Category: Scriptorium

I had previously considered the pervasive Mist throughout Luisant to be a threat or at best a neutral entity. It provided some degree of protection against those who would threaten us, but at a great cost. Those who wandered off the path in the Mist, lost so much. Their Memories, time with their loved ones, and even in some instances their lives. I had some hopes that with time and effort, it might be possible to remove or at least somewhat lessen the effects of the Mist. I can lay much blame for my troubles on the Mist, and I have always feared it would take the rest of my family to me.

After the events of this last Market, I need to reverse my opinion. As much as it pains me to say, the Mist must be preserved. While it has taken much, it has at least returned Pascal to me, and that matters. Of greater concern is the fact that the Mist seems to be protecting us from grave dangers. If what we learned from Saint Arbor is true, the Mist is part of the prison holding the Feasting King. If it was to weaken it is entirely possible that his influence could spread throughout the town. Naturally this cannot be allowed.

Beyond the issues with the Feasting King, which I honestly cannot believe I just wrote. The Feasting King is at least the most direct problem we are facing. The Mist might be preserving us from an even greater problem, which is the Church of Benalus as a whole. I cannot deny the truth that Saint Arbor told us about the original nature of Heresy. And this is a truth that I have no intention of trying to hide. In the eyes of the majority of Faithful, spreading that truth might just make us Heretics ourselves. I am worried that if other Benalians were to learn of this, that the Church might attempt to purge our home. I wonder if inquisitors would view us as no different than the Vecatrans.

I can only conclude that while it brings difficulties, the Mist must be preserved. Of course protecting the mist brings with it a plethora of questions. If it was in fact created through the combined efforts of Benalians and Vecatrans, do we need to work with Vectrans to have any impact? Will the Spider Wedding strengthen the Mist? What other actions will either strengthen or weaken it? And those are just the critical questions, there are in fact many others. And I have answers to none of them. Every question I get an answer too, just leads me to more questions.

There are many large things to regret in life – enabling my mother’s obsession, not seeking help for my father’s alcoholism, trying to forget my problems while the fire claimed them both will be with me my whole life. But those are the easy things to regret – the things that anyone can regret. It’s the small regrets that fester, the things that are hard to put to words, the things that others will never fully relate to.

Running back home that night – falling into the mists: I regret not having paper, ink, and quill on me.

I think it was the fourth night in the mists – trying to fall asleep in the cold dark forest. I thought it first a dream – an amalgam of gears and springs slowly coalescing, until I woke up – a sudden bolt of inspiration going through my brain like lightning. Instinct had me scrabbling for my journal, but alas, no such luck. I set about trying to draw it in the dirt, scratching it into bark, making a model of it. I found that I eventually had memorized the device fully, down to the last excruciating detail, and satisfied, I moved on.

The next such bolt came maybe two days later, this time for a completely different device. Then another the day after, two the day after that. It wasn’t long before these bouts of inspiration were coming near each bell. Never before was I so single-mindedly obsessed with the mechanical – coming up with systems that could keep time to the second – that could ambulate of their own will – that could transport more people than in Luisant – of nature both benign and malignant.

Each inspiration had a price though – it wasn’t long before I realized I was forgetting things about Luisant – first it was small things like the menu at the tavern or the paths through the forest. Soon it evolved into forgetting bigger things – people’s names, the layout of my own house – by the time I had enough schematics memorized to fill ten tomes, I couldn’t recall the faces of my parents.

And yet the torrent of inspiration continued – I tried to record it as much as possible – I’d imagine that half of the mists is covered with trees showing gearing ratios, of engraving patterns drawn in the dirt, of moldering models depicting frameworks and enclosures. I never felt like I needed it though – my memory was good enough.

Or at least – so I thought. I heard stories growing up that people who spend too long in the mists forget names, places, and experiences, but what I did not know was that the inverse was also true – that your memories of the mist will also begin to fade, that you will recall broad strokes, but never specifics.

