"Blood runs thicker than water, but both feel the same when your eyes are closed."~ Chloe Ament - The Water is Fine
Trigger warning: This story deals with character death, main character sacrifice, off-scene death, descriptions of blood and gore and distressing situations. If any of these elements are triggering for you please skip this chapter.
I wake up to hands ripping me from my bed.
"It's time Jonah." says Father, his voice a void of any emotion, as he clasps my upper arm in a vice-like grip.
"What are you doing ?" I demand as I try to pull away, trying to comprehend what is going on through my sleep clouded mind, "What is going on?"
My question is met with another hand gripping my opposite arm. The man is shrouded in dark flowing robes. He looks like a personification of death itself, the resemblance is so similar that it makes my blood run cold. I fight against them as much as I can as I'm dragged down the stairs. I pull away, I kick, I yell with everything I have in me. It's all for nothing. The pair keep walking with me between them as if I'm nothing more than a petulant child. Which, in my fathers mind, surely I am. We make our way past servants who cast piteous looks my way, past portraits who pile on judgment from their frames, and down into the dark belly of the manor. My heart pounds out of my chest and fear begins to overtake me as we approach a door I recognize.
"Please Father," I beg, tears starting to form in my eyes as I struggle and strain against their grip. Father doesn't say anything, he doesn't even look at me. The grip on my arms tighten until my bones groan under the pressure "Please Father, I'll be good, I promise I-I'll do as you ask." I plead as if I'm nothing but a child again, and not nearing eighteen, gods know I feel as helpless as one.
The tears are freely flowing now. I'd promise him anything to not go in that room. I know if I go in I'll never come out. In a desperate attempt to get away. I kick my feet up at the solid door and launch myself back, knocking all three of us off balance.
Father lets out a growl, "You insolent bastard." he spits through clenched teeth.
I go to make a run for it but only make a few steps before my world comes crashing onto the flagstones below. It's so sudden that I don't have time to break my fall, my head comes crashing onto the stone floor and then…nothing.
I wish I would have stayed in that blissful nothing, for when I come back to consciousness I'm sure I'm in hell. Through my still blurred vision the candle light reflecting off of the obsidian walls of the chamber make them look like roiling pools of fire. As my mind and vision become clearer I count twelve black-cloaked figures in the room, their identities obscured by golden masks glinting in the light. They are in the shapes of grotesque vaguely animal-like figures but everything is at wrong angles or positions. Teeth too large, eyes too dark, grins too wide and filled with far too many fangs. I try to sit up but I can't. Something is holding me down, holding me in place. I feel the cold bite of iron at my wrists and ankles, the smooth stone beneath my bare back. My breathing starts to hitch as I look at the figure above me and my deepest fears are confirmed.
There's Father, his arms outstretched, speaking in a language I don't recognize to the gathered crowd. They begin to chant excitedly in response. I strain against the metal holding me in place. Deep down I know it's not going to do anything but I have to try. I have to try .
A member of the crowd bows and produces a simple black box from his cloak, offering its contents to my father. Father flips open the lid, revealing a simple steel dagger, and takes it in his hands. The energy in the room reaches a fever pitch, the chanting grows louder and louder. The members of the crowd shed their masks and my heart drops into my stomach. Their faces are familiar, more than familiar, I see my uncles, aunts, my mother. I strain harder.
"P-Please," I beseech the crowd, locking eyes with whoever will look at me, "Please help me, Help me!" I shout as Father raises the dagger over my chest.
No one does anything, they seem to look through me, so enraptured in their praise that I'm not even a person to them. I'm not their own blood.
In a last ditch effort I look up at my father, meeting his black eyes. My eyes. "Father, please, please," I sob and beg and plead, "P-Please don't to this, p-ple-ease,"
There's no trace of emotion on his face as he raises the dagger high above his head, "Now, you will finally be of use Jonah." he says, plunging the dagger in one swift motion down.
The blade is sharp and the pain is over in an instant. A cold sensation spreads from my chest to the rest of my body, as if my blood has been replaced with ice water. I blink and find myself in the same room but there's something off. There are no shackles holding me down. I carefully shift to a sitting position, and look around. There's no one else in the room, but I can feel someone... something else here. Curls of black mist roll off of the black mirror-like walls. As I look more intently there's something that seems to be made of a deeper black staring back. At first I think it's my own reflection but when it moves of its own accord I feel my hair set on end. The closest thing I could compare it to is a human but even that doesn't fit. The limbs seem too long, the frame too thin, the eyes too wide. I can't look directly at it, when I do my mind seems to splinter.
"Jonah Crowley," it says, though its mouth doesn't move. Its voice is like a thousand knives scraping glass. I grit my teeth against the sound, "Do you desire life? "
The question that recalls a flash of the dagger, I look down at my chest. No wound, no blood, had it been a dream? Am I dreaming now? I glance the beings way, it's closer to me but no more clearer than before. It seems to be made of something darker than a starless sky and seems to be older than anything I can comprehend. Maybe older than the gods themselves.
"I ask again," the being says, its voice impassive, "Do you desire life?"
