Matchsticks: A Dark Spirits Fairytale

by S. J. Sanders

  Matchsticks

  A Dark Spirits Fairytale

  S.J. Sanders

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Other Works by S.J. Sanders

  About the Author

  ©2020 by Samantha Sanders

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without explicit permission granted in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction intended for adult audiences only.

  Cover: Sam Griffin

  Editor: LY Publishing

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  Pale gray wings beat against the sky, the feathers boasting a color like that of the snow clouds blowing over the mountain’s peak. At the edge of the world, the sun was never seen during the dead of winter, but the little crystals caught the light of the moon. It was a meager imitation of the thousands of stars shining in the sky among the ribbons of green and pink lights that danced through the inky darkness. But the beauty of the endless winter night on those mountains did not affect the one who flew above them.

  Wings closing around him, Aquilo dropped through the balcony entrance of his great fortress, boots echoing with the heavy thud of his feet hitting the stone floor. His wings fanned out again before they folded against his back, tucking into the slits on his ivory cloak as he strode down the long black-and-white-marble hall. Gold and silver ornaments hung along the walls, boasting of the great wealth of his mountain while lending no warmth in their hues. In truth, there was little sign of life in his fortress aside from the lupi guards who barely moved from their postings, glowing eyes following his passage.

  Throwing his arms wide, a gust threw open the great doors to his throne room. A blue fire flickered in the hearth, removing the worst of the chill from the air. His golden throne, glorious with its black velvet cushions on an ancient frame, sat just before the great hearth. On either side a griffin lay feasting on bones. Few living things made it through the mountains without becoming victims of the monsters’ appetites.

  Unlike the form taken by the lucumo silvani who dwelled in the Eternal Forest to the south, these were true beasts, though they were intelligent creatures, not unlike other predators of the wilds. Aquilo’s griffins, however, were special. A mixture of lion and bird, they had assisted him for generations, loyal as hounds, in safekeeping the mountain from all trespassers.

  Beaks snapping at the little remaining meat, their large yellow eyes focused on him as they turned their heads to watch him approach. One shrieked and then let out a shattering roar appropriate for the descendants of the first griffins who served Jove. Aquilo watched them with glowing eyes as he walked by to settle in the wide seat of his throne. His feathers ruffled for a moment beneath his cloak before he eased back against the cushioned seat.

  Hand stretching out toward a small table at his side, he picked up a goblet of heated wine and drank his fill, the mulled spices hitting his tongue before he slammed the cup once more upon the table in disappointment. He derived little pleasure from the wine other than the fleeting warmth that invaded the chill of his immortal body that never seemed to thaw. Sighing, he threw back his hood, removed the hoarfrost crown to set it on the table beside the goblet, and dropped his head back against the padding.

  The heavy footsteps approaching eventually forced one of Aquilo’s blue eyes open to stare at the large ogre heading for him. Sighing, he attempted to close his eye and ignore the male’s presence, but Opis would have none of that. The male’s deep bass growl filled the throne-room. Aquilo opened his other eye in a baleful glare that had little effect on the ogre.

  “You’ve returned,” Opis said, his enormous bulk shifting to his other foot. His colorless eyes narrowed with annoyance. “The tower horns summoned you hours ago.”

  Aquilo raised an eyebrow as he dropped one hand to brush his fingers behind one of the large, feathered ears of the griffin at his right. The ear twitched, and the deep blue eagle-like head tilted up toward him as a chirring sound rose in the animal’s throat.

  “I heard them,” he replied in a cool, unhurried voice. “The northern horn is impossible for me to ignore. I came straight away as soon as it was convenient.”

  The male in front of him snorted with an impatience that was common among ogres. “And you left the messenger from the gods waiting for spans.”

  Aquilo shrugged. He did not have the time or interest to dance attendance on any of the other beings of the divine courts. He preferred his solitude on his mountain, with no other divine company except that of Apollo when the god made his biannual passages and infused the fortress with a springlike warmth due to his presence. He was the only god who Aquilo could tolerate for any amount of time, largely due to his lord’s sharp rationale and ferocity. These were qualities that Aquilo could admire and understand. In contrast, Jove’s clever, younger son, Mercury, tested his patience.

  Picking up his goblet of mulled wine again, he swished the contents around to stir any of the spices that may have settled.

  “And what word was delivered?”

  Opis sighed, the sound rattling around in the male’s massive chest. “His only message was to tell you that it is time.”

  “Is it now? I do not recall welcoming such commands in terms of my seasons,” he observed with a feigned casual tone.

  The ogre let out a bark of laughter. “When it’s the will of Jove, we all best listen.”

