The Apple in the Tree

She just wants to touch the sun. Too bad it's a long way down for everyone else.

"'What if I fall?'

'Sooner or later, we all do.'"

Stephen King

"I want to touch the sun."

He cracks open an eyelid at the sound, the mechanisms in his body whirring seamlessly together. Bright yellow and blue fill his senses, the smell of roses and apple sauce permeating the air all around him. His vision is distorted to an awful degree, but years and years of life through these artificial lenses have allowed him to adjust in some measure. Of course –

Wait, back up.

Adjust?

If he had to adjust… that meant that there was a before before all this happened, right?

He lets out an uneasy sound at the thought.

He clicks, feeling his hands clench as he focuses his fractured mind on a series of broken memories – faded voices and half-remembered faces. It's like steering a boat in a stormy ocean; for a few seconds he is oh-so close to breaking through, but then the roiling grey sea takes him under again, submerging and suffocating with devastating force.

Determined, he clutches a faint lifeline that for some reason refuses to be broken, fighting through the agonizing waves.

Something brushes across his face – beak, sorry – but he's concentrating so hard that he doesn't notice.

A –

Closer, closer…

Ann?

No, not quite.

A – Anna?

He charges through the mental barrier, shoulder-first, and feels it give way, and he sees a face and a pair of blue eyes and –

Bonk!

A quick ripple of pain the front of his forehead, erasing any progress he may have made. Agitated – he was so close! – he lets out a cry, spreading his wings wide and casting a yellow glow on the room with his eyes.

A behemoth made of leather and sweat and metal, his shadow alone would be enough to leave any onlookers trembling in their soles. Even when he went on casual flights throughout Columbia, very few actually dared to come closer than a hundred feet of him.

But if you did happen to approach him, then the joke was that you would get a good tour of the whole city. As in, he would tear your body apart from rage and scatter the remnants around the streets. To be fair, not everybody has table manners.

It was more of an unspoken rule in Columbia; you better have damn good reason to be going so close.

But as always, there's an exception to such rules.

And that exception stood in front of him. Four feet of defiance and spunk, the only being that would ever have the guts to stand up to his might. Forget armor and guns; this one is armed with nothing but a pastel-pink dress and purple ribbons in her hair.

She shakes a tiny fist at him, blue eyes shining with indignation. "Didn't you hear me?" she cries, lisping a little from a missing tooth in her mouth.

He relaxes. The razor-sharp talons that could gut a cow in a heartbeat retract back into his gloves. The yellow glow fades into a warmer green. With a large finger, he gently brushes away a strand of hair from her face, cooing a little.

The irritation softens, but it's not enough to clear away the frown lines.

"I said," she huffs, flipping her dark brown braid over her shoulder, "that I want to touch the sun." There's smugness in her youthful expression, and in the way she poises herself. He remembers the time when she spent ages – literally days – explaining the concepts of quantum mechanics, so proud of herself for grasping those concepts. He was proud of himself, too, but for other reasons. He would rather kill an army for her than listen to that spiel again.

But touch the sun?

He isn't sure how to respond to that, so he just cocks his head and chirps.

She raises an eyebrow. "The sun?" she says, her voice pitching in disbelief. "The big yellow thing in the sky?" She points out the window, at that amazing bright beacon suspended among the fluffy white clouds. It really is a beautiful day.

Okay, that thing. What about it?

He wants to shrug, but his wings encumber that motion. So he chirps again. At least she'll know that he's listening.

Crossing her arms, she strides over to the window – a gateway to a world she'll never get to experience. A look of longing and melancholy falls over her, and she slumps her shoulders. "I just wish…" she murmurs, leaning her elbows on the sill.

He follows her, his feet making the floor shake with each step.

As he stops next to her, she turns to face him, resting her head in a hand. Her bright blue eyes, normally so elated, instead hold only sadness. How old is she again – eight, nine? Too young to look like that. His heart tugs, and he feels a stab of pain along his chest.

Her fingers on her free hand fiddle with a flower embroidered on her dress. In the back of his mind, he wonders if she's ever seen one in real life, and makes a mental note to bring her one tomorrow.

"It just looks so pretty hanging in the sky up there."

