Waltz
By Alekto
Chapter 8: Life's but a walking shadow.
The blood on my hands wouldn't come off.
Even as I'd desperately wiped at it, it had dried and flaked, lodging under fingernails and around cuticles with repulsive tenacity. The spatters that marred the shirt that had so long ago been white had soon dried to a crusted brown. The foetid stink of dead blood mingled with the too familiar stench of death in its own, unforgettable miasma.
Once, a lifetime ago, I would have retched at the smell. Once, I would have had to have turned away from the carnage before me in appalled horror.
That kind of innocence was long since gone.
I looked again at my stained hands, at the filth that splattered my clothing, at the bloodied sword, which lay where I'd dropped it after I'd finished killing.
"Damnation!" I muttered to myself in bitter remonstration and then more loudly, "God dammit, man, get a grip. It's not like you've never killed anyone before."
*Not like this I haven't. . .*
"Dammit!" I breathed again, inhaling deeply of the reeking air, angry at so unforgivable a lapse in self-control.
Not to mention that I seemed to have taken to talking to myself again. . . Never a good sign.
I felt weary down to my soul. I wanted nothing more than to be able to give in and rest, but I couldn't. People were relying on me. *Marguerite* was relying on me. Indulgent self-pity was not something I could afford now.
With some effort I hauled myself to my feet. The throbbing ache from my arm was back full force, though the limb still seemed functional - just. Ill-used muscles pushed beyond their limits in the recent melee protested every movement. I wanted to do nothing more than lie down and sleep, but that would have been giving up and I had no intention of giving Kekszakallu that satisfaction.
A glint of metal amongst the blood guided me to where the key had fallen. I leaned down and retrieved it. The discarded sword lay nearby. I hesitated barely a moment before picked that up too. The sword was a good weapon, if a little medieval, but the state I was in I would need every advantage I could muster were I called on to fight once more.
After the travails of opening the first two doors, the third was distinctly anticlimactic. Marguerite, however, might have disagreed. The cavernous chamber revealed behind the door was a treasure room of which even Croesus would not have been ashamed. Shelves lined the walls and every surface held the warm glow of gold, broken only by the subdued glitter of gems in the dim torchlight from the wall sconces. I'd seen a great deal of wealth in my time, but the display before me outdid even the treasure hoards of the richest of Maharajahs.
Gold had never held the same hold over me as it did for Marguerite: riches had never been something I'd sought, but in that room, confronted by such a display even I could not dismiss its beguiling allure. I reached out and scooped up a handful of coins. They looked strange, unfamiliar, different sizes and shapes, the markings on them in many languages and exotic scripts, and I couldn't help but wonder as to their origins. I studied them thoughtfully for a while before opening my fingers to let them cascade to the floor in a golden waterfall.
As the last coins fell, I felt a stickiness between my fingers and looked to notice the fresh stain of blood on my hands. From the corner of my eye I saw the light in the room change and glanced up to see the reddish cast that was creeping across the scattered treasure. I snorted in sardonic amusement: as metaphors went, this was far and away the least subtle I'd seen in the past few days. With one last glance, I stepped back and pulled the door closed behind me.
The key slipped from the keyhole and fell into my outstretched hand. I gazed at it awhile: bloodied gold lying innocuously against bloodied flesh.
The fourth door loomed in front of me, its plain dark wood somehow achieving a distinct sense of menace. With another deep breath to steady myself, I reached out, put the key in the lock and turned it.
The door swung noiselessly open revealing the darkness beyond.
I waited for the now familiar glow of lighting braziers, but none was forthcoming. The voice, ghostly and mocking, intoned softly, "Ez a varam rejtett kertje." I hefted the sword, glad once more of its comforting weight, and used it to tap the floor in front of me before taking cautious steps into the room.
