Catherine had a book in her lap, she was sitting down on the huge flat rock used as the colony's town square, next to the three long spears that protruded directly from the ground to the air. The tears has finally dried off her cheeks by the warm sunshine's guiding hand, and only a twin pair of barely noticeable trails went down from the corners of her eyes to her chin. The episode of outward grief had been acute, yet very brief, but her soul still lay wounded and weeping on the inside.
However, that was how Catherine wished it to stay. If Virginia could not keep a clear and tear-free face, then Catherine had no choice but to do it in her place. Other than that, she had nothing left to do whilst the Baskar brothers performed their investigation into the ancient texts. The woman fiercely wished that she could help them, she was good at gathering and sorting information, but she suffered from the handicap of not understanding the Baskar written language, a discomforting sensation. She really wished that she could help.
Clive, Honey, I wish that I could help you, I wish that I could do something! Nobody should ever… face this peril alone…
And she would probably have to face him soon, as the being that he was, a demon of Hiades. It would eventually happen, no matter how much she wanted it to be otherwise, a voice in her heart told her that it would be on the opposite side of the battlefield. She gripped the edge of the book roughly, squeezing the paper and leather binding together. Could she really do that? Catherine had tried to be calm about it in the presence of others, but the thought made her feel sick on the inside, sick and mortally ill. Could she point a gun at his chest and fire?
"I didn't know," She whispered hoarsely to herself, closing her eyes to the lengthening afternoon, "I didn't know what was going on. I was so worried about Kaitlyn that I barely saw what was happening to you, now I'm scared… I'm scared for both of you." Slowly raising a hand, she gently pulled off her red headband holding streams of light brown hair back, constricting the fabric with knotted-up tension. She felt like crying again, but bottled up the emotion, knowing that it would be a pointless gesture. "Don't you all go away and leave me, if you do, I'll never forgive you. But Clive," Her voice was barely above a whisper, "I will keep my promise, Honey. I promise I will keep the others safe, even from you."
Catherine opened the small notebook she had brought along with all the other stuff stowed away in the medicine bag, a little leather book that was more than twenty years old. This aging tome was the trigger that had helped to start this chain of events, leading her to this place, an unfamiliar colony far away from her homeland. This was the book that Ravendor had written in all those years ago, a group diary that had the words 'Black Shuck' printed across the front. Catherine hadn't seen or heard those words in years, it was unsettling. Randomly, she flipped to a page, surprised to see her own handwriting written neatly within each of the lined pieces of paper. It was dated nearly twenty years ago, seeming an entire lifetime away. Unable to resist, she read through the short paragraph, fraught with spelling mistakes.
They're arguing again. They're always arguing, all the time, over the stupidest things. I swear, they don't even mean it, I just think that they like to hear the sound of their own voices. One of them starts screaming, and then the other one starts up as well, then they start throwing punches, and the children start crying… Gods, it's annoying. And then, less than five minutes later, they've made up and are all buddy-buddy again, albeit a little bit bruised. Clive really needs to control his temper, and Ravendor should really set a better example for all the little ones, am I the only one noticing this? I'll make a mental note to let Kaitlyn sort this out. She's the only one who seems to be able to control those two, it's crazy. I need to figure out how she does it.
The woman smiled wistfully. "I remember that." She said to herself, picturing the situation with perfect clarity. Those two had always argued, but it had only been in good fun, she never knew anybody as close as Clive and Ravendor had been, for things to turn out this way in the present, it was beyond sad. A good friendship was supposed to last forever, she had believed for so long that nothing could be stronger. Sighing, she flipped to a different page, recognizing Clive's thin spidery handwriting without hesitation. This also seemed to be old, but not quite as old as the first passage. Her wistful smile slowly vanished as she absorbed the contents of the second note, remembering the descriptions with a bitter sting. Along with the fond memories, painful mental remembrances were also woven into words, words that were Clive's own.
I hate it when it rains. I hate spring, it's always rainy, always colorful and cheery, and the roof is full of big gaping holes. Water leaks in and I put down a whole lot of pots and containers, but they just fill up and I can't empty them quickly enough. It would be better if I could use my right arm, I wanna know when I can take the bandage off, it's very itchy and I hate that as well. The kids keep poking it and asking to see all the blood and pus, so I tell them to shut up and leave me alone. Catherine tried her best to take the bullet out, and I guess I should be grateful for that, but it still really, really hurts. Is a bullet wound supposed to kill this badly? I think it's infected.
