Merriman is falling, falling up into the sky, into darkness. Falling at such a rate that he is struggling for breath, a pressure building in his chest, almost like he is drowning. And as he begins to panic somewhat, a dull orange glow suffuses the starlit firmament into which he plummets, a glow that grows brighter and brighter. Stars seem to ripple and coalesce, a lion’s face made from pools of melted silver, transforming into the visage of a masked stranger. The stars ripple again, as if he is looking not directly at them, but at a reflection in the shifting surface of a river, and staring up from beneath this river’s surface, two glowing orange eyes transfix his.

Merriman awakes, gasping for breath, the strange feeling of weight still on his chest, the glow of orange eyes still staring at him through the darkness, the feeling of a rough and serpentine tongue licking the side of his face.

“M’A-bja?!” Merriman questions groggily, attempting to calm himself through rising panic, to slow his breathing, as his mind’s focus begins to understand the situation. Merriman feels M’A-bja lick his face again, and hears the skittish quiver of hier wings as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. M’A-bja slides slightly down his chest, hier glowing eyes still staring, blinking languidly, the thin mucilaginous membranes of hier eyelids barely dimming the glow as they slide smoothly across hier eyes’ surface.

Staring into the glowing orange eyes that loom before him, Merriman's vision slowly draws into focus, making out a strange bulbous structure within the glowing eyes of M’A-bja, a structure resembling the cells of some berry-like fruit. Merriman sees himself reflected in each cell as if there are a multitude of Merrimans simultaneously existing, all unaware of each other. He shakes his head and blinks away the unusual feeling, the image somewhat overwhelming.

M’A-bja paws at Merriman’s shoulder with a three taloned ‘hand’ and holds up in hier other a large bronze key.

“What have you got there?” Merriman asks, intrigued, sitting up further and taking the key from M’A-bja, turning it over in his hand by way of examination.

M’A-bja tilts hier head back and makes a strange staccatoed gurgling sound from the back of heir throat, hier mouth wide, revealing layered rings of needled barbs within hier throat cavity. It is a strange almost dog-like yelping sound of enthusiasm that M’A-bja emits, circling round on the bed, before jumping to the floor and dragging hier claws upon the stone in a gesture which suggests impatience.

“You want me to follow you?”

M’A-bja’s wings tremble vigorously in affirmation so, swinging his legs from the bed, Merriman stands up and puts on his robe.

“Come on then.”

What time it is he cannot tell, but it seems that it is past midnight and the corridors hold a deathly silence. M’A-bja skirts the gloom and Merriman pads along behind, a small purple light orb in the palm of his hand, following the Diabolical with a certain degree of caution as he is unsure exactly as to where he is being led. As he wanders he recalls the last time M’A-bja made an appearance which must have been nearly three and a half years ago, after the death of Master Tumurius, and prior to Merriman arriving at Arkanthor. Back at his home with his parents livid, anxious and scared about the ramifications of the Master’s death and unsure as to Merriman’s hand in it, they had spent several days discussing Merriman’s future, the stress of the assumed reaction of the village, and how they thought they might be subsequently treated, turning conversations into arguments and shouting before transforming into an uneasy and tense silence. Sitting thus, the three of them about the dinner table, M’A-bja had materialised one evening with paws full of gold bars. Merriman’s mother had fainted, his father had stood screaming, knocking over his chair, a single outstretched arm pointing in horror at the creature before him. He had subsequently stepped backwards, his mouth still open in a scream to fall over and get tangled up in the chair. Hood had just kept eating, before patting M’A-bja’s head affectionately and thanking him for the gifts which M’A-bja had let fall in clinking sounds onto the table. How or why M’A-bja had obtained the finger size gold bars, Merriman did not know, but he had pocketed them then and there, left several for his parents and had in that moment decided that he would journey to Arkanthor and use his new found wealth for the betterment of himself. It was clear he was not welcome in the village - he never had been. Master Tumurius had lived on the outskirts for nearly forty years and had never been accepted by the community, barely tolerated, and only then because of fear, not that he had ever done anything to threaten anyone, merely the reputation of being a wizard was enough. Walking the corridor, following M’A-bja, Merriman wonders where his parents are now, then pushes the thought aside. He was never very close to them, not that they weren’t affectionate in their way, just that he had always felt they had nothing in common with him and believed the feeling was reciprocated. He had, he felt, grown up almost entirely in the company of strangers.

Merriman has not been paying attention and, having been lost in his memories, is suddenly brought back to reality by M’A-bja who is sitting whining at him, emitting a strange somewhat musical series of sounds, and looking expectantly at the door that they are standing in front of. Merriman does a double take. He must have walked down several flights of steps to get here, but what surprises him the most, as he looks suspiciously at M’A-bja, is that he is standing in front of Ambrosia’s door. M’A-bja whines again as Merriman raises an eyebrow. “You are full of surprises aren’t you? Well I guess there’s a reason for it...” Merriman knocks gently on the door several times and waits, then knocks again, a little louder this time, but not too loudly, concerned as he is that he will wake up others on Ambrosia’s corridor and is cognisant of the trouble he’ll get into. A sound from inside alerts him to movement and the door slowly eases open to reveal a very sleepy eyed Ambrosia.

“Merriman? What time is it?” She says, scrubbing her fingers through her long curly auburn hair and blinking, her eyes shifting in reaction to Merriman’s light orb, before dropping to focus on M’A-bja. “What is that!?” she whispers in horror, stepping back away from the door into the shadow of her room, before slowly appearing again, peeking out as curiosity overcomes fear.

Merriman doesn’t react, he’s too busy staring at Ambrosia, mesmerised again by the lines and curves of her face and the way in which it is framed by her perfect hair.

“Merriman?”

Merriman snaps out of it, realises that he’s staring again and smiles sheepishly. “This is M’A-bja,” he says by way of explanation. “Ambrosia, M’A-bja. M’A-bja, Ambrosia, but I think you knew that already.” He directs this last comment at M’A-bja, who looks up at him and grins a needle sharp grin, before walking away, stopping and turning hier head back, as if to say: ‘Are you coming?’

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Probably, but it’s a long story and maybe not what you might expect,” replies Merriman earnestly. “Anyway, are you coming?” Merriman asks Ambrosia.

“Where exactly?”

Merriman shrugs and looks at M’A-bja.

“Hold on, let me grab something warm,” Ambrosia says, disappearing for a few seconds, before reappearing in a thick woollen robe. As she steps into the corridor she places a hand on Merriman’s chest and looks him directly in the eyes, then leans forward and plants a kiss on his lips, patting him on the side of the cheek and smiling. “Don’t stare, it gives away your true feelings,” she says, turning to appraise M’A-bja once again, “and the the gods, you seem to like keeping secrets. M’A-bja, you say?”

Merriman’s heart is beating fast and he knows not where to place himself.

M’A-bja, wings shuddering and twitching, blinks, redirecting hier orange gaze at Ambrosia, hier lips pulling back, over the curvature of hier needle teeth, hier mouth opening and closing in quick succession and silence. Halfway through this, hier yellow and green tongue whips out. It is a strange display.

“I think M’A-bja likes you,” says Merriman, attempting to divert attention away from his blushing face and the feelings that he is feeling.

“I can only be thankful,” replies Ambrosia, still uncertain and surprised by the presence of the Diabolical. She takes hold of Merriman’s hand. “Come on then, where are we off to?”

“That - I have no idea.”