Not too shabby.
A small smile appeared on Isaac's face as the jubilant cries of victory rang through his head. Well, their head.
Bell did it. Of course, with the help of a little bit of extra firepower at the end. But all in all, the boy was the one who ultimately ended the sadistic tyranny of the Moss Huge.
Isaac looked down at his hand, feeling a lingering tingle that pulsated from his chest, down his shoulder, all the way to his fingertips. He flexed his fingers twice, letting the sensation run through his nerves once more.
How long had it been since he felt this raw power, this heat?
He frowned and shook his head. The tingle began to wisp away in his nerves as time passed. Soon, he felt nothing.
He sighed and crossed his arms. He knew the aftermath of Bell's bout would bring about questions regarding his magic. Isaac would have to devise some kind of excuse as to why the flames were an incandescent sapphire. Bell sure as hell couldn't make up a lie or excuse on the spot without seeming beyond suspicious.
With the day seized and saved, Isaac no longer needed to watch over Bell.
He turned back to look at the corpse of the monster he had charred to a crisp previously. He bent down and grasped at its horn. As he picked it up, the cervical vertebrae that attached its head to what remained of its body disintegrated into a fine, white powder. He brought the skull closer to his face. He stared at the hollow socket where its eye had been melted away and seared into the bone.
Ugly.
Isaac began turning it about in his hands. As he did so, his mind sifted through his memories in an attempt to try and identify the enigma he clutched. Nothing came to mind as he spun it around three hundred-sixty degrees for the third time. Honestly, what surprised him the most was that the skull hadn't crumbled yet. It seems he had grown weaker over time.
Naturally.
In the past, not even ash would have even been left in his wake.
Where exactly did this thing come from?
Deciding to hold onto his newfound souvenir, Isaac tucked it underneath his arm and began to make his way back onto the path, stepping over the rest of the ashen corpse. Isaac's sapphire eyes carefully surveyed him before he found the spot where Bell had previously entered. At first, Isaac took cautious, light steps as he pressed forward, noting the labyrinth's reaction. It seemed it had its fill of tempting and torturing and was lying dormant.
Good.
There had already been too much excitement for one day.
.
.
.
Meshach curled himself on the ground, rocking himself back and forth in the fetal position. The fire atop his head flickered and fluttered. It was the only part of him that seemed to move at all. He felt as if it did move in the slightest—he would crumble under the weight of himself. His stillness seemed to hold him together. Every so often, he could feel his chest expand; and hear the sound of sharp intakes of breath. It almost was like he was going to hyperventilate at any moment.
How long had it been since he sat down here, waiting? It didn't matter. He could wait a minute or two longer. Or thirty, if he was being charitable. Waiting was nothing new to him. The silence was daunting as it surrounded him, threatening to engulf him and snuff out his light. He found himself growing cold, as strange as that sounded. But just then, he heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing in the dark. The sound of the steps were weighty as they dragged themselves through the oil. Closer and closer did the sound resonate until Meshach could make out a faint figure.
The silhouette seemed taller, sterner. A grim air permeated around him—the haze grew stronger as he approached. This couldn't be Bell. And yet there was an uncanny resemblance to the contour of the boy.
Meshach squinted, his light illuminating just enough of the figure to make out more distinct features. What immediately caught his attention was the hair. Jet black—the antithesis of snow white. A long strand of hair dangled down his forehead and hung just at the tip of his nose. His hair was unkempt, tangled, and feral. Despite this, they perfectly framed his somber sapphire eyes. They looked so drained, as if their color had been sapped of their saturation.
He wore a blanket of an overcoat that had once been white but now had splatters of blood across it. Only little specs of its previous shade remained sprinkled on the inside. It had rips and tears along the bottom edge, and some strands appeared blackened—burnt. Holes varying in size created a cruel polka-dot pattern on its backside.
The figure held a strange item of antiquity under his arm as he approached—a skull. Shivers ran down Meshach's back as he looked into its hollowed eye socket. Not wanting to force uncomfortability upon himself, he shifted his gaze back onto the figure who was now ten feet away. Meshach's eyes widened as his light illuminated the boy who had long since been scorned by all—especially by himself.
"I—Isaac…?" Meshach meekly whispered.
A soft smile formed on Isaac's cracked lips.
"Nice to see you too, little light."
Isaac bent down to greet the tender flame. He extended his hand and held open his palm in front of Meshach, offering it to him. Warily, Meshach reached out and lightly grasped the hand as if it were alien. He gently traced the creases like an artist tracing the outlines of a painting. Isaac was a bit squeamish to the touch.
Odd. He didn't remember being ticklish there.
Still in shock, Meshach sputtered out questions in rapid succession, leaving him out of breath.
"Wheredidyoucomefrom? Wherehaveyoubeen? Howhaveyoubeen? Where'sBell, didyouseehim? Isheokay?"