My first sense was one of space and airiness. A gentle breeze wafted the almost forgotten scent of summer flowers towards me: roses, jasmine, honeysuckle and others, and entwined with them, memories of home. I inhaled again, the sweet smell washing away the tang of the foul air that seemed to have taken root in my lungs.
I barely noticed when the darkness around me faded to charcoal, then to the pinkish grey of a pre-dawn sky. The outlines of ancient carved balustrades appeared with the growing light, their length punctuated by stone urns of classical design from which tumbled flower whose scent I'd caught. Beyond, a walled garden emerged from the failing dark. Trees heavy with fruit were tied into espaliers against the old dry stone walling; topiary, the work of decades of patience, marked the paths through the lush planting. At the ends of the paths stood immaculate, white painted, Lutyens benches positioned for people to enjoy the garden.
As my eyes took in the details, my breath caught in my throat, the brief delight in the scent of the flowers washed away in a moment of sudden, anguished recognition. I knew this place.
And just as suddenly I knew why I was seeing it. Pain, as sharp now as it had been then, clenched at my soul.
"John..?" I closed my eyes; helpless to escape the memories that that quiet, tremulous voice had brought rushing back to the forefront of my mind.
It was here in the garden at Avebury that I'd told my dear mother how I'd killed her eldest son.
"John, I hadn't expected you back here so soon." Her voice walked the knife-edge of control. I wanted to look at her, but was afraid to see the tear reddened eyes. I wanted to hold her, but those same hands had so recently killed William: her son, my brother.
*Oh God, I can't do this again.*
It had almost torn both of us apart the first time around. The memory of it was painfully clear in my mind, every nuance of voice, every gesture, every flicker of anguish, my mother's and my helplessly futile struggles for self-control as emotions we had been taught never to show bubbled to the surface. Drink, self-imposed hardship and privation, even running away as I travelled the world over had done nothing to dim the clarity with which I recalled that conversation.
And at the back of my mind an evil voice lent words to the glances and frowns that had assailed me in the long months after I'd returned from Africa bearing William's body with me. 'Look around, *Lord* Roxton. . . The land, the title, it will all be yours now, not his. Such an unfortunate accident. . . Such a *tragedy*.'
I clenched my eyes shut, fighting back the tears as much as the espoused reality around me. *It's not real, it's not real, it's not real, it's not- *
"Was it worth it, son?" My Father's voice cut in. "Did the inheritance and title really mean that much to you that you had to kill your brother to get them?"
"YOU'RE NOT REAL! NONE OF THIS IS REAL!" I screamed desperately, then went on, my voice breaking despite my efforts to keep it even, "you weren't there, you never said that. It didn't happen like that!"
"I died, brother dearest, or are you going to start denying that happened as well?"
In my mind I saw William lying on the ground, his shirt sodden with blood, a bullet from my rifle lodged in his chest.
Oh God, I'm so sorry. If I could take it back.
If I could have taken your place. . .
I felt the whisper soft touch of a hand on my arm and recoiled instinctually from the unwanted contact. My eyes were still firmly closed when my shoulder impacted with something hard and unyielding and off balance, I was sent reeling to the floor.
From nearby I heard the solid thunk of a door swinging shut followed by the light clatter of what I knew to be a gold key falling to the floor.
I struggled up from the floor; the familiar ache of loss and the accompanying guilt muted by the wash of overwhelming anger directed at the sadistic bastard whose game I was playing.
I didn't want to admit how close to the edge he'd been able to push me.
My breathing finally steadied, and I took stock: I was exhausted, I hurt all over and the light-headedness that I'd noted at the outset showed no sign of abating - something in the air, perhaps? I'd no way of telling. Worst of all was the debilitating sense of jitteriness I'd only known once before, and would always associate with a mercifully brief bout of shellshock that I'd lapsed into after one of the more unpleasant occurrences during in the war.
Still, there was nothing to be done about that now. I just had to keep it together long enough to win the game and Marguerite's freedom, deal with Kekszakallu if the opportunity presented itself, and then find out what had happened to the others and if necessary, get them to safety.
