In Her Element

The corridors through which Almyra was led were long, dark, and twisted, and Almyra shivered despite the nearly suffocating heat that seemed to be emitted from the castle walls themselves. The dreariness that hung over everything unsettled her, and she had lost track of the many turns she had taken. She had a sneaking suspicion that Damien had taken her a very long way around so as to purposely confuse her—all the more to minimize her chance of escape. Escape, not leave, for of certain was she a prisoner of this grotesquely dark fortress.

Finally, Damien slowed his pace before coming to a complete stop in front of a really intimidating set of doors, complete with two suits of armor, one on each side of the sealed entrance. Their presence seemed to be for the purpose of heightening the fear factor, and their job was well done, for Almyra was suddenly overwhelmed, her heart racing and her hands becoming clammy. Damien pulled a very large key ring out of nowhere with a seemingly infinite amount of keys on it to open the doors, and Almyra stumbled into the room.

It was a simple room, mostly empty, from what she could see in the weak light of the single candle that sat on a small—and probably ancient, by the looks of it—vanity table. Coincidentally, the candle gave off a strong smell of lavender that penetrated through the warm-cold night air.

“Good-night, Miss Almyra,” Damien said from behind her with a gentleness beyond his years. “Sleep well.” And before she could respond, he was out of the room and the doors shut behind him, leaving her alone.

Alone.

She was utterly alone in a strange place, a strange room, with only a small light that cast large shadows onto the walls and scared Almyra despite her age.

She could not remember having felt so fearful since that time, years ago, when she and her family had received the news of her father’s gory death by some unknown enemy. Almyra now wondered if it had been connected to all these strange occurrences and people, which only increased her animosity towards them.

The only thing she could do now was lay down on the four-poster bed and sleep to hopefully block out everything that had happened. But even as she lay down, still fully clothed in her fancy—and grimy—gown, too exhausted to attempt to light the logs in the small fireplace that was now visible from her position on the bed, and kicked off her shoes, she knew it was not a dream.

When she woke up, it would all still be there.

Almyra was standing before a large, uncut, purple crystal on a pedestal. Men and boys of all shapes and sizes, although all were of younger years, linked hands around her and the stone, chanting in a slow monotone as the inner circle of boys moved counter-clockwise and the outer circle of men moved clockwise; Almyra could practically see the magical Energy rising and swirling, surrounding them with its ethereal glow.

Something stirred at her feet. She looked down and felt bile coming up in the back of her throat and burning her esophagus. Rupert lay there, bound, gagged, and completely naked, with a stream of red flowing from a hole in his chest. The hair around the gaping wound was matted and wet, with some areas already crusting. Every so often, a red drop fell and joined the puddle that slowly spread around him. Swallowing hard in trepidation, Almyra moved her gaze to her hand, where it peeked out of a long loose sleeve (this being the point where Almyra realized she was cloaked as the others all were). Even with knowing what she held, the horror still crashed over her like a tall wave when she moved her hand to reveal a ceremonial knife that was dripping red—blood—onto its victim.

A sob welled up inside of her, washing away the bile, and burst out before she could quell it.

And then, someone else was standing in front of her, on the other side of Rupert’s stagnant body. A hand reached out and lifted her chin, so that she was now looking at the hooded figure instead of her dead guard.

The man pulled back his hood, revealing a ghastly parody of Frederick. She knew it looked wrong, but she could not place a finger on what, and so she took the hand that he offered. She stepped over Rupert, suddenly not caring for him or when she trod on his splayed fingers, another thing that she knew was wrong, but could not for the life of hers figure out why. A feeling of cold detachment settled over her, starting at her hand that was held by Frederick as he was leading her to the stone and its pedestal, and spreading to her heart and mind, and all the way down to her toes, which, incidentally, were bare.

The better to sacrifice, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, a fact she was sure of but unsure as to how she knew.

They reached the dais, and Frederick turned to her slowly, still holding her hand. He held out his other hand and when he opened it, Almyra saw that he held a dark lump that expanded and contracted to the beat of her heart. Looking back at the hole in Rupert’s chest, she understood it was his heart. This time, she felt no remorse or pain for her dead bodyguard. In fact, she felt nothing.

She turned back to Frederick, who she realized was offering the heart to her.

“It has to come from you, love,” Frederick whispered, and she nodded and made to take the red lump, squashing the last weak and unpleasant feeling in the back—far back—of her mind. Frederick would never ask her to do something bad, and he was nodded in encouragement, smiling gently, his eyes holding her captive.

Her hand reached out, the one not holding his, but it still held the knife. She frowned, not wanting to let go of Frederick’s hand and the blissful, numbing feeling that seemed to come with it and clouded the worries in her mind. But she did not want to let go of the knife either; something told her she might have another use of it yet.

She sighed, and dropped Frederick’s hand, and reached for the heart again. But the clouds were moving now, her mind cleared, and with sudden comprehension, she jerked back, wielding the knife.

“No! I won’t!”

Frederick still looked at her still somewhat kindly, but his brow was furrowed, and his soft smile was fading as she looked at it.

“Almyra, my love. Come. Take it. It will save you and Rupert and get us all out of here.”

Almyra shook her head vehemently. “How could it save Rupert? It’s his heart, after all, and you know very well that there is no longer any chance of him taking another breath!” Her voice rose and cracked as she tried to back away, as Frederick began convulsing in front of her, bent over.

He straightened, and suddenly it was Samuel who was looking back at her with no compassion at all, anger contorting his normally handsome face.

“Now, Almyra! Offer it now! To the stone, Almyra!”

The boys around her closed ranks—pulled in tighter and pushed her closer to the stone. It began to glow, its gleam blinding, and it pulsed along with the heart that Samuel held; Almyra clutched the knife, crying and yelling….