Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 6: With the Blessings of Aether
Title: With the Blessings of Aether, Chapter 6 of Lament of the Asphodels
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 4,600
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
Artwork by LiamJcnes
The Keeper offered the Survivor a room at Stagrock Light, but she politely refused under the guise of imposition. When he insisted that it was no burden, she confessed to her paralyzing terror of the ocean, which surely had increased tenfold in its voracity since her most recent experience with the sea. With that explanation, he relented, for he knew the kind of fear of which she spoke all too well. There was no doubt in his mind that she had lived through that familiar hell; had she said the word 'people' in place of 'ocean,' the declaration could've come from his own lips.
Thus, the Keeper gathered supplies from the lighthouse, including a mobile cot, heavy blankets, and various garments, the likes of which were too large for the Survivor. As he never had need for the finer things in this life, he had no hairbrush, makeup, nor perfume to offer her, only a sturdy comb and a thick salve that he used when his skin burned under the harsh rays of the sun.
She neither complained about the provisions nor requested anything to augment them. The comb untangled the knots in her hair, and the ointment soothed her reddened skin, which happily did not peel but simply healed after the natural course.
"I can bring you a proper supper," he offered on the second night. "I imagine you've grown tired of dry rice."
She responded with an inquisitive expression.
"When I found you, you were covered in rice," he said.
"I needed to use the towels for blankets," she explained. "But I was soaking wet. I used the rice to dry off."
The features of his face shifted from confusion to interest, as if he'd never heard of such a thing before, though in the Midlands, it was a common enough practice, particularly when salt was in short supply. To avoid any speculation that might lead to inquiries about her past, the Survivor changed the subject.
"Are there many that get stranded here during storms?" she asked.
"Hardly," he replied. "You are the first since I became Keeper, which was a very long time ago."
"So, you've never helped anyone return to the mainland before?"
"Never had the honor," he replied simply. "Worry not. Though I may have limited experience, I assure you that the Dockmaster will know exactly what to do."
The Keeper spoke with confidence so as to put her mind at ease, and she appeared to relax marginally, which, given the circumstances, was an incredible feat.
There was no way for him to know that the opposite had transpired. The Survivor had landed on the shores of Northedge, and once someone's feet were planted there, none in the world had the right to uproot them. She never had occasion to inquire after the exact act of acquiring refuge in the Northmost Lands. It had always been a far-flung story to her, a song for others to sing.
What if this Dockmaster swindled her? The position was rarely filled by honest people, and the only means to return to the mainland was by sea. What if he threatened to intercept her vessel? She had no coin to pay him off nor anything of value to offer him as payment.
The Keeper was an honest man, so if he promised her his aid, he would give it. There was no way for her to know if he would keep his word once he knew the truth. He might well reject her and send her out to sea himself if he objected to her circumstances. The Northmost Land were known for their lawlessness, or rather, for enacting their own sense of justice rather than appealing to the law.
"I would like some more time to recover before returning," she said. "Before anyone knows I'm here."
"Surely your loved ones fear for your life and safety," he replied. "Even if you don't return immediately, we can send word, put their minds at ease."
The suggestion was like a punch to the gut, and she failed to conceal her reaction.
"I meant no offense," he added.
"It's not your fault," she said. "I hadn't told you that all my loved ones are dead. I have no one to send word to."
"Neither do I," he replied. "I take it from your expression that this is rather a new development?"
She nodded her head, yes.
She intrigued the Keeper. At first he thought his interest was simple attraction to her beauty, but by the end of her second day on Cellar Island, he realized it went far beyond that. Her company touched him deeply, pleasing him and inspiring him.
He couldn't remember a time when he found anybody's company pleasant, let alone enthralling.
The Survivor remained in the cellar for three days, excusing herself from every invitation to even the briefest of leaves, varying her reason each time. Her feet ached too much. She was too cold without the blankets. She had no desire to see the sun.
But on the morning of the fourth day, the Keeper offered her his arm and refused to exit the cellar without her.
"After a storm, the Dockmaster sends emergency supplies," he explained. "The deliveries are made directly to the cellar, where I am expected to provide any requests or other instructions I may require. I very much doubt he would be inclined to forgive the guest living amongst my stores, even if it was at her own insistence."
The Survivor felt the beginnings of panic. On the one hand, if she left the cellar, she would be forced to confront the ocean. On the other, if she remained in the cellar, the Dockmaster would discover her before she was ready to recount her story.
"I don't want anyone to know I'm here yet," she said quietly.
"Aye, you have my word," he replied. "But to keep it, I must escort you to Stagrock. Except myself, no one ever lands on that shore. After that, I will remove any sign of your stay here, and I will keep your secret for as long as you desire."
"Thank you," she said. "It's just... if I walk outside, then the ocean..."
"I understand."
"You don't."
"In fact, I do," he said plainly. "Not four days ago, the thought of meeting another person, speaking to someone again petrified me to inaction. It took everything I had to come down into this cellar."
"You were afraid?" she asked. "Of me?"
"More of people in general," he replied. He lifted up his hook as he continued. "I lost more than my hand. When the navy discharged me, I returned to a nameless town in Northedge. I kept to myself, worked only at night... when I was offered Stagrock Light, it was a blessing. No one ever sets foot here but the Keeper. Not until you."