And with my other hand. . .
With a brief snort of amusement I reached down, picked up the waiting key and unlocked the fifth door.
My first reaction was one of relief as I inhaled and recognised the unmistakable heavy, fragrant air of a jungle at night. My eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness and I could make out the faint outlines of massive tree trunks soaring upward and the pale glow of the moon muted by mist and foliage.
From far away I heard an echoing rumble and couldn't help but grin in response. That had to be the first time I'd ever actually been glad to hear a T-Rex! It had to be a way out onto the Plateau.
The grin died on my face as suspicion took over from relief. Kekszakallu had managed, somehow, to recreate a version of Avebury. There was no reason to believe this 'Plateau' wasn't equally false. I peered through the forest, sure that I could make out in the distance the flicker of lights from the treehouse. It seemed so very close.
"Help me!"
Malone!
The strangled cry was followed almost immediately by the shrill, gleeful creel of a raptor. Mindless of the fact I wasn't armed - I'd dropped the sword back in the garden and had no intention whatsoever of going back into that room to get it - I started to run towards the sound.
Then stopped.
This wasn't real.
It couldn't be. It had to be just another of Kekszakallu's phantasms.
"Roxton!"
I winced at the unmistakable pain and fear in that familiar voice, and took an involuntary step towards him before I caught myself and turned away once more.
Moments later my head twisted around in response to a brief, agonised scream that sank into a low, sobbing gasp. "Malone," I breathed, praying that this time it was an illusion, that I hadn't just stood by as a man who had become one of my best friends was savaged by a raptor.
I waited awhile, trapped between the need to see what had happened, if it had been my friend that had been hurt, perhaps killed, while knowing all the time that my opponent, my tormentor, was frighteningly adept at mind games.
My heart sank as I made out the coppery tang of freshly spilled blood hanging in the air and in that moment my decision was made. I picked my way through the undergrowth in the direction from which I'd heard the cry.
Around me I could see the jungle was becoming clearer as the charcoals and greys of night lightened to the washed out colours of dawn, and the sky overhead took on a dusky pink glow. The forest thinned away and I soon came out onto a rocky promontory. At its highest point, laid out as if an offering on a sacrificial altar, was the bloodied form of a man.
I took increasingly unsteady steps towards it, the clothing and features becoming clearer as I got closer. Illusion or not, it was a sight I would have wished never to have seen. I crouched next to the torn body and reached out a trembling hand to check for a pulse I knew I would never feel.
The too pale skin was clammy to the touch. "I'm sorry Ned, I should have been there," I murmured as I leaned over to close eyes that were staring blindly up at the sky.
Oh God, don't let this be real.
I stood, noticing as I did how the ground behind the body dropped away revealing the majestic sweep of the Plateau. Tears stung my eyes as I realised how startlingly beautiful it was.
I was too distracted to hear the footsteps that came up behind me. "My God, Roxton, what the hell have you done?"
"What the. . ? George?" I frowned in confusion. Wasn't he missing? Like the others? Like Malone had been. . ?
I backed away, trying to block out what my senses were telling me. The now familiar mantra returned: 'this isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't- '
"Malone's dead, Roxton, and you stood by and let it happen!" Challenger's accusatory tone was as incisive as it had been when I had first heard him putting down hecklers and detractors back at the Royal Society lecture where we'd first met. "It was your job to protect us, or what the hell other reason would we have had for bringing you along on this expedition for? Certainly not for what passes as your sparkling wit!"
"George, I--" My voice stammered into helpless silence.
I-- what? I didn't do anything because I was sure this isn't really happening? I stood by and let Malone get killed because Malone here is nothing more than an illusion, a phantasm, just as you're a phantasm, just as I. . ?
I did nothing because nothing here is real any more?
Is this what it feels like to go mad?
To be continued. . .
