A House Filled With Night

“That witch,” spat Casimir. “We walked right into that.”

“She must have been the one manipulating Lord Cargan all this time,” muttered Sylvain.

The Sons of Midnight approached the House’s walls in a dark cloud of anger, despair, fear, and uncertainty. They were dirty, broken, tired, and though none would admit it aloud, defeated. They had returned with nothing but wounds; no “secret weapon” against Celemine, no clue as to what to do next. Fiske was being supported by Sylvain, while Niko carried a motionless Torin over his shoulder. Runa had somehow managed to carry all the equipment by herself, but every muscle in her body was absolutely burning.

But fate would have no mercy on them. As the gates of the House opened, their hearts fell still more. It was as if an earthquake had struck in their absence: the grassy ground had been split and cracked, the stones of the courtyard bulged here and sank there, and garden statues laid fallen across the path. The plants in the garden had grown wildly beyond their range, covering everything in a thicket of deep green.

All their efforts at repairing the House had been for nothing.

Sylvain sank to the ground.

“How…”

Casimir placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s at least go inside. They need rest.”

They trudged through the brush, Niko at their head, using a long knife to cut through branches. It didn’t really feel as though they had come home. There was no place to call safe anymore.

They finally made it inside an alcove on the west entrance. Sylvain and Niko took Torin away while Runa tended to Fiske and Casimir there on the ground. Everyone was doing their best to pretend they weren’t afraid, but nothing could overcome the chilling disquiet hanging in the air. Silence permeated the room as Runa treated wounds without a word. When she finished a bandage for Casimir, he slumped against the wall, head against the wall, eyes closed.

“We don’t have much time,” he murmured. “Celemine will come soon. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Hours passed. The rest of the brothers joined eventually. They sat slumped against each other along the wall, wordless and listless.

They knew when Celemine arrived because the air went instantly closed. The candlelight of the crumbling alcove grew dim, as if retreating from her presence. The brothers looked up from where they sat. Runa glanced from face to face, watching them all grow pale.

“Let’s not wait here,” said Sylvain. “Not like this.”

They left for the courtyard. It had grown hazy, the dark arms of branches twisting in and out of the mist. Dawn would break soon, but it looked like it would be a gray morning.

When they reached the edge of the trees, they stopped almost all at once.

“Runa—” Sylvain started, turning toward her. “We don’t have time to say everything we wish to say. But know that what we all feel for you is, well, beyond words.”

“You’re family now,” said Niko.

“Sorry you got stuck with us,” Fiske grinned.

“It’s been nice having you here,” Casimir admitted, averting his eyes.

Torin came closer to Runa and took her hands. “Our time is over now. But you have no reason to die with us. Please, this one time—”

She shook her head. “I can’t leave you all like this.”

“We’ll fight, Runa. We’ll fight with everything we have, to the very end. But I want to know that, while I am, you’re alive and well, waiting for us—safely.”

“I…”

“Torin,” said Sylvain. “We’re out of time.”

Torin swallowed. His hands wrapped around Runa’s cheeks and he leaned in to kiss her before he turned to the woods. He lingered at her lips even as his hands slipped away.

He turned away, following the retreating forms of his brothers into the misty gloom of the courtyard.

—

They marched through the thicket of the garden, into its dark, thorny heart. Pushing their way through black branches and twisting vines, they came at last to a small clearing in the trees. A feeble sheen of light filtered through the thick canopy, tinted a dull teal shade.

They didn’t have to see her to know she was there. There was something sinister about the place. The air was thick and sticky, sweet but foul. There was a glimmer of emerald in the foliage above—a flash of eyes.

She slowly slithered down the boughs of an ancient oak tree: her coils wound tightly around its branches, her head hung back, hair flowing in the air, shimmering like silver spider’s web. She jutted her face forward, until they had a clear view of the glint in her wide, cat-like eyes.

“You’ve come.”

Niko swallowed a gasp. Sylvain’s eyes narrowed. Something was different.

She slid farther down the branch, lifting her upper body so she could get a better look at them. She grinned as she drew close. Her teeth were yellow and brittle, her skin was like dust, her lips looked dark. Purple threads of vein coursed beneath a thin veneer of skin. Her scales were dappled, some shimmering, some dull, some flaking away.

“Your time is up,” she sang in her metallic voice.

“It looks like yours might be too, you old hag,” said Casimir, eyes narrowing.

To this, she first responded with a strange, hollow smile, and a breathy laugh. Then her brow contorted, her laughing slowed, and suddenly, her mouth opened wide in a piercing shriek.

She flew down the tree, stopping just short of Casimir. He didn’t even flinch. Her chest heaved up and down in deep breaths, her oversized grin returning.

“What was that you said, child?”

“I said, it looks like your time is up, too. You old hag.”

She threw her head back and shrieked again, diving for the brothers. They scattered in an instant, spreading out in the shadows at the edges of the clearing.

“You’ll die today,” she hissed, slithering around in a frenzy. “Mutts should be exterminated swiftly—didn’t you know?”