"Yet you've returned with supplies and food," she pointed out. "Each day."
"Apparently, those fears abated thereafter," he replied. "It seems being forced to face those demons was enough to purge them. Perhaps the same will be true for you."
The Keeper had told her the truth. He was unafraid of her companionship, though he had no explanation for the transformation. It was as if passing over the threshold of the cellar thrust him into a new - or rather, old - version of himself, back to a time when he reveled in the company of others rather than reviling it.
Yet meeting the Dockmaster dredged up anxiety. Delaying that conversation was a boon in that regard, though it cast a cloud over the Survivor that he couldn't dismiss. There was an unshared reason for her not wanting to face him, and whatever it was must be quite unsavory.
But that was a problem for another day.
She took his arm, and he led the way with measured steps. As they reached the cellar door, the roar of the sea greeted their ears, and her grip became crushing as she faltered.
"Fear not," he said. "If you cannot speak, I will continue on in silence and guide you to the boat. If you cannot walk, I will carry you. If you cannot move, all the better. You need only remain still, and I shall have you at Stagrock before the asphodels turn their heads."
She nodded her head, yes, and he yanked the door open. When he tried to lead her on, she became rooted to the spot, her eyes wide in fear despite the harsh rays of the sun.
The Keeper loathed it, but he had given her his word. So he took hold of her and dragged her outside, ready to lift her off her feet and carry her to the boat. He leaned her up against the wall before releasing her to secure the door. He had yet to restore the lock - in fact, he had written a request for the Dockmaster to handle that - so he had to tie the door shut, which took several protracted minutes.
So focused had he been on the task at hand that he didn't notice when the Survivor abandoned the wall.
It had not been a conscious decision to step away. After the Keeper dragged her out of the cellar and into the light, she braced herself for the familiar anxiety the overwhelmed her every time she so much as saw the sea. It occurred to her that she might hide the truth from herself by shutting her eyes, yet she couldn't close them. She couldn't turn away.
And when she saw the ocean - really saw it for the first time she could remember - she didn't want to turn away. The surge of the tide captivated her, drawing her away like a Siren beckoning her to her end, so she approached the beach aware of the danger yet unafraid of it. She was wary and cautious but not terrified, neither was she recklessly wandering.
The Survivor felt more like herself than she had in a very, very long time.
Not one year ago, she and her deputies were in pursuit of a suspect who escaped custody. So determined was she to capture him that she forewent several key procedures, and they chased him straight through the night to the coast. She hadn't appreciated how close they were to the water or she wouldn't've raced after him on foot. The towering buildings and trees parted, revealing a steep cliff with smaller houses that led right up to the shoreline. Her heart leaped into her throat, where it caught all the air of her next breath, and suddenly, she was feeling the sting of salt water in her lungs and eyes along with the freezing cascade around her as she struggled to cough up the water and finally, finally breath. Normally, she could hardly recall the night The Yellow Bug went down, but when the ocean was near, she relived a collage of those memories, and nothing could draw her out of them.
Yet today, the echo of the waves lapping against the shore and crashing over the rocks soothed her. The horizon that expanded out before her majestically hinted at the magnitude of the world ahead where before the endlessness of it consumed her.
The ocean had been the one demon she could not chase from her mind, the lingering doubt that overcast the joyous and prosperous life she lived. Yet now that everything beautiful in her life had been taken from her, now that she was forsaken and alone, it was a thing of pure and absolute beauty, untainted by the hands of humanity, untouched by the lies of their lips.
When the Keeper discovered that she was no longer nearby, he panicked, worried that he had miscalculated and her terror had driven her into the arms of the sea. He ran to the boat, his eyes scouring the landscape for any hint of her. He nearly collapsed in relief when he caught sight of a figure standing on the shore.
He wanted to reprimand her, but the words were lost to him when she spoke upon his approach.
"It's beautiful," she commented.
She was staring out at the ocean, her face aglow with awe and admiration.
"Aye, it is," he replied. "How do you feel?"
"Free," she said quietly. "How is that possible?"
"They say Stagrock is a place of hope," he replied. "It is the sole Beacon of Northedge, and legend has it that when its light falls upon you, all the woes of this world are cast into shadow."
"Then why didn't your woes disappear when you became the Keeper?" she asked.
"Perhaps they did," he countered. "I simply lacked the opportunity to prove it until your untimely arrival. Shall we?"
He offered her his arm, and she delicately placed her hands on him, suddenly very conscious of their proximity. It was far from unpleasant, yet she feared that he might become enamored of her before she proved her trustworthiness. She would rather win his loyalty and friendship than beguile him.
The Keeper escorted her to a rowboat and helped her inside before untying it, climbing in, and pushing off. She turned her head toward their destination, which was a magnificent tower that erupted from stone. It was the only structure apart from the cellar for miles around, the stark contrast of crafted shelter against the unforgiving landscape highlighted by the sunlight both from above and reflected from below.
