-Chapter III: Call of the Void-93Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDIEHqYFk6r
Ophelia Faulkner
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“There’s something in here, I can feel it,” Lord Archer said, examining the necklace. He was wearing a pair of glasses with a golden loupe magnifying glass attached to the lens. It made him look bug eyed.
Remaining quiet on the bed, I noticed the faint smell of lavender from the sheets. It was a welcome change to be in one of these rooms without any pressing responsibilities or the need to satisfy another. Bookshelves filled with colour-matching covers, all for aesthetics, framed the room. The gold and red décor of the suite provided a comforting contrast to the frigid weather of the Thirteenth. A cosy fire would’ve been a welcome addition, but the fireplaces in these rooms were merely for show, the wooden logs made of plastic.
“Abyss take me!” Lord Archer exclaimed, dropping the necklace on the table and sitting upright in his chair. He stretched and rolled his neck with an audible click. “That bastard just had to come along and ruin my Astrapiday night, didn’t he?”
I looked up and gave him a slight asymmetric smile. “If it pleases the lord, I can fetch you a drink from the bar? That Blue Whistle has been calling to you all evening.”
He mulled over the answer, taking his glasses off and placing the temple tip in his mouth. “Well, if the lady insists, who am I to decline?” he said, a half-smile replacing the frown. “Make sure the boy goes easy on the ice. I don’t want it all watery.” He waved me off and returned to his work.
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I leant on the bar, grinning at Logan, who was busy shaping a rose out of an ice cube. With precision, he placed it in the tumbler and poured the cocktail over it. I tried to talk, but he held up his finger, shushing me. He carefully arranged the mint leaves and a lemon slice, adding a touch of elegance to the tray before handing it over to Agatha.
“Right, now I’m free,” he said.
“Blue Whistle. Easy on the ice,” I said, sitting on the stool.
“Easy on the ice, cheeky bastard,” Logan grumbled, and set about making the drink.
Looking down the length of the bar, I saw Flynn nursing an almost empty glass. He appeared to be focused on the remaining liquid, tilting the glass from side to side. I couldn't tell if he saw me or not, as he didn't make any indication of acknowledgement.
“He’s been nursing that drink for a good 40 minutes,” Logan said. “Fayth came up and chatted to him for a bit, but otherwise he’s just been silent.”
“He’s a strange one. Not that I’ve had any dealings with a Banshee before,” I said. “You said Fayth talked to him? Do they know each other?”
Logan nodded. “He checks up on her from time to time. Rarely bothers coming through the front entrance. Even caught him crawling through the kitchen window a few times.”
I snorted and covered my mouth.
“The two seem close,” Logan added, his gaze fixated on Flynn for a moment.
“You think that they’re… you know?”
“You know what?” Logan asked, brow raised as he looked back at me.
“Sleeping together?”
Logan cackled but stopped abruptly, not wanting to draw attention to himself. “I highly doubt it. From what I’ve been told, Banshees are… not really given the luxury of free will. Everything they are is an extension of His Highness’ desires. He commands; they adhere, no questions asked. It’s said he breaks and sculpts their minds until they become obedient thralls, manipulating their thoughts and behaviours to serve his own agenda.”
I frowned, not entirely sure what he meant by that.
“Or so the rumours go,” Logan added with a smirk. “Anyway, enough chit-chat. Here,” he said, handing me the drink. “It’s easy on the ice.”
“That’s really bothered you, hasn’t it?” I grinned and took the drink.
Logan faked a laugh, but was interrupted by the monitor beeping; another order came in. He waved me off and disappeared behind the bar, so I took my leave.
Fayth ran towards me as I approached the stairs, holding a clipboard and an empty glass in her hand. She seemed a tad flustered, cheeks red and hair in disarray.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, I just wanted to let you know that the hour on the room is almost up. Lord Archer has another 15 minutes. If he wants longer, he’ll have to pay for another hour.”
I ascended the stairs. “No problem, I’ll let him know.”
“If he’s not down by half past, I’ve been told to come and knock,” she said.
I nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that’ll be fine. We’re both decent. He’s just tinkering with that necklace, anyway.”
