His eyes shone fiercely with the torment of knowledge, the kind acquired from long years, beyond the meager store that can be absorbed in the length of a normal human life. He seemed to glow with it, and to penetrate the halls of her own mind like the swinging doors of a child’s playroom. She felt laid bare in his presence, like the greatest of simpletons, the tiniest of specks - a crawling insect fussing over stores for a fleeting season of life. She sensed almost instantly that he was an immortal. But somewhere at the back of her mind, she sensed that he was merely a watchman, a keeper of secrets doomed to the same isolation and short, repeated interchanges throughout all the ages. An isolation that constricted his heart, confining it into an agonized box.
“Tis thee,” she muttered dreamily, old english escaping her mouth like a long-forgotten custom.
The words brought with them a wrenching sensation, as of a memory just out of reach, recalled by the body just before slipping away. A muted recognition flickered through the man’s eyes, akin to a flash of awe, before his expression fell back into guarded neutrality.
“Aye,” his voice came flat, as if used to encountering shocked ignorance, and finding it tedious.
Hearing his voice aroused strange feelings, like the shadow of a thought from early childhood - long since forgotten, locked away somewhere deep within, in a place navigated by clouded emotions. Though she couldn’t place their origin, she began to trust her instincts of remembrance. And from somewhere deep inside, a name escaped her lips.
“Ah...Ahn-,” she said.
“Anhur,” he corrected.
“Aye,” she said, feeling a warmth shine from within at the sound of the name.
His lips curled into a sunless smirk as he gave a very graceful, subtle bow.
“Anhur sin Baalberith.”
The way he looked at her made her feel like a forgetful old woman speaking to a long-suffering family member. He watched silently, searching her face, as if to find true recognition. The shimmer of hope in his eyes lingered only a moment, fading quickly to forbearance. The door to his heart closed and he recited instructions.
“You are in the greater realm of Aamon,” he said. “In a forgotten corner of the vast realm over which his mind and infernal legions hold sway, carried here by the remembrance promised to your race. You musn’t tarry here, for the eye of the wolf watches. If you keep to your task, you shall pass safely. Only, do not tarry.”
He shifted as if turning to leave. And she panicked, knowing there were so many things she wished to ask him. Why was she here, who was she, who were her parents? What did all of this mean? How had she come to be in this strange place? How could she escape the Valak? How could she survive? Would she be alone forever? She paused dumbly, unsure where to start. Her bottom lip quivered as she searched for the proper words.
“Thy questions cannot be answered,” he said, sighing. “It is only by the grace of this Order that your kind are allowed passage into the next realm. It is a meager grace. Take it for what it is and move on. If you desire knowledge, embrace the humility of your ignorance, and understanding shall find you.”
She held his eyes for a moment, dumbfounded.
“You must go,” he said, sadness filling his eyes. He pointed downwards with a cloaked arm toward the base of the great structure. “Find the name inscribed, and there write the new.”
Beyond his pointing finger, she saw a dark spot. It was built into the great wall, nearly black against the structure’s muddy brown color. It was the size of a crumb from their current height. She turned back to the man, confused.
“Find the name,” he repeated coolly. “Follow the path. And keep silence.”
She turned to go, knowing she’d little time to oblige him by performing her duty. But her heart longed to stay and partake in the warmth and wisdom of his presence. It seemed to ripple through the dark folds of his robes and take up residence there. He must’ve seen this marked in her features, for she glimpsed a momentary wilting in the soft tissues of his face, as if he too longed for the communion, but’d long-since accepted that such things could never be.
So she turned her face away and moved slowly along the wall, crossing the depressed regions and back up the other sides, carefully navigating the tilted, creaking boards with her slipping boot heels. She tried not to look down as she went, for the sheer height of her position was dizzying. When she looked back, the man had gone. His absence tugged at her heart, though somehow, she knew she’d see him again.