The Keeper secured the boat to the mooring as the Survivor examined the lighthouse. It was taller than she expected, certainly higher than the cliffs of the mainland, which were like specs on the horizon. Though it was hardly a natural structure, it seemed to be hewn from stone, like a giant had taken a hammer and chisel to craft it. That would explain why she saw no lines revealing where bricks or stones were lain.
"Feel free to select whichever room you desire," the Keeper said as he joined her. "Most I've left bare. I planned to convert them to storage eventually."
He opened the door to the basement and led the way, guiding her up the spiral staircase into a glorious tower that continued winding upward straight into the unseen sky.
"You live here?" she inquired as she lagged behind him on the stairs.
"Aye," he replied. "Best leave these bottom floors empty. The kitchen and the living room - which has the only fireplace - are on floors above the midline."
"All the clothes lines are down here," she pointed out.
"I apologize," he said. "Life as a bachelor means there's no one to remind you to take in the laundry."
He stopped at the midline to show her the kitchen and stores as well as the living room. Neither room seemed particularly warm or comfortable, but there were many comforts, not the least of which was the ability to cook inside.
"Pick whichever room you desire," he said. "With any luck, I'll return before dusk."
"Return?" she repeated.
"In order to keep my promise to you, I must address the cellar before the Dockmaster sends supplies," he reminded her. "I have to ask that you stay inside the lighthouse at all times on the chance that they come a day sooner than I expect."
"Of course," she said. "Thank you."
"A fair warning: the beacon is protected with a powerful force, so it's best not to explore the beacon room without me. Oh, and, since you cannot attend the parapets just yet, if you find yourself in desperate need of a view, I recommend the top floor," he said. "Until we meet again."
He bowed his head slightly. It was a formal gesture that wasn't familiar to her. She mirrored his movement with a smile. Then he turned on his heel and descended the stairs in haste, his head held high and his back rigid.
She watched him until he disappeared through the basement door, noting that he moved far more quickly taking his leave than he did escorting her inside.
The Survivor ascended the stairs, peeking into every room as she went. All of them were shaped like a crescent moon, hugging the tower like partial rungs. They were all approximately the same size, and some contained covered furniture, though the word 'sparse' could be aptly applied. Unfortunately, most lacked windows, making them more fit as closets than bedrooms.
The stairwell wound more tightly, as if the tower was narrowing. For several floors, there were no doors or landings, for she was nearing the top.
The Keeper had told her about the view. Discarding her room search, she made her way up the stairs to the top landing, which was like the living room and kitchen, an entire circular floor open to the staircase, which curiously continued up for several more floors with two other doors.
Curious, she went to the first door beyond the last landing, which opened into an empty room with an enormous window that spanned the entire width as well as ceiling to floor, or very nearly so. When she approached it, she discovered why.
A large section was not a window but a door that opened out onto the smaller parapet that cradled the beacon. She hesitated, remembering her promise to stay inside, and stepped back. That was when she realized the height of this room was different from the others; it was noticeably shorter, even though she knew the next room was more than a single story up.
As she made for the door, something caught her eye. The ceiling opened up before the doorway to the stairs, revealing the true size of the room. She looked up and saw a lofted area above the window; it had been so wonderful a view that she missed it. After a few minutes of searching, she found a draw string, and when she pulled on it, a ladder appeared, anchoring at her feet.
Curiosity in full peek, she climbed up to inspect the area.
Had anyone been nearby, they would've witnessed her jaw agape for several minutes as she stepped onto the platform. The lofted area was more than tall enough to allow her to stand, and it had a large bed in the center, lined up against the far wall. It must've been specially made for this place, for the headboard and front were curved so that it fit the rounded wall perfectly. It was flanked by a nightstand that was similarly curved. A pair of bureaus lined up on either side of the room, both far enough back not to be visible from the ground floor.
It was the only room that had been prepared, and for a moment she wondered if she hadn't stumbled into the Keeper's bedchamber. But both the bureaus were empty, and the fresh bed linens concealed a tiny card that was laid out on one of the pillows.
To the Survivor:
I took the liberty of setting up a room. Should you find one of the other rooms more pleasant, moving the furniture will be no trouble. I thought this one suited you best.
Sincerely,
The Keeper
It was written in a tidy cursive that she would never have guessed belonged to the Keeper, though there was no one else around to pen such a note. The most stubborn part of her thought it presumptuous of him, yet she knew it was that same part of her that resisted any kind of support from others, especially from anyone who courted her.
Perhaps that was because every time she accepted such a present, suitors - especially male suitors - saw it as a victory, one step closer to winning her heart. She understood the general meaning when people spoke of these things, and she knew that the interpretation was never meant to be literal. That meant very little when the people in her life acted as if she were a prize to be won or a trophy to beget the envy of others. The Barkeep had reminded her just how deep that sentiment ran, for when he discovered that she had no intention of settling down and marrying him - certainly not any time soon - he reacted as if she had stolen something that was rightfully his, something that he had earned.
A flood of memories overwhelmed her, dredging up the past few weeks of misery that led her to this place. She bit back her tears, refusing to break down. She had made it this far, and she had survived. There was nothing to shed tears about.
