Before the Fire Comes
The Tragedy of a Nobody
[Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault, Child/Adolescent Abuse, Nudity]
Chapter 12:
The Flaming Cry of the Bird
"The forest will remember the water and the sapwood
as I too remember the mollified snouts
of big rivers that stumble about like blind men
searching for their slurry eyes
the forest remembers that the last word can only be
the blazing cry of the bird of ruins in the bowl of the storm
Innocent who ventures there
forget to remember
that the baobab is our tree
that it badly waves arms so dwarfed
that you would take it for an imbecilic giant
and you
sojourn of my insolence of my tombs of my twisters
mane bundle of lianas stubborn hope of the shipwrecked
sleep softly in the meticulous trunk of my embrace my woman
my citadel."
Aime Cesaire, Chevelure
He only listened to voices further away from him, the ones beside him delivered anguished and agonized intonations. Their voices were as gut-wrenching as the cries. Those joyful, lively people emitted more weight upon their tones than Kurt and the kidnapped, proud of many tragedies they were likely to have caused by taking these people from their homes, depriving humanity, and belittling them to the point where he believed that they were ants. Kurt could only think of what pleasure people like those would find from life, considering when a person's life was extinguished, laughing at moments like those? No, life wasn't sacred to fiends who snickered like that. Happiness for creatures akin to them derived from dominating and not being dominated, from being the stealers and not the stolen. When your prayers are answered and your needs met, why think about what or who gives you the necessary living? Why have empathy when you can have self-assurance?
Kurt rolled around a little now, but he'd gone still for the most part now. If his powers wouldn't work, let them fester by themselves. He would gather his getaway route. Some years ago, when he thought about nothing but what brought him to this point, the awful things he had to do back then, this answer seemed like the only way to reconcile with pain. This happened because you weren't strong enough to refute them, she overtook you since you had no strength to fight back, and you have that scar as a reminder of your inability. It's the only reasonable answer, right?
The truth came out that it wasn't because he couldn't refuse Amaranta, but rather because he never told anyone that the fire came, was too scared, and gave his power to someone else. He knew that now.
The world is a complicated place where we have no idea what the person right next to us is thinking, and we make mistakes because we don't know or understand. Things happen because they were either meant to or because it was out of your control. And we can only try our best either way. Sometimes, there's blame and there isn't, but both ways we take the blows as they come, lament our scars, cry sometimes, vent our frustrations, and fight back against the natural urge to eliminate the feeling as fast as possible.
Kurt never knew that until he sat with no distractions, and parse out every rationalization and sensation. It was a perfect time. They only stopped to relieve themselves and give sustenance. The silence in the carriage, the wooden sounds of rolling wheels, the thumps, and creaks as they rolled over debris and stone, the calmed breathing of the people surrounding him. He tuned into each, trying to find some solace in the environment and take his time.
His life started after their father died, leaving the home in a dead calm. Camila was all over the place, either in a painful lethargy, or working with no end in sight. Kurt and Baby Luz were left alone with one person they had only seen during family reunions, who happened to be looking for somewhere to stay. She was the person who took everything from Kurt, his heart, his hope, and his speech. Things always happened to him and he handled them as they were flung at him.
In this case, there happened to be someone at fault. Amaranta Knight.
I. Gravesfield Psychiatric Hospital, Dr. Whitlock Discussing Kurt With Camila Noceda and Ms. Knight, Ten Years Ago
(Enter Kurt, Camila, Ms. Knight*, and Dr. Whitlock in Whitlock's office. Kurt lies asleep on the chair downstage, leaning on his mother, Camila, who sits center stage. She and Ms. Knight, both sitting across from Dr. Whitlock, who himself sits stage left, are all discussing Kurt's condition.)
Dr. Whitlock
I'm sorry, can you just explain it all again, slowly... this time, please.
(Camila prepares to rant in English and Spanish, but Dr. Whitlock raises his hand to stop her.)
Dr. Whitlock
Breath, Ms. Noceda. Remember what I taught you? From the diaphragm, breathe in and breathe out.