Isaac withdrew his hand and sighed. He chuckled a bit. He had forgotten how excited Meshach could become. His questions seemed more enthusiastic in tone than confused. How silly.
"I'll answer all your questions once we get back to the surface. Okay? I promise."
He found himself wanting to bite his tongue as he uttered the last two words. He felt his cheeks and lips scrunch up as he winced at the bitter taste that was left in his mouth. The words didn't feel right. They didn't feel fair. It felt as though he spoke the words to merely serve as a scapegoat.
Tired. He was just tired. He wanted to rest his mind for but a moment. Even he felt overwhelmed by it all.
"Mmmm, okay, fine," Meshach begrudgingly accepted.
Isaac sighed again, this time in relief.
He offered his hand out to Meshach once again. This time, he flattened it such that his hand formed a platform for Meshach. Strangely, the little flame beamed a bit at the gesture. Twice now, he had been lifted and carried by others. He certainly couldn't complain about the treatment. It was nice to not have to navigate the labyrinth, especially when comparing its daunting dimensions and his small stature. (Modest according to him, anyway.)
Plopping himself onto Isaac's hand, Meshach gave him a tiny thumbs-up. And with that, Isaac stood up straight and began walking into the beckoning darkness.
Home sweet home. No place quite like it.
.
.
.
Stip-step. Stip-step. Splish. Splash. Splish. Splash.
Meshach held his end of the promise and refrained from asking Isaac any questions. This left the two in strained silence. Only the sound of Isaac's steps echoed throughout the labyrinth.
It didn't feel right. A part of Isaac felt irked by the eerie quiet. But he didn't speak. He didn't know what he would say. Something typically casual like "So, how have you been?" just felt blatantly stupid and rude. Meshach deserved more; he deserved better. But that was all that came to mind. No words followed.
Too lost in his thoughts, Isaac hadn't noticed that Meshach had been staring at him rather intensely. He had been for the past ten minutes. It was the sort of blank stare that a child would give to a toy at a window display of a passing shop. It was as if he was studying the boy. Images of the past kept flashing in his mind. He found himself comparing the boy and the Mythic, both of which had carried him in their hands.
Mythic? Yes. That is what he was. Was? That's right. He forsook that duty long ago. And yet, why was he still here? Why did he return? These were all questions that he would ask when they returned.
The sound of steps stopped as Isaac reached a set of stairs. Wordlessly, he began to ascend them—keeping his gaze lowered to not accidentally slip on a step. It made him anxious, watching his feet alternate as he pushed his weight up and onto the next step. But he felt it was better than looking up and seeing the steps slowly beginning to grow less and less.
Keep walking. You promised.
Finally, he reached the top of the steps. Four feet away from him was a small door. Its frame was wooden and chipped, the knob bronze and rusted. A small slot was carved near the base. Isaac figured that was how Meshach managed to gain access to the labyrinth. Did he put it there? He couldn't remember.
Careful not to drop the skull tucked in his pit, he grasped onto the knob. Gently, he twisted and pulled. The latch clicked at his touch and unlocked. Slowly, he opened the door to a dour sight.
Ash. Ashes upon ashes. They doused and covered the ground in its entirety, stretching far beyond the horizon's front. There was no plantation, no animals, and no people—only ash. The pile that blanketed the entirety of the land was about two inches in height. Above, a sea of clouds hung in the air, grey and dull, pinned in the sky by sour stagnation. A smell like burnt rubber immediately invaded Isaac's nostrils, causing his eyes to twitch and flicker in discomfort. Meshach stared out into the abyss of ash, his eyes filled with tragic apathy.
Yes, this was topside. This was home.
Burdened by a promise he intended to keep, Isaac steeled himself and stepped through the door. As he did so, his hand clung to the knob and closed it behind him. From the other side, there only stood a door and a frame encasing it. There was no structure behind to house it, no wall or building. It stood solemn in the middle of the ashen desert, just a door and its framework.
Thinking upon it no further, Isaac trudged forward, his steps crunching the ash beneath his weight.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The sound and texture were akin to snow. A somewhat morbid yet strangely comforting thought. Onward, he trudged on, skull and flame in hand. Soon, he reached a minor mound that obscured the horizon beyond. He felt his nerves loosen as he began to climb. His previous steeled vigor was beginning to wane.
Press on. You don't have a choice in the matter.
Reaching the peak, he looked down to see a sprawling castle. At least, in a bitter sense, it was still sprawling. Most of the cobblestone walls had gaping chunks in them as if catapult boulders had been hurled relentlessly at them. The ash blanket that coated the ground had stopped short of a castle, forming a pseudo moat, revealing the ground beneath was grassy, blackened and burnt. The portcullis was split asunder as if a battering ram had viscously molested its oak face. From his elevated angle, Isaac could see that the courtyard had vast cracks and chasmic craters. His frown grew heavier as he thought about what the inside might look like. Only one way to find out.