The Keeper wasn't the Barkeep, and he had given her no reason to think he was courting her nor expecting her hand in marriage. Though she hardly knew him, she suspected that he established this humble room so that she might have a place to sleep that was neither a large closet nor plagued by a direct view of the sea. He knew that, to keep his promise to her, he had to coax her to leave the safety of the cellar, and had she panicked and frozen at the sight of the sea, this chamber would've been the only place she could sleep.
Requiring a distraction, she went down the drawn ladder, leaving it aloft for her later ascent, and returned to the spiral staircase. With determination borne from escaping sorrow, she climbed the stairs to the final door, shoving it open more harshly than necessary. She had the presence of mind to grab the handle before it crashed into the far wall.
The room before her was smaller than the other full-floor rooms, yet it seemed larger, for it wasn't split in two by the spiral staircase. She stepped inside and discovered that the threshold of the door was under a spandrel for another staircase that lead up through the second story, almost certainly to the roof.
Before she continued upward, however, she took in the sight before her. Like most of the lighthouse, the bedroom was sparse, even austere, though the bed was double the size of a single bed. It was quite possible that that was the only grandiose thing the Keeper owned. There was a large bureau that filled the rest of the space under the stairs with drawers, save for a large, open space where clothing hung like that in a closet. The windows were adorned with dark curtains and, though she could only just see them from here, shutters on the outside. Beyond that, there was nothing more than a nightstand.
The Keeper lived simply, which she might've guessed earlier, had she taken the time to reflect on it. She wondered what his duties were and how he spent his time. By his own account, he never received guests or visitors, which meant he spent no time entertaining others. Did he while away his days with music? Or did the care and keeping of the Sole Beacon of Northedge consume every hour from dawn until dusk?
A hatch in the floor caught her eye and distracted her from her thoughts. Wondering where it led, she investigated, lifting it open and climbing down.
This room was unlike any other she had explored that day, for it had an unusual shape. The window wrapped around most of the room and angled down slightly as it disappeared around the corner. She followed the wall, interested to see what lay beyond the column that obstructed her view.
What struck her first was the immense amount of heat; it shouldn't have surprised her, given that it kept the room above several degrees hotter than the floors below. It also explained how the lighthouse survived the chilling ocean wind with a single fireplace. She drank in the warmth, allowing it to wring the ice out of her bones. The Keeper's warning rang in her mind, but it would be a shame to come so far and fail to peek at the beacon.
She peered around the edge of the column and stole a glance. She barely registered the unique slope of the room before the flame's light overwhelmed her vision and forced her to pull away.
The windows and room were shaped much like snail shell, spiraling around and subtly down, opening the beacon in every direction while providing a kind of hunting blind for the Keeper. She chanced another look because something was off; there were tiny rainbow marks along the wall, like those a mirror might make.
There was a tin ripple - a scalloped edge - near the corner of the column. She touched it, and though there appeared to be nothing there, her fingers passed over something solid and rather similar in texture to chainmail. She raked her hand over it, sure it would make a sound when it moved, but there was nothing but silence. She pawed at the material to feel it shift, only to find her hand wound up in it. She pulled on her hand, hard, to free it, but whatever it was tightened against her.
It conjured the mental image of thieves trying to pull their fists past the neck of a jar and failing until they opened their fists.
The Survivor's first instinct was to fight her way free, but the experience conjured up old mental images of people in quicksand: the more they struggled, the deeper they sank. So she relaxed and stopped moving. Then she grabbed the wrist of her entrapped hand and slowly eased it out of the snare.
He hadn't been kidding about a powerful force protecting the beacon, though he failed to mention that it was also invisible. She made a mental note to ask him about it at the next opportunity.
She went back up the ladder to the Keeper's room and closed the hatch before continuing up the stairs, which led to a short, shelf-like plateau. From her perch, she looked down over the Keeper's bedroom, which was farther away than she expected, more than a full story down. She turned back to the wall, where rungs of a ladder continued upward, leading to a hatch in the ceiling.
Certain that she had finally reached the roof, she clambered up the wall and shoved the hatch open, pulling herself up into a smaller, circular room, which had yet more stairs, though these led into the center of the room rather than up the side. As she reached the top, she realized that, while she could continue up a central ladder that led to the actual roof, there was no need, for this floor had nothing but windows all the way around, with a short moat of solid wall below.
And from where she stood right now, in the center of the topmost floor of Stagrock Light, she could see everything for miles. Smoke rose in the north, and she followed its trail to what she assumed was Cellar Island, and past that, she could make out parts of the mainland and the harbor. She could even see a few ships.
To the west, south, and east, there was nothing but long stretches of ocean, save for the rocky bluffs in the west. To the south, there were silhouettes on the horizon, and she knew they must be ships, for the Great Untamed Ocean had nothing but water from here to the Midlands. She stretched out on her stomach, focusing on the southern edge of the horizon, as if peering in one direction long enough might grant her more potent eyesight.
The Survivor imagined herself aboard one of those distant ships. She dreamed about them taking her home, where she had a name, a position, and the respect of those around her. She pretended that she still had a place like that to return to, and for a little while, it soothed her.
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Mnemosyne's Cursed Clockwork
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Aether was the Greek primordial deity of light and the upper, heavenly air breathed by the gods.