(Camila breathes slowly and as she does so, she looks down at Kurt, lying on her shoulder. She pulls him closer. Ms. Knight glances down between Kurt and Dr. Whitlock. She places a hand on Camila's shoulder to reassure her. After a few more breaths, she speaks.)
Camila
Kurt was in a fight. He came home one day with bloody knuckles and bruises.
Dr. Whitlock
(sighs)
Did the school call you?
Camila
If they did, I missed it, they might have called his father but, he won't talk to me or Alys about it, and... (pauses) Kurt, he's been acting odd as of late. He won't speak at all and every time Alys comes near he starts hyperventilating.
(Dr. Whitlock writes into his notebook)
Ms. Knight
(places a hand on Kurt's back, rubbing in circles)
¡Qué barbaridad! I can't believe this is happening to him! I used to babysit when he was a child. He wasn't like this then! He was mischievous but relatively polite, and now he won't speak even if Jesus was right in front of him.
Camila
I don't know what to do, Doctor. I can't just quit my job or leave him alone, what do I do?
(Dr. Whitlock goes silent for a few moments, going over his notes as Ms. Knight and Camila contemplate his condition with idle chatter)
Dr. Whitlock
I understand that both of you take care of him but is there anyone else at home? Father? Grandparents? Even a neighbor or a family friend?
Camila
There's his grandmother, but she hardly gets out of bed. She's been very sick as of late, and she won't allow us to bring a doctor. So, it's only really us.
Ms. Knight
I take care of him when she's out at work. The little rascal is always with his sister when he isn't in his room playing with his guitarra.
Dr. Whitlock
Has he been avoiding you at home, too?
Ms. Knight
(voice trembles)
Yes. I-I just can't bear to see him like this.
Dr. Whitlock
Hm, I'll see what I can do for him if you can bring him in for a few more sessions.
Camila
How much will this all cost?
Dr. Whitlock
These few will be on me since he seemed to be badly affected after the first few sessions with my colleague, Doctor Gordon.
Ms. Knight
Oh, qué amable! Gracias-er, thank you! This is... almost too much, what you've done for us. (pauses tentatively holding her head down and lowering her tone to a coy, salacious, and prurient tone) I-Is there anything I can do to repay you?
(For a moment, he is ignorant of her forward approach.)
Dr. Whitlock
Uh, no that's fine. I just want to make up for what occurred with my colleague, especially since it was a very delicate case and now it seems to have worsened. (stands) It appears that our time is up, we can talk more later if you like after the rest of my clients. I'll be free by 4. (opens the door for the ladies and Kurt, who appears to have been awake for some time)
Camila
Yes, that would be preferable since I have a few questions-
Ms. Knight
Ay, Gracias de todo corazón! I must talk to you again sometime! Jaa Ne! (Ciao?)
Kurt
(glances to Dr. Whitlock, before following the other two, sticking close to Camila)
(Exeunt stage left, Ms. Knight, Camila, and Kurt)
Kurt was sold to a woman. A very important-looking lady, who wore formal clothes of a different period than the ones seen in the Isles. They must have traveled to one of the outlying countries, he thought, but there was no way they had done that kind of trip on land. Maybe she traveled here in specific?
In the end, it didn't matter all that much. His life was no longer his own and instead it was given to someone he was unable to even converse with. Since he had been stripped before they even arrived, she looked at his physique without leaving a single nook or cranny unturned. So many years passed since someone touched him like he was theirs. The feeling was unwanted.
"What is this scar on his back?" she asked, "It looks old."
He stared for a few moments before she took his hand and left her servants to pay his captors a hefty sum.
"Don't look," she demanded. He obeyed. While forcing his anti-magic out of himself on reflex, all he managed was a little bit of a gut feeling. There was no other choice at the moment. "What was your name?"
He could still speak, but his words were not his own. His response was his namesake, though a lie, "Ishmael."
"A strong name. You are well-fed, bulky, although gangly," she uttered, "From now on, call me Mistress Washington."
He didn't respond, staring blankly at the transportation he would find himself in, beside her. A massive airship.
