Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 8: The Wrath of Melinoe
Title: The Wrath of Melinoe, Chapter 8 of Lament of the Asphodels
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 3,100
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]
The Keeper shifted uncomfortably in his seat. One downside of his long-standing aversion to company was that he had no recent measure of the world, and thus no sense of the ways of other lands. He didn't recall the Midlands having such an oppressive system of justice, for innocence was presumed until a judgment was rendered. Then again, his experience with legal matters was limited entirely to maritime law, where the vessel's Captain acted as judge, jury, and executioner. In terms of the rulings of courts, his personal experience had taught him to mistrust trials and other laborious judicial matters, as they always seemed to produce the outcome desired by those in power without regard to truth or fairness.
"We spent weeks trying to build a defense," the Survivor explained. "But I can't remember what happened during the storm, and I've had so many nightmares about it that I can't... I can't tell if what I remember is the truth or just something from a dream."
"So you fled?" he asked skeptically. "First impressions can deceive, and we hardly know one another, but you don't seem the type to run when from a fight."
The Survivor nodded solemnly, and it made the Keeper worry that he had asked the wrong question. The emotions that passed over her face - anguish, regret, loss - made him regret his desire for answers.
"The Bailiff and I had been on our 'romantic getaway' for three weeks when we - I - decided we should go home," she began. "Even if I lost my position and title, my parents, my brothers, everyone I had ever known was in New Brook. I couldn't abandon them."
"I take it things did not go to plan."
She shook her head, no. "Everything was fine until we reached my parent's vacation cottage. It's this little house on the edge of town. If you keep riding west or south from there, there's nothing but countryside for miles and miles. We were going to spend the rest of the night, and the next day, the Bailiff would take me in. He insisted on it. No one would harm a suspect in custody of a court official."
"He did a great deal to protect you," the Keeper observed.
"He did," she replied tersely. "It would've worked, except the Barkeep had been waiting for us at the cottage."
"Your other love."
"He was never my love," she countered. "We had a few dates. It was nothing serious."
"My apologies, I am unfamiliar with more modern means of courtship," the Keeper confessed. "Please, continue. What happened when you encountered the Barkeep?"
"He tried to convince me that he never intended for any of this to happen," the Survivor replied. "He had hired the Private Investigator born Jacqueline Giantsbane to investigate the shipwreck of The Yellow Bug, but he never meant for anyone else to know. Didn't realize that she shared everything with her partner, the Prince of Private Investigators, born James Nolan. Apparently they decided that it was their civic duty to report everything to the courts to ensure I was removed from office."
"You believe he was lying?"
"I don't think, I know. I can tell when someone lies to me," she reminded him. "Besides, these Private Investigators are hired guns. They wouldn't waste time and energy on me unless someone was paying them. I told him as much, and that's when he lost it. He had always been jealous of Graham - the Bailiff - so when I told him he'd crossed a line and we'd never be a couple, he decided that it couldn't be about anything other than my relationship with the Bailiff. I tried to calm him down, but..."
She paused for a moment, catching her breath.
"He attacked me," she continued. "The Bailiff heard the commotion - he had been waiting outside so I could deal with the Barkeep - and he came inside to pull him off me. The Barkeep stormed out and slammed the door behind him. It seemed very... final. It took a few minutes to calm me down, but then we started talking about going to town right away. It was better for me to turn myself in than for the police to pick me up during a raid on the cottage. Before we could decide anything, the Barkeep came back with his Flintlock riffle, aimed right at Graham, and... the first shot missed, but that was just luck. I had to stop him. I tackled him and tried to get the gun from him, but he threw me across the room. The whole time he was screaming and shouting about how this was for us - that he'd kill the Bailiff and we'd be together. I grabbed the only thing near me - a long-handled shovel - and hit him across the back of the head before he could take the second shot. He went down and didn't get back up again."
"You killed him?" the Keeper asked quietly.
