La Dolce Vita
By Seniya
E is for Empathy
Part Two
When you start to develop your powers of empathy and imagination, the whole world opens up to you.
Susan Sarandon
It is rather hard to blame someone for something that they do not know how to do. Hard yes, but not all together impossible; especially when this something was something that they were required to know.
This would potentially be the sole argument on Phobos' behalf for why he had allowed Meridian to fall into complete chaos under his rule.
He didn't know.
A sickly child, he and his health had been guarded with the utmost caution and care and when he'd suddenly become the heir ...
Well, his father had only shown him what he thought was necessary for him to know: create an army; ensure the villagers never revolted; collect taxes; live.
Above everything else, he must live.
Deep within the dungeons of the castle, there was darkness. Darkness and fear, who had mated many years ago and allowed their children – sorrow, confusion and panic, to run amuck in the place.
One couldn't see the hand in front of one's face down there.
That was the point.
The former King Aries had built the castle with the dungeons in mind. He had been a devil (by even his mother's accounts) and had delighted in the thought and actuality of suffering.
The legends of his cruelties had long surpassed the realities – some stories (like the ones where he'd killed his own mother and sisters to take the throne) – were too gruesome to think of.
When he'd been in power these dungeons had been Hades on Meridian. A virtual cesspool of despair meant to challenge enemies and prove a single's man's power to all who dared to doubt it.
There were chains on the walls. Chains and contraptions too elaborate to describe, created for ensuring the most pain possible in the longest period of time. There must be blood as well, although it was too dark for anyone to see it.
A small blessing.
Now, these dungeons had fallen into disrepair. No one was sent there anymore. Phobos, unlike his father, didn't care whether he was feared or not.
In his narcissistic world, there was only him – and few others mattered enough to have opinions.
Actually, Phobos was not sure what Cedric did with the prisoners he and the army collected, but they certainly did not bring them here.
Maybe he ate them.
The thought made Phobos smile, not out of joy or satisfaction – but because he had seen the foolish image in his mind of the snake-man sitting down for supper with a human hand on his plate.
He smiled again.
These were the dungeons Phobos had taken Lucia. He'd captured her almost a week ago and was very pleased with the decision.
Lucia was a good one to have as a captive. She was a witch – knew thousands of spells (maybe more) and even better, she knew where the heart of Kandrakar was.
She was invaluable.
Not that he let her know that.
He had awoken this morning to a particularly nasty bout of sickness. To his mutual disgust and terror he had coughed up thick yellow phlegm this morning, mingled with dark specks of crimson.
Blood.
The blood sickness was back again.
Nothing his dozens of healers, physicians and alchemists could say would calm him. He saw it now as clearly as he had on the day his father died.
There was no time to waste.
There was too much pride in this woman. Phobos said that the moment he'd met her. That particular instance had been many years ago, when he'd been little more than a boy. She was probably centuries old – this woman – and it baffled his mind how she could manage to look his age.
That particular fact intrigued him all the more.
Down the stairs he went, in the most ungodly hours of the morning. When the world was still silent and the morning moon hadn't even thought to wake.
Through the corridors and past the maze of winding doors and chambers until he finally reached the one had had chosen for his prisoner. He was careful to extinguish his torch before reaching for the ring of keys inside his pocket – just as careful as he had been to come alone.
The door creaked menacingly when he pushed it open. No light entered the space, and only the smell of age, rot and dust greeted him.
Phobos needed no special greeting.
Not even from the captive he knew was staring daggers at his chest.
"Lucia."
She didn't reply. Had he been a lesser trained man, he would have imagined that she'd somehow escaped. He couldn't even feel her.
But he knew the tricks of this particular witch. She'd dropped her energy level so low that it was a miracle that she was alive.
He could still sense it though. Throbbing beneath the surface of the heavy silence was the pulse of awareness.
"I can feel you. Much to your own ... disappointment."
There was the sudden burst of energy – Phobos was not surprised (it was a great deal harder to hide energy than show it) – followed by the whisper of breath.
"Phobos. I do so wish I could say that your visit was a pleasure. But we both know it is no such thing." Her voice was raw and tired – fighting, though not vanquished.
"You have no right to speak my name on your vile lips."
"My apologies my King – I do hope you'll forgive the mess. My hands are all tied up," He heard the rattle of chains, "and I haven't had the time to tidy."
