“It is a simple spell, Weyaal. We were taught it in defence classes.” She replied sympathetically.
Frowning internally, Khar kicked himself for not remembering what it was and then countered the jinx. Lifting his arm, he looked at it like it wasn’t his, testing the fingers and wiggling the elbow experimentally, making a ghost noise as he did it in the direction of K'Chool. Not finding it funny, a raised eyebrow was all that was needed to bring Khar back down to earth. Laughing, he got to his feet and brushed himself down, dust flying everywhere.
“Let’s take a look around then shall we my dear?” Khar adopted a respectful but comedic, exaggerated form of invitational posture towards K'Chool. Head bowed, and arm outstretched, as if asking her to dance. She swore at him in her native tongue, but he saw the laughter in her eyes. Skin paling at hearing the conversation, Xiang Shui, took a step or two away from the pair, questions forming on his lips.
“What does your order have the authority to do?” He said, every fibre of his being shaking with fear and looking at the strange people he’d just helped. They looked at each other, wondering where to start.
“And what’s a Naïve?”
CHAPTER TWENTY - A THIRD
Rosalind staggered down a deserted alleyway, furious and exhausted. She hated and loved the pain she was feeling. Her disgust at feeling it meant that Eve had managed to land a few more blows than she realised, underestimating her again. She took heart from the sharp reminders too, the nerves telling her she was alive. In between heaving breaths, she looked at the dark, close and suffocating walls. They comforted her, the shadows always being a familiar presence. They hid and made her feel safe. One hand leaning on the wall, helping her feel her way through the darkness, she silently cursed with her eyes and her mind at the disparate lights clinging to bricks. They challenged her. Laughed at her. Revealed her. As if they were in collusion with the sky and trying to mock her, it started raining, again. Her encounter with the two wytches had demanded a price from her she wasn’t willing to pay, yet had. Some of the drops of water tapped on her skin, cold and wet. Reminding her she was here. She was present. Then some would fall through her. Reminding her she wasn’t there. She was un-present. She couldn’t believe the cycle was repeating. Trauma, alley, darkness, rain, dying.
“We could have killed her. We should have killed her.” An angry, spluttering voice cursed into the darkness, some of The Rage’s venom absent from exhaustion.
“Perhaps, little one.” The Mistress purred back to themselves. “It was frustrating that she was there, however, we have what we needed. We have her.” Her free arm cradled the book close to her chest and she sniffed the worn leather book.
“I don’t care.” She shouted back, slamming a fist against the wet wall. “She is no match for us, Mistress.” She pulled the book even tighter into her chest, trying to hear its soothing voice, wanting to receive words of wisdom and comfort.
“Maybe before she cursed us, my love.” The Mistress replied sadly, trying to imagine what Eve had done to her. “Whatever she did, it weakened us and continues to do so.” She opened her clenched fist and raised it up to a pocket of light, watching water tap, tap, tap on her skin, watching the rest tap, tap, tap into a puddle underneath. “The appearance of Isabella also tipped the scales in their favour, so we did the right thing in escaping. For now.” She watched as the water kept hitting and passing through her skin, mesmerised by the patterns and swirls it created.
“I don’t like relying on Christophe as we do.” The first voice growled back, knowing they needed his help again.
“Neither do I, little one.” She reached into her pocket, hoping her hand would stay real enough to pull out the mobile Christophe gave her.
“It was nice to see her.” A third voice interrupted the self-chat. Neutral and sweet, it brought feelings with it that neither of the two previous voices liked. Feelings of admiration, thoughts of warmth, memories of love.
“We were trapped inside that filthy meat bag for years. We looked at that boring, lifeless and dull face in the mirror every day. Knowing we couldn’t get out. How can you say that?” The first voice challenging and trying to sound superior. The venom returning to The Rage.
“No, I mean. It was nice to see her again. Eve. From the before times. From before we… Changed.” Neither voice had an answer, partially agreeing with the sentiment and the emotions it brought forth. They had worked hard to keep The Diplomat quiet, knowing that her reason and nostalgic viewpoint could confuse them.