And, well, this is the hard part. I don't really want to put it down in writing, mostly because I have to use my left hand and this writing looks like shit, but I need to write this, it's so I don't forget in the future. Something tells me I'm gonna need to remember this someday.
He still hasn't come back yet. I waited and waited until I was so pissed off I wanted to scream, but it doesn't look like he'll be coming back. No, that's wrong, I still have his ARM, he'll be coming back for that soon enough… and then I'll probably… Actually, I don't know what I'll do. I'll probably cry. Yeah, that's it, I did it before and I'll do it again. I hate being weak.
I asked an older kid what 'suicide' meant. I was so surprised, I didn't think anybody would ever wanna kill themselves, him least of all. I know it hurt a lot of us, and it hurt him the most, but nothing like this. It's not supposed to happen. I won't let him do it, never again. Ravendor's my brother, if he wants to kill himself, then fine, but he'll have to shoot me again, first.
From her memory, Clive must've only been thirteen when he wrote that, just entering his angsty years. But he had just cause to be so despondent, they had all been sad during that time, when she had died. Everybody Catherine knew had lost many tears over that incident, but Clive and Ravendor, they had suffered the worst of all. Death killed, but not just the fated individual, the reaper's scythe cut through every single loved one all at the same time. And their decay would always be much slower. Catherine carefully closed the book, her hands falling to her sides. Now she felt even more depressed.
"…Clive and Ravendor were very close, almost like blood brothers, they virtually grew up together. However, about seventeen years ago, there was a series of rather severe incidents and their friendship suffered dramatically. It was a death, a very painful death."
A newly-born tear ran down her cheek, immediately brushed away. Things weren't supposed to be that way, not for a family of small children. Catherine had been alright, she still had her kind and loving father, but everybody else, the Little Twister orphans, Clive and Ravendor, they had nothing. How in the world, she thought while shaking her head, Did they manage to live through that?
Her hands were shivering so much that a yellowed piece of paper being used for a bookmark slid out between the pages and fluttered to lie between the short-clipped blades of grass, resting at Catherine's feet. She stared at it dumbly, something in the back of her mind making her reach down almost automatically and pick up the parchment, freeing it from the creased way it was folded. Her fingers froze suddenly as she recognized one word printed neatly on the covering fold in Clive's usually messy handwriting, written in red ink. The word simply said; 'Sin.'
"I do not remember this," She muttered, "He must have never shown me this…" Hesitantly, she unfolded the paper, text similar to Kaitlyn's kidnapping message meeting her eyes, if not a little bit jittery and rushed. It looked like the person who had written the letter was very impatient, of just plain scared. Somehow, Catherine knew that a lot of emotion had gone into the making of this message, it seemed to radiate a strange exhaustion that must have been an extension of the author. Words had an eerie power like that, sometimes. No, this wasn't Clive's handwriting, her heart fell to her feet, a dismal coldness clawing it's way into Catherine's chest. The words were Ravendor's.
In my heart I see a cup. It is like one of those clear crystal wine glasses, with a bright light shining upon it as if it lay within a darkened room. I think that cup is like my soul, no, It is my soul. Every moment of my life, liquid is always dripping into it, precious things, thoughts, memories, people, it falls like drops of water into that glass, and when I look over the rim to the liquid swirling around in it, I see…
I see the things that really make life matter, like my existence means something. Every time Catherine smiles at me, or whenever Clive complains about his study and asks me for help, they are all individual drops that make up precisely who I am. The cup has been full for a very long time, I admit that I never regretted once the decision to move to my new home, I love it even more so knowing that my old home no longer endures a place in my heart. It is forgotten. In truth, I owe my very existence to the ones who work and live around me, and the environments and situations that I still deem to be a wonderful gift. That is who I am, that is all I wish to be. Isn't that… isn't that what everybody really wants?
Here it was that several splotches of ink were dedicated to an entire empty line, as if the tip of a quill had rested for ages on the paper, the author unable to find any proper words to write. Catherine squinted at the letter, a little along the blank line, some words were scribbled out with a dark ink, yet looking very closely she could barely make out the words; "I wish that I…" But they were not used.