She laughed.
"There's no time for your foolishness, witch. Where, is the heart of Kandrakar?"
"Why in the name of the Gods would you suppose I know ..."
He felt his patience ebbing. "I saw you! I saw her!"
"Oh Pho – I do beg your forgiveness – my infinite majesty – I know no hers nor yous. It seems you are mistaken – AAHHHH!"
He had already stormed out. Out into the darkness, into the corridors that highlighted his father's legacy. The witch's screams followed him out, until he had climbed all the stairs that led to his throne room.
"Cedric!" He hollered, while the crowds of footmen shuddered. "Where is that accursed ..."
"Your majesssssty." Half snake and half man, the creature slithered in. His tongue, nearly a foot long in his present state, hung lewdly out of his mouth as he moved forward.
"T-that woman! That witch!" He was losing his composure, Cedric noted that his face was growing pinker, and his hair was askew. He couldn't lose his calm – stress was unnecessary – stress would only abbreviate his already short life.
"S-SSire ... pleassse ... calm yourssself."
"You ..." Phobos whipped around suddenly, a flurry of remarkable, white robes, stained with blood at the front – "You will go to earth. Find my sister. Bring her here. Now!"
Eric Lyndon was chronically late. It wasn't his fault (although his teachers disagreed) it just came with the trade.
"The trade" being helping his grandfather in the town's faltering observatory – it often kept him up late into the night (after all, one couldn't watch the stars during the day). The family couldn't afford to hire any extra help right now (they blamed the recession, not the fact that astrology was a useless profession) so Eric always had to pull the extra weight.
That coupled with his passion for ghost hunting – made him less than a stellar student.
However, Eric's grades aren't the purpose of today's story. The purpose of this particular story is to explain why Eric had seen what he had yesterday.
He'd been late, naturally. He was casually sauntering to school with his head buried in a book of urban legends – but he'd seen it still. Pillars of fire. Columns of flame. His mouth had watered like a weight watchers group in Baskin Robins.
He'd almost lost control of his bowels in the excitement he felt when he saw Taranee Cooke in the middle of it all.
Eric had forgotten all about school (and that pesky need for an education) and ran back home to research.
Which brings us to today.
Heatherfield High School was closed for a second day, much to the delight to many of the students, who took the time to reclaim the last dregs of summer.
It was a clear day, a little bit chilly, but good enough for sun bathing and fishing and all the other things the teenagers in Heatherfield busied themselves with when they felt their parents weren't watching.
Taranee hadn't been invited to any of the fishing trips or sunbathing excursions – the truth was she wasn't very popular at school. It didn't bother her much though. Taranee was one of those rare persons who believed, quite frankly, that she was always right. As a direct result, once you disagreed with her, you were always wrong.
She had one friend. Lydia Boyce, who had died while she'd been away for the summer.
Just the thought left a bitter taste in her throat. Lydia had been kidnapped, returned home and then vanished again. What made the entire thing worse was that the idiots at the Heatherfield Police Station refused to do anything about it.
Her mother wouldn't even push an investigation into the matter seriously.
The thought angered Taranee even more, but she tried to quell the burn of rage in her heart. She could still remember what happened last time.
Oh yes, Taranee was aware of her little problem. She'd been bursting into flame at random intervals ever since the Republicans had won the majority in the Senate. She panicked, at first, but then decided to look at the matter rationally.
A quick google told her that what had actually happened was human combustion.
Quite common.
Not really.
But it was the most sensible explanation she could find, so she clung to it like a drowning man hung onto his last breath.
Besides, once she kept her temper in check, everything was fine.
Yesterday had been a mistake – that stupid Uriah Butler had gotten on her last nerve by reminding her of Lydia – anyways ... it wouldn't happen again.
It had been half way to noon when the door bell had rang. Taranee had been catching up on a week's worth of homework at the time and had contemplated if to just let that annoying visitor go on their merry way before deciding, it just might be important.
It wasn't, she soon realised. It was just Eric Lyndon, chronic school skipper and general nuisance.
"Err... Taranee," he seemed surprised to see her in one piece.
"Yes Eric." She folded her arms across her Bob Marley t-shirt and frowned deeply (she may have just been the only 15 year old with crow's feet).