She pauses, and he chirps to fill the silence, but she doesn't pursue the topic.

Bored, he lets his eyes wander around her living quarters. Unsurprisingly, she's decorated every inch of the place with drawings of that stupid sun, and books on the subject litter the ground.

He ambles over to one, flicking it open with a careless finger. His head tilts to a side as one of his enormous eyes examines the ocean of words flowing upon its pages. Ten thousand… degrees… surface temperature.

He blinks, his eye shutters clicking.

Oblivious, she continues to muse to herself. "One day," she whispers, "I think I'll just hop out of this tower and – "

Ooh, that's a no-no.

His programed brain reacts instantly to this possible escape attempt/threat; his eyes turn a bloody red, and he lets out an ear-piercing screech. His veins pump with adrenaline and a fiery sense of duty, and a small dose of betrayal.

She'll die if she gets out there, and you're supposed to protect her!

Don't you dare let anything happen to her.

She'll get hurt.

Why would she want to leave here?

Hell, I keep her safe, I feed her, I give her everything she wants. What more could she need that's beyond this tower?

Am I not good enough? Where have I gone wrong?

All of these emotions meld together into one single mantra, repeated over and over in his head: She will not get out of this tower.

A fool-proof strategy was told to him when he first began to protect this girl: eliminate anything that hurt her, or could possibly hurt her.

He glares at the sun. If looks could kill…

He lets out another screech, and the tower shakes, both from force and out of sheer terror.

Visibly frightened, the girl claps her hands over her ears, tears beginning to form in her eyes. "I'm sorry!" she yells, trying to be heard over his rage. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorrysorrypleasestop."

He stops mid-shriek, his beak ajar.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't do that…" Her voice diminishes into whimpers as she sobs into her arms, collapsing onto the ground in a heap.

As his pulse slows, he feels the fire in his veins dim into dying embers. Like the caring father he never was, he picks her frail form up and carries her over to her bed, tucking her in and nuzzling her and chirping the consoling words he wish he could say.

The next day, it rains. The drawings and books are sloshing out somewhere in a trash bin, and Songbird perches in the corner, beak high and satisfied.

He roosts comfortably on his nest, built below the girl's tower.

Oh, how the years have passed.

He grew along with her, though on a much larger scale.

This place was made to accommodate his enlarging frame, and while it is much comfier, he cannot deny the uneasiness that pangs through his soul.

The girl had just turned fifteen, and she is bright as ever. Polite, respectful, intelligent… but maybe a little too polite. And she's sadder, her face set in a permanent frown when she thinks he's not looking (but he's always watching out for her). Sometimes, when she retires to her bedroom and thinks she's alone (but she's never alone – shouldn't she know this by now?), he hears her sobbing heavily into her pillow. And he wants to comfort her, but dammit, these beaks can't produce any other sound than a bloody loud screech.

She's drawn herself into a shell, ever since that she dreamed about that damn sun…

He's in the process of shining his talons when an eerie feeling washes over him. It's full of dread and it rocks him to his core – what do they call it? Someone walking over his grave.

Only one thing could worry him like that.

Images flash through his head; ones of the girl (now almost a woman) lying in a pile of her own blood, ones where an unknown assailant has his arms trussed around her neck, ones where her glassy and lifeless eyes stare at him accusingly.

She's a smart girl, give her credit –

NO! Protect her!

He screeches, battling against a foe he couldn't vanquish with his formidable strength.

He flaps his wings mightily, bringing himself aloft with a few strokes. Within seconds, he is an arm's length away from her tower. Suspended in the air, he relaxes, seeing how everything looks normal. No blood, no mess, no dead little girls anywhere.

See? You were all worked up for nothing.

And then there is a brilliant shattering of glass, and he can see her round face from that newly created hole in the window. She looks so determined, her forehead carrying a sheen of sweat, and her squinted eyes fixed –

On that god damn sun.

There isn't a word in the world that can emphasize the anger that is in his chest. The roar doesn't just come from his beak. It rips out from his very being, and part of him feels slightly smug at the pure power he possesses.

She sees him, and her mouth forms a tiny "o" in surprise.

