Chapter 68: 68
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Finding clues about the flame was never going to be a walk in the park, I had realised that from the moment I arrived in this hell hold of a palace. But that doesn't make my searching any less tedious.
Meticulously working my way through draws, memorising the positioning of each scrap of paper, ornament and box, blinking the dust that arises from likely centuries of disuse out of my eyes, and then putting everything back, as if I was never there in the first place is a rather boring job to say the least. Not to mention every dust bunny that rolls its way out from under the bed, dancing around the room in the heat of my flurried searching and frantic breathing, is another strike to my name: one more case that can be held against me.
In the notion of this, I attempt to push my worrying aside momentarily, forcing myself to concentrate at the task at hand and not my increasingly likely event of impending doom.
If Soren is to find out, I am damn well going to have to suck up the consequences.
The morning wanes on me, and the lanterns picking their way across the ceiling dim to a faint glimmer, outshined by the dull grey light emitting from the glass door that peers out from a veranda above the city of Sezeria, above the delightful amber hues of autumnal trees and the sculpted beds of roses that are becoming more and more inviting by the minute. I sigh inwardly, body half collapsing in on itself.
Still, there is nothing.
As I work, my mind wanders to thoughts of Ithuriel, and another sort of guilt sets in my stomach: a heavy one, one that lingers and froths and feeds on the worries building in my heart like a jackal on carcass of a bird: tearing and unforgiving. A guilt that, in all its horrendous glory, begins to consume my mind, scouring over me with its dreadful claws.
I haven't seen Ithuriel since the morning of the execution, nor have I tried to look for him either. Of course, he is my companion, free to do as he wishes, but I haven't exactly been that great to him either. In fact, if anything, our time in the palace has seemingly gnawed at the edges of our friendship, reducing it to unstable foundations that neither of us can predict when it will collapse. Silently I pray to myself that it wont come to that at all.
Nevertheless, I bite the inside of my cheek, shame beginning to puncture holes into my heart.
I was too wrapped up in my own affairs, too headstrong, too eager- too willing- to go with Soren, to be with him, to let him tell me about the souls, about what I am, that I completely forgot about Ithuriel these past few days. For all I know, he probably thinks I am dead, in fact, I am certain that's what he thinks. Ithuriel had always been a worrier, less of a carefree spirit like myself, no: he was methodical and assertive, so if my death was the logical conclusion, this would be the answer he will come to. If he so much as caught a glimpse of my body with Soren- a vampire who he is less that keen to remotely trust, he will of course assume the worst.
I make a mental note to find Ithuriel as soon as I am done in Soren's room.
Another sullen length of time passes, perhaps an hour, maybe four, although judging by the light streaming gently in from outside the door, it can't be more than midday yet. It is by this point that I have turned Soren's room upside down in my searching, not a single draw or desk or cabinet or corner has been left untouched by my wearied gaze. Claustrophobia and frustration have long since set in, and I realise, throwing myself down on the bed in utter despair, how useless I am.
Until something drops underneath the bed.
I shoot up.
Whatever dropped sounded heavy, and large, something that would be rather difficult to go unnoticed if moved out of place. Weary from the hours of futile searching, I get on my knees, the floorboard cracking profusely under my weight, blood pendant swinging steadily from my neck as I bend down to inspect the situation. My eyes widen.
It's a book.
Large and flat, bound with black leather that is crimped at the edges with age- and cold and wrapped tightly with a cord of gold which is thing on the book that looks like it hasn't been touched by the gnarled hands of time. There is a crested seal on the front in red blazon wax, one that, on closer inspection, I confirm I neither recognised or and any what familiar with. With shaky hands from cold and nerves, I draw the book a little closer to me, my fingers sinking into the light frosting of dust that had glazed the book's entirety.
I wipe away the bulk of it with my thumb, revealing the symbol of a rose flanked by two swords embedded into the crimson wax, perhaps the symbol of a royal guard, or elite fighters, I ponder to myself as I prise open the book, letting the golden cord fall to the floor in a heavy heap. My eyebrows raise, mouth pulling down into a wiry grimace.
A diary?