"Next time, reply 'Yes, madam' or you will be beaten."
"Yes, madam." He could be as disobedient as he wanted, but if he wanted to survive he'd have to play his role as long as he could. He imagined if this was what his ancestors went through before he realized that he didn't have any ancestors since he had no idea who his family was.
"Do you know what I do?"
Hell no, he didn't. Clothes had never been his forte. He shook his head, careful not to look at her, though once they found themselves in the airship, she grabbed him by the chin, lifting his gaze to her own. She was beautiful for an older woman, but that didn't make anything to come after any less terrible.
"I am a woman known all over the dark continents. I work a very singular business, see," she uttered, her lips puckering as she talked. She explained that she was a general, someone of prestige and fame across most of the areas that witches did not derive.
She named various people that Kurt could not recall, a few he vaguely recognized from his historical studies that CeCe forced him into, and only one whose name made his stomach churn. Lilith. He knew her from the incident at the arena, she was the one who tried to win a battle against his sister by cheating. She wasn't good news.
"When we return to my home, you will listen to me and those I tell you to listen to. Understand?"
"Yes... madam."
She reminded him of Amaranta, the flaming woman. A woman who knew how to pull on heartstrings and manipulate people, everyone wrapped around her finger, as it is often said. Perhaps, she was tamer in comparison. M. Washington cared about the people in her employ, notwithstanding that she exploited their lives for all they were worth. That included knowing their names, helping them when they required assistance, and being kind in demeanor. And once the doors were closed, her pleasantness didn't disappear. It was only with him that her behavior took a turn for the worse. She often took him with her into the bedroom, venting frustrations out on him verbally, grabbing him by the clothes and pulling him around, and throwing him into nearby furniture. Rougher than Amaranta, he supposed but ire and sadism were preferred over her lust.
By night he had been placed into the tent with other servants, all feeling similar to him. From there, the teen was placed in every station and forced to figure everything out. The work was what he did at home, but turned up to eleven, with the greatest of scrutiny behind him. On numerous occasions, he had to take beatings for inconsequential things and deal with more people he knew nothing about.
It wasn't until the end of the week that Mistress Washington finally took him out of the house and with her on the carriage. At first, he worried that it would be for something foul as he heard she tended to participate in actions of dubious and carnal nature. That worried him and forced his need to escape to its peak. She never had anyone else in her bedroom but him, what other reason could it be? That she wanted to exert power over him, make him even more submissive than he already was?
He glanced at her, suddenly feeling cold. No, he was panicking over nothing. As they entered a populated area, the carriage slowed, halting in the center of everything.
As she leaned over to him, he felt himself backing away, "Ishmael," she uttered in a low tone, spinning a ring in the space between them — blue. His legs and hands grew numb as he fell into a deep slumber— "You will listen to my every command."
Guard your mind at all costs...
II. Dr. Whitlock's Office, Discussion With Dr. Nolan and Whitlock, Ten Years Ago
(Both Doctors sit center stage, Whitlock toward stage left, and Nolan toward the center. Whitlock reads meticulously through the pages on his desk, while Nolan stares at him, almost bored)
Dr. Whitlock
I spent the night looking through each of their responses and followed up with each of them later on, and it seems that Kurt's best chance at a long healthy life, with friends, and a family that will be there for him, and a partner will be if we unravel every single thing about this dynamic he's stuck in. I spent some time trying to figure out what was wrong with his home life. He has a younger sister who pushes him to be the best he can be, a mother who cares for him, a doting aunt, and a wise grandmother who gives great advice. It wasn't until I asked more about his home life that I ended up with an obvious answer.
Dr. Nolan
And what exactly was it?
Whitlock
He has an immense distaste toward Ms. Knight for some reason and this manifests in the form of fear and- and dissociation.
Nolan
What about the lack of male role models?
Whitlock
This might be why he's been lashing out in school, but...
Nolan
Hm? What is it?
Whitlock
Recently, at times he's shown himself to know an unusual amount about a few things, explicit things. I'm unsure if it's because of his and Camila's past with the father but...