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 4,600
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
Artwork by LiamJcnes
The Keeper offered the Survivor a room at Stagrock Light, but she politely refused under the guise of imposition. When he insisted that it was no burden, she confessed to her paralyzing terror of the ocean, which surely had increased tenfold in its voracity since her most recent experience with the sea. With that explanation, he relented, for he knew the kind of fear of which she spoke all too well. There was no doubt in his mind that she had lived through that familiar hell; had she said the word 'people' in place of 'ocean,' the declaration could've come from his own lips.
Thus, the Keeper gathered supplies from the lighthouse, including a mobile cot, heavy blankets, and various garments, the likes of which were too large for the Survivor. As he never had need for the finer things in this life, he had no hairbrush, makeup, nor perfume to offer her, only a sturdy comb and a thick salve that he used when his skin burned under the harsh rays of the sun.
She neither complained about the provisions nor requested anything to augment them. The comb untangled the knots in her hair, and the ointment soothed her reddened skin, which happily did not peel but simply healed after the natural course.
"I can bring you a proper supper," he offered on the second night. "I imagine you've grown tired of dry rice."
She responded with an inquisitive expression.
"When I found you, you were covered in rice," he said.
"I needed to use the towels for blankets," she explained. "But I was soaking wet. I used the rice to dry off."
The features of his face shifted from confusion to interest, as if he'd never heard of such a thing before, though in the Midlands, it was a common enough practice, particularly when salt was in short supply. To avoid any speculation that might lead to inquiries about her past, the Survivor changed the subject.
"Are there many that get stranded here during storms?" she asked.
"Hardly," he replied. "You are the first since I became Keeper, which was a very long time ago."
"So, you've never helped anyone return to the mainland before?"
"Never had the honor," he replied simply. "Worry not. Though I may have limited experience, I assure you that the Dockmaster will know exactly what to do."
The Keeper spoke with confidence so as to put her mind at ease, and she appeared to relax marginally, which, given the circumstances, was an incredible feat.
There was no way for him to know that the opposite had transpired. The Survivor had landed on the shores of Northedge, and once someone's feet were planted there, none in the world had the right to uproot them. She never had occasion to inquire after the exact act of acquiring refuge in the Northmost Lands. It had always been a far-flung story to her, a song for others to sing.
What if this Dockmaster swindled her? The position was rarely filled by honest people, and the only means to return to the mainland was by sea. What if he threatened to intercept her vessel? She had no coin to pay him off nor anything of value to offer him as payment.
The Keeper was an honest man, so if he promised her his aid, he would give it. There was no way for her to know if he would keep his word once he knew the truth. He might well reject her and send her out to sea himself if he objected to her circumstances. The Northmost Land were known for their lawlessness, or rather, for enacting their own sense of justice rather than appealing to the law.
"I would like some more time to recover before returning," she said. "Before anyone knows I'm here."
"Surely your loved ones fear for your life and safety," he replied. "Even if you don't return immediately, we can send word, put their minds at ease."
The suggestion was like a punch to the gut, and she failed to conceal her reaction.
"I meant no offense," he added.
"It's not your fault," she said. "I hadn't told you that all my loved ones are dead. I have no one to send word to."
"Neither do I," he replied. "I take it from your expression that this is rather a new development?"
She nodded her head, yes.
She intrigued the Keeper. At first he thought his interest was simple attraction to her beauty, but by the end of her second day on Cellar Island, he realized it went far beyond that. Her company touched him deeply, pleasing him and inspiring him.
He couldn't remember a time when he found anybody's company pleasant, let alone enthralling.
The Survivor remained in the cellar for three days, excusing herself from every invitation to even the briefest of leaves, varying her reason each time. Her feet ached too much. She was too cold without the blankets. She had no desire to see the sun.
But on the morning of the fourth day, the Keeper offered her his arm and refused to exit the cellar without her.
"After a storm, the Dockmaster sends emergency supplies," he explained. "The deliveries are made directly to the cellar, where I am expected to provide any requests or other instructions I may require. I very much doubt he would be inclined to forgive the guest living amongst my stores, even if it was at her own insistence."
The Survivor felt the beginnings of panic. On the one hand, if she left the cellar, she would be forced to confront the ocean. On the other, if she remained in the cellar, the Dockmaster would discover her before she was ready to recount her story.
"I don't want anyone to know I'm here yet," she said quietly.
"Aye, you have my word," he replied. "But to keep it, I must escort you to Stagrock. Except myself, no one ever lands on that shore. After that, I will remove any sign of your stay here, and I will keep your secret for as long as you desire."
"Thank you," she said. "It's just... if I walk outside, then the ocean..."
"I understand."
"You don't."
"In fact, I do," he said plainly. "Not four days ago, the thought of meeting another person, speaking to someone again petrified me to inaction. It took everything I had to come down into this cellar."
"You were afraid?" she asked. "Of me?"
"More of people in general," he replied. He lifted up his hook as he continued. "I lost more than my hand. When the navy discharged me, I returned to a nameless town in Northedge. I kept to myself, worked only at night... when I was offered Stagrock Light, it was a blessing. No one ever sets foot here but the Keeper. Not until you."