"Yes," she replied. "In all my years in law enforcement, I never had to kill anyone, not once. I didn't have to kill the Barkeep to stop him. I could've broken his arm or leg, but... it was easier to lash out, and... part of me wanted him dead. I wanted him to pay for what he'd done to me. Turns out the Prince of Private Investigators needn't have wasted so much time. I ruined my life without a single day in prison."
"Surely no one would've held you responsible for defending the life of an innocent," the Keeper suggested. "Especially not a court official."
"He said the same thing," the Survivor said. "But then I saw that the Barkeep didn't leave just to get a weapon. He had brought something else with him. A folder. After the Bailiff and I went off on our 'vacation,' the Private Investigators started looking into it. They got the other Bailiff - Graham's friend - to admit to warning him about the warrant before we ran off. We had been stripped of our titles and positions for over a week. They knew we had contacts inside the system, so they kept everything quiet, knowing that, so long as I didn't find out, I'd return to New Brook and fight rather than run."
The Keeper disliked the conflicted feelings that churned within. He had no doubt that she was telling him the truth, or at least that which she thought was the truth, but no matter how much he empathized with her plight, it did not excuse her actions. Did he truly wish to aid a confessed murderer escape justice?
Perhaps not, but the woman before him was more than her worst act. Her remorse showed him that she had no desire to repeat the same mistake, and her honest and humility convinced him of one thing: she deserved another chance.
"The only way to find refuge in the Northmost Lands is to declare yourself a citizen of Northedge," the Keeper explained. "The Dockmaster is not the most honest of men, but if you announce with me as a witness, he will have no recourse but to accept your dedication. The sooner you do this, the sooner the protection of Northedge is granted to you."
"I understand," she said in barely a whisper. "I know that I need to say the words, but every time I think of them, I keep seeing my parents and friends at our last family picnic. My two deputies bickering over paperwork. All the faces of the children that have come on school trips to the station, looking at me like I'm someone they want to grow up to be. Sometimes I even see the Barkeep, how he was when we first met, before everything went wrong. And I can't... I can't say the words. Not yet. I will. I just need time."
The Keeper nodded his head, yes. Then he replied, "Very well, I will conceal you from the Dockmaster as I promised, but please consider what I've said."
The sun was going down, and it was time for him to retire for the night.
He stood up and gathered his dishes, fully intending to rinse them off and climb the stairs to his bedroom, but he was no stranger to the kind of pain newly inflected upon her. It wasn't exactly kinship, but he felt compelled to confess some part of his own truth on the simplistic belief that it might help her in some small measure.
"The past haunts all of us," the Keeper said. "In my experience, some more than others. I know what it is to regret your own history and to have it linger long after it is passed beyond true reckoning."
"How do you live with it?" she asked, her voice thick with unshed tears.
He gave her a sad smile and replied, "I don't have a choice, and when I find myself overwhelmed, I go out on the roof and look up at the stars."
"Does it help?" she asked.
"Indeed," he replied. "For a time. I pretend that all the whispered scorn is from those lights in the night sky, and after a few minutes in their company, I can return to my bed and sleep, for the stars cannot see me there."
"That doesn't make much sense," she said. "But nothing in my life does. Not anymore."
He picked up his plate, but before he could grab his cup, she spoke.
"Let me," she said. "It's the least I can do in return for saving my life."
He relinquished his grip on the plate and nodded his head. Normally, he would see it as poor form to have the one who cooked also clean the dishes, but he knew what it was like to have debts with no true means of repayment. Even the tiniest gesture of thanks could alleviate that burden, and he had no doubt that the Survivor would benefit from such relief. Furthermore, dusk had fallen, and he was eager to be alone before night came in earnest.
"Sleep well," he said formally. He bowed his head and added, "Survivor."
"Thank you, Keeper," she replied. "For help and your understanding. Rest well."
The sun disappeared below the horizon as the Keeper finished changing into his sleeping attire. He never thought about it until the Survivor's arrival, but his garments were neither a nightgown nor a robe. They were simple, light, loose-fitting slacks with a matching shirt for which he had no proper term. He had taken to wearing them when he took the title of the Keeper, when it became his wont to venture onto the roof on those nights that were too difficult to bare.