As soon as my foot left the mists I could feel the ideas begin to unravel – starting to forget what must have been seasons worth of these ideas. In a panic I sprinted through the snow to Luisant – trying to remember where I could find ink and paper. By the time I recalled the path to my house, I had completely forgotten most details – the gearing ratios, alloy choices, dimensions, and other minutia were gone. By the time I was rounding the final bend I had forgotten most of the major concepts. By the time I made it to the burnt out remains of the building that was once my home I had forgotten everything, leaving me hollow.,

I’ve been digging through the snow and ash covered remains of my home for who cares how long. I’ve managed to find a few remnants – some of my father’s wine stash, some of my mothers tools, the only thing of mine I could find was my calipers. I traded the wine for some paper and ink, but it was far too late. I know I should be mourning the loss of my home – of my parents, but I can’t focus on those things – instead I mourn the loss of the inspiration.

I’m still deciding if I should stay in Luisant or not – maybe the Veneaux have the right of it – going back to the mists to reclaim the inspiration is just as alluring as seeking the truth. I’m not sure what Luisant has for me anymore, I haven’t recognized anyone yet, I have nowhere to live, and I’m not sure if I can contribute in any meaningful way. I’ll see what I can get at the market day tomorrow, maybe I can find some more supplies and advice for wandering the mists, maybe I can find a reason to stay here.

“If you keep digging like that, you’re going to ruin my good hatchet, fils.”

The quiet voice on the wind disturbed his prayers, scattering thoughts like cattails in the hand of a curious child. He swallowed hard, eyes locked on the bloody tangle of roots and soil before him, before restarting his entreaty to Willow for her peaceful guidance through the Thorns for Simon.

‘Grand-mère, veuillez guider cette pauvre créature vers son repos. Il a parcouru nos chemins et a accepté votre bénédiction. Menez-le à travers les Épines sans blessures, qu’il puisse retourner sans ombre dans le cycle du monde.’

The moon shone brightly all around, the specks of heart’s-blood on his hands glowing softly in contrast to the white criss-cross of scars on his flesh. The words tumbled from his lips were paired with puffs of steam, the night air cutting into lungs with every breath. It wasn’t enough to block out the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder, her words in his ears.

“You did as you were told, beb. You listened to your Mère, and got what dat poor boy needed. Don’ you waste tears dat it wasn’t what you wanted.”

Prayer complete, he rose to his feet, shrugging off the (imagined?) hand on his shoulder, and reaching for a cloth to clean both flesh and steel. “Why do you always have to talk now, hahn? Why not when I actually need your advice?” His words were harsh, darkened with traces of grief and pain. “I know dis was the best outcome, short of him being free to join the Circle, but since when are we dat lucky, no? Was it when de Kruzemore showed up, carried on paths of tiny legs? Or was it when our *lord* was taken and replaced by his useless son, arrogant as any youth? No, MawMaw, we not dat lucky anymore, an’ it looking to be gettin’ worse.”

Task complete, he placed the hatchet back on his belt before turning to stare at the moon, high in the night sky but seemingly close enough to touch, perfectly outlined by the tips of the trees of the grove. “All dose stories o’ yours, of Arbor and his adventures? How he protected the forest and guided the woodcutters to the best groves and taught the secrets of the undergrowth? His mighty staff ensuring good footing through de worst o’ de bayou?”

He spat on the ground, flecks of blood amidst the saliva. “Lies. All o’ dem.” He turned to face the willow tree, its branches softly tossing in the night’s breeze. “He’s a spirits-damned Lion, and now I don’ know *what* to believe.” A small tear formed at the edge of one eye, before being ruthlessly scrubbed away by a scarred back of one hand. “But I’m a good boy, an’ I know my duty. The Hungry One is wakin’, and we need the Pact to be strong. I’ll do my part, but know this: I will never forget. We’ll grow, and move on, but dis only goes to prove you right, your favorite saying an’ all.”