"Yet you've returned with supplies and food," she pointed out. "Each day."
"Apparently, those fears abated thereafter," he replied. "It seems being forced to face those demons was enough to purge them. Perhaps the same will be true for you."
The Keeper had told her the truth. He was unafraid of her companionship, though he had no explanation for the transformation. It was as if passing over the threshold of the cellar thrust him into a new - or rather, old - version of himself, back to a time when he reveled in the company of others rather than reviling it.
Yet meeting the Dockmaster dredged up anxiety. Delaying that conversation was a boon in that regard, though it cast a cloud over the Survivor that he couldn't dismiss. There was an unshared reason for her not wanting to face him, and whatever it was must be quite unsavory.
But that was a problem for another day.
She took his arm, and he led the way with measured steps. As they reached the cellar door, the roar of the sea greeted their ears, and her grip became crushing as she faltered.
"Fear not," he said. "If you cannot speak, I will continue on in silence and guide you to the boat. If you cannot walk, I will carry you. If you cannot move, all the better. You need only remain still, and I shall have you at Stagrock before the asphodels turn their heads."
She nodded her head, yes, and he yanked the door open. When he tried to lead her on, she became rooted to the spot, her eyes wide in fear despite the harsh rays of the sun.
The Keeper loathed it, but he had given her his word. So he took hold of her and dragged her outside, ready to lift her off her feet and carry her to the boat. He leaned her up against the wall before releasing her to secure the door. He had yet to restore the lock - in fact, he had written a request for the Dockmaster to handle that - so he had to tie the door shut, which took several protracted minutes.
So focused had he been on the task at hand that he didn't notice when the Survivor abandoned the wall.
It had not been a conscious decision to step away. After the Keeper dragged her out of the cellar and into the light, she braced herself for the familiar anxiety the overwhelmed her every time she so much as saw the sea. It occurred to her that she might hide the truth from herself by shutting her eyes, yet she couldn't close them. She couldn't turn away.
And when she saw the ocean - really saw it for the first time she could remember - she didn't want to turn away. The surge of the tide captivated her, drawing her away like a Siren beckoning her to her end, so she approached the beach aware of the danger yet unafraid of it. She was wary and cautious but not terrified, neither was she recklessly wandering.
The Survivor felt more like herself than she had in a very, very long time.
Not one year ago, she and her deputies were in pursuit of a suspect who escaped custody. So determined was she to capture him that she forewent several key procedures, and they chased him straight through the night to the coast. She hadn't appreciated how close they were to the water or she wouldn't've raced after him on foot. The towering buildings and trees parted, revealing a steep cliff with smaller houses that led right up to the shoreline. Her heart leaped into her throat, where it caught all the air of her next breath, and suddenly, she was feeling the sting of salt water in her lungs and eyes along with the freezing cascade around her as she struggled to cough up the water and finally, finally breath. Normally, she could hardly recall the night The Yellow Bug went down, but when the ocean was near, she relived a collage of those memories, and nothing could draw her out of them.
Yet today, the echo of the waves lapping against the shore and crashing over the rocks soothed her. The horizon that expanded out before her majestically hinted at the magnitude of the world ahead where before the endlessness of it consumed her.
The ocean had been the one demon she could not chase from her mind, the lingering doubt that overcast the joyous and prosperous life she lived. Yet now that everything beautiful in her life had been taken from her, now that she was forsaken and alone, it was a thing of pure and absolute beauty, untainted by the hands of humanity, untouched by the lies of their lips.
When the Keeper discovered that she was no longer nearby, he panicked, worried that he had miscalculated and her terror had driven her into the arms of the sea. He ran to the boat, his eyes scouring the landscape for any hint of her. He nearly collapsed in relief when he caught sight of a figure standing on the shore.
He wanted to reprimand her, but the words were lost to him when she spoke upon his approach.
"It's beautiful," she commented.
She was staring out at the ocean, her face aglow with awe and admiration.
"Aye, it is," he replied. "How do you feel?"
"Free," she said quietly. "How is that possible?"
"They say Stagrock is a place of hope," he replied. "It is the sole Beacon of Northedge, and legend has it that when its light falls upon you, all the woes of this world are cast into shadow."
"Then why didn't your woes disappear when you became the Keeper?" she asked.
"Perhaps they did," he countered. "I simply lacked the opportunity to prove it until your untimely arrival. Shall we?"
He offered her his arm, and she delicately placed her hands on him, suddenly very conscious of their proximity. It was far from unpleasant, yet she feared that he might become enamored of her before she proved her trustworthiness. She would rather win his loyalty and friendship than beguile him.
The Keeper escorted her to a rowboat and helped her inside before untying it, climbing in, and pushing off. She turned her head toward their destination, which was a magnificent tower that erupted from stone. It was the only structure apart from the cellar for miles around, the stark contrast of crafted shelter against the unforgiving landscape highlighted by the sunlight both from above and reflected from below.