The fog in the garden became thicker and darker, a storm cloud stirred up by Sylvain. The air itself trembled. Sylvain swam through the dust of the ground like a shark on the hunt. He struck at Celemine’s tail, dragging her down as much as he could so that Niko could pounce. He got in as many blows as possible before he was thrown away by some unseen force. Niko floated backwards as light as a feather, landing gently on his toes.

The brothers only gave her a split second of reprieve before Fiske fell upon Celemine from the air, attacking with all the vengeance of a thunderstorm. He fought like a wounded beast—desperate and furious.

The air shifted again as a new, surprising sound reached their ears: the heartbreaking song of a beautiful flute. Casimir’s music might not be able to put Celemine to sleep, but even she couldn’t avoid its disorienting effects.

She panted, clawing at her own chest, infuriated.

“You think you can kill me? You think you ever had a chance?”

A dark, towering form appeared from the smoke, dust swirling with each pounding footstep. He swung his fist into Celemine’s gut, making her fly backward onto the ground. She groaned. A low, dark growl rumbled through the forest. When she looked up, she saw Torin standing above her, heaving with fury, mere inches away from pounding her into the dust.

Celemine tossed her hair back and laughed. “Look at this! The filthiest mutt of all has finally come out to play.”

She forced her palm out, making Torin fly backward, deep into the brush. She pulled herself up, sliding forward after her prey.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she crooned. “Don’t get tired on me just yet. I like to play with my food. I was hoping for at least a little more entertainment than I got out of that wretched father of yours.”

His brothers had tried to attack her while she was distracted, but she sent them flying into the ground with only a wave of her hand. Torin growled again, struggling to pull himself up again. Celemine’s slithering form flew forward. Just as he was getting to his feet, she flung him even farther back. Again he tried to get up. Again she threw him down. With every attempt, Torin was flung farther and farther away, until his back smashed into the House wall, and he collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Celemine stalked toward her fallen opponent, yellow eyes glistening, lips pulled back in a tight, broad smile. Torin’s shoulders bobbed up and down, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His neck groaned even from holding up the weight of his head. Blood dripped from his face, his arms, his back.

“Look at you,” Celemine couldn’t help but chortle. “You really are that fool’s little bastard, aren’t you? The sum of his arrogant failures! Does anyone still doubt you beasts were some horrible mishap of black sorcery? Well, look no further than this one!”

She twisted herself around his legs, binding him there and drawing herself up to his face. He refused to look at her.

“The only chance at love you ever had was with a mother twisted as me. Were you too good for me, hm? Did you delude yourself into sweet dreams of familial happiness? I hope you know how much your mother would loathe you, if she knew what sort of hideous creature she helped produce.”

She stooped down and yanked up a handful of his hair, forcing his face before hers. She stared into his dark, dark eyes, which slowly, hatefully, rolled up to meet hers.

“Mutt,” hissed Celemine. “I bet you’ll whine as pathetically as he did.”

Torin’s breathing quickened to a storm, breaking forth in an ear-splitting roar as he lifted his head. The glare in his eyes sharpened like a sword and homed in on the serpent’s face. Began to stand, clutching his chest, stumbling backward, then tumbling into the rubble of the wall. The skin of his face had begun to crack, revealing a sea of swirling blackness beneath. It was pulsing, churning, eager to break forth. His cry reached a new pitch, and the darkness consumed his skin, dripping like thick dust from his chin and limbs. From that black universe, his eyes shone like two massive, stars—angry, piercing, hungry. As he rose, he loomed taller and taller, growing with rage every moment.

Celemine couldn’t retreat far enough away. His great, angry hands reached out and grabbed her, flinging her over his shoulder, where she crashed into the walls of the House. They collapsed on top of her, crushing her. It wasn’t enough. Torin prowled forward, lunging onto her, pounding into her body, dark fists flying through the air, dust flying from the rubble. The House trembled more and more with every strike. Cracks ran up its stones, thin and tangled like threads. The walls began to sink; and then, with a great tremor, fall. Large pieces of debris crashed down upon them. Even so, Torin’s relentless barrage persisted. His cries swelled with fury, but they reeked of pain. He couldn’t stop until he finished what he had begun.

When his blows finally halted and the dust settled, Celemine laid in a heap of rubble, a beaten, bloody heap beneath the dark figure of Torin. One arm, still shaking with power and anger, was raised for a final blow.

The old creature still breathed. Those weary, serpentine eyes peered up at the darkness stooping over her. It was the same darkness that had consumed her heart for so many years. It was only fitting it should ultimately consume her last ounce of life.

She knew this, but she trembled nonetheless. In the face of what would come, she trembled in absolute terror.

I’ve come to collect my dues.

It was whispered like a gust of chilly wind between them, a dreadful and certain promise.

With one final, horrible roar, the darkness fell upon her. It was the weight of a hundred worlds. It was an ocean of black, a rush of angry waves that swept her into oblivion. Then the forest, that deep, quiet forest which had hidden the House for so many years, exploded into a flash of color and light. The fountain, shook to its core, erupted and vomited up its brilliant array of waters. The ground shuddered. The columns fell. The ceilings collapsed. Every stone in the House fell to the ground, and it was quiet once again.

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~ A/N ~

BIG SIGH.

Please be nice, because I slightly agonized over this chapter all day!! >_<

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