Fayth took a deep breath, clipboard against her chest, and nodded. She ran off as quickly as she had appeared.
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Six flights of stairs in heels always proved tricky, but I managed with minimal spillage. Returning to the room, Lord Archer was once again hunched over the desk, mumbling under his breath. I leant over his shoulder, noticing the sweat on his brow as I placed the glass of Blue Whistle on the table.
I wasn't expecting the sudden burst of light, and as a reaction I winced and turned away. My hand hit something and it wasn’t until I heard the shatter of glass that I realised what it was; his drink. I braced myself for a scolding and instinctively raised my hands in defence. But Lord Archer never reacted. Instead, he sat there in total silence, staring at the oscillating purple light that emanated from the crystal. So radiant and refulgent, watercolour patterns projected onto the walls, the light fading like ink in water.
In that instant, I was overcome by a force that seemed to detach me from my physical self. My own shadow became a reflection upon which I peered. It was an unsettling feeling, seeing a version of myself that was almost, but not quite, a perfect match. Something about the glassy stare and slightly too wide a smile made me hesitate. My neck hairs stood on end as a freezing chill traversed up my spine, and the uncomfortable feeling of being watched; stared at; glared at, overcame me.
Hello
I took a hesitant step back. No words were heard, but I felt them scratched into my brain; dirty, bloody nails wanting my attention, a twisted smile with lips curled. The breath caught in my throat. As I backed further away, the light of the necklace dimmed and faltered altogether.
Lord Archer leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over, eyes wide and framed by dark rings. He held the necklace and stared at me.
“You! What did you do?” he roared, and yanked my hair to draw me closer.
I stumbled to my knees, but he hauled me back up. Our eyes locked; his were consumed by a hungering darkness. The necklace glowed once more, illuminating the room with an intense radiance that cast sharp shadows across the walls.
From the heart of the crystal, sinuous tendrils of inky blackness began to emerge, twisting and weaving in a mesmerising display, resembling the unfolding petals of an otherworldly flower. Lord Archer watched the unfolding spectacle with a kind of manic ecstasy, his eyes shimmering with an unearthly light, and an unsettling grin stretching across his face. It was as if his very flesh had fractured open with an audible crack, revealing a pulsating undercurrent of Magicka beneath his skin. The white tendrils protruding from his face reached out hungrily, snatching at the radiant illumination as if driven by an irresistible force.
“I hear it… I hear the singing. Oh, it is glorious,” Lord Archer said, tears in his eyes.
No,Not you!
The black tendrils surged forward with a violent force, entwining with the white ones and ripping them away from Lord Archer’s face. Panic overtook him as he realised that the blackness was spreading like a disease across his flesh. He lost control and threw me to the floor, lightning bolts shooting from his body and leaving scorch marks on the carpet and walls. He held his face and cried out, his voice barely above a whisper as he begged for salvation; begged for Mother.
But Mother never came.
The abrupt stillness that descended upon the scene was eerie; a stark contrast to the earlier chaos. Lord Archer's once-imposing stature crumbled, and he hung his head in defeat. In his trembling hand, he clutched the necklace, his arms hanging limply at his sides. I observed him slowly turn to face me, black sludge oozing from the cracks in his now disfigured visage, the radiant light once contained within him now extinguished. Another crack split the air, followed by another and another, each one echoing like a chorus of dreadful inevitability.
“It won’t stop,” he whispered, his voice overlapped with the ethereal cadence of another. “I need to make it stop. It’s too loud! It hurts! Make it stop! Make it stop!” he roared.
He wrapped his hand around my neck and lifted me with ease, holding me high in the air. I drew blood as I clawed at his hand, but the superhuman strength of a Wielder fuelled him. He slammed me against the desk and mounted me, pushing down on my throat with both hands. A stretched grin twisted his lips, contorted with madness as strings of blood and viscous sludge dripped from his monstrous features, splattering onto my face.
“It won’t stop!” he laughed maniacally. “It calls to me, dear. You hear it, don’t ya?”