By Alekto
Chapter 8: Life's but a walking shadow.
The blood on my hands wouldn't come off.
Even as I'd desperately wiped at it, it had dried and flaked, lodging under fingernails and around cuticles with repulsive tenacity. The spatters that marred the shirt that had so long ago been white had soon dried to a crusted brown. The foetid stink of dead blood mingled with the too familiar stench of death in its own, unforgettable miasma.
Once, a lifetime ago, I would have retched at the smell. Once, I would have had to have turned away from the carnage before me in appalled horror.
That kind of innocence was long since gone.
I looked again at my stained hands, at the filth that splattered my clothing, at the bloodied sword, which lay where I'd dropped it after I'd finished killing.
"Damnation!" I muttered to myself in bitter remonstration and then more loudly, "God dammit, man, get a grip. It's not like you've never killed anyone before."
*Not like this I haven't. . .*
"Dammit!" I breathed again, inhaling deeply of the reeking air, angry at so unforgivable a lapse in self-control.
Not to mention that I seemed to have taken to talking to myself again. . . Never a good sign.
I felt weary down to my soul. I wanted nothing more than to be able to give in and rest, but I couldn't. People were relying on me. *Marguerite* was relying on me. Indulgent self-pity was not something I could afford now.
With some effort I hauled myself to my feet. The throbbing ache from my arm was back full force, though the limb still seemed functional - just. Ill-used muscles pushed beyond their limits in the recent melee protested every movement. I wanted to do nothing more than lie down and sleep, but that would have been giving up and I had no intention of giving Kekszakallu that satisfaction.
A glint of metal amongst the blood guided me to where the key had fallen. I leaned down and retrieved it. The discarded sword lay nearby. I hesitated barely a moment before picked that up too. The sword was a good weapon, if a little medieval, but the state I was in I would need every advantage I could muster were I called on to fight once more.
After the travails of opening the first two doors, the third was distinctly anticlimactic. Marguerite, however, might have disagreed. The cavernous chamber revealed behind the door was a treasure room of which even Croesus would not have been ashamed. Shelves lined the walls and every surface held the warm glow of gold, broken only by the subdued glitter of gems in the dim torchlight from the wall sconces. I'd seen a great deal of wealth in my time, but the display before me outdid even the treasure hoards of the richest of Maharajahs.
Gold had never held the same hold over me as it did for Marguerite: riches had never been something I'd sought, but in that room, confronted by such a display even I could not dismiss its beguiling allure. I reached out and scooped up a handful of coins. They looked strange, unfamiliar, different sizes and shapes, the markings on them in many languages and exotic scripts, and I couldn't help but wonder as to their origins. I studied them thoughtfully for a while before opening my fingers to let them cascade to the floor in a golden waterfall.
As the last coins fell, I felt a stickiness between my fingers and looked to notice the fresh stain of blood on my hands. From the corner of my eye I saw the light in the room change and glanced up to see the reddish cast that was creeping across the scattered treasure. I snorted in sardonic amusement: as metaphors went, this was far and away the least subtle I'd seen in the past few days. With one last glance, I stepped back and pulled the door closed behind me.
The key slipped from the keyhole and fell into my outstretched hand. I gazed at it awhile: bloodied gold lying innocuously against bloodied flesh.
The fourth door loomed in front of me, its plain dark wood somehow achieving a distinct sense of menace. With another deep breath to steady myself, I reached out, put the key in the lock and turned it.
The door swung noiselessly open revealing the darkness beyond.
I waited for the now familiar glow of lighting braziers, but none was forthcoming. The voice, ghostly and mocking, intoned softly, "Ez a varam rejtett kertje." I hefted the sword, glad once more of its comforting weight, and used it to tap the floor in front of me before taking cautious steps into the room.