"I ... um ... wanted to talk to you about ... um ..."
"Eric, look I don't believe in aliens or Area 51 or Nostradamus, I don't care what you saw in your little telescope ..."
"I hate the ... um ... Heatherfield Police. I mean ... they're so incompetent ... I ..."
Her mood brightened, "why, yes they are incompetent. Not to mention terribly under staffed and under educated. Their role model is Horatio from CSI."
Eric erupted into a chorus of laughter, "yes, yes ... you're so right. I feel ... so mad about it ... I didn't know who else to come to."
Taranee nodded with great importance. Finally, these hicks were starting to come around. "Eric, why don't you come inside, I'll make some gluten free sandwiches and we can talk."
"Oh," his stomach dropped, "yum, I hate gluten."
A great warmth spread through Taranee's entire being – could she have really misjudged this young man?
She invited him in, chattering all the while a long practised speech about why the Heatherfield Police Department would be better if she were in charge.
Eric followed uncertainly, his heavy backpack causing his shoulders to strain. He followed her cautiously, all the while his eyes wandered along the clear white walls of the foyer. Every inch of this house was covered in artefacts and souvenirs. He saw masks from Africa, hand painted scarves from India, a collection of wines from Italy.
Careful not to rouse her suspicion (in case she burst into flames again) Eric carefully reached into the side pocket of his backpack and retrieved his compass.
It hadn't been working very well recently ... but ... holy shitnick – in here it was going berserk.
She really was ...
He moved closer, his wide eyes transfixed on the silver needle being pulled back and forth across the clear white background.
Eric never realised that he'd bumped in Taranee, what was worse was that he never really saw the look of absolute rage behind the wire framed glasses.
"What are you doing?"
"What ... I ..." He watched her with surprise in his eyes, and then tried to pull the compass behind his back. She was too fast for him. Taranee grabbed the device, looked at it once and then threw it against the hardwood floor.
"What the ... hell ... that was really expensive!" It had shattered instantly into a heap of silver pieces.
"I'll bet. Get out of my house. What do you think you were doing?" She was clearly furious – he thought he could smell smoke.
"I-I ..." he wouldn't be intimidated by her. "I know what you are!"
She froze.
"I saw you yesterday at school. I looked it up all last night. I know what you are."
Taranee looked as though she would laugh, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes! Yes you do," he was searching for the upper hand, but those fingers were just out of reach. "I know exactly what you are ... and I can help you ..."
"Really?" Taranee raised a thick eyebrow, "well, what am I?"
Eric took a steadying breath, "They're called Ban in China .. or maybe Ren. They claimed to be descendants of the dragons. They still had some of the traits, like fire ..."
"You think that I am what?"
"You're a dragon! Well, half dragon ... I know this may seem weird but actually these kinds of things are pretty common, especially in Heatherfield."
"Eric," She raised her hand for silence, "I don't know what you're talking about. In fact, I don't think you know what you're talking about either."
"What ... look ... you may be afraid, but I can help you ... if you even want help ... if it was me, I'd join a circus!"
"No, you don't know what you're talking about and you won't tell a single person about this. Will you?"
Truth be told, he'd already told a few on his online blog. "Taranee ..."
He watched as she collected the pieces of his broken compass off the floor and then pulled open his hand. He was shaking and her fingers were frightfully warm.
"Go home Eric."
She'd given him a handful of ashes.
"I need my sister." Phobos spoke to himself, not to anyone else – there was no one else in the world that he would allow to hear him say words like need.
There was blood all along his lips, dribbling slowly down his neck and staining the front of his once immaculate white robes.
He sat inside his special room. Half a shrine to his dead mother and the other half – a shrine to his madness.
It was decorated with corpses of young girls he had tried to experiment on. At first he tried to find a way to drain their blood – women couldn't catch the blood sickness, there had to be a reason why – and then he'd tried to steal their souls.
He'd leave this body if that's what it took to live.
It really was a pity that none of the girls had taken to him.
The smell didn't bother Phobos.
His blood did.
"I need my sister."
Author: I wrote this all today. I'm quite proud of the haste. Not a lot for the overall plot, but it's something to tide you over until.
All right, so after this section with Taranee, the real stuff will begin. Cedric is coming to Earth, the princess will be found, all will be right in the WITCH world.
Thanks for the unwavering support.