Nolan
Doctor?
Whitlock
I want to help him, but there are so many things I don't know and I can't talk to him. I don't know if I can... oh...
(beat)
Nolan
You know, back in the day, I had a patient who had some trouble, she insisted on being called Victoria, and she only ever spoke in sarcastic remarks. She had been damaged by so many things, so many people, that by the time she'd been sent to me, she'd already made multiple attempts at killing herself. I think that if it weren't for me or the many others that stayed with her, she likely wouldn't have lived as long as she did. She even had a kid. Back then she had a whole lotta trouble with love, she only had one boyfriend and had been assaulted. Now I'm the kid's godmother. When I heard she'd ended up making such a happy life, I (chokes up)- I almost cried the rest of the day. But even after all that... she ended up killing herself ten years later. We're not always gonna fix our patients' lives, we're not always gonna make them feel good, and we're going to fuck things up sometimes. We have to forgive ourselves and do the best we can.
Whitlock
But, I can't just abandon him. I have to keep trying. There's something. Something that could... (pauses, as if realizing, he stands up mumbling to himself, "There's no way. It couldn't be. She wouldn't do that." before patting himself down. He then starts searching the desk.) Where's my phone? I need to call them.
Nolan
Here you can use mine. (hands Whitlock her phone, he prepares to call before freezing) What is it?
Whitlock
When you found out about your patient's "relationship issues"... did you inform her parents?
Nolan
They already knew.
Whitlock
(voice trembling)
Do you know how they responded when they heard?
Guard your mind...
Amaranta was persona non grata, a pariah amongst adults and older teens, around her late twenties, tall enough to tower over Camila and their father, with a head of thick brown hair, shining golden skin, and green eyes. According to their mother, this woman was a cousin of hers and one of her only friends among her second uncle's children. Boisterous and mordant, but in private, she was kind. And she was the one that would be their babysitter for some grand amount of time as their mother dealt with the hospitalization working day in and day out. On the first day, she allowed the two to run rampant without much oversight.
On the second day, Kurt recollected that he had been taken with her, leaving Luz alone in the living room, crying as he heard from down the steps. He couldn't remember what happened. After years of therapy, the memories came back that she primed him for something then and the epiphany came that he was forced into something, though not as disgusting as what subsequent days. He returned after two hours, sobbing quite a bit himself. He seized her and hid in the basement, holding onto her as she sobbed, feeding her with the extra canned baby food stashed in a closet for emergency purposes.
"Kurt," he heard his mother up the steps, frustration and fatigue emanating in it, "Come upstairs right now."
He picked up his sister having calmed down after having played hide-and-seek, using the boxes around them as cover. She hadn't been able to find him until she heard his quiet sniveling, which he covered up once she ran around the corner to see him covering his face in the fetal position. He wiped his face and went on to play tag with her until she fell asleep.
Pushed up against the counter Amaranta Knight smiled at Kurt almost anticipating what would come next, and he hyperventilated. Camila didn't notice. She was too tired.
"What happened?" she sighed, gaping at him with saturnine eyes, half-raised. She tried to appear authoritative but was too tired to fit half her strongwoman persona.
(pause, Kurt's voice croaks)
Camila
You know you're not supposed to go down there. If you aren't going to say anything, I'll have to punish you.
(pause, Kurt wonders: what for? Why should he be punished? He supposed that he shouldn't mind, for now, she was tired since she was gone all the time, probably thinking about so many other things right now, like how she'll get by without their father, what she would have to do with his family and his body, the funeral, how he'll get by without a father figure, how Luz would get by without hers so many different...)
On the third day, he was scarred on his lower back, something that Camila assumed was because he was jumping on the bed again. He tried to explain, but didn't know what exactly she did, all he could explain was that she straddled him and he fell against the dresser. But what did that mean? He must've been lying to get out of trouble. He was punished and sent to bed with no dinner.