She had only been in his life for a few days, yet their meeting marked a shift in his life, the likes of which he could neither name nor deny. He was unafraid of her company, which was a strange thing to him, but he was likewise unconcerned about the Dockmaster and his associates. He considered future confrontations and conversations without so much as an increase in heart rate, though he knew they would be deeply unpleasant.
It went beyond the transcendence of his social ineptitude and fears, though he could not articulate any more than that. It felt as if he had been standing still till the moment he met her, and ever since, the current of time corrected itself, sweeping him up in its forward momentum. He had no means to divine the future, so there was no way for him to know if this mysterious change was for better or ill. Yet it seemed to him that he now had a future - be it poor or plentiful - when before he had nothing but the merciless past and the ever-persistent present.
But this sudden boon failed to change the fact that he was marked - no, cursed - under the dominion of the moon. And on a night like this one, when the moon was full, his suffering was at its worst.
He felt more than heard the whispers as they began in harsh hisses all around him. One way or another, he would need a reprieve, so he ascended to the roof, there to wait out the worst of the dark hours.
The Survivor stored the remaining uneaten portions of the meal in the cold bin before attending the dishware. She took her time meticulously scrubbing every inch, attempting to distract herself from the memories that ate away at her. She couldn't help but think of all the things she could've done better, all the ways she could've prevented her current situation.
Confessing to the Keeper had opened the gates she had barred during her escape and recovery. He had used the word 'haunt' to describe the past, and she detested the accuracy of his phrase.
Every night, the last thing she saw before falling asleep was the Barkeep's face.
She released a mirthless laugh to cover the sob pent up inside. She thought of him as the Barkeep because all but the most intimate of relations called for such formality. It wasn't just a matter of politeness. It was taboo to use someone's born name without a true connection, save for those rare times when clarification between two in the same roles was required, such as the pair of Private Investigators.
Even here, on the northern edge of the world, people abided by this rule. The Keeper couldn't call her the Sheriff, for he had not known her by that title. So he used the only formality on hand: the Survivor. She appreciated the gesture, for most in his situation would call her Stranger until such a time that she acquired a rightful position and therefore possessed a name worth speaking.
But the Barkeep - Walsh Ozman, that was his born name - did have an important connection to her. It wasn't the kind he wanted - that of a spouse - but it was a deep, abiding, and far more intimate bond than she had ever envisioned them sharing. The bond between the killer and her victim felt more real and powerful than even that between herself and her parents. In fact, but one relationship outshined it: her and Graham, the Bailiff. She feared that time would consume that connection, forcing it to gray and fray while the specter of Walsh's face never faded.
Perhaps she deserved to be haunted, deserved to have her dreams constantly replay the moment she decided to swing for his head instead of his legs or back.
When the dishes were done, there was nothing to distract her. The memory she had held at bay finally broke the surface, as vivid as the moment she lived it the first time.
After the Barkeep - Walsh - fell to the floor, the Bailiff knocked the rifle away, and she restrained him with her handcuffs. When she turned him over and saw that his eyes were still open, she knew something was wrong. The Bailiff told her that he was dead. Even though there was no sign of life, she didn't believe it, not until the body started to turn cold.
He was so very cold.
She snapped back to the here-and-now, and she closed her eyes, trying to remember what the Keeper had said. She never had need for such a remedy, so she didn't know if it would provide any relief, but as she had no other recourse, she decided his suggestion was worthy enough to attempt. Perhaps she would feel better our in the starlight.
So she ascended the stairs to her room, passing by the ladder that led to her comfortable, lofted bed and went through the glass door to the parapet. She glanced up but couldn't make out the night sky with the light of the beacon above her shining true. It was the first time she had gone outside since night fell, and she hadn't realized that her room was below the very light that guided ships to the Northmost Lands.
There was no way to discern the stars from here, nor would the parapets below serve her any better. The only clear view of the night sky would be on the roof. Ascending inside meant traveling through the Keeper's chambers, and she doubted that would be well-received. Luckily, there was also a ladder that led up the east side of the tower. The rungs were wide apart and tight to the wall, but she climbed without difficulty. The crisp night air came off the ocean with an exhilaration of salt, and it rejuvenated her as it buffeted her hair in every direction.