I flick through the pages with the tip of my thumb, each entry not marked by any form of scrawled name, just a date, and some writing, irritatingly formal, but perhaps formal is what I am looking for. The delicate hand is, unmistakably, Soren's. That much is obvious from the elegance of each lettering, the swift curls of the letters, and the unmistakable care he puts into making each letter precisely the same size- a style only formed from a millennium of boredom of which to practise. After all, he is a vampire, and he has all the time in the world for such trivial luxuries. Nevertheless I find myself pleasantly surprised as I skim over each page, fingers cautious and shaking, fearful of ripping the yellowing pages, over just how much care was put into this book. For how old it must be, it is very well preserved, immaculately so, even.
With my finger, I trace one word in particular, littered throughout the pages, and one that Soren appeared to take particular slowness in writing, blazoned and embolden by excess ink, and though fearful of writing the word to begin with, but equally never wanting to forget.
Who, or what, is 'Fangorn'?
Suddenly, a voice sounds in my head, almost makeing me topple in surprise.
Serena…
It laments, a voice thick with worry, and dread, spiked with the indisputable anguish of believing someone is dead.
Oh no...
I scrambled to my feet, wrapping the book in a spare set of clothes Soren had left from me, slung neatly over a chair, and begin to frantically brush myself of, shedding small bits of debris and dust that had since caught themselves in my hair after my long and lonesome hours of searching.
Ithuriel, I am not dead. I am in Soren's room. I am coming out soon, wait for me in our room. I call back to the Ithuriel, who I desperately hope will hear me and will not take… excessive measures against Soren.
If Ithuriel presumes I am dead, there is no telling what he might do. If he got into this room, I have no doubt he would spend the rest of his life tearing it apart, and then attempting to tear Soren apart too- attempting being the key word.
I shake my head morosely. Soren is far, far too powerful for Ithuriel to land little more than a scratch.
Serena? The voice echos, but the tone has risen, a light hopefulness replacing the sorrowful anguish of the prior tones.
A faint spark of joy resounds in it, and once again my heart fills with a horrible, consuming grief that tears away at me like a shark tears away at a seal, grief over what has to come, and grief over the disastrous things that have passed.
Perhaps a little foolishly, I wonder if Ithuriel already knew about the mating link.
And then I realise, my heart sinking to the cold depths of my stomach, swirling against the black turmoil of despair, that he probably knew all along, for my aura, my stupid, traitorous aura, would have told him everything.
No wonder he had gotten so upset that day.
I am coming out now, wait for me, I call again, and by the empty silence that answers, I hope pitifully he has gone back to our room.
I leave Soren's room as I found it, everything in place, careful to wipe away any stained or dusty finger prints, and take my leave with the book. I would only need it for a day at the most, and by the looks of things, Soren hadn't touched it for a very long time, he would barely even know it is gone.
I am so consumed in my own worries and thoughts, eyes planted firmly on the ground, that I barely even notice Azrael and Lady Mikhail until I walk right into them.
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Finding clues about the flame was never going to be a walk in the park, I had realised that from the moment I arrived in this hell hold of a palace. But that doesn't make my searching any less tedious.
Meticulously working my way through draws, memorising the positioning of each scrap of paper, ornament and box, blinking the dust that arises from likely centuries of disuse out of my eyes, and then putting everything back, as if I was never there in the first place is a rather boring job to say the least. Not to mention every dust bunny that rolls its way out from under the bed, dancing around the room in the heat of my flurried searching and frantic breathing, is another strike to my name: one more case that can be held against me.
In the notion of this, I attempt to push my worrying aside momentarily, forcing myself to concentrate at the task at hand and not my increasingly likely event of impending doom.
If Soren is to find out, I am damn well going to have to suck up the consequences.
The morning wanes on me, and the lanterns picking their way across the ceiling dim to a faint glimmer, outshined by the dull grey light emitting from the glass door that peers out from a veranda above the city of Sezeria, above the delightful amber hues of autumnal trees and the sculpted beds of roses that are becoming more and more inviting by the minute. I sigh inwardly, body half collapsing in on itself.
Still, there is nothing.
As I work, my mind wanders to thoughts of Ithuriel, and another sort of guilt sets in my stomach: a heavy one, one that lingers and froths and feeds on the worries building in my heart like a jackal on carcass of a bird: tearing and unforgiving. A guilt that, in all its horrendous glory, begins to consume my mind, scouring over me with its dreadful claws.