My first sense was one of space and airiness. A gentle breeze wafted the almost forgotten scent of summer flowers towards me: roses, jasmine, honeysuckle and others, and entwined with them, memories of home. I inhaled again, the sweet smell washing away the tang of the foul air that seemed to have taken root in my lungs.
I barely noticed when the darkness around me faded to charcoal, then to the pinkish grey of a pre-dawn sky. The outlines of ancient carved balustrades appeared with the growing light, their length punctuated by stone urns of classical design from which tumbled flower whose scent I'd caught. Beyond, a walled garden emerged from the failing dark. Trees heavy with fruit were tied into espaliers against the old dry stone walling; topiary, the work of decades of patience, marked the paths through the lush planting. At the ends of the paths stood immaculate, white painted, Lutyens benches positioned for people to enjoy the garden.
As my eyes took in the details, my breath caught in my throat, the brief delight in the scent of the flowers washed away in a moment of sudden, anguished recognition. I knew this place.
And just as suddenly I knew why I was seeing it. Pain, as sharp now as it had been then, clenched at my soul.
"John..?" I closed my eyes; helpless to escape the memories that that quiet, tremulous voice had brought rushing back to the forefront of my mind.
It was here in the garden at Avebury that I'd told my dear mother how I'd killed her eldest son.
"John, I hadn't expected you back here so soon." Her voice walked the knife-edge of control. I wanted to look at her, but was afraid to see the tear reddened eyes. I wanted to hold her, but those same hands had so recently killed William: her son, my brother.
*Oh God, I can't do this again.*
It had almost torn both of us apart the first time around. The memory of it was painfully clear in my mind, every nuance of voice, every gesture, every flicker of anguish, my mother's and my helplessly futile struggles for self-control as emotions we had been taught never to show bubbled to the surface. Drink, self-imposed hardship and privation, even running away as I travelled the world over had done nothing to dim the clarity with which I recalled that conversation.
And at the back of my mind an evil voice lent words to the glances and frowns that had assailed me in the long months after I'd returned from Africa bearing William's body with me. 'Look around, *Lord* Roxton. . . The land, the title, it will all be yours now, not his. Such an unfortunate accident. . . Such a *tragedy*.'
I clenched my eyes shut, fighting back the tears as much as the espoused reality around me. *It's not real, it's not real, it's not real, it's not- *
"Was it worth it, son?" My Father's voice cut in. "Did the inheritance and title really mean that much to you that you had to kill your brother to get them?"
"YOU'RE NOT REAL! NONE OF THIS IS REAL!" I screamed desperately, then went on, my voice breaking despite my efforts to keep it even, "you weren't there, you never said that. It didn't happen like that!"
"I died, brother dearest, or are you going to start denying that happened as well?"
In my mind I saw William lying on the ground, his shirt sodden with blood, a bullet from my rifle lodged in his chest.
Oh God, I'm so sorry. If I could take it back.
If I could have taken your place. . .
I felt the whisper soft touch of a hand on my arm and recoiled instinctually from the unwanted contact. My eyes were still firmly closed when my shoulder impacted with something hard and unyielding and off balance, I was sent reeling to the floor.
From nearby I heard the solid thunk of a door swinging shut followed by the light clatter of what I knew to be a gold key falling to the floor.
I struggled up from the floor; the familiar ache of loss and the accompanying guilt muted by the wash of overwhelming anger directed at the sadistic bastard whose game I was playing.
I didn't want to admit how close to the edge he'd been able to push me.
My breathing finally steadied, and I took stock: I was exhausted, I hurt all over and the light-headedness that I'd noted at the outset showed no sign of abating - something in the air, perhaps? I'd no way of telling. Worst of all was the debilitating sense of jitteriness I'd only known once before, and would always associate with a mercifully brief bout of shellshock that I'd lapsed into after one of the more unpleasant occurrences during in the war.
Still, there was nothing to be done about that now. I just had to keep it together long enough to win the game and Marguerite's freedom, deal with Kekszakallu if the opportunity presented itself, and then find out what had happened to the others and if necessary, get them to safety.