“Even now, she doesn’t want to hurt us. Did you see?” The neutral and sweet voice continued, oblivious to the others trying to shut her out and ignore her.
“Yes.” The Mistress admitted in soft tones.
“She held back, even though we weren’t.” All three took a moment to think about the implications. Was Eve different this time? Did she think there was hope for us? The Rage became frustrated, angry at the arrogance of Eve and how she was beneath them. Poor Rosalind, needing charity from the privileged. “She took everything from us.” She eventually retorted, lacking the cutting edge she was trying to bring forth.
“No.” The Diplomat assured. “We are to blame as well.” She swamped them with remorse, trying to help them see a different side to their actions.
“Perhaps.”
All three voices sat with the feelings of regret and what could have been before Mistress continued. “Too late for regrets though. Too much time has passed. Too many wrongs.” She was still holding the phone, Christophe’s contact details shining out at her, water dripping down the screen in tiny rivers. She thought for a long time about the past then. Still as a statue, tiny rivers dripping down her neck, down her arms. Tiny waterfalls passing through her as well. Why was she conflicted? Why was she pausing? She knew what she needed to do but this third voice troubled her. It could… It would derail them. Keep them from completing their task. She tapped the call button and felt the third personality disappear as quickly as she had arrived, glad to have shut her out for now.
“Äsheenie, where are you?” Christophe’s accented voice lifted her spirit somewhat. Strange to feel that in the pit of her stomach, fluttering wisps of joy spreading up through her chest.
“She was there.” Rosalind managed sadly, not able to bring any anger into her voice.
“Eve?”
“Yes, and she had help.”
“I knew I should have gone in with you.” Christophe was chastising himself more than Rosalind. He held the phone away from his face as he cursed, careful not to make Rosalind feel anything but superior to him. He knew he needed to tread a thin line in case she suddenly tired of him. “Are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer his question which told him what he needed to know. Admitting that she was hurt would mean admitting she was weak, not something she had come to terms with yet, considering how strong she was before she became a prisoner.
“Where are you?” He pressed.
Rosalind looked about hopelessly, trying to find something that would tell her where she was in this boring city, but it all looked so dreary and bland. A place whose energy and personality had been stripped from it, to leave lemmings and grey uniformity in their stead.
“Miss, are you okay?” A male voice suddenly called down the alley, punching through the sound of the rain and drawing tired eyes up from the phone. The light from it must have made her stand out against the blackness, her dishevelled clothes and hunched stance asking for help. Focusing on him, she thought he looked very familiar. Like someone she used to know. Someone she used to love. Not like the love she won’t admit she has for Christophe. A deeper love that was taken from her. An idea shone brightly in her mind then. Brighter than her phone. Brighter than the street lights. Brighter than the sun. Clear and true she could feel herself swelling as the idea bathed her in light. Putting on her most vulnerable and helpless voice she stammered, asking for directions and where they were. The man happily obliged with the information, waiting to see if he
could help in any other way. She repeated his words down the phone, Christophe sensing a devilish edge to her tone.
“We will be there shortly Äsheenie.” He didn’t want to know what she was planning. He clicked at Dreeoth, waving him over so that they could get started, and then he changed the subject.
“Did you get the book?” He hoped she had, not wanting to witness another massacre, the aftermath of one enough to haunt his thoughts.
“Mr, can you help me get back to the main road please?” The innocent voice called towards the end of the alley where the tall and helpful stranger stood. “Yes.” She whispered into the phone as the man started walking towards her.
“Of course. How did you end up down here though?” Genuine concern was in the man’s voice. Rosalind had unknowingly got the attention of, what seemed like, the only helpful citizen in the city. She’d spent some time wandering the streets after becoming free, trying to get a sense of the new world she was in. She noticed that people ignored each other, favouring their own selfish thoughts, and any one of them would have been right to do so on this occasion, but this man was different. She hung up the phone and placed it back in her pocket knowing that the light would betray her shimmering form and scare the help that was coming. She faked staggering and falling into the shadows, encouraging the man to rush to her aid. She heard his feet splashing in the puddles as he ran, asking her what happened and what he could do to help.