I haven't seen Ithuriel since the morning of the execution, nor have I tried to look for him either. Of course, he is my companion, free to do as he wishes, but I haven't exactly been that great to him either. In fact, if anything, our time in the palace has seemingly gnawed at the edges of our friendship, reducing it to unstable foundations that neither of us can predict when it will collapse. Silently I pray to myself that it wont come to that at all.
Nevertheless, I bite the inside of my cheek, shame beginning to puncture holes into my heart.
I was too wrapped up in my own affairs, too headstrong, too eager- too willing- to go with Soren, to be with him, to let him tell me about the souls, about what I am, that I completely forgot about Ithuriel these past few days. For all I know, he probably thinks I am dead, in fact, I am certain that's what he thinks. Ithuriel had always been a worrier, less of a carefree spirit like myself, no: he was methodical and assertive, so if my death was the logical conclusion, this would be the answer he will come to. If he so much as caught a glimpse of my body with Soren- a vampire who he is less that keen to remotely trust, he will of course assume the worst.
I make a mental note to find Ithuriel as soon as I am done in Soren's room.
Another sullen length of time passes, perhaps an hour, maybe four, although judging by the light streaming gently in from outside the door, it can't be more than midday yet. It is by this point that I have turned Soren's room upside down in my searching, not a single draw or desk or cabinet or corner has been left untouched by my wearied gaze. Claustrophobia and frustration have long since set in, and I realise, throwing myself down on the bed in utter despair, how useless I am.
Until something drops underneath the bed.
I shoot up.
Whatever dropped sounded heavy, and large, something that would be rather difficult to go unnoticed if moved out of place. Weary from the hours of futile searching, I get on my knees, the floorboard cracking profusely under my weight, blood pendant swinging steadily from my neck as I bend down to inspect the situation. My eyes widen.
It's a book.
Large and flat, bound with black leather that is crimped at the edges with age- and cold and wrapped tightly with a cord of gold which is thing on the book that looks like it hasn't been touched by the gnarled hands of time. There is a crested seal on the front in red blazon wax, one that, on closer inspection, I confirm I neither recognised or and any what familiar with. With shaky hands from cold and nerves, I draw the book a little closer to me, my fingers sinking into the light frosting of dust that had glazed the book's entirety.
I wipe away the bulk of it with my thumb, revealing the symbol of a rose flanked by two swords embedded into the crimson wax, perhaps the symbol of a royal guard, or elite fighters, I ponder to myself as I prise open the book, letting the golden cord fall to the floor in a heavy heap. My eyebrows raise, mouth pulling down into a wiry grimace.
A diary?
I flick through the pages with the tip of my thumb, each entry not marked by any form of scrawled name, just a date, and some writing, irritatingly formal, but perhaps formal is what I am looking for. The delicate hand is, unmistakably, Soren's. That much is obvious from the elegance of each lettering, the swift curls of the letters, and the unmistakable care he puts into making each letter precisely the same size- a style only formed from a millennium of boredom of which to practise. After all, he is a vampire, and he has all the time in the world for such trivial luxuries. Nevertheless I find myself pleasantly surprised as I skim over each page, fingers cautious and shaking, fearful of ripping the yellowing pages, over just how much care was put into this book. For how old it must be, it is very well preserved, immaculately so, even.
With my finger, I trace one word in particular, littered throughout the pages, and one that Soren appeared to take particular slowness in writing, blazoned and embolden by excess ink, and though fearful of writing the word to begin with, but equally never wanting to forget.
Who, or what, is 'Fangorn'?
Suddenly, a voice sounds in my head, almost makeing me topple in surprise.
Serena…
It laments, a voice thick with worry, and dread, spiked with the indisputable anguish of believing someone is dead.
Oh no...
I scrambled to my feet, wrapping the book in a spare set of clothes Soren had left from me, slung neatly over a chair, and begin to frantically brush myself of, shedding small bits of debris and dust that had since caught themselves in my hair after my long and lonesome hours of searching.
Ithuriel, I am not dead. I am in Soren's room. I am coming out soon, wait for me in our room. I call back to the Ithuriel, who I desperately hope will hear me and will not take… excessive measures against Soren.