The walls and railings of the walkway were all filthy, dusted with crumbling clay and soot, as if they hadn’t been disturbed in centuries. The ancient stone of the wall was cold and unforgiving against her back. She shimmied along anxiously, her limbs and head aching from the strain. She crossed so many pale, splintering boards that it felt her mind must be filled with sawdust. Her clothes and hands were certainly covered in it.
At the end of a long, taxing journey, she finally reached the path’s end. Before her, the crooked track shot downwards and disappeared into the dim. Parts of the path were comprised of steps, others of only a tilted ramp, while other parts were mere open space, across which she would have to jump. It was a ghastly sight - uneven, corroded and treacherous - so compromised she could hardly countenance the thought of climbing down it. If it wasn’t for the necessity of the situation, and the urgent instructions of the man Anhur, she’d never have considered it. But it was the only way. Perhaps he wouldn’t instruct her to use such a path if it wasn’t safe. Or perhaps it mattered little to him either way.
But she started down, spurred on by the urgency of his warning. Her heels slipped over the dusty boards, while her hands searched for hold against the cold walls. She spent much of the journey easing down in a squatting position, sliding over tilted, flat boards. It was a nerve-wracking feat, her heart drumming and her hands trembling the entire way. And it seemed to go on forever, with boards groaning as rotten wood shifted beneath the pressure of her crossing. Halfway down, she could see what the black dot was: a dark facade built into the vast, flat wall of the greater structure. It was engraved with wood that was nearly black, and two large, spiked doors stood at its center.
At least an hour had passed by the time she reached the floor of the great structure, her boots clicking against the cold stone. Her final descent was a leap and a heavy thud as she hit the ground, for the stairs ended several yards above. Getting back up would certainly be a challenge, if even worth attempting at all.
She took a few sheepish steps out onto the open floor. She felt like an ant in this great place, exposed and vulnerable, with nothing to hide behind. She would certainly see anything approaching from far off, but would have nothing to take sanctuary in or behind. The great pillars were even more intimidating from the ground, driving up toward the ceiling like monstrous spikes.
The black facade rose before her, moderate in size and intricately engraved. It was so dark it seemed to absorb light, as if painted with tar. She approached the heavy iron doors and pulled one of the thick metal knockers. After some effort, the door slid open with a dry, whining creak; scuffing against the dirty floor. Beyond, all was black.
She stepped through cautiously, fearful of what lay beyond, but determined to fulfill her duty. The interior was still and damp, like a tomb. An ancient silence lay over the place, a thickness in the air that poured in dank, dusty layers over every surface, lulling them to sleep. All within felt dead, and she by comparison a brazen, live thing disturbing their slumber. There was very little light, but what shone was dim and bluish.
The place reminded her of Valefar’s reliquary, the one that housed vast shelves of scrolls and beautiful paintings, and from which she’d been swept away down into the Corridors. But it felt much, much older; and it housed no paintings. It reminded her more of a record hall or a work room. It was comprised of several medium sized rooms, all lined with dark shelves, with wooden islands for working in the middle. The shelves were were packed with scrolls, bound volumes and ledgers
. Dim light lay over them, painting a wall of indistinguishable volumes. She reached out to touch a nearby book, but stopped short, sensing instinctually that it was not the right volume. Rather, she felt drawn to the adjoining room off to the left. And after her recent experiences, she was learning to follow her instincts without question.
It was somewhat lighter in the room to her left. The walls were lined as the others had been, full of old ledgers, with an island in the middle. She approached a shelf and ran her hand along dusty spines. Occasionally, her fingers fell over unrecognizable materials - neither leather nor papyrus - but she moved on, remembering there was little time to consider their obscure origins.
Stopping instinctually over a leather bound volume, she pulled it out. As she touched it, a vibrating hum seemed to move through her body, working its way out through her hands. The volume’s leather was a rough sort, with corners rubbed down and deeply worn. It was wrapped several times in black twine that’d formed damply to the outer binding. She undid the knots and unravelled it, feeling suddenly akin to the thing, as if holding a treasured family heirloom.