The sensation so distracted her that she failed to notice the voices filling the silence with whispering hisses until she was only a few rungs from the top. She hesitated there, out of sight, listening to what at seemed to be rustling leaves that slowly transformed into words.
'You think you are brave? You are not brave. You have always been a coward.'
'You think living here makes you free, independent, but you're just as much of a slave now as you were as a child.'
'Overcoming a single fear is nothing. You are pitiful.'
'It is your fault. It has always been your fault.'
'All of us are your fault.'
An abrupt silence fell, leaving nothing but the sound of the waves.
The Survivor wondered if she had imagined it all, or perhaps, the Keeper talked to himself during his nighttime musings. Her curiosity refused to abate, so she hoisted herself onto the roof.
She saw the Keeper on his knees with his head back, so his face was cast up at the night sky. The moonlight cast so strong a glow that the features of his face were nigh indistinguishable, and for a terrifying moment she thought he might be one of the faceless shadows in her life that merely disguised themselves as people.
She was so swept up in the possibility that she failed to see the others gathered around them.
'Who is she?'
'Who is she?'
'Who is she?'
The Keeper's eyes snapped open as he turned to her, and she exhaled in relief when she saw that he was no more faceless than she. His eyes were brimming with horror... no, with terror.
That was when she truly witnessed the world around her. The Keeper was surrounded by three figures who hovered like hummingbirds, flickering in the moonlight. Though they had semi-translucent bodies and faces, they all possessed gaping black holes where their eyes should have been.
The Survivor swallowed hard to quell the rising pitch of fear that threatened to spill out of her. The Keeper had told her he was haunted, and she had failed to grasp how literal his declaration had been.
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Chapter 9: Nemesis, Adrasteia
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
In ancient Greek mythology, Melinoe was the bringer of madness and nightmares, later becoming known as the goddess of ghosts.
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 3,100
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]
The Keeper shifted uncomfortably in his seat. One downside of his long-standing aversion to company was that he had no recent measure of the world, and thus no sense of the ways of other lands. He didn't recall the Midlands having such an oppressive system of justice, for innocence was presumed until a judgment was rendered. Then again, his experience with legal matters was limited entirely to maritime law, where the vessel's Captain acted as judge, jury, and executioner. In terms of the rulings of courts, his personal experience had taught him to mistrust trials and other laborious judicial matters, as they always seemed to produce the outcome desired by those in power without regard to truth or fairness.
"We spent weeks trying to build a defense," the Survivor explained. "But I can't remember what happened during the storm, and I've had so many nightmares about it that I can't... I can't tell if what I remember is the truth or just something from a dream."
"So you fled?" he asked skeptically. "First impressions can deceive, and we hardly know one another, but you don't seem the type to run when from a fight."
The Survivor nodded solemnly, and it made the Keeper worry that he had asked the wrong question. The emotions that passed over her face - anguish, regret, loss - made him regret his desire for answers.
"The Bailiff and I had been on our 'romantic getaway' for three weeks when we - I - decided we should go home," she began. "Even if I lost my position and title, my parents, my brothers, everyone I had ever known was in New Brook. I couldn't abandon them."
"I take it things did not go to plan."
She shook her head, no. "Everything was fine until we reached my parent's vacation cottage. It's this little house on the edge of town. If you keep riding west or south from there, there's nothing but countryside for miles and miles. We were going to spend the rest of the night, and the next day, the Bailiff would take me in. He insisted on it. No one would harm a suspect in custody of a court official."
"He did a great deal to protect you," the Keeper observed.
"He did," she replied tersely. "It would've worked, except the Barkeep had been waiting for us at the cottage."
"Your other love."
"He was never my love," she countered. "We had a few dates. It was nothing serious."
"My apologies, I am unfamiliar with more modern means of courtship," the Keeper confessed. "Please, continue. What happened when you encountered the Barkeep?"