If Ithuriel presumes I am dead, there is no telling what he might do. If he got into this room, I have no doubt he would spend the rest of his life tearing it apart, and then attempting to tear Soren apart too- attempting being the key word.
I shake my head morosely. Soren is far, far too powerful for Ithuriel to land little more than a scratch.
Serena? The voice echos, but the tone has risen, a light hopefulness replacing the sorrowful anguish of the prior tones.
A faint spark of joy resounds in it, and once again my heart fills with a horrible, consuming grief that tears away at me like a shark tears away at a seal, grief over what has to come, and grief over the disastrous things that have passed.
Perhaps a little foolishly, I wonder if Ithuriel already knew about the mating link.
And then I realise, my heart sinking to the cold depths of my stomach, swirling against the black turmoil of despair, that he probably knew all along, for my aura, my stupid, traitorous aura, would have told him everything.
No wonder he had gotten so upset that day.
I am coming out now, wait for me, I call again, and by the empty silence that answers, I hope pitifully he has gone back to our room.
I leave Soren's room as I found it, everything in place, careful to wipe away any stained or dusty finger prints, and take my leave with the book. I would only need it for a day at the most, and by the looks of things, Soren hadn't touched it for a very long time, he would barely even know it is gone.
I am so consumed in my own worries and thoughts, eyes planted firmly on the ground, that I barely even notice Azrael and Lady Mikhail until I walk right into them.
Finding clues about the flame was never going to be a walk in the park, I had realised that from the moment I arrived in this hell hold of a palace. But that doesn't make my searching any less tedious. Meticulously working my way through draws, memorising the positioning of each scrap of paper, ornament and box, blinking the dust that arises from likely centuries of disuse out of my eyes, and then putting everything back, as if I was never there in the first place is a rather boring job to say the least. Not to mention every dust bunny that rolls its way out from under the bed, dancing around the room in the heat of my flurried searching and frantic breathing, is another strike to my name: one more case that can be held against me.In the notion of this, I attempt to push my worrying aside momentarily, forcing myself to concentrate at the task at hand and not my increasingly likely event of impending doom.If Soren is to find out, I am damn well going to have to suck up the consequences. The morning wanes on me, and the lanterns picking their way across the ceiling dim to a faint glimmer, outshined by the dull grey light emitting from the glass door that peers out from a veranda above the city of Sezeria, above the delightful amber hues of autumnal trees and the sculpted beds of roses that are becoming more and more inviting by the minute. I sigh inwardly, body half collapsing in on itself.Still, there is nothing.As I work, my mind wanders to thoughts of Ithuriel, and another sort of guilt sets in my stomach: a heavy one, one that lingers and froths and feeds on the worries building in my heart like a jackal on carcass of a bird: tearing and unforgiving. A guilt that, in all its horrendous glory, begins to consume my mind, scouring over me with its dreadful claws.I haven't seen Ithuriel since the morning of the execution, nor have I tried to look for him either. Of course, he is my companion, free to do as he wishes, but I haven't exactly been that great to him either. In fact, if anything, our time in the palace has seemingly gnawed at the edges of our friendship, reducing it to unstable foundations that neither of us can predict when it will collapse. Silently I pray to myself that it wont come to that at all. Nevertheless, I bite the inside of my cheek, shame beginning to puncture holes into my heart. I was too wrapped up in my own affairs, too headstrong, too eager- too willing- to go with Soren, to be with him, to let him tell me about the souls, about what I am, that I completely forgot about Ithuriel these past few days. For all I know, he probably thinks I am dead, in fact, I am certain that's what he thinks. Ithuriel had always been a worrier, less of a carefree spirit like myself, no: he was methodical and assertive, so if my death was the logical conclusion, this would be the answer he will come to. If he so much as caught a glimpse of my body with Soren- a vampire who he is less that keen to remotely trust, he will of course assume the worst. I make a mental note to find Ithuriel as soon as I am done in Soren's room.Another sullen length of time passes, perhaps an hour, maybe four, although judging by the light streaming gently in from outside the door, it can't be more than midday yet. It is by this point that I have turned Soren's room upside down in my searching, not a single