Written within were endless names, dates and locations; long lists filling each page. She ran a finger over the imprinted scripts, scanning them appreciatively, for their ancient and varying qualities filled her with a sense of awe. Had this book truly gone back so far, into so many ages of the past? She couldn’t study them in detail, for something about the writing stunned her vision. It was akin to the way she felt in Anhur’s presence - dazed by something of such depth and profundity, something beyond her own understanding, that her eyes couldn’t truly behold it. It blurred at the edges, distorting the entries beyond recognition. After scanning several pages, her finger ran over an elegant and old-fashioned script that she could decipher quite clearly.
Maryone Vartana Eadburgh Gurza, 14 September, 1770. Saint-Breuic, France.
A strange sensation ran through her at the sight, catching in her throat. She quivered beneath it, feeling weak. She was becoming used to the feeling - one of intense affinity and remembrance that overwhelmed her faculties. She hunched forward, gasping deep breaths and allowing the sensation to shiver through her bones. Quick flashes came to her, memories. But they were fragmented. She shuddered there in the dark room as acceptance washed over her, working it’s way through mind and body as her entire being was filled with light. She awoke from the trance and found a quill atop the messy island, dipped it in an ink pot and found the first blank line in the ledger. In her best hand, she wrote.
Annabelle Vartana Morton, 14th September, 1874. London, England.
CHAPTER 36
Apparitions
New knowledge pounded within her like a separate heartbeat, another soul overlapping her own. She felt stronger, as if mind and heart expanded twice as far, feeling things twice as deeply, stretching into realms she’d never imagined. Her memories extended in a great expanse, the firmament above to shining brightly. The outer world felt vast and vibrant, and a sense of calm washed through her, wisdom radiating warmth and hope from deep within - the warmth a child feels on a summer day, viewing blue skies from between glowing fingers.
Memories filled her, the sensations of experiences passed; ones that she knew had always been with her, buried deep within. Quick flashes of faces known and loved, of affections felt. They were swift, vague and defined by hazy sensations, like the earliest memories of life. But one stood apart, shocking her senses so powerfully that it stopped her in their tracks. It was a man. She couldn’t see his face, only recall the sense of him, and remember the desperate, gnawing affection she’d felt; one that’d possessed her, capturing every faculty and cutting deep down to her center. The sensation was troubling, brimming with unfulfilled longing. It tore open a chasm of fear and loss within her, ripping her peace away. For she felt that the connection went back further than she could currently venture. It seemed to reach beyond her own life, or memories of the previous, into an uncharted oblivion that she couldn’t currently recall. The feeling frightened her, so she dismissed the whole subject, closing a door in her mind.
On the back of this warmth and hope came the cutting sensations of loss, betrayal, broken hopes and long, dry years that drained the soul. Of heartbreak, abuse, loneliness, neglect, invalidation. She doubled over with it as tears poured down, for she recalled her own failure and death. She had indeed failed, died, and been reborn into obscurity and ignorance, only to climb through years of friendless misery. All she’d ever known was gone, and she may die again soon, without vindication or the redemption of love.
I am nothing, she thought as her guts wrenched beneath her. Nothing. I’ve failed. And I am dead.
For she was, but was not. She allowed the terror and confusion of it to flood her, and the pain to overwhelm her, cutting as deep as it could go. But soon, rather than oppress her, the feelings extended her gaze even further into realms beyond sight - a sight that went on forever, tempered with knowledge as it tapered off into eternity.
~
She awoke near the woods on the edge of the clearing, the gothic bench striking a sharp, horrific memorial in the hazy gray light. The sight sent cold deep into her heart - the dark stains that would remain forever, and the image of the lifeless face that’d rested there. The pain of the memory could keep her suspended forever. She could wander amongst the trees, wishing for her lover, watching over her own crypt. The pain was both a sanctuary and a repellant, one that, in the end, she ran from, repulsed. Though she knew she could never escape what’d happened. It would remain in her heart, and she would have to carry it, however time or necessity dictated.