A glimmer of hope arises, dousing some of the fire in his belly. Maybe she just wanted to open her window and get some fresh air; isn't that nice and you should really calm down –

That thought bubble bursts instantly when he sees her, like in slow-motion, vault out of the window, arms outstretched and reaching for the heavens.

Are you serious?

For a moment she's flying gracefully through the air. For a moment, his mind is desperately, naively, thinking that she will be okay.

But then gravity seizes control and she plummets down, screaming bloody murder.

He only sees a blur – get her! – and then he feels her body in one of his claws, writhing and pounding like there's no tomorrow.

He's angry and confused but she's crying, so he soothes himself and soothes her. To his bewilderment, she brushes away his attempts to comfort her.

Why must you hate me? he wants to ask. I'm just doing my job.

Can't you see that the sun will only hurt you?

But his voice box has long since withered away, so the only thing that comes out is a chirp.

It couldn't be this possible to be this happy.

Wind tugging at her hair, the sweet, sweet summer air flowing through her lungs, and look! Up, up, up they go, headed towards her dream.

She laughs out loud with pure joy, enjoying the richness of her own voice.

Her companion, at the helm of the zeppelin, faces her with an amused and tired expression. "You seem oddly happy," he says gruffly, rubbing his tousled brown hair with a bandaged hand.

She doesn't know how to put this feeling into words so she shrugs, and he shrugs right on back. They lapse into a comfortable silence, enjoying the view.

"That cloud looks a horse." She points out with a lithe finger. "And that one like an old man with a cane. And there – that's more like a cat, don't you agree?"

He's in the process of steering the ship towards their destination (Paris!), and he doesn't turn around. "No."

"You didn't even look!" she accuses, albeit playfully.

"I didn't, did I?" He chuckles, but obliges, meeting her with a pair of deep green eyes. He stares off into the sky and scratches his stubble with his hand, pretending to be deep in thought.

"So am I right?" she asks, a bit impatiently after a few minutes.

"You know what I think?" He inhales a deep breath, nostrils flaring. There's a sense of nostalgia in his expression. "They just look like damn clouds to me."

She purses her lips together. "Just clouds?" It confuses her, because she can see a whole jungle painted across the sky, in plain sight.

His back is to her again. "Just clouds," he confirms, his voice soft and tinged with bitterness. She wants to ask what's wrong, but he has a tendency to be glum at times, and she's learned (the hard way) that prying won't win her any favors.

So her gaze wanders back outside, and they dart around to drink in every detail they can. There's so much to see, so much to observe, and she just wants to embed it all within her brain. Eventually, they settle onto a familiar yellow object, just brushing the tops of the tallest towers…

"You know what I've always wanted to do?" She's surprised by the boldness in her voice.

"No." It's blunt, but she can tell that he's not trying to be overly rude.

She ignores his surliness. She's only known him for a few hours, but she's picked up that "yes" means "yes" and "no" means "yes, but I don't want to admit it". "Ever since I was a kid," she says longingly, "I've wanted to touch the sun."

That gets his attention.

He whips his head around, cursing when he bumps his elbow into a wrench lying on the table. Nursing the new red mark, he cocks his head, amused. "Now, why would you want to do that?"

She shrugs, and the words just flow out of her mouth. "It just looks so pretty hanging in the sky up there." She remembers the last time she said it, back when purple was her favorite color and when she thought unicorns her real.

He gives her a skeptical look, but her enthusiasm is contagious. He can't help but crack a crooked grin. She's so innocent and pure, so it'd be a crime to crush her dreams, no matter how absurd they are. "It''ll burn you," he quips, turning back around to set their route. New York, here we come. "But it'll be worth it."

She gazes dreamily at the yellow orb. "Yes. Yes, it will."

Betrayal.

It doesn't just fill his mind, it swells and swells until it is him.

Next is anger, and when he bellows to the stormy skies, he becomes the monster he was made to be. Behind him, her tower collapses, billowing smoke and dust as it tumbles into the grey sea.

A momentary pang of guilt. That was their home, her haven, and he destroyed it.

His eyes focus on two tiny figures standing at the prow of the airship, and the guilt disappears.

It's not over yet. He still has a job to do.