But lately, I…I feel like something deep inside me is cracking, I can hear the sound of broken glass, tinkling on a non-existent floor. I can feel a leak, and those thoughts and memories I love are slowly dripping away. My cup has a crack in it, and I can sense the loss that is robbing me of my happiness, I know what it is that causes it, and I know…that you probably do too. It is bleeding from my body, I know that I am being drained…it leaks… and then I am…empty.
I am sorry, Catherine. I have tried my best to hide it, but I am not as strong as you are. Clive, I made a promise and I have broken it, you must take care of yourself now. And the others…just tell them I am sorry.
I am too empty to continue…the only thing left I can do is…destroy the chalice that is too broken to be of use. I am no longer of any use, I couldn't stop it, the sin is mine.
Goodbye.
-- Ravendor BegucciThe paper was so old that when she tore it in half, it made barely any noise, but released an old musty smell into the air. Shredding it into a thousand separate pieces with a deadly calm, Catherine's steel grey eyes were neutral as the pieces were carried into the air by a wayward breeze, like aged confetti. The book she kept, for they still contained fond memories, but all her power was spent on wishing desperately that Clive and Kaitlyn were alright, the past was the past, nothing could change it. It was the present that she cared about. "I think I see… why you are still hurting…" Catherine said to an unknown source, "How long can a wound be torn and left open? I thought all of us bore a scar…" The gentle winds blew at her back, forcing her freed hair to spill forwards and follow the air, she absently held the strands back, the slight movement of her arm showing the very tip of a scar running down to the elbow, her own chock.
While her own scars were hidden, another bore them without the support she received from her husband and child, her family. Another one was all alone, taking the burden all by himself, slowly… dying…
Empty.
xxx
Gallows's eyes watered as the pictorial hieroglyphs printed neatly on the ancient parchments seemed to dance around mischievously whenever he tried to focus on them. He pressed his fingers onto the edge of the page in an attempt to stop the unwanted motion, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He hated this, studying was hard, and so damn boring. He had found a pile of historical documents that dated back to Guardian's knows when in the back of Baskar Colony's storeroom, splitting them in half and handing a portion to Shane, the two brothers had spread papers everywhere on the floor and meticulously looked over each one.
The older brother pinched his cheek softly in order to keep himself awake, hardly finding the notes on bulk maize transportation of three hundred years ago very interesting. Looking over to Shane, the youth's eyes flicked across the parchment at a phenomenal speed, taking in all the information possible. Gallows smiled slightly, that was another reason why Shane would make a great priest someday, he could take boredom like no-one else. "Hey Shane," Gallows said after a moment, "D'ya really think there anything worthwhile in these notes, really? All these things are talkin' about is, well… history and stuff."
Shane's gaze flicked up to meet Gallows's for about half a second before going back to what he was looking at. Shane smiled. "There is value in everything, big brother." He replied, "The one problem is to discover exactly where that value lies." His finger traced over a few hieroglyphs and the pillar took out a clean sheet of paper and a pencil, copying down the material.
Getting up from his cross-legged position on the floor, careful not to disturb some of the pots on the shelves, Gallows's leaned over his little brother, finding himself curious over something. "What'cha got?" He asked, hoping that at least some success had been reached.
"Nothing ground-breaking," The boy answered, lying stretched-out on the ground so he could see the papers better. His plait slipped off his back and fell to the floor, going unnoticed. "Just some slight information about the lycanthrope here that might be a little useful. Apparently," He held up the paper so Gallows could see, "A lycan has two weak spots, one you can use to cause temporary paralysis, and the other is the only spot where a bullet wound can kill it."
"Gimme that." Said Gallows, pulling the yellowing parchment gently out of Shane's grasp. He scanned the text, reading something about a list of mythical creature weaknesses. So, Shane got all the useful stuff while he was left with agricultural reports. Gallows chuckled, it figured. Yes, here were the two weaknesses mentioned, written by the shaky hand of a probably aged chronicler. Gallows read it out loud. "The two weaknesses of the beast, lycanthrope are…" He dictated, trying to imitate the old voice and weird accent he believed the chronicler to have borne, "The area in which the infection hath set in, a befoulment caused by the she-wolf of the full moon. Purification by silver cancels the decay and frees the soul."