She became excited, the idea becoming real as most of her skin became real in the same moment, the energy of her positive thinking lending itself to her form for an instant. “You will do nicely.” She uttered to herself, The Rage and The Mistress happy with the trap they had laid.
When he reached her he stopped dead, his eyes widening in horror. Slipping in the water he tried to steady himself and process what he was looking at. A woman, on her knees, shoulder-length, wet hair draped around her head, almost looking like she was praying. Frozen in place, he saw that she was sat on the back on her heels, hands loosely clasped in her lap and muttering. His panicked eyes saw the surface of her skin shimmering, shifting between pale white and deepest black. Where she was pale, water bounced away in miniature splashes, her skin marked with unnatural injuries too numerous to fully take in. Where he saw black, water passed through without resistance, faint tides of energy rippling out as the rain cut its path towards the ground. Still frozen, body alien to him and words gone from him, he stared, waiting for something to happen. Rosalind looked up after letting him flounder for a while and he saw her eyes. More, where her eyes should’ve been. They were gone, gaping and endless holes in their place.
Pointed teeth bared in a gruesome smile and the man remained frozen where he stood. Powerless. She had him. Snake quick, she pounced, sinking teeth into neck. Her arms flapped uselessly about her as she hung from him. Loose and flopping carelessly at her sides, she had used up the last ounce of her energy to capture her prey and relied on the shock of the attack to paralyse him. The helpful stranger’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and his legs failed, no fight whatsoever in his bones. They fell to the floor together in almost complete silence, the noisy water on the floor reacting to their quiet embrace. The blackness of her transparent form won over in the end as she lay on top of the sleeping, kind helper. Her pale skin completely receding with the effort of subduing the man. He looked blissful almost, perhaps satisfied with the last good deed he would do as a Naïve. Rain continued to fall, rippling trails of the water passing through her skin, the only thing that revealed a person was on top of the poor stranger. It soaked the man, taking some of the blood from his neck away to the drains and hiding the urine-soaked trousers. A third voice told two others that this might be what they deserved. That this was the punishment they had avoided for so long. Unable to defend themselves, non-eyes began to close. She was so tired.
* * *
Rain, again, Christophe thought. Listening to the patter of water on the umbrella above his head, he tried to turn his mind away from what he may find this time. He looked at his expensive shoes, annoyed that he seemed to be dirty and wet more often than he cared for recently. The service of Rosalind carried impractical and strange prices he thought. He also seemed to be darkening alleys more than he cared for too, thinking the errands he was running beneath him. Arguing with himself he got more and more worked up, parts of him making a case that he should walk away whilst he still could. But, the familiar sight of his love, barely holding on to life in this world, tore away his cares. Dreeoth dutifully took the umbrella as before and watched as his master ran to her side. He placed the Zielghün delicately on her shoulder and watched the green spread, whilst waving for help. Umbrella in hand, the Elf servant paced over to his master’s kneeling place, staring at a rain drenched man and a woman wrapped in cloth.
“We must bring him back with us too.” Christophe said earnestly, sliding arms under Rosalind and lifting her.
“By your will.” Dreeoth uttered back, discarding the umbrella and sliding his arms under the man. Silently the two men walked back to the car, carrying their precious cargos and lost in thought. Water kept falling. Water kept finding its way into hidden places. Water marked their passing with slapping noises and complaints at being disturbed. Christophe hoped they had arrived quickly enough, Rosalind in worse shape than the last time he found her in a dark alley. The parts of him that made a case for escape were silent, the others taking over and congratulating him for saving her. He knew he was repeating past mistakes, the familiar patterns of his behaviour mirrored in his thinking and his actions, but he didn’t care. She would be more grateful this time around to told himself. He had saved her twice, and that would count for something. He hoped that the woman he loved would win the internal battle he knew she was fighting. He hoped the woman he loved would win, and then love him in return. He hoped she wouldn’t be the end of him.