"Yes," I say, not willing to bet this is just a dream, "Yes I desire life." I repeat.
The being nods what I assume is its head, or at least where a head should be and waves its hand, "Then life shall be restored."
A wave of sickening vertigo overtakes me and I fall back on to the altar. I blink once more and the creature is gone, the black mist is gone, and all I see is red.
Red. Slick red. Overwhelming red. The sharp coppery scent fills my nostrils, it's so strong that my head reels. My mouth waters, my stomach lurches into my throat and I heave off the side of the blood-slick platform. Though there's nothing left in my empty stomach to come up. With shaking legs I steady myself, sitting on the edge of the cold slick stone, and pull the courage together to scan the room. The once dark stone is now glistening a deep red.
Thirteen people had been in this room, thirteen members of my own family, I remind myself with a shudder. Now there's no trace of any individuals save a necklace here or a ring there. I feel the bile welling in my throat again. I have to get out of here, I can't bear one moment more in this room. I go to stand and my foot slips as I cling to the altar for stability. After I regain my sense of balance I carefully pick my way across the gore soaked floor. I try as best I can to focus on the door. Not looking down when I feel something smooth, something sharp, something slick. I swallow my terror and continue forward. The room isn't large, but the trek to the door feels like it goes on for an eternity. I nearly collapse with relief when I finally reach the door. With shaking hands I grip the handle and lean my weight onto the heavy wood door, not daring to look back as I close it behind me.
The house is silent as I make my way to my room. No sound of servants, no hushes murmurs, only my feet on the marble floor echo all too loud in the halls. I pass a grand mirror and hazard a glance at my reflection. A glance that I immediately regret upon gazing at my nightmarish form. My dark eyes shine against crimson skin. Blood and bits of something I'd rather not know now stuck in my hair. Blood has soaked through my trousers, plastering them to my legs. I look like some hellish mockery of a marble statue. I don't know how much of the blood is mine and how much is everyone else's. I feel sick at the thought, deciding its best not to know. I swallow the bile welling back up and continue on to the washroom.
It has to be muscle memory alone that I wash myself for there's not a single thought in my mind. Again and again I pour water over my head, not caring that it's cold, not even registering it. I scrub my skin raw, as if doing so would scrub the last few hours from my memory. If it had indeed only been hours not, days or months. I watch as the crimson ribbons circle the drain. As they slowly turn clear a very small part of me is relieved, I'm at least free of one mess.
I grab on a pair of plain trousers from the drawer and pull them on. As I go to do the same with a shirt, I pause. I notice the jagged trail of a scar. In an instant I'm at the closest mirror and confronted with my new visage. A mass of white scar tissue blooms from the center of my chest, right over my heart. My knees weaken at the memory of my fathers eyes, of the cold smooth steel plunging into my chest. I look back up into my reflection daring to touch the scar that looks as if it has been there for years. I trace the jagged tendrils across my ribs, down my stomach, and up my neck like sinister vines which threaten to choke me.
"Do you desire life?" the otherworldly voice echoes in my head. Even now when I try to remember the being I feel as if my mind teeters on the edge of sanity. One slip and I could be lost in that darkness forever. I shake the memory away and pull the top over my head, ready to decide my next move.
I can't stay here, that's obvious. I think to myself as I shove a few pairs of clothes into a bag. I can't risk more family, more fanatics swarming the house. I continue as I leave my room behind and head down stairs. Retracing the bloody footsteps that I had created on the way up, before deviating at the bottom of the stairs and heading toward the kitchen. As I swing open the parlor doors I am greeted by a scene that makes me halt in my tracks.
A blonde head of soft curls slumped in the corner of the room. He doesn't move as I approach, in my heart I know what's happened but I don't want to believe it.
"Ephraim?" I call, though his name catches in my throat and comes out as nothing more than a whisper.
No response.
My suspicions are confirmed with every inch that I grow closer to my brother. I drop to my knees beside him. He was so scared, I can see it written on every inch of his face.
"No, gods no," I whisper as I reach out toward him, pulling my hand back just before it touches him, "No, no, no ," I repeat, hot tears falling from my eyes.
I feel like all of the wind has been knocked out of me as I fold into myself at his feet and scream against the agony, against the roiling anger in my heart. My thoughts go to my two other siblings, are they dead somewhere in this house? The servants too? Likely, Father was never one for loose ends.
I push that from my mind, I have to focus. I have to get out, I tell myself as I rock back on my knees.
My eyes land on Ephraim again, I can't leave him like this. Not like this. I carefully scoop him in my arms. He's heavier than before, colder and heavier. I lay him down on the sofa and close his eyes. I wish there was more I could do, that there was more time. Before I pull the blanket over his head I kiss the top of his head, saying a few words to whatever gods might be listening. It takes everything in me to keep moving as I head into the kitchen.
I ransack whatever food I can carry, only taking things that will last on the road. I grab a few large kitchen knives for good measure as well, thanking The Triad that Grandfather had insisted I learn to fight. I don't look back at the manor as I slip out the servants exit and into the cool clear night. I don't know how long it will take The Flaming Fist to search the place, but I know I will be long gone before they do.