Kurt hadn't meant to start that fire, but somehow, he thought a monster lodged beneath his skin wanted these terrible things, part of him was some deeply disturbed child that had never been able to live past the moment when she forced herself on him. Sticking some vile, brine through his veins, burning like fire, and bursting from his skin and every appendage, leaving him a heap of bleak unending pain and some shameful white apathy.
"Kurt..."
IV. Noceda Household, Camila Gets A Call and the Truth Comes to Light
(Enter Camila, Luz, Ms. Knight, Whitlock [through microphone], and Grandmother Noceda)
Whitlock
(on the phone)
Has she ever done anything to him? That can't just be a one-time occurrence, Ms. Noceda. Has she ever-
Camila
(visibly shaken by the previous conversation)
I'll call you back. I'm sorry.
(click)
Camila
There's no way... she wouldn't do something like that. Oh... please. I have to talk to her, there's no way she would ever have done such an act...!
(Distressed, Camila leaves her room and heads down the stairs and as she reaches the living room, where Luz and Ms. Knight are, she inaudibly asks if she can speak to her outside. Grandmother Noceda and Kurt watch on in their chairs, yet, they don't appear especially interested, since it was common that the two had sisterly bouts wholly about nothing. Of the three, Kurt pays the most attention. The kids play in the center of the room taciturn, with only a few glances as Camila and Ms. Knight talk for a few minutes, until the conversation turns dire. They argue, going into a shouting match that can only be heard in syllables. Then full words. Accusatory, "My son?" "Can't believe you-" "So this is why-" and exculpatory, "He just-" "It was harmless-" "My mother did it-" And as the anger seems to reach its peak, they hear a sliver of a sentence.)
Ms. Knight
...was asking for it!
(She is cut off as Camila punches her in the face, hard enough that she falls through the door, the unlocked door giving way under her body, and her nose has fierce, bright red blood streaming from it. Camila's glasses drop to the floor as she goes mount her, placing her knee on her chest and beating her further. Kurt and Luz grab their mother as they see blood pouring from their "aunt's" mouth and drenching her hands in the scarlet liquid. As Camila looks up she sees them crying, her grandmother had fallen out of her seat, and crawled over to her.)
Kurt
Stop. No more, mama. No more.
"Kurt! Wake up!"
He knew this memory, too. After the fire, he was admitted to a hospital to check for injuries that might have been hidden. His mother was crying beside him, tears filling her dark eyes and face, almost as if submerged in water. Kurt reached to touch her face, her cheek as he fell in and out of consciousness. As he awoke, he then had his hand at his side, his mother now looking as tired as depressed, but there was something else.
Camila
(crying)
I almost lost you again!
oh, yes, he almost died in surgery — that felt like years ago now. The gap between this morning and now was even more expansive.
Camila
(whispering)
Dammit, how do I pay for all this?
"Please, don't hurt me!"
During his elementary school years, he became pensive due to the crick he felt in his neck every time he tried to speak, and pressure began to build after the two-year sabbatical from his normal childhood with his aunt. Kurt had been a patient, quiet child from then on, never spoke, just listened. His instructors had been prepared for nonverbal children, but Kurt was altogether peculiar in that regard since he didn't have any signals for nurture or comfort, no indications that he needed anything, instead, he just sat and watched the teachers teach and did what was required.
This muteness unnerved some of the professors, he noted, some of them weren't perturbed or bothered by it, and oddly, some of them grew angry that he wouldn't participate. People could grow irritated at anything if they had to deal with it long enough. And thus it angered Kurt as well, dredging up that pressure that built and creating a new person, someone that he didn't know, someone that his family didn't know either. That beast burrowed into Kurt's hide and awakened itself then, going on a rampage and beating anyone who would step in its path, he was mean and frustrated, knowing nothing of patience or quietude. Leviathan, he called it back then, but now, after everything Etheridge did, he called it what the Anti-Magic user called him: Ishmael.
Kurt trekked a vacant shoreline, sand encrusting the heels of his feet, part of his ankles, both dry with the debris and wet with the oncoming tide. Hardly seeing further than four feet forward everything was covered by the shadow of an anchor cloud on the moon. On the horizon, the earth, uncovered by the moonlight, he caught structures and shapes shaded like silhouettes, realizing the dismal, spectral spire of a black castle.