“When dealin’ wit de People an’ de Court, know dis: you always get what you need, but rarely what you want. Live well, work hard, and only lean on gifts when all else fails. Everything has a cost, an’ you might not be the one to pay, cher.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I will take her. I’m a wizard, this is paper writing material,” Solfyre gestured for Hakon to give her back the malefic baby that was latched onto his shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep,” Solfyre shrugged and again gestured for the baby. Hakon gave her over and immediately the little desiccated corpse of a child bit into her flesh. Clenching her teeth and letting a spell wash over her, she bid them a goodnight and left with the little creature.

Once in her own space Solfyre looked down at the creature and sighed. She had, like Hakon, promised the malefic baby’s mother, a ghost forced to wander on repeat and make the decision to sacrifice her child endlessly, that she would care for the creature. She promised, too, that the ghost had made a hard decision and the sacrifice wasn’t in vain, though she didn’t believe that for a moment.

“You didn’t deserve this, little one. Truly the old gods are evil if your innocence is the only thing that may sate their appetite,” Solfyre said as she climbed into bed with the horrifying thing. She could not bring herself to be disgusted and fearful of the thing, whom she had playfully named ‘Wulfrica’ since so many believed she was betrothed to Wulfric and it seemed a fitting name at the time of the child’s discovery. She had to make light of such a gruesome story, didn’t she? Sometimes a little light is all one has left and she certainly understood that to her core.

Pulling the covers around herself and the coo’ing malefic baby, Solfyre held her close and told her a story.

“I was also abandoned. My mother, god rest her misguided soul, was a runespeaker. Her 18th birthday she rolled the runes of fate and learned that her children would cause her death. Fearing this, she vowed never to have children—but supposedly fell in love, though no one knows who to. She birthed not one, but two children, my twin and I. I was born just after dawn and my sister was born before me around midnight. That’s what my mother told us, anyways, when we finally met her after 20 years apart. After she had us, she was hysterical and truly feared we would be the end of her, but she could not bring herself to kill us. Fearing backlash from the community or perhaps that our father would try and change her mind, she left in the night, but not before branding both my sister and I so that she would be able to see us coming if we ever returned to her,” Solfyre sighed, “she gave us no names, only hot iron that seared our flesh then she dropped us very far from one another. I was picked up by a lovely couple who took me in and loved me as their own. I love them dearly. My sister went to an orphanage but fate had other plans for her and she rose from her station.”

Solfyre smiles a little, “I’m sorry that no one found and saved you, but I am hopeful that I can be the answer to that. I will not sacrifice you to a dark god nor will I leave your side tonight. How about we give you a more appropriate name? One that isn’t a joke, yes?”

“Hmmm…. Adalgild, how about that? ‘Noble sacrifice’. You can’t very well be Quirinsdöttir so how about Solfyresdöttir? Adagild Solfyresdöttir. Ada for short. How is that? It’ll be my secret gift to you. A true name. It was my adoptive parent’s greatest gift to me,” She speaks and the child seems to respond with some sort of babble. Whether it is affirmation of choice or just babbles, Solfyre nods along anyways.

The night passes and Solfyre falls asleep in the early hours of the morning. Just as dawn breaks over the horizon, signaling the end of the longest night in Njordr, she is awakened as Adagild lets out a giggle and touches her face. Solfyre recognizes the gesture instantly and touches her forehead to the baby’s as she slowly fades away in the morning light. “Goodbye,” Solfyre whispers and suddenly the weight of the creature is completely gone. She sighs heavily, staying quiet in bed for a while recounting the events of the night, rolls out of bed with hardened resolve to continue forward, and begins her day.

Theo turns on his ward Sherry as the rain begins to fall around their firepit. His finger wags at her as his voice rises in anger,

“Yes, Sherry, they do have shiny fucking armor, new pretty dresses, people to ferry them around, and personal chefs but don’t think that the nobles care who we are or what we want. The fact that the town is willing to feed us isn’t about the nobles, that’s about other people doing that work, collecting those things. They don’t organize or contribute to it. You owe them less than nothing. You owe them so little that whenever they want something you should think, ‘How are they trying to fuck me over?’