"Yes," Agreed Shane softly, "But it is a freedom which leads into death." He brushed away some of the papers that he had already read, creating an empty space in the center of the room. He put his own note down in the middle, underlining the copied words. This was information that needed to be known, but one that they wished not to use.
"The second one," Gallows continued, cutting out his old man impression, "Is a technique used to offer a moment of vulnerability over the lycan, in order to quell it's ferocious wrath. A deadening of the nerves can be created by applying pressure onto the creature's tail, according to Baskar pressure point principles." He scratched his frizzy hair, looking down at Shane's expectant face. "That seems kinda strange. I caught a cat one, and pulled it's tail…" Gallows made a weird expression, "But the darn thing went postal on me, it took three weeks for the scratches to go away."
"How could I forget that?" Mused Shane, "I was there, I saw it all happen." He went over what he had written again, a nostalgic smile on his face. "Even if it does say things like that, I don't recommend we follow their example. Grabbing a lycanthrope is dangerous enough, but if it-"
"He." Gallows corrected.
Shane nodded, "I'm sorry, he. If he bites you, then the infection will spread and we do not need an epidemic on our hands. Especially seeing we do not have any knowledge of a cure yet. At least, apart from the silver bullets." There was more silence, pregnant with expectancy and tinged with the slight rustling of paper every so often. Gallows looked like he was suffering a slow and painful death by the way he was drooping onto the parchment-covered floor. Shane breathed softly, but everything was so quiet that even the gentle intake of air was audible.
Reaching around behind him, Gallows procured a bottle of Baskarian liquor he had brought with him to help his 'study' along, pulling off the cork with his teeth and taking a quick swig of the drink. It was clear liquid and had a sharp taste, with the gentle flavoring of blackcurrants to add to the mix. Thinking about it proudly, Gallows had fermented and mixed this brew all by himself, he was good at stuff like that.
His eyes shifted to the paper briefly, he thumbed through some of the underlying notes, the thoughts in the back of his head collaborating with each other and holding meetings to decide the name for the new drink he had created, something new and cool. "Arnica?" He asked himself softly, no, that sounded too bizarre for his liking. A few moments passed and Gallows looked through some more stuff, in reality just re-reading the documents he had already gone over. "Aconite?" The Baskar guessed, rubbing his chin. No, too flashy. For the third time, he read the notes again, seeing the words but not registering them in any useful way. "Mandrake?" He hummed, tapping the ground with his fingers. Absolutely not, it sounded like some kind of herb-
"Big brother, what on earth are you talking about?" Shane asked, one eyebrow raised. It seemed that the older priest had slipped away into the chaos that was his mind once more. Well, it was Shane's duty to set that right again.
"Um… I don't know." Gallows sweatdropped, pushing his bottle of unnamed liquor forward. "I was thinking up a name for this, and those words just popped into my hea-" The Baskar's eyebrows knitted together, the man slowly going silent. Finally, he looked down at the paper and comprehended the written words just as he took another swig of his drink, having the funniest reaction possible. Gallows's choked and was unable to swallow the liquid, so the alcohol found a new path and gushed straight out of his nose, and yet Gallows was too shocked to even notice this.
Shane looked worried. "Are you alright?"
Gallows's jumped up to attention, almost hitting his head on a shelf as he did so. He snatched up the small pile of papers he had thumbed through and clutched them like they were worth a million gella, striking a victory pose. "I got it! I got it! Yeah! Where's Granny? Let's go see Granny!" His drink toppled over and spilled all over the floor, Shane thoughtfully gathered up all the remaining documents so they couldn't get wet. Unable to wait any longer, Gallows turned sharply and dashed for the exit, and the younger brother predicted a thumping noise that he heard soon after, not needing his dream sight to know what would happen.
Rolling his eyes, Shane sighed. "You have to open the door before you can go through it, big brother."
"Oh yeah! Heheh…" The door was opened and Gallows lumbered through, his little brother following close behind with a stack of aged documents in both arms. Amused, all Shane did was shake his head and smile, muttering something barely legible under his breath.
"…And so here I see the truth. One of us is adopted, I just know it…"