"Kurt!"
No fire, just smolders now.
Everything around him had been razed, destroyed as fast as all was shown to him, he had once again been turned into someone's doll. Dragged around, played with, by someone he hardly knew. He'd reduced someone's homes to wood piles and broad sinkholes. However, no one had been killed, thanks to the person standing before him — Eda Clawthorne.
Both of them were sweaty, bloody, and bruised, while standing unscathed on the sidelines was Washington, the woman who staged the coup de grâce — forcing this to come about.
"Hey, kid," she stopped herself, "Kurt, is that you?"
The leviathan exploded from within him, his sclera turning raven black, and a dark smog releasing from every pore, he cried out in exertion. He saw her for the longest time, everything rushing through his head, Amaranta, Whitaker, Luz, the month he spent here, all of it in that exact moment, and having glimpsed through his memories he realized that his life was always the decision of someone else. He didn't live for anyone but the people around him, and those eyes he saw, someone pleading for his safety, that needed nothing more than for him to be safe. There was no envy, pity, or confusion, just a hopeful wish for everything to turn out well. In that moment of epiphany when the stars aligned in his mind, the monster he'd created, wavered, hesitating for a single beat.
Eda evaded, "Kurt!"
He slipped from reality, falling back to wherever he had been while destroying everything. "Help," he rasped, sounding frantic. Everything slowed down. His vision distorted, hearing muffled, everything in his peripheral was blurred, hazy, undecipherable — except for her, clear as water. She heard what had been bygone times now, Kurt's growing silvery and lilting voice now breaking. He seized her hands, warm, soft, and clenched, "H-Help, help-!"
That was the first time Eda heard Kurt speak, and after he did, he fell apart once again.
Returning to the beachfront was a sobering, lugubrious experience, plunging into the sand, motionless and alone. He pounded his fists against the dirt, sobbing so loud it echoed across the coast, even louder than the crashing tides. The ashen moon obscured by dusky clouds with lightning exploding where the waters and the sky met, Kurt beat the sand with heedlessness, his punches in tune with the beats of thunder.
"No!"
It had been a relentless, pointless effort, to fight against the inevitable fate. The sun rises in the morning, fell at night to make way for the stars and the moon, earth revolved around the sun, bringing the cold, joyless chill of the frigid season animals hibernating and sheltering themselves, then the temperate warmth of hotter seasons filled with the haze of summer clouds, fogs, and heated personalities, the good, sinless wanderers of the earth made way for the wicked, the ones who held others at the end of a sword — lo, the highest peaks of life brought the immense troughs.
Kurt slumped against the muddy ground, whimpering. He was in the same position he was at the start of this journey, no, worse than that time, abandoned by everyone he knew. No Luz, Eda, nothing. Not even his wits could save him this time.
He curled into himself.
No fire, just smolders now.
Kurt roamed the shadowy coasts once a long while passed, his eyes red and tear-stained, he meandered the wet sand, tapering up into the mountainous municipality. The towns were gothic renaissance, empty mostly, excluding the varmints skittering when he glanced in dim corners, looking up with beady eyes and booking.
The black castle, reminiscent of the Ethiopian monoliths covered in an obsidian sheen, the reflection he saw in the glossed, glassy-clear texture of the ebony material, and the gargantuan size and expanse, holding nothing and no one within it at first glance, was the only thing occupying his attention. He scampered up the steps to a room adorned with beautiful painted designs of important people in his juvenile memory and decorated with pictures of him.
The next level was packed with the same wonderful layouts and more personal images and decor, almost like he was at home there. Sectioned off as well into specific rooms, one was an auditorium with all the instruments he grew up playing (piano, stringed instruments, etc.), the second had thousands of novels and comics, even a few video games, the third had scrolls, records, and annals of random bits of knowledge, that he gained over years.