And with my other hand. . .
With a brief snort of amusement I reached down, picked up the waiting key and unlocked the fifth door.
My first reaction was one of relief as I inhaled and recognised the unmistakable heavy, fragrant air of a jungle at night. My eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness and I could make out the faint outlines of massive tree trunks soaring upward and the pale glow of the moon muted by mist and foliage.
From far away I heard an echoing rumble and couldn't help but grin in response. That had to be the first time I'd ever actually been glad to hear a T-Rex! It had to be a way out onto the Plateau.
The grin died on my face as suspicion took over from relief. Kekszakallu had managed, somehow, to recreate a version of Avebury. There was no reason to believe this 'Plateau' wasn't equally false. I peered through the forest, sure that I could make out in the distance the flicker of lights from the treehouse. It seemed so very close.
"Help me!"
Malone!
The strangled cry was followed almost immediately by the shrill, gleeful creel of a raptor. Mindless of the fact I wasn't armed - I'd dropped the sword back in the garden and had no intention whatsoever of going back into that room to get it - I started to run towards the sound.
Then stopped.
This wasn't real.
It couldn't be. It had to be just another of Kekszakallu's phantasms.
"Roxton!"
I winced at the unmistakable pain and fear in that familiar voice, and took an involuntary step towards him before I caught myself and turned away once more.
Moments later my head twisted around in response to a brief, agonised scream that sank into a low, sobbing gasp. "Malone," I breathed, praying that this time it was an illusion, that I hadn't just stood by as a man who had become one of my best friends was savaged by a raptor.
I waited awhile, trapped between the need to see what had happened, if it had been my friend that had been hurt, perhaps killed, while knowing all the time that my opponent, my tormentor, was frighteningly adept at mind games.
My heart sank as I made out the coppery tang of freshly spilled blood hanging in the air and in that moment my decision was made. I picked my way through the undergrowth in the direction from which I'd heard the cry.
Around me I could see the jungle was becoming clearer as the charcoals and greys of night lightened to the washed out colours of dawn, and the sky overhead took on a dusky pink glow. The forest thinned away and I soon came out onto a rocky promontory. At its highest point, laid out as if an offering on a sacrificial altar, was the bloodied form of a man.
I took increasingly unsteady steps towards it, the clothing and features becoming clearer as I got closer. Illusion or not, it was a sight I would have wished never to have seen. I crouched next to the torn body and reached out a trembling hand to check for a pulse I knew I would never feel.
The too pale skin was clammy to the touch. "I'm sorry Ned, I should have been there," I murmured as I leaned over to close eyes that were staring blindly up at the sky.
Oh God, don't let this be real.
I stood, noticing as I did how the ground behind the body dropped away revealing the majestic sweep of the Plateau. Tears stung my eyes as I realised how startlingly beautiful it was.
I was too distracted to hear the footsteps that came up behind me. "My God, Roxton, what the hell have you done?"
"What the. . ? George?" I frowned in confusion. Wasn't he missing? Like the others? Like Malone had been. . ?
I backed away, trying to block out what my senses were telling me. The now familiar mantra returned: 'this isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't- '
"Malone's dead, Roxton, and you stood by and let it happen!" Challenger's accusatory tone was as incisive as it had been when I had first heard him putting down hecklers and detractors back at the Royal Society lecture where we'd first met. "It was your job to protect us, or what the hell other reason would we have had for bringing you along on this expedition for? Certainly not for what passes as your sparkling wit!"
"George, I--" My voice stammered into helpless silence.
I-- what? I didn't do anything because I was sure this isn't really happening? I stood by and let Malone get killed because Malone here is nothing more than an illusion, a phantasm, just as you're a phantasm, just as I. . ?
I did nothing because nothing here is real any more?
Is this what it feels like to go mad?
To be continued. . .