Nobles serve no purpose in the world other than to maintain their power over others, pass that power on to their children, grow their wealth by using that power, and ensure they are remembered. That is what noble blood means; to be a line of slavers and predators whom have done that for generations.

They are ultimately people, and do not have to be self serving, power hungry fools, but it turns out if you give a man power he will use it. She will find ways to maintain and grow it. They will do whatever they can to secure it for their future so that they are never at risk.

Henri and Abella stole food to ensure their power would not be threatened while their son watched. They demanded taxes that they knew the population could not fulfill. They paid someone to have the local priest murdered when he tried to stop their abuses. They failed to teach their son anything about how to look after the city. Ambrose refuses to speak to me, or anyone else he considers below him. Jean Luc is happy to send others off toward danger in his stead, but never risks himself. Thora actively plots and connives to achieve her ends, killed Nadja’s husband, and is willing to do whatever the spiders require of her. Zakar is a torturer who fails in his duty often and has made secret deals with the spiders. Nadja can barely tolerate our backward ways and is devoted to achieving greater power for herself.

The issue isn’t just about them individually though, but also about why the town fucking puts them on a pedestal so that they don’t have to take responsibility for their own actions. They literally give them whatever they ask for, whether they truly need it or not. Clean their own messes? Trap their own fucking food? Walk across town instead of having Tellis give them a carriage ride in the rain?

Sure, Ambrose and Nadja are living as peasants now, but what does that even fucking mean? Half the town still seems to want to suck them off at every opportunity because it turns out they know that ‘peasant for a year’ is the same thing as ‘noble in a year’. And even if somehow they learned something resembling responsibility, humility, or whatever words Cole would use to say they fucking get it, that doesn’t change that they don’t deserve to be given free reign to make us slaves all fucking over again. Respecting someone as a person doesn’t give them permission to think they have control over you and yours.

Our ancestors survived that shit and we will never go back. With the town council, maybe that’s almost possible. You know, if they aren’t just puppets too.”

Severin picked up the empty bowls and stacked them. The bits from the snack board were all but finished, and he had made sure none of it had gone to waste by finishing off what was left. Bowls went into bowls. Utensils went into the top bowl. Boards went on top of boards, and on the top board went the bowls and whatever mugs were left around. The next step was to sneak everything into the kitchen and leave it by the sink before anybody starts asking for somebody to wash dishes.

There was too much to do and he couldn’t think while washing dishes. There had been the Nowhere King which has killed the Lord and Lady. Then the Red Stag from the forest. Now they seem to be the same, and from what the church people say, possibly a child of Benalius and Vecatra?!!?!

Vecatra! Thank Benalius we don’t have Vecatrans running around causing troubles in Luisant.

Worse was the sudden bouts of horribleness that had happened. First, there had been cannibals in the woods. Then one man had said he had been told to eat the flesh of a supposedly malific person and that would cure him of the plague this convocation. This was all strangely similar to the Beastwise ceremony, which had missed out on because they had left early and without him. There they had gone to feed the bear, and found the bear already dead by having eaten himself to death. Then, those that had gone found themselves hungry and ate the bear. Perhaps best that he had missed out on his first official Beastwise ceremony. Maybe he’ll miss the next one too, just till he’s sure he’s go the hang of this Folkwise thing, as it doesn’t seem like these sort of things should be happening. Still, it’s all gluttony, which goes back to the old Witch King of Capacionne, who had servants in this area as well as a mouth, which might also be the Nowhere King.

Plague is bad enough. Thank Benalius that Sophie had been able to help cure his family. He had already turned over all his herbs to Alphonse, who had helped cure his family last market. He surely could have done so again, but Sophie had done so, so he told Alphonse he could use the herbs to help other people. Still, plague was bad enough but people eating other people, or associated possibly spirit bears, is even worse. Luckily, they had enough food to feed everybody, even the refugees. But, what if the bounty fails? What happens then?

Wait?! Where did the refugees come from?

He should have asked more questions previously in the tavern. There was a puzzle here. There were, possibly, cursed items being assembled into a suit of armor nobody wants. Other families sneaking off to do things in family crypts. No overt attempt to communicate any of this to the community as a whole.