"He tried to convince me that he never intended for any of this to happen," the Survivor replied. "He had hired the Private Investigator born Jacqueline Giantsbane to investigate the shipwreck of The Yellow Bug, but he never meant for anyone else to know. Didn't realize that she shared everything with her partner, the Prince of Private Investigators, born James Nolan. Apparently they decided that it was their civic duty to report everything to the courts to ensure I was removed from office."
"You believe he was lying?"
"I don't think, I know. I can tell when someone lies to me," she reminded him. "Besides, these Private Investigators are hired guns. They wouldn't waste time and energy on me unless someone was paying them. I told him as much, and that's when he lost it. He had always been jealous of Graham - the Bailiff - so when I told him he'd crossed a line and we'd never be a couple, he decided that it couldn't be about anything other than my relationship with the Bailiff. I tried to calm him down, but..."
She paused for a moment, catching her breath.
"He attacked me," she continued. "The Bailiff heard the commotion - he had been waiting outside so I could deal with the Barkeep - and he came inside to pull him off me. The Barkeep stormed out and slammed the door behind him. It seemed very... final. It took a few minutes to calm me down, but then we started talking about going to town right away. It was better for me to turn myself in than for the police to pick me up during a raid on the cottage. Before we could decide anything, the Barkeep came back with his Flintlock riffle, aimed right at Graham, and... the first shot missed, but that was just luck. I had to stop him. I tackled him and tried to get the gun from him, but he threw me across the room. The whole time he was screaming and shouting about how this was for us - that he'd kill the Bailiff and we'd be together. I grabbed the only thing near me - a long-handled shovel - and hit him across the back of the head before he could take the second shot. He went down and didn't get back up again."
"You killed him?" the Keeper asked quietly.
"Yes," she replied. "In all my years in law enforcement, I never had to kill anyone, not once. I didn't have to kill the Barkeep to stop him. I could've broken his arm or leg, but... it was easier to lash out, and... part of me wanted him dead. I wanted him to pay for what he'd done to me. Turns out the Prince of Private Investigators needn't have wasted so much time. I ruined my life without a single day in prison."
"Surely no one would've held you responsible for defending the life of an innocent," the Keeper suggested. "Especially not a court official."
"He said the same thing," the Survivor said. "But then I saw that the Barkeep didn't leave just to get a weapon. He had brought something else with him. A folder. After the Bailiff and I went off on our 'vacation,' the Private Investigators started looking into it. They got the other Bailiff - Graham's friend - to admit to warning him about the warrant before we ran off. We had been stripped of our titles and positions for over a week. They knew we had contacts inside the system, so they kept everything quiet, knowing that, so long as I didn't find out, I'd return to New Brook and fight rather than run."
The Keeper disliked the conflicted feelings that churned within. He had no doubt that she was telling him the truth, or at least that which she thought was the truth, but no matter how much he empathized with her plight, it did not excuse her actions. Did he truly wish to aid a confessed murderer escape justice?
Perhaps not, but the woman before him was more than her worst act. Her remorse showed him that she had no desire to repeat the same mistake, and her honest and humility convinced him of one thing: she deserved another chance.
"The only way to find refuge in the Northmost Lands is to declare yourself a citizen of Northedge," the Keeper explained. "The Dockmaster is not the most honest of men, but if you announce with me as a witness, he will have no recourse but to accept your dedication. The sooner you do this, the sooner the protection of Northedge is granted to you."
"I understand," she said in barely a whisper. "I know that I need to say the words, but every time I think of them, I keep seeing my parents and friends at our last family picnic. My two deputies bickering over paperwork. All the faces of the children that have come on school trips to the station, looking at me like I'm someone they want to grow up to be. Sometimes I even see the Barkeep, how he was when we first met, before everything went wrong. And I can't... I can't say the words. Not yet. I will. I just need time."
The Keeper nodded his head, yes. Then he replied, "Very well, I will conceal you from the Dockmaster as I promised, but please consider what I've said."
The sun was going down, and it was time for him to retire for the night.