Then the black castle lived up to its namesake, The doors were covering the light of the barrier, so the entire corridor was plunged into total darkness. He couldn't see a thing, not even his hand in front of his face. Once he started making more headway further down the hallway, tentatively maundering through the floor for what felt like hours, he saw a burning flame at the inner bailey. And the closer he got, the more he realized that it was the woman who started it all.
A while passed since Eda witnessed Kurt's mental escape, this time his holder kept him on a tight leash. He was neither allowed to leave the mansion nor was he allowed to access any kind of transportation, not even for work purposes.
The rest of the staff shunned him, avoiding even the smallest contact with him. Once again alone, Kurt threw himself into the work, cooking, cleaning, pulling the coal into the house, cleaning the chimney, everything involving the house, he did. No one there to thank him or even acknowledge what had been done around the house, Kurt felt like a phantom that could not feel or be seen. He had felt like this in his normal life but this time it felt different, he had no safe place to return to, stuck with grueling work and unkind masters and mistresses.
It was only a matter of time before someone would find him, he thought, his sister, his mentor, one of his friends, anyone! It was only a matter of time. It was only a matter of time. Time, yes, time! The same time that kept watch over him while he set fire to the house, the same eternal creation that loomed over every transgression of Amaranta, Etheridge, and that damn carnie selling him off. Matter of time. Time. It would taunt him with the hope of adaptation, becoming a person again, living a life that wasn't that of a medieval serf. What could he do when time moved on so quickly for everyone but him?
The last thing he did of his own free will (before he was found by Eda) was escape to M. Washington's room, breathing for a few moments, trying to find some personal reprieve for the atrocities he committed over the years of his life. These dog days, brought him to a crossroads that he didn't know how to handle, this was the cusp of his adulthood and he pondered whether all he would ever do is allow himself to be someone's, something's slave for the remainder of his life, would he be following directives as he always did with earnest? He cast his doubts to the skies, what should he do now? Options were plentiful, but he knew not how to make them according to his ideals, but by what he had been forced into. Everything he did was tethered to someone else. What should he do?
What could he do?
And, while still dizzy with fear, the door creaked. There were three heel clacks against the floor. A head peeked in.
"Hello, Ishmael."
It had been a day without Kurt.
Luz insisted on joining Eda in her pursuit of the teen, but there would be too much risk in having her go along with her. Eda was strong enough to fight off Kurt, but she wasn't. The best she could do was send an icicle his way or blind him. It would be incredibly difficult to oppose the unstoppable force that he was for anyone who hadn't at least three or four years of expertise under their belt.
"But I can help!" she cried, "I can't just leave my brother out there alone. If he's in trouble, shouldn't I...?" Her voice caught. Luz could hardly conceive any ideas of what to do for him, other than to comfort him once it was all over. She never thought much about how to stop the problem from the source, or how to be more than a shoulder to cry on.
Maybe because until the recent events, she never wanted to go above and beyond for him. She was too blinded by jealousy. And he, too stubborn and guilt-ridden to consider what she might have said. Even now, the teen would likely reject any kind of advice or comforting words.
"Focus on yourself for right now, okay kid?" Eda uttered, "For the next few days, try to be careful."
"Eda," she screaked, "I-I wanna help."
She had been glad to hear such earnest responses from her, but there was nothing she could do that wouldn't be putting her in harm's way. "I'll be back, kid."
She tracked the breadcrumbs that he left for her. Following the first encounter, she spent the next day keeping tabs on the woman who hypnotized him, observing her from rooftops, low-rise buildings, and under cover of night.
After having been gone another three days, Eda finally chased Washington and hopefully Kurt to the mansion. Plodding through branches, saplings, and walls of leaves, she eventually encountered the section with hundreds of resting servants in tents. Utilizing a simple light spell, she sidled past the sleeping witches and observed each of their faces. None had rounded ears or the tall, lanky figure.
"Where are you, kid?" she muttered.
She wandered farther into the home, employing many years of sneaking out her childhood house and into government establishments or finding some kind of treasure. Eda eventually walked into the main wing, where only a few people were securing the area. This had to be where he was. So where would she hide him?