  Aquilo grunted, taking a long sip of his wine. Normally, winter brought a certain joy that never touched his mountain, one he could spy upon from a distance. Evergreen boughs adorned with ribbon, bright baubles and candlelight. He saw flashes from his scrying crystal and desired all those things he did not possess. He could command his large lupi and ogre servants to imitate the human customs that brightened the darkest part of the year for them, but the few times he tried it had been a failure, lacking the warmth and cheer that he saw in the human world. He thirsted for it. Even so, the order to descend struck him as strange.

  “I see. The King-Father wills that winter comes early for the mortal world,” Aquilo observed, his voice cold and detached even to his own ears. “Are the harvests in?”

  The male shrugged his massive shoulders. “Some, yes. Those who are still relearning the old ways of the crop cycles, not so much.”

  “It will be hunger and death for them,” he murmured absently as his gaze strayed to the snow falling outside of a vista window overlooking his kingdom.

  “The gods will it,” Opis reminded him. “If you didn’t spend so much time away from the fortress, perhaps you would’ve seen signs of this decision coming before now.”

  The chastisement was a modest one, and not one that could be argued with, but it was still present in the rumbling bite of the male’s voice. Aquilo fixed his gaze upon the ogre.

  “There is little to keep within my fortress. Little joy and pleasure except what I can spy from a distance. Flying over my mountains gives me peace. Would you wish to deny me that?” he spat, his wings quivering with a sudden rush of unspent aggressi
on.

  Opis eyed him carefully for a long moment but shook his head. “I don’t understand much of that. An ogre is content within the mountain. There is plenty to keep me entertained. I don’t understand what draws you out there,” he grumbled. “All I know is that the hyperborean swans have already begun to rouse and sing the dying song of the year as they do every year to herald their king’s midwinter return. It is time,” the ogre repeated.

  Aquilo nodded and stood, his cape fluttering around him. As he stepped away from the throne, he could feel the eyes of his griffins following him. He had been looking forward to a few peaceful days in their company before his fire, but once again, his rest was cut short. Not that he had held hope of getting much of that. That emptiness and restlessness within him was yawning wider with the passage of centuries, making any sort of rest difficult to find. Forever, his mind returned to the cold emptiness and loneliness of existence.

  Perhaps that was why his thoughts were occupied still with the human that he had discovered in the company of the foolish lucumo seasons past.

  A low growl escaped him that soon turned into a hollow roar as he raced from the castle in a flurry of icy wind and snow. The veils between the worlds parted like gossamer ice, and then he descended over the living world caught in its celebration of autumnal hues. The colors warmed some part of him, but they did not last long in his presence. The cold billowed from his wings, coating all with frost and cooling rainclouds until they became swollen with snow. His wings carried him far as he sped over the heavens, bringing winter to city, town, and field alike, until everything sparkled with a shimmer of ice.

  The ice and snow brought a splendor of its own, though he missed the warmer hues. Warm colors were replaced with a purity that blanketed the world. As if death had descended and cleansed the world, removing the last traces of the dying autumn. Aquilo had once felt pleasure looking at such beauty, but that had been ages in the past. Now he felt nothing more than emptiness as he soared over flat white barrenness below him and returned to his tower where he hoped to find some consolation for a few minutes in front of his scrying ball.

  Sheets of snow billowed over the human world, and the people shivered and drew downy blankets around themselves. Those who had completed their harvest gave thanks that all had been done on time before the first snow. Those who did not lamented over how much of their remaining crops they lost to the early hard frost. Humans shivered and murmured among themselves that the winter would be a brutal one, of that they had little doubt.

  Chapter 2

  Agatha Ward drew her coat tighter, her breath steaming in front of her nose. The air was bitter cold, and she was the one crazy enough to be standing out there in it trying to make sales. Anyone who had any sense at all was indoors. Instead of being beside a warm fire, she was standing outside next to a large basket as Mr. Hastings dumped another load of matches into it. She wrinkled her nose, stomach turning at the odor of onions and gravy coming off him. No doubt he had just enjoyed a filling meal before making his way out to her, but then he wasn’t desperate.

  After the ravening of the world that brought down civilization, Mr. Hastings was one of the few people who had useful skills. He was now the local matchmaker, and matches, as he liked to remind her, were always in demand so she needed to be available there on her street corner and sell, sell, sell at any time of the day.

  It fucking sucked. Had she known that the world she knew was due to come to an end, she would have invested in learning a suitable skill. Unsurprisingly, being a successful interior decorator gave her zero abilities to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. She had a black thumb and inevitably killed everything and so had been chased off the farms, and she had zero skills at hunting, so that made any chance of independence and self-reliance kaput. To top it off, being a confirmed introvert who generally wasn’t a people person, she wasn’t “nice enough to customers” to be a server at the tavern or to even find a simple job at the market. The world she now lived in had little use for her—other than to stand on the corner on the verge of a snowstorm selling fucking matches.