The Keeper secured the boat to the mooring as the Survivor examined the lighthouse. It was taller than she expected, certainly higher than the cliffs of the mainland, which were like specs on the horizon. Though it was hardly a natural structure, it seemed to be hewn from stone, like a giant had taken a hammer and chisel to craft it. That would explain why she saw no lines revealing where bricks or stones were lain.
"Feel free to select whichever room you desire," the Keeper said as he joined her. "Most I've left bare. I planned to convert them to storage eventually."
He opened the door to the basement and led the way, guiding her up the spiral staircase into a glorious tower that continued winding upward straight into the unseen sky.
"You live here?" she inquired as she lagged behind him on the stairs.
"Aye," he replied. "Best leave these bottom floors empty. The kitchen and the living room - which has the only fireplace - are on floors above the midline."
"All the clothes lines are down here," she pointed out.
"I apologize," he said. "Life as a bachelor means there's no one to remind you to take in the laundry."
He stopped at the midline to show her the kitchen and stores as well as the living room. Neither room seemed particularly warm or comfortable, but there were many comforts, not the least of which was the ability to cook inside.
"Pick whichever room you desire," he said. "With any luck, I'll return before dusk."
"Return?" she repeated.
"In order to keep my promise to you, I must address the cellar before the Dockmaster sends supplies," he reminded her. "I have to ask that you stay inside the lighthouse at all times on the chance that they come a day sooner than I expect."
"Of course," she said. "Thank you."
"A fair warning: the beacon is protected with a powerful force, so it's best not to explore the beacon room without me. Oh, and, since you cannot attend the parapets just yet, if you find yourself in desperate need of a view, I recommend the top floor," he said. "Until we meet again."
He bowed his head slightly. It was a formal gesture that wasn't familiar to her. She mirrored his movement with a smile. Then he turned on his heel and descended the stairs in haste, his head held high and his back rigid.
She watched him until he disappeared through the basement door, noting that he moved far more quickly taking his leave than he did escorting her inside.
The Survivor ascended the stairs, peeking into every room as she went. All of them were shaped like a crescent moon, hugging the tower like partial rungs. They were all approximately the same size, and some contained covered furniture, though the word 'sparse' could be aptly applied. Unfortunately, most lacked windows, making them more fit as closets than bedrooms.
The stairwell wound more tightly, as if the tower was narrowing. For several floors, there were no doors or landings, for she was nearing the top.
The Keeper had told her about the view. Discarding her room search, she made her way up the stairs to the top landing, which was like the living room and kitchen, an entire circular floor open to the staircase, which curiously continued up for several more floors with two other doors.
Curious, she went to the first door beyond the last landing, which opened into an empty room with an enormous window that spanned the entire width as well as ceiling to floor, or very nearly so. When she approached it, she discovered why.
A large section was not a window but a door that opened out onto the smaller parapet that cradled the beacon. She hesitated, remembering her promise to stay inside, and stepped back. That was when she realized the height of this room was different from the others; it was noticeably shorter, even though she knew the next room was more than a single story up.
As she made for the door, something caught her eye. The ceiling opened up before the doorway to the stairs, revealing the true size of the room. She looked up and saw a lofted area above the window; it had been so wonderful a view that she missed it. After a few minutes of searching, she found a draw string, and when she pulled on it, a ladder appeared, anchoring at her feet.
Curiosity in full peek, she climbed up to inspect the area.
Had anyone been nearby, they would've witnessed her jaw agape for several minutes as she stepped onto the platform. The lofted area was more than tall enough to allow her to stand, and it had a large bed in the center, lined up against the far wall. It must've been specially made for this place, for the headboard and front were curved so that it fit the rounded wall perfectly. It was flanked by a nightstand that was similarly curved. A pair of bureaus lined up on either side of the room, both far enough back not to be visible from the ground floor.
It was the only room that had been prepared, and for a moment she wondered if she hadn't stumbled into the Keeper's bedchamber. But both the bureaus were empty, and the fresh bed linens concealed a tiny card that was laid out on one of the pillows.
To the Survivor:
I took the liberty of setting up a room. Should you find one of the other rooms more pleasant, moving the furniture will be no trouble. I thought this one suited you best.
Sincerely,
The Keeper
It was written in a tidy cursive that she would never have guessed belonged to the Keeper, though there was no one else around to pen such a note. The most stubborn part of her thought it presumptuous of him, yet she knew it was that same part of her that resisted any kind of support from others, especially from anyone who courted her.
Perhaps that was because every time she accepted such a present, suitors - especially male suitors - saw it as a victory, one step closer to winning her heart. She understood the general meaning when people spoke of these things, and she knew that the interpretation was never meant to be literal. That meant very little when the people in her life acted as if she were a prize to be won or a trophy to beget the envy of others. The Barkeep had reminded her just how deep that sentiment ran, for when he discovered that she had no intention of settling down and marrying him - certainly not any time soon - he reacted as if she had stolen something that was rightfully his, something that he had earned.
A flood of memories overwhelmed her, dredging up the past few weeks of misery that led her to this place. She bit back her tears, refusing to break down. She had made it this far, and she had survived. There was nothing to shed tears about.
