected fingers. Inch by inch, he made his way closer until he was just about a foot away.

That’s when he felt it.

“I’ve gotta say Maedoc — that palm is downright toasty.”

As abruptly as his excitement had consumed him, Cynwrig’s face fell upon the starkest horror.

“And you did this directly to an N.O.B?”

He turned his back to the boy, resting his hands on his hips wearily. For the first time Maedoc could remember, he was moving even older than he looked.

“It kills me to say this, Maedoc . . . ”

The old man looked at his feet for the longest time, chewing his lip, until he looked up at the boy with defeat written across his face.

” . . . but you have to leave this village. Tonight.”

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End of Arc II, Chapter Three

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[sf_button colour=”black” type=”standard” size=”standard” link=”https://aetheric.org/the-aethretics-saga-arc-2-chapter-four/” target=”_self” icon=”” dropshadow=”no” extraclass=””]Arc II, Chapter Four[/sf_button]

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