She came across the final door, the last in this wing that she hadn't inspected. She had Owlbert as the lookout and walked closer to the door. The room's lights were all out, dark as the night outside. And the door creaked, and her heels clacked against the floor until she stepped into a puddle. A countenance emerged from the shadows covering the room, sallow, lifeless — female.
Washington's sundered head rolled off a bed, onto the floor with a heinous slosh and crunch. Blood and steam were still spurting out of the severed neck.
Eda reeled back, grabbing the wall behind her for support. She cast a larger light spell, flooding the bedroom with blinding brightness. There, among the blood spatters and muddy brown, his body was bare to see, clothes, all of them, torn and ripped to shreds around the rest of the room. Fresh and scarred welts and weals blanketed his skin, Kurt's ribs were jutting out of the tent of his skin and his once strong limbs were bony and shivering, covering his shameful appearance, eyes wide and bloodshot, waiting for tears that wouldn't come, replaying over and over the hundreds of times he was diminished to pain and sobs, humiliated. Eda looked at him in this fleshly state. Crawling to her feet, voice hoarse and dry, he let out a visceral croak, then whimpered as if he were a hurt animal.
She crouched down to his level, reaching for him, but pulling away. At a time like this, she shouldn't touch him. But he leaned into her warmth, almost like a baby. He needed a touch that wasn't lecherous in nature, not sadistic, or cruel. He unabashedly wanted the touch — the comfort of family. Eda was family. He accepted her as much.
She glanced over at the dead body. Had he done this? It didn't matter right now. They needed to leave. Eda grabbed him and pulled him back up, dropping one-hundred and sixty-five pounds of Kurt onto his feet again. She grabbed the slightly bloody blanket and sheets and tossed them his way so he could cover himself as she summoned Owlbert. He tied it around his lower half.
As Owlbert flew in, he landed atop her staff, and she prepared to escape.
But Kurt instead turned his gaze to the dying body of M. Washington, head lopped off, and hanging off a now empty bed—
He could still smell the putrid smell of blood and sweat from the blanket adorned on his bottom torso. The white sclera of his eye turned black, as he walked closer and closer, touching the bloody puddle at his feet. The blood boiling and condensing once his bare feet touched it, he grabbed the lopped-off head by the long brown hair, lifting it up to his own eye line. She had a confused look on her face as she died, but now she looked more perplexed with her eyes continuing to glance around, though she was thoroughly dead.
Washington had called for a beast, and she got one. Ishmael's eyes were focused on that perplexed look, as he cackled. Her hair was lit with a murky blaze, that enveloped her scalp before spreading to her skin. It turned to a bubbly black liquid, blending in with the decor she had chosen for such a room, a color to disguise the many atrocities that went on here. Red, black, and brown colors, no windows, only a single entrance, and the giant bed at the other end of the room. No one knew what she did to him here. And no one would know what he did to her.
Ishmael
(chortling)
Heh, heh, heh...
This was what came of sadism. Live by the sword. This was what came of murder. Live by the sword. This was what came of becoming the god of someone else's life. Live by the sword. Her eyes melted, her muscles and tendons turned to mush and her charred bones liquefied. The room had joined her in flame, becoming an inferno of black fire. Live by the sword.
Ishmael
Heh, heh, heh—
"Kurt!"
He snapped from his reverie, turning his attention to Eda again, who had prepared to escape through the window just outside the room. The teen glanced at his hands, bloodstained, fearful, and trembling.
"Luz is waiting," she uttered.
He jumped on the staff and flew off into the night with her, silently lamenting what had come of his time here. Kurt, again in his right mind, recalled Eda's words to him, that night when he had been panicking about his anti-magic powers, that maybe he'd find some answers here that he didn't know he needed. As the wind blew into their ears under the moonless sky, Kurt thought, for the slightest instant that he saw someone, something staring back at him through the darkness. The caliginous, scrupulous gaze of the constellations, the heavens, and the nine circles. He had committed a serious iniquity and condemned himself to the judgment of fate.
"By the sword you did your work, and by the sword you die."