He stood up and gathered his dishes, fully intending to rinse them off and climb the stairs to his bedroom, but he was no stranger to the kind of pain newly inflected upon her. It wasn't exactly kinship, but he felt compelled to confess some part of his own truth on the simplistic belief that it might help her in some small measure.
"The past haunts all of us," the Keeper said. "In my experience, some more than others. I know what it is to regret your own history and to have it linger long after it is passed beyond true reckoning."
"How do you live with it?" she asked, her voice thick with unshed tears.
He gave her a sad smile and replied, "I don't have a choice, and when I find myself overwhelmed, I go out on the roof and look up at the stars."
"Does it help?" she asked.
"Indeed," he replied. "For a time. I pretend that all the whispered scorn is from those lights in the night sky, and after a few minutes in their company, I can return to my bed and sleep, for the stars cannot see me there."
"That doesn't make much sense," she said. "But nothing in my life does. Not anymore."
He picked up his plate, but before he could grab his cup, she spoke.
"Let me," she said. "It's the least I can do in return for saving my life."
He relinquished his grip on the plate and nodded his head. Normally, he would see it as poor form to have the one who cooked also clean the dishes, but he knew what it was like to have debts with no true means of repayment. Even the tiniest gesture of thanks could alleviate that burden, and he had no doubt that the Survivor would benefit from such relief. Furthermore, dusk had fallen, and he was eager to be alone before night came in earnest.
"Sleep well," he said formally. He bowed his head and added, "Survivor."
"Thank you, Keeper," she replied. "For help and your understanding. Rest well."
The sun disappeared below the horizon as the Keeper finished changing into his sleeping attire. He never thought about it until the Survivor's arrival, but his garments were neither a nightgown nor a robe. They were simple, light, loose-fitting slacks with a matching shirt for which he had no proper term. He had taken to wearing them when he took the title of the Keeper, when it became his wont to venture onto the roof on those nights that were too difficult to bare.
She had only been in his life for a few days, yet their meeting marked a shift in his life, the likes of which he could neither name nor deny. He was unafraid of her company, which was a strange thing to him, but he was likewise unconcerned about the Dockmaster and his associates. He considered future confrontations and conversations without so much as an increase in heart rate, though he knew they would be deeply unpleasant.
It went beyond the transcendence of his social ineptitude and fears, though he could not articulate any more than that. It felt as if he had been standing still till the moment he met her, and ever since, the current of time corrected itself, sweeping him up in its forward momentum. He had no means to divine the future, so there was no way for him to know if this mysterious change was for better or ill. Yet it seemed to him that he now had a future - be it poor or plentiful - when before he had nothing but the merciless past and the ever-persistent present.
But this sudden boon failed to change the fact that he was marked - no, cursed - under the dominion of the moon. And on a night like this one, when the moon was full, his suffering was at its worst.
He felt more than heard the whispers as they began in harsh hisses all around him. One way or another, he would need a reprieve, so he ascended to the roof, there to wait out the worst of the dark hours.
The Survivor stored the remaining uneaten portions of the meal in the cold bin before attending the dishware. She took her time meticulously scrubbing every inch, attempting to distract herself from the memories that ate away at her. She couldn't help but think of all the things she could've done better, all the ways she could've prevented her current situation.
Confessing to the Keeper had opened the gates she had barred during her escape and recovery. He had used the word 'haunt' to describe the past, and she detested the accuracy of his phrase.
Every night, the last thing she saw before falling asleep was the Barkeep's face.
She released a mirthless laugh to cover the sob pent up inside. She thought of him as the Barkeep because all but the most intimate of relations called for such formality. It wasn't just a matter of politeness. It was taboo to use someone's born name without a true connection, save for those rare times when clarification between two in the same roles was required, such as the pair of Private Investigators.
Even here, on the northern edge of the world, people abided by this rule. The Keeper couldn't call her the Sheriff, for he had not known her by that title. So he used the only formality on hand: the Survivor. She appreciated the gesture, for most in his situation would call her Stranger until such a time that she acquired a rightful position and therefore possessed a name worth speaking.