If I don’t know, then most people must not know. I’ll have to try and assemble all that information. It’s not a Jovienne thing to do, but my mother always did say I showed signs of her LeBlanc ancestors in me when it came to protecting the community. There is something going on here, and it is not good. Not good at all. No siree.

So I went down to the Long hall to listen to the drunks tell stories. Here is one from the other night…..

So we were down a few men, which was a problem since Sven was spoiling for a fight, and sent Arsebjorn with the boat to pick up some spares from a nearby town. This halfwit tho grabbed the first rough looking bear folk he saw, which turned out to be some rather drunk barzarks. Now, I understand why he was confused. This lot was so drunk, they had somehow gained some sense and spoke all polite like to Arsebjorn when he offered up some gold to come out to fight.

How he got the boat back here was nothing short of a miracle, cause half way through all the bear folk passed right out after drinking all our mead, and Arsebjorn was the only one sober enough to steer his way back.

Now if you’re not familiar with these bear folk barzarks, then I’ll tell you we rushed them right quick into the hall and locked the door. When they started to rouse we rolled another barrel of ale into the hall and rushed right out again. There are three things you need to remember about these njords: Keep them well plied with alcohol. A sober, bored, barzark will find ways to entertain themselves at your expense. Last season, I’ll never understand how they got the goats up there. Feed them often, so they can drink more. One boar and a pot of barley should do the trick and the most important of all; When they ask for women….well send them more alcohol and keep the doors locked.

The mists protect.

Of all the things she had been told by her mother, the one she never doubted was this. “The mists protect us.”

Lysenna stared out the window as the rain continued to fall. The snow had melted, and the ground was back to its soft state. Spring was coming, slow though it may be this year. The cycles continued whether we chanced to follow them or not.

Her hands continued their movement without thinking, so used to the work and process that she was able to devote only a portion of her attention to it. The leonem was almost complete, the finer detail carving work done earlier. She continued to softly sand the back edges to ensure nothing would scrape against the skin or clothing of the wearer, rubbing a nail against the grain, checking for anything her eyes may have missed.

Setting that piece down, she pulled out another chunk of soft wood. The kind she kept for the small animals she made the children. Laying out her tools, she started carving. Recalling the conversation she had with the young Mervaille and chuckling. She never forced wood into a shape. It called. It spoke. It knew far better than her what it could be. She simply gave it form. She thought back to the day. It had been such a quiet day. She had never expected it to turn out the way it did.

Looking down, she noticed a dark spot on the piece and frowned. This was new growth pine, soft and warm yellow. It shouldn’t have any dark spots unless… Turning it over, she realized the discoloration wasn’t disease but blood. She had nicked herself. She stared at the bright drop welling on her thumb and disappeared into the memory.

~The scarlet drops shone brilliant on the fresh fallen snow. The screams of the other townsfolk still echoing in the clearing as they battled for their loves and those of the dead. Cuilon had gone to protect another of those who were walking the old ones back to their resting spots. Sophie and Isabelle were gone as well performing the rites and they were so close to the end. She wanted to sink down to the floor but she kept seeing Cadence by her side, sword out and keeping the ghosts from getting closer than they already had. Marinette’s gentle voice was cutting through the breaks in soft gasps of sound. The hammer was heavy in Lysennas’ hands, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to help for long. Her ribs and abdomen still hurt, and it took all her strength to stand and stay. Henri’s quiet voice came closer, and as he sobbed they pulled out another. In her mind she screamed at the thing that kept taunting her friends and family, but in reality, all that made it out was a rasping growl.
They had made it this far, they. Would. Not. Stop.~

Pulled out of the memory with a snap, Lysenna realized she had dropped the knife. Hands and head shaking, she reached for a bandage in her pouch, recalling the warmth in Granny Jo’s voice as she had bandaged her up and Cuilon holding her hand as she bit through the pain. Corbin’s hand on her shoulder, and Ettiene across the table. Hugo in the Grove, watching and guarding. Ruger making her laugh with those ridiculous eyebrows. Colobri and her songs. Her family had grown a bit more than expected. That was true. And some of them may have scoffed at the idea of her calling them that. But still. They were *hers*. No one hurt them without her noticing.
Wrapping the soft linen around her finger to staunch the blood flow she suddenly remembered the rest of her mother’s words.