Having made his way down the hill, Isaac found a sizable gap in the wall to walk through. Not much point in being civil and walking through the front door. (Not to mention there was a chance of catching a few splinters). Staring down at his feet, he carefully traversed the gaps and cracks that slithered along the ground. He took extra care to not directly step over a crack unless necessary. Sure, it meant the path he would have to take would be more tedious, but he cared more for Meshach than "wasted time". Whenever Isaac would lean his weight toward a gap in the slightest, Meshach would visibly tense up. Irrational, and yet, rational all the same.
Isaac took one last small hop over a gap to land on the base of a granite staircase. He looked up to see them leading to a looming metal gate. His eyes squinted slightly before shooting wide open. The door at the top was slightly ajar.
"...something wrong?"
Unable to stifle his words, Meshach finally spoke aloud. He felt that it was fine, though. Technically, he didn't break his end of the promise. He waited until they were topside to ask a question.
"The door. It's open," Isaac replied, his tone hushed.
Meshach looked up, and sure enough, there was a gap between the door. He felt his breath momentarily seize in shock. As he continued to stare, a chilling thought crossed his mind. He looked to the side, to the skull that Isaac held, then back at the door. Surely not, right?
Cautiously, Issac began to walk up the steps, gingerly lifting his heels to tiptoe as quietly as possible. Following his lead, Meshach simmered his flames down.
Step, step, step.
They were nearing the top now. One more step and Isaac's vision would be able to peek over the top step. Isaac exhaled cooly, feeling the heat once again beginning to swell in his chest. This time it felt more natural and less forced. His body was growing accustomed to this sensation again.
Step.
Lifting his weight, Isaac looked over to see a figure sprawled out on the floor. Isaac's eyes widened once again as he felt the heat instantly dissipate, becoming swallowed back into his heart. Suddenly, he felt cold. So, so terribly cold.
Slowly, he approached. The features of the figure became more evident as Isaac closed the distance between them. Now five feet away, he could see that the figure was a male. He laid flat on a cloak, naked and bare. The color of his skin was a sickly grey color and waxy. His cracked lips an unnatural bluish-white shade. The creases on his fingers were split and blistered. It was as though he had succumbed to frostbite.
"—!"
Meshach shifted anxiously as Isaac bent down to look at the corpse. He averted the ghastly gaze the man held in his deadened and dim eyes.
He didn't like it; he didn't like this. Death was always something he couldn't seem to stomach. And being forced to be so close to one who had succumbed to it didn't help. He didn't like it. Especially the pain and sadness that followed in its wake.
Seeing him grow visibly shaken, Isaac set Meshach to the ground.
"You can run ahead inside, I'll catch up in a bit."
You don't have to stay and look.
The words were unspoken but Meshach understood Isaac's intentions.
"Thank you," he meekly muttered.
Isaac waited patiently until the light of the flame was a mere blip in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he refocused his attention on the body. Solemnly, he placed his hand on its chest.
"So," he whispered. "You're the reason all this is happening…"
A silence hung in the air. Isaac waited with bated breath as if he expected a response. Moments turned into seconds, then they turned into minutes. First five, then ten, then fifteen.
"No," he finally answered himself. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pin the blame on you. That isn't fair. It was only a matter of time."
He sighed again. Placing his index and ring finger on the figure's eyes, he whispered to it one last time.
"I'm sorry for being selfish. The burden. This burden. It's too much to bear. Thank you for enduring it for as long as you could."
With that, he gently closed the figure's eyes and let him rest. Isaac looked at the fingers that touched his face. Cold—they were just so cold.
Picking himself back up, Isaac entered the castle door. The foyer was bleak and empty. There was a heavy aroma of dust in the air. Nonetheless, he walked forward, seemingly paying it little to no mind. Soon, he reached a flight of steps. One last flight. His hands clasped onto the marble railing. His strength was wavering.
Too much walking. Too many steps.
With a heavy stomp in his step, he pushed himself up. The steps were sprawling, spiraling. A pessimistic side of Isaac thought they'd stretch on for eternity—that he would be cursed to a fate of traversing staircases till the end of time. But eventually, he reached the top of the steps to see Meshach. He sat patiently at the foot of a set of double doors. He turned upon hearing his arrival.
"Erm… I can't exactly open these."
Isaac softly chuckled. He reached out and gave the doors a firm shove. The doors gave in, revealing a throne room. Aside from the stone throne seated at the back of the room, it was barren and bleak. No banners hung on the wall portraying a righteous zeal; no majestic carpet unfurling on the ground leading to the throne; no prestigious lords and ladies dressed dainty-like; no clandestine plots of assassination.
It was just him, the flame, and the throne. A throne he had forsaken long ago. Leaving another to bear his burden.