She tread back through damp woods and shadows, avoiding the labyrinth until the great house rose in a misty prospect beyond the slender trunks of the forest. Looking over it’s turrets, she felt the sorrow of the girl Maryone’s childhood home, and the lonely, confused years spent there. Though it was the life of a grown woman she contemplated, it felt like the years of her own infancy; lost, strange and sentimental in their transience.
As she went she thought of him, she couldn’t help it. He poured from her heart like water from clouds, an inescapable expression of their nature. And she recalled with horror the lifeless form lain prostrate behind the mangled train. Her lip quivered and her stomach lurched as bitter tears poured down. The image made her feel gutted, as if her insides had climbed out and left, turning every breathing moment into a death sentence. It couldn’t be true, but it was. She didn’t know where to go or what to do now that he was gone. Direction failed her. She felt empty, lost, listless. The love she bore him was an anchor to her inner most being, the kind so deep it is no longer a choice, but a reality that can only be faced or avoided; and the consequences borne, but never altered. He was part of her, in a deeper way than she could understand, and she could no sooner remove him from her heart than stop it’s beating. Without him, hope and desire left, and the future seemed a meaningless, torturous farce.
She took the misty path back to the house, not caring who or what she encountered upon arriving there. Thoughts of him possessed her, flashes like stabs to the heart. In the wet, glistening grass, with overzealous dogs at his feet, he approached wearing a fine, long velvet coat of a crimson hue, matched by waistcoat and breeches. Stockings rose above polished shoes. His hair fell long and dark about his shoulders, rippling in humid clumps. He was dressed for a party. As he moved closer, something clenched around her heart, contracting in a hundred memories of his significance to her. His image was mesmeric. Looking in his eyes was sheer terror and bliss. A brightness seemed to shine out from his body, one that blinded her and made her want to run and hide. She buckled at the knees, wishing him near but petrified of his presence, paralyzed by the thought of his rejection, or of losing his favor by some folly of her own. But she merely froze, watching him smile in his intelligent way, dimples forming over slightly sunken cheeks as his full, dark eyebrows rose.
The dogs jumped at his feet, but he never diverted his focus fr
om her. He loomed tall and angular, features that had once referenced fear bewitching her, gnawing at her heart. She clung to their unique qualities, savoring the effect. He spoke soundlessly, lips moving without language. He laughed at something, but no noise came; only the shift of bone and sinew moving flesh in a way that gripped her. He seemed to be in conversation with some past shadow of herself, though all she did was watch him, hypnotized, as tears rolled down. She wished to reach out and touch him. Fearing to test the inclination, she did, and her hand fell on open air in some parallel, sightless world. Her gut twisted as she realized this particular man was gone forever, that he was now nothing more than a memory lost to shadows. Her face crumpled beneath the realization. He was gone. And she didn’t know if she’d ever find him again.
When she looked up, the sweet apparition was gone. And as her body was gripped by panicked gasps, she wondered in passing if day had come on fully. Perhaps not. Or perhaps noon had arrived as she grappled inwardly for the image of his face, and the remembrance of what it’d felt like to stand before him. Perhaps the light had begun to dim with evening. She didn’t know. It hardly mattered. For he was nowhere over the rolling hills, in the cold, gray stone or the swaying trees.
CHAPTER 37
Darkness Impenetrable
London was a smoking machine compared to the fresh, rolling hills of the county. It jittered and convulsed, ringing and bawling in her ears as she moved through the chaos. Her cape weighed on her shoulders in measures of fatigue and hunger, while soiled petticoats bounced around her ankles in sopping clumps. Every sound gnawed at her consciousness, draining her of the bright star at it’s center, threatening to pull her from her own thoughts and the dream she held dear. But the streets grew quieter as she sought out the dark, an unearthly silence falling in a static hum as she neared the mouth of the Barathrum.
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