draw or desk or cabinet or corner has been left untouched by my wearied gaze. Claustrophobia and frustration have long since set in, and I realise, throwing myself down on the bed in utter despair, how useless I am.Until something drops underneath the bed.I shoot up.Whatever dropped sounded heavy, and large, something that would be rather difficult to go unnoticed if moved out of place. Weary from the hours of futile searching, I get on my knees, the floorboard cracking profusely under my weight, blood pendant swinging steadily from my neck as I bend down to inspect the situation. My eyes widen. It's a book.Large and flat, bound with black leather that is crimped at the edges with age- and cold and wrapped tightly with a cord of gold which is thing on the book that looks like it hasn't been touched by the gnarled hands of time. There is a crested seal on the front in red blazon wax, one that, on closer inspection, I confirm I neither recognised or and any what familiar with. With shaky hands from cold and nerves, I draw the book a little closer to me, my fingers sinking into the light frosting of dust that had glazed the book's entirety. I wipe away the bulk of it with my thumb, revealing the symbol of a rose flanked by two swords embedded into the crimson wax, perhaps the symbol of a royal guard, or elite fighters, I ponder to myself as I prise open the book, letting the golden cord fall to the floor in a heavy heap. My eyebrows raise, mouth pulling down into a wiry grimace.A diary?I flick through the pages with the tip of my thumb, each entry not marked by any form of scrawled name, just a date, and some writing, irritatingly formal, but perhaps formal is what I am looking for. The delicate hand is, unmistakably, Soren's. That much is obvious from the elegance of each lettering, the swift curls of the letters, and the unmistakable care he puts into making each letter precisely the same size- a style only formed from a millennium of boredom of which to practise. After all, he is a vampire, and he has all the time in the world for such trivial luxuries. Nevertheless I find myself pleasantly surprised as I skim over each page, fingers cautious and shaking, fearful of ripping the yellowing pages, over just how much care was put into this book. For how old it must be, it is very well preserved, immaculately so, even.With my finger, I trace one word in particular, littered throughout the pages, and one that Soren appeared to take particular slowness in writing, blazoned and embolden by excess ink, and though fearful of writing the word to begin with, but equally never wanting to forget.Who, or what, is 'Fangorn'?Suddenly, a voice sounds in my head, almost makeing me topple in surprise.SerenaIt laments, a voice thick with worry, and dread, spiked with the indisputable anguish of believing someone is dead.Oh no...I scrambled to my feet, wrapping the book in a spare set of clothes Soren had left from me, slung neatly over a chair, and begin to frantically brush myself of, shedding small bits of debris and dust that had since caught themselves in my hair after my long and lonesome hours of searching. Ithuriel, I am not dead. I am in Soren's room. I am coming out soon, wait for me in our room. I call back to the Ithuriel, who I desperately hope will hear me and will not take excessive measures against Soren. If Ithuriel presumes I am dead, there is no telling what he might do. If he got into this room, I have no doubt he would spend the rest of his life tearing it apart, and then attempting to tear Soren apart too- attempting being the key word.I shake my head morosely. Soren is far, far too powerful for Ithuriel to land little more than a scratch.Serena? The voice echos, but the tone has risen, a light hopefulness replacing the sorrowful anguish of the prior tones. A faint spark of joy resounds in it, and once again my heart fills with a horrible, consuming grief that tears away at me like a shark tears away at a seal, grief over what has to come, and grief over the disastrous things that have passed.Perhaps a little foolishly, I wonder if Ithuriel already knew about the mating link.And then I realise, my heart sinking to the cold depths of my stomach, swirling against the black turmoil of despair, that he probably knew all along, for my aura, my stupid, traitorous aura, would have told him everything. No wonder he had gotten so upset that day.I am coming out now, wait for me, I call again, and by the empty silence that answers, I hope pitifully he has gone back to our room.I leave Soren's room as I found it, everything in place, careful to wipe away any stained or dusty finger prints, and take my leave with the book. I would only need it for a day at the most, and by the looks of things, Soren hadn't touched it for a very long time, he would barely even know it is gone. I am so consumed in my own worries and thoughts, eyes planted firmly on the ground, that I barely even notice Azrael and Lady Mikhail until I walk right into them.