“The mists protect us. But remember mon bebe, protection is not an empty threat. The knife cuts you as easily as another.”

Picking up the knife she stared at the blade. The keen edge did cut her as easily as anyone else. That was true.
But she would do whatever she could to protect them.
Damn the blood. Damn the cost.

The swamp was silent, absent of the usual whine of bugs, chirps of birds, belching chorus of frogs. There was beauty in the silence, but a pervasive sort of sadness dominated it. Snow didn’t tend to linger in the swamp. The water never quite froze here; the roiling decay of underbrush and plant detritus kept things warmer than the rest of the region most of the year. Still, some pristine white clung to the top of the taller trees. The air had a crispness that was only slightly colored by the undercurrent of scent that labeled the region so very clearly a bog.

For generations beyond counting, the Chasseur family had lived in the depths of the swamp. Most folks tended to consider the area unlivable. It was hard to travel, if you didn’t know the ways, and eking out a living was harder here than most places. The Chasseurs were a stalwart sort of people, though, and rather than working hard against nature, had simply learned to be more content with less. At least they had. The last of them stood muddy on the largest little hill in the muddy region. Houses could be built on stilts, but the family graves didn’t have that luxury. Generation after generation had been laid to rest here. Markers ranged from coarsely chiseled stone to simple woodened planks. Most lacked writing, but had a picture carved or some symbol to indicate who lay buried there. Land was precious, so once the eldest forgot who was buried where, the markers were collected on the edge of hill, and a new body was laid to rest over the bones of the old. In typical times, this was a slow process, as the dead slowly overtook previous generations for dominance of the little hill. Today was different.

Over a dozen plots had been dug. Bones decorated with scraps of skin and hair had been wrapped in rotted sheets and gingerly laid in each their spot. The peat-rich soil had been replaced. A section of relatively clean wood had been carved with a symbol for each person who slept there now. Many had come out to help with the burial; more than had ever come from outside their swamp for a funeral before. More faces than could reasonably be remembered. They were gone now. The only living soul was seated at the edge of the smallest of the plots, legs tucked up to his chest, forehead resting on knees, tears streaming down face.

***
The darkness of the crypt was clinging, like a cold fog that set everything soaking with icy water. Each step was treacherous and forced a small, almost timid stride. The… *thing* that had spoken from the shadows had been cruel before. It had thrown rocks, or shadowy tentacles, or sharp pains at those brave enough to weather the assault and liberate the souls of the fallen. Henri had gone in several times, shrugging off some of the attacks, absorbing others. It was exhausting work, but Marionette had refused to quit. And Cadence had refused to quit. And Isabel had refused to quit. So Henri had refused to quit. Again and again, he guided someone into the dark, protecting them from what he could, and pulling them out again. The thing had called him light-bringer. The thing in the darkness had hated him. Then it had levied an assault against him that he couldn’t shrug off.

“What do you know of family, outcaste?” it had hissed, while Henri clutched a collection of assorted bones to his chest. “What do you know of a family staying together even in the darkness?”

Then it had grown quiet, mocking sympathy had colored its tone.

“Oh, but you do know. You know what it is like to lose family… and it broke you,” it had laughed quietly then and it was as if someone had ripped a warm blanket from the old man’s shoulders. A comfortable bulwark against the cold darkness had been shredded and discarded. Months of reflection happened in moments. He had been forced to see the truth of things and his own terrible cowardice.