He screeches, charging at what feels like the speed of light, feeling the wind slide off his streamlined body.

He hears the male yell in fright, sees the pupils in his eyes dilate.

He's so, so close, he can almost feel the satisfaction.

She'll be safe in his arms, and he'll never, never let her go.

Everything will be alright –

No. No. This isn't right.

His fingertips are inches away from the man's form, when a flash of light engulfs him, and suddenly everything is a blue-green fog and everything hurts.

The pain.

He screams.

This is unlike anything he's ever felt. He can faintly remember that time when he was first made, when men in white coats pored over his form with strange tools. When every waking hour was a living hell.

This is that multiplied a hundred times over.

He creaks, he thrashes, he bites and claws, but all of it is futile and the pain seeps into him until he can feel it inside his very body –

The girl, where's the girl?

All he can see is a murky blue, and he flails his arms wildly, feeling them move in a sluggish manner.

You have to save her, get out of this mess, save her from the damn sun because it's going to hurt her –

And something cracks, deep in his soul.

It breaks, and he feels – no, sorry, he sees – images. Memories. Blue eyes and black hair and – and – oh. God.

His vision clears next, but the edges are black and rapidly growing. It focuses, and he sees her face and her tiny little hand, reaching out towards him. She's saying something that he can't hear, but it doesn't matter because now he understands.

The sun.

Its glow is faint and dull in the deep water, but he can just make out its reflection right where her hand is.

Let go, she mouths. It's okay.

He touches the sun, oil leaking from his many joints.

Let go. I'm safe. Thank you.

He wants to tell her that he knows what she means now. He wants to tell her that the sun doesn't burn him. He wants to say the words that have been bubbling on the edge of his consciousness every single time he's hurt her, every single time she shed a tear because of his actions.

I'm sorry, Anna.

He doesn't take long to drown. She's grateful for that. It doesn't feel right to drown her own father, even if it is the right thing to do and if it does change the course of history.

Her other selves give her mournful looks as they fade from reality. A few shed tears, but most are stoic and accept it for what it is.

She only has eyes for the still form in the water, his features distorted by the ripples, but as peaceful as he'd ever been in life. He could be sleeping.

She should be crying, bawling her eyes out.

Instead, she only feels a vague sense of heaviness and emptiness.

It doesn't feel right to treat him like this. He was a good man in the end, even if his intentions at the beginning were a little misguided.

Is she thinking about him or the bird?

She can see their whole lives behind the doors in the labyrinth of rooms in her mind. She can see the paths they took, the minor fall and the major lift.

For a moment, her mind is desperate and wild and filled with agony. She envies the dead man lying before her and she envies the rusting protector at the bottom of the ocean; their duties are done, and now they can rest. Her? She still has infinity to deal with, with no end in sight. Her body wants nothing more but to lay in that water with her father and bring an ending to this story. Because in her head, she thinks that there's a heaven and maybe – just maybe – there's a chance to live a life she never had.

The water is so beautiful, reflecting the sky and painting its likeness far better than any artist could ever hope to. Apple trees and bushes frame the edge with greenery. The clouds waver like ghosts in the water, and she can hear his voice in his head. "They just look like damn clouds to me," he had said, an eternity ago.

She stares at them and wills them to form shapes in her eyes, but they are stubborn and refuse to follow. And in the end, they just look like damn clouds to her.

What more does she have to live for?

And finally, in the corner of her eye, she sees it. The sun glows, its shine undiminished in this reproduction.

Her hands twitch.

She hears a younger version of herself, her voice wistful. I want to touch the sun.

The water separates willingly around her fingers as she reaches for it.

She hears his voice, deep and reassuring, and it strikes her how alone she is. It'll be worth it.

Is it?

The tears fall now, sliding down her cheeks and impacting the surface of the water like raindrops. Her hand reaches past the sun's reflection, and grasps that cold but familiar hand. And she hangs onto it like a lifeline.

She's alive and she touched the sun, but she can't help but envy him.

Just a little something that had been on my computer for a while.

As always, special thanks to my beta, Flying Penguin, and thanks to all those who support and read my stories. I know I am terrible at updating, but hopefully this will help...somewhat.

Happy Thanksgiving! :)