The crushing pressure on my throat robbed me of breath and voice, and my world narrowed down to the horrific, bloodstained visage above me. Blood surged, pulsating in my ears. I scratched; I clawed; I bit and tore, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. But this only made him laugh more.
No, this can’t be it. Please… Someone. Anyone. Help… It felt like my chest was being crushed. Someone save me.
My trembling hand wrapped around his wrist, determined fingers clamping onto the necklace. As I pulled, an agonising heat seared through my skin, the fiery sensation too vivid to be an illusion. Sinister, blackened tendrils snaked forth from the necklace, ensnaring my arm, and delving deep beneath my flesh, weaving their way into my bones. Each gasp for breath felt elusive, but amidst the crushing pain, I sensed a sudden release - an awakening of the shadow lurking within me - and an electrifying surge of power coursing through my veins.
No, not today. Not ever!
Darklight erupted from my being, shrouding radiant orbs with creeping shadows, as darkness consumed radiance. The darklight coursed beneath the surface of his right arm, where his skin withered and decayed into ashen remains, scattered like fragile embers carried by an invisible wind. He raised his skeletal arm, his remaining features twisted in bewilderment, incapable of comprehending the unfolding cataclysm. The brittle bones cracked and snapped, disintegrating into a cloud of dust.
With one hand still gripping my throat, I squirmed desperately beneath him, seeking any salvation within reach. My fingers blindly searched the desk, grasping onto anything they could find.
“This empty... solitude,” Archer muttered, black tears streaking his face as he pressed his temple to mine. A shiver of despair coursed through his voice. “They just want to sleep, don't you see?” His grip tightened once more. “To be sung to sleep…”
My questing hand closed around something cold, and without hesitation, I thrust it into his neck.
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What started as a trickle became a cascade. Apathy grew into disbelief; eyes glazed over, turned to panic. He released his hold on me. The necklace slipped from his fingers, and he clutched at his neck.
I inhaled and coughed, spluttering and weeping. With what little strength remained, I kicked him off me. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, leaving a palpable stillness in its wake.
A deluge of blood gushed forth from his neck, forming a crimson river on the floor. He crawled across the stained surface, a grotesque parody of a wounded creature, extending his stump towards me with desperate, choking gasps. Black sludge oozed from his mouth and eyes, as if it were his very essence seeping out. Magicka thrashed violently behind his face, each convulsion shattering fragments of his crumbly ashen skin. A strained, inhuman shriek escaped his lips, the anguished cry of a dying animal. Through clenched jaws, his fangs were bared, a testament to the monstrous entities that Wielders truly were.
“You… whore!” he spat. So much hatred in his eyes; so much… disgust.
No light remained; his eyes grew cold and vacant. I watched the moment he took his last breath, lying in a pool of sludge and blood. The sickly, wet crackle stretched for longer than it was welcome. In his neck, lodged at a slight angle, was one of his jeweller’s tools; a thin metal rod with a wooden handle.
Amid sobs and staggered breaths, I scrambled off the desk and backed into a corner. A cold and creeping darkness nestled in my chest, the sound of my heartbeat thumping in my ears. Sparks of light flashed in my field of vision, pain radiating in my temple. What started out as a mild throb quickly worsened, each flash driving a nail further into my skull. My whole body shook, tears trailing down my cheeks, rhyme and reason escaping my grasp as I tried to piece together what I had just witnessed - what I had just… done.
In my hand, the necklace glowed, the crystal wrapped in gentle darklight. Phantoms danced against its harrowing gleam, reaching out from hidden crevices to touch my skin with the heat of dying flames. Dark tendrils reached out to me, sliding across my cheek. I sobbed and looked towards the crystal; I sensed no malice or spite, only the warm and gentle reassurance of asylum. I did not hear this singing that Archer spoke of, nor did I see a reason for his manic begging, but felt a warmth I never knew I needed. For so long, I had carried an emptiness within me, a soulful ache I had mistaken for normalcy. How could I yearn for something I didn't know was missing? How could I find such solace in something entirely foreign?
I let myself dream, despite the harsh reality I faced. I let myself… unravel.
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