But the Barkeep - Walsh Ozman, that was his born name - did have an important connection to her. It wasn't the kind he wanted - that of a spouse - but it was a deep, abiding, and far more intimate bond than she had ever envisioned them sharing. The bond between the killer and her victim felt more real and powerful than even that between herself and her parents. In fact, but one relationship outshined it: her and Graham, the Bailiff. She feared that time would consume that connection, forcing it to gray and fray while the specter of Walsh's face never faded.
Perhaps she deserved to be haunted, deserved to have her dreams constantly replay the moment she decided to swing for his head instead of his legs or back.
When the dishes were done, there was nothing to distract her. The memory she had held at bay finally broke the surface, as vivid as the moment she lived it the first time.
After the Barkeep - Walsh - fell to the floor, the Bailiff knocked the rifle away, and she restrained him with her handcuffs. When she turned him over and saw that his eyes were still open, she knew something was wrong. The Bailiff told her that he was dead. Even though there was no sign of life, she didn't believe it, not until the body started to turn cold.
He was so very cold.
She snapped back to the here-and-now, and she closed her eyes, trying to remember what the Keeper had said. She never had need for such a remedy, so she didn't know if it would provide any relief, but as she had no other recourse, she decided his suggestion was worthy enough to attempt. Perhaps she would feel better our in the starlight.
So she ascended the stairs to her room, passing by the ladder that led to her comfortable, lofted bed and went through the glass door to the parapet. She glanced up but couldn't make out the night sky with the light of the beacon above her shining true. It was the first time she had gone outside since night fell, and she hadn't realized that her room was below the very light that guided ships to the Northmost Lands.
There was no way to discern the stars from here, nor would the parapets below serve her any better. The only clear view of the night sky would be on the roof. Ascending inside meant traveling through the Keeper's chambers, and she doubted that would be well-received. Luckily, there was also a ladder that led up the east side of the tower. The rungs were wide apart and tight to the wall, but she climbed without difficulty. The crisp night air came off the ocean with an exhilaration of salt, and it rejuvenated her as it buffeted her hair in every direction.
The sensation so distracted her that she failed to notice the voices filling the silence with whispering hisses until she was only a few rungs from the top. She hesitated there, out of sight, listening to what at seemed to be rustling leaves that slowly transformed into words.
'You think you are brave? You are not brave. You have always been a coward.'
'You think living here makes you free, independent, but you're just as much of a slave now as you were as a child.'
'Overcoming a single fear is nothing. You are pitiful.'
'It is your fault. It has always been your fault.'
'All of us are your fault.'
An abrupt silence fell, leaving nothing but the sound of the waves.
The Survivor wondered if she had imagined it all, or perhaps, the Keeper talked to himself during his nighttime musings. Her curiosity refused to abate, so she hoisted herself onto the roof.
She saw the Keeper on his knees with his head back, so his face was cast up at the night sky. The moonlight cast so strong a glow that the features of his face were nigh indistinguishable, and for a terrifying moment she thought he might be one of the faceless shadows in her life that merely disguised themselves as people.
She was so swept up in the possibility that she failed to see the others gathered around them.
'Who is she?'
'Who is she?'
'Who is she?'
The Keeper's eyes snapped open as he turned to her, and she exhaled in relief when she saw that he was no more faceless than she. His eyes were brimming with horror... no, with terror.
That was when she truly witnessed the world around her. The Keeper was surrounded by three figures who hovered like hummingbirds, flickering in the moonlight. Though they had semi-translucent bodies and faces, they all possessed gaping black holes where their eyes should have been.
The Survivor swallowed hard to quell the rising pitch of fear that threatened to spill out of her. The Keeper had told her he was haunted, and she had failed to grasp how literal his declaration had been.
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Chapter 7: Mnemosyne's Cursed Clockwork
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Chapter 9: Nemesis, Adrasteia
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
In ancient Greek mythology, Melinoe was the bringer of madness and nightmares, later becoming known as the goddess of ghosts.