The Keeper wasn't the Barkeep, and he had given her no reason to think he was courting her nor expecting her hand in marriage. Though she hardly knew him, she suspected that he established this humble room so that she might have a place to sleep that was neither a large closet nor plagued by a direct view of the sea. He knew that, to keep his promise to her, he had to coax her to leave the safety of the cellar, and had she panicked and frozen at the sight of the sea, this chamber would've been the only place she could sleep.
Requiring a distraction, she went down the drawn ladder, leaving it aloft for her later ascent, and returned to the spiral staircase. With determination borne from escaping sorrow, she climbed the stairs to the final door, shoving it open more harshly than necessary. She had the presence of mind to grab the handle before it crashed into the far wall.
The room before her was smaller than the other full-floor rooms, yet it seemed larger, for it wasn't split in two by the spiral staircase. She stepped inside and discovered that the threshold of the door was under a spandrel for another staircase that lead up through the second story, almost certainly to the roof.
Before she continued upward, however, she took in the sight before her. Like most of the lighthouse, the bedroom was sparse, even austere, though the bed was double the size of a single bed. It was quite possible that that was the only grandiose thing the Keeper owned. There was a large bureau that filled the rest of the space under the stairs with drawers, save for a large, open space where clothing hung like that in a closet. The windows were adorned with dark curtains and, though she could only just see them from here, shutters on the outside. Beyond that, there was nothing more than a nightstand.
The Keeper lived simply, which she might've guessed earlier, had she taken the time to reflect on it. She wondered what his duties were and how he spent his time. By his own account, he never received guests or visitors, which meant he spent no time entertaining others. Did he while away his days with music? Or did the care and keeping of the Sole Beacon of Northedge consume every hour from dawn until dusk?
A hatch in the floor caught her eye and distracted her from her thoughts. Wondering where it led, she investigated, lifting it open and climbing down.
This room was unlike any other she had explored that day, for it had an unusual shape. The window wrapped around most of the room and angled down slightly as it disappeared around the corner. She followed the wall, interested to see what lay beyond the column that obstructed her view.
What struck her first was the immense amount of heat; it shouldn't have surprised her, given that it kept the room above several degrees hotter than the floors below. It also explained how the lighthouse survived the chilling ocean wind with a single fireplace. She drank in the warmth, allowing it to wring the ice out of her bones. The Keeper's warning rang in her mind, but it would be a shame to come so far and fail to peek at the beacon.
She peered around the edge of the column and stole a glance. She barely registered the unique slope of the room before the flame's light overwhelmed her vision and forced her to pull away.
The windows and room were shaped much like snail shell, spiraling around and subtly down, opening the beacon in every direction while providing a kind of hunting blind for the Keeper. She chanced another look because something was off; there were tiny rainbow marks along the wall, like those a mirror might make.
There was a tin ripple - a scalloped edge - near the corner of the column. She touched it, and though there appeared to be nothing there, her fingers passed over something solid and rather similar in texture to chainmail. She raked her hand over it, sure it would make a sound when it moved, but there was nothing but silence. She pawed at the material to feel it shift, only to find her hand wound up in it. She pulled on her hand, hard, to free it, but whatever it was tightened against her.
It conjured the mental image of thieves trying to pull their fists past the neck of a jar and failing until they opened their fists.
The Survivor's first instinct was to fight her way free, but the experience conjured up old mental images of people in quicksand: the more they struggled, the deeper they sank. So she relaxed and stopped moving. Then she grabbed the wrist of her entrapped hand and slowly eased it out of the snare.
He hadn't been kidding about a powerful force protecting the beacon, though he failed to mention that it was also invisible. She made a mental note to ask him about it at the next opportunity.
She went back up the ladder to the Keeper's room and closed the hatch before continuing up the stairs, which led to a short, shelf-like plateau. From her perch, she looked down over the Keeper's bedroom, which was farther away than she expected, more than a full story down. She turned back to the wall, where rungs of a ladder continued upward, leading to a hatch in the ceiling.
Certain that she had finally reached the roof, she clambered up the wall and shoved the hatch open, pulling herself up into a smaller, circular room, which had yet more stairs, though these led into the center of the room rather than up the side. As she reached the top, she realized that, while she could continue up a central ladder that led to the actual roof, there was no need, for this floor had nothing but windows all the way around, with a short moat of solid wall below.
And from where she stood right now, in the center of the topmost floor of Stagrock Light, she could see everything for miles. Smoke rose in the north, and she followed its trail to what she assumed was Cellar Island, and past that, she could make out parts of the mainland and the harbor. She could even see a few ships.
To the west, south, and east, there was nothing but long stretches of ocean, save for the rocky bluffs in the west. To the south, there were silhouettes on the horizon, and she knew they must be ships, for the Great Untamed Ocean had nothing but water from here to the Midlands. She stretched out on her stomach, focusing on the southern edge of the horizon, as if peering in one direction long enough might grant her more potent eyesight.
The Survivor imagined herself aboard one of those distant ships. She dreamed about them taking her home, where she had a name, a position, and the respect of those around her. She pretended that she still had a place like that to return to, and for a little while, it soothed her.
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Mnemosyne's Cursed Clockwork
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Aether was the Greek primordial deity of light and the upper, heavenly air breathed by the gods.