He had seen, in full color and horrid sensation, the plague that had swept the town finally rolling over the swamp. His father was the first to succumb, a man who had never so much has had any sickness worse than a cold, had taken a fever and died within hours. Then his mother. Aunt. Brother. Sister. Cousin. Each had fallen as quickly as the last. Too quickly to bury. All Henri had been able to do was sequester the dead from the dying and pray for any hope of cure or succor to come. Alas, no panacea had presented itself; no divine miracle to save them. As his family fell one by one, his panic had grown, and his efforts to care for the dwindling survivors had grown frantic.

And then the unthinkable had happened. The dead started to return. For three bitter days, the family he had tried so valiantly to save would rise at night to try and claim the rest of their humble clan. His spear and fierce refusal to submit had kept them at bay, but he couldn’t stop the tears as his Aunt’s rotted face had dominated his vision, her boney claw-like hands grasping for her own son and shrieking a non-language at him.

Noémie had been the last to fall. She had been so frail and thin by then. Hollow cheeked, but bright of eyes. Lips chapped. Perfect blonde hair coming out at the roots in clumps. She’d smiled at him as she lay dying in his lap.

“We just need to rest now, Uncle Henri,” she’d said, in a whisper so small he could barely make it out. “We’s tired is all. Just let us rest and we be raat as rain.”

Then her unblinking eyes had stared off into nothing and his wails shook the house.

If only the horrors had ended there, perhaps the old man could have forgiven himself. But that wasn’t the end of it. He could see and not see. He was aware and unaware. The corpses of his family, too many to bury, too many to mourn, had seemed whole once more. They called to him merrily. He had blinked back tears and kissed each one. They were sick, obviously, but safe. They asked him for help, and he put them to bed. Each was tucked in and kissed goodnight. He hunted for turtles and made soup. The thick stew had dribbled down chins and caught in bedsheets.

He saw and didn’t see as his family’s eyes sunk away. How their lips and gums pulled away from teeth. How the flies collected. How they bloated and released their putrescence. He saw and didn’t see how the swamp consumed them. The heat of summer bringing their torrent of feasting insects. How discolored and rotted the sheets and bedclothes became. Every so often, one would rouse itself and attack him in an effort to eat of his flesh. He saw and didn’t see how he laughed at their orneriness, gently holding them until they were still again, and placing their diminishing remains back to bed.

The dark spirit in the crypt had taken away the didn’t see. Now he could only reflect on the horrors he had survived and the sad consequence. Noémie’s sweet angelic face had turned pale and translucent, floating after him to speak at times. Other times he had spoken to her bones. Other times to a compelling shadow that had been nothing. He saw himself speaking to the bones of his mother, soup coating exposed teeth, as he had provided her answers to himself.

This was monstrous. He was a monster. It had broken him; he knew that through and through. The tears had blinded him. The sobs robbed him of breath. He wanted to curl up until he was so small he would just disappear into nothing. But Marionette had worked through her blood. Cadence through her exhaustion. Isabel through her fears.

Wiping away his tears and wrestling his sobs to sniffles, he had gone back into the crypt again. And again. And again. One by one, the ghosts had been pulled from the gestalt darkness until only Roger had remained. The door had been nailed shut with spikes of silver and priestly rites. He had gathered his belongings, wounded and bloody, he’d shuffled to the place where he slept to weep until he had no more tears to weep.

***
There he sat, exhausted and alone, among the buried remains of his family. He’d gone to the other family homes and found them all in a similar state. They’d all been collected and buried. They’d had words spoken over them. They’d had stories told and names remembered, they would for as long as he could remember.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered weakly against his knees. “Nonna this shoulda happened. Y’all deserved somethin’ better than what I done and what I couldn’t do.”

He’d sleep here tonight, he knew that much. His friends had given him the space that he wanted, but someone would come looking for him if he didn’t go tell them he was alright come the dawn. The exhaustion went beyond the physical- it has soaked past his bones and into his soul. He’d never been so tired in all his life. Shifting, he flopped to the wet moss covered earth and closed bloodshot eyes. Cuddling his knees against his chest, he cried himself to sleep. The morning would be cold, so very cold. But it would also be bright. And with the dawn would come hope. That sweet tingle of God’s light would set him right once more.