  She blinked to dislodge the fat snowflakes clinging to her lashes, only half listening to what Mr. Hastings was saying. Yadda, yadda—people are going to be rushing out for them—yadda—push larger quantities, remind them that there’s a storm coming—blah, blah blah.

  “Are you listening, Aggie?” he asked, squinting at her suspiciously.

  Gods, she hated the way he shortened her name, but she couldn’t afford to be fired from this too. She needed the few coins that she got for it. The tiny empty apartment that she inhabited since the ravening needed more coals to heat it, and she had little food outside of a bit of hard bread. Good sales would reward. She fought back her glare and just gave him a bored look.

  “Yes. I heard you,” she mumbled through the scarf wrapped tightly around her mouth and nose.

  He nodded briskly and gave her an encouraging smile. “Hang in there and give it your all. It’s guaranteed to be a good night for you. I will be back this evening to collect my money and what’s left of the matchsticks. Hustle and when I pay out your percentage at the end of the night, you’ll have enough coins to live comfortably for a bit and have a little extra for the holidays.”

  She nodded mutely, because what could she do, and watched him leave with a cheerful whistle. Swallowing the bile that suddenly crawled up from her stomach, she rubbed her wool-covered arms and looked down the streets. Everywhere, signs of the season had been erected in hopes of bringing some small amount of holiday cheer to the community that had slowly grown over the last few years. Ribboned boughs of pine hung everywhere. There were a few clusters of mistletoe to encourage lovers to embrace, and the oil lit streetlamps that had only been forged the year before gave a sort of cheery warmth with their pine garlands wrapped around them. They wouldn’t be lit until later, however.

  Though the daylight was dulled by the snow, the visibility wasn’t so bad to discourage people from tending to their business as they made their way to and from the market. Many people who passed her had woven baskets filled with various dried foods and handmade goods that they had purchased with their pieces of copper that served as representative common coinage in many towns that had sprung up. It had been the idea of a blacksmith who had distributed it to settle trade arguments between those in his town that had soon been adopted by other communities, including her own.

  Not everyone was happy with it, least of all herself. At first, she had been able to survive the aftermath of the collapse by trading whatever labor she did for a bit of fuel or food. It had been a way that she had been able to survive the ravening. With the use of coppers, while many people liked the security of having something more familiar to trade to “purchase” what they needed, Agatha had found herself struggling more and more to acquire enough for even the most meager supplies.

  It was ironic, considering just a few years ago she had lived in an upscale loft and would have been hosting her annual holiday party this very night to celebrate the winter solstice. It had been her favorite time of the year since she was a child, and her winter parties had been popular because she had bought the best food for it and had been extravagant in her decor.

  Her current situation, however, was humbling, and she missed the simple joys she had always known before during the holidays. She grimaced down at the matches in her basket as she recalled the hard eggnog, crackling yule logs with the scent of burning juniper, hot pies that melted on her tongue, evergreen trees decorated with lights and ornaments, spiced sugar cookies, festive songs, and beautifully wrapped gifts. She even missed the kisses under the mistletoe and snuggling in front of the fire with whomever she was dating at the time.

  More than anything, though, she missed the simple, carefree joy during the darkest nights of the year. There was a valiant attempt in Garden Tower, the town in which she had lived over the past three years, to recapture some of the merriment, but it was strained. The cheer was forced as people a
ttempted to surround themselves with anything that reminded them of what they had before.

  It was depressing.

  Agatha thinned her lips and pushed the memories away. If she kept thinking of what she had before the ravening she would only make herself miserable. She needed to focus on earning enough coppers to get coal and food for the night. That would be a happy enough solstice if she could manage that. At least nearby someone had set out a metal barrel and lit a fire within to provide a little warmth. She couldn’t get too close because it was set out for those going to and from the market, and she had learned the winter before that if she lingered too long, she would be chased away. She stood near enough that she could feel the touch of heat that warded away some of the cold.

  Forcing a smile to her lips, she greeted passersby, holding out her matches. Many walked past her, staring straight ahead or at the ground, as if they didn’t even want to acknowledge her there in her tattered coat that seemed to get thinner and holier as every winter passed. Even her gloves had been mended many times to patch small holes as they formed. She knew she was a sight, especially with the frizzy cloud of curly blonde hair that peeked out from beneath her hat. She didn’t smell very pleasant—even to herself—since she hadn’t had enough coal over the last week to waste extra lumps in her stove to get it hot enough to adequately heat bathwater.

  That said, she couldn’t argue that Mr. Hastings hadn’t been wrong. For every person who rushed by, she gained two or three who decided to stop to buy a small box or two. A few she stopped with a loud observation of a snowstorm heading in. Agatha handed out the boxes, but the coppers in the pouch around her that Mr. Hastings had her put her collected coins in felt lighter than she was comfortable with. It wasn’t much, and she would be given only a sliver of that. And she still had so many matches left.