Stoically making their way down the alley and staring at the back of his master’s head, Dreeoth despaired at what was in store for who he was carrying. Ugly, festering magik marked the man's neck already. Blacks and deep reds mixing together, pulsing with the victim’s heartbeat and spreading under his skin. The Elf’s thoughts drifted to the room he’d started cleaning earlier and the vase he’d held for so long in silence. The massacre she’d left in her wake was terrifying in its chaos and obsessive destruction. He was glad to have left the suite in the hands of Bleach, a creature unphased by what he’d come to clean. With practised confidence, he-she’d promised there would be no trace of what’d happened there by the time they returned. Dreeoth didn’t think it possible, considering the very soul of their home was now stained so heavily.
Erin and Erso swam forward as he passed through the curtains of wetness falling from above, a memory of them trying to clean up stew from a spilled pot. Their mother had lovingly been preparing the food for them all day, favouring not to use magik as she thought time, care and attention added to the flavour. And there it was, her time, care and attention spread across the floor with two young elves, both in aprons, studiously scraping and cleaning the surfaces the stew had tainted. They were so scared. So worried mother would be angry and punish them. Looking around he saw the floor, the table legs, chairs, a rug that would need a lot of love to make pristine, all covered in delicious smelling liquid and tasty chunks of food. He couldn’t help but laugh, their wide eyes staring, thinking they were done for. Caught in the act. Smiling at the scene though, he asked how they were going to reach the ceiling. Despair and panic spread, their body language reflecting their fear and tears brimmed in their eyes.
“It’s a good job I’m tall then, isn’t it?” The girls smiled at their big brother helping out. The stakes were lower then of course, their mother being far more forgiving than most. He knew she wouldn’t have been angry with them, but he was Bleach that day. He was the cleaner who would cover up the crime and bring peace to their minds.
Christophe stared at the car in the distance, a dry and warm beacon of
hope drawing him in. What did she want with this Naïve? He disliked how much he looked like someone Rosalind once loved. He looked too familiar for comfort and wondered how a third person would affect their relationship. His confidence was being challenged in ways it hadn’t been for centuries as he thought about how she was being far more erratic than he remembered. He hadn’t needed Bleach’s services in decades. He’d never been asked to keep untouched body parts aside. He’d never seen one of her food sources kept like that woman in the steel room. What was she up to?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - THERE
Even though the handle of the door had an unnatural shape, it feels right in my hand. The sharper, stranger contours of it were complimented by effortlessly smooth grooves and comforting notches. Tchook purred on my shoulder, seemingly agreeing with my assessment and warming me as he rippled. I liked that the handle was ugly and beautiful and everything in between. Each line or hole carried a story. Every part of it added up to one complete handle that existed to open this door. Looking over the engravings on its surface I realised that it wasn’t a near replica of Djoonga. It was Djoonga. Light and dark forces met across the wood, starkly contrasting each other in the conflict but then bleeding into greyness in the middle. Soldiers fighting their own battles, carrying their own histories made up the montage. Every part of it added up to one complete door. The good, the bad and the middle, contributing to the overall.
“Are you ready?” A voice echoed in my head, Tchook freezing as he heard it too. I answer by opening the door, swinging it back confidently to be met by my first challenge. Before I can do anything though, my senses were overwhelmed with an earthy smell. Soil and decay thrust themselves into my nostrils, choking my thoughts away with rot and filth. Looking around, I can see roots growing out of the walls and clinging to the earth with rocks and bones scattered amongst the brown. I feel like I’m in a grave. Suffocating and restrictive I try to control my breathing and slow myself down. Tchook reflected my mood by freaking out on my shoulder and reaching back towards the room with the warm bed and my Bjørneskinn. Reaching back towards light and safety. Calming by body and mind I take in more of the room. The floor is slated, polished to a fine finish by caring hands. Following a line towards the centre of the room I notice a symbol on the floor. A huge circle, about ten feet wide, had a triangle inside it which had a small, filled in circle inside that. It’s a very similar style to the symbol I’d seen when I woke up from my last episode.
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