Fantasy Shadow-Sworn

[Goonfire]

Ruin had come to the company of brave knights. The entire party lay dead in the fog-shrouded forest—except for one. Beneath a slain beast of indescribable horror, Sir Reynar Cope clawed at the moist earth. He was suffocating, his cracked ribs making it harder to breathe as he pulled himself with one good arm from under the half-ton abomination. As for the other arm, a powerful blow had fractured the bones, rendering it nigh useless.

Reynar found the strength to escape—adrenaline and luck helping his case. The young knight observed the tip of his sword protruding through the monster’s back, the hilt sinking into the soft dirt under its weight. His half-plate armor was heavily dented and gouged, the convex design of his steel breastplate having saved him from evisceration. He knelt by each of his six fallen comrades to check for signs of life. No luck... He ended the inspection with a quick prayer for all of them.

Their horses had fled; only his Morgaine remained. Reynar felt lightheaded from the blood loss. He sat by a tree with her, nursing his wounds with his broken breastplate discarded beside him. He had patched himself to the best of his ability, then mounted up to return to his sunny homeland. His enthusiasm was short-lived, as the entire forest spun still. There was no way he could make it home without further care and rest. The fresh-faced newcomer wandered in the direction he haphazardly assumed was correct; he hadn't bothered to note his path in his company's pursuit of the monstrosity that had terrorized the outlying farming towns.

Reynar raised his head when he found a stone wall mere yards before him. He looked up and his jaw dropped in horror. He knew that foreboding castle—the foundation of horror stories and cautionary tales told throughout his homeland of Hegary. Swallowing hard, he approached the formidable iron gate that had only started to rust in all its years. Oddly, the gate was locked; he had expected looters and legend-seekers to have bypassed the lock years ago. A shiver crept up his spine.

Thunder heralded a coming storm. There was little perceivable choice besides staying the night in an unsettling legendary castle, in a land with a name the faint of heart dare not speak. With no way to get through the gate, Reynar had to improvise.

His answer came in the form of the flora. A thick layer of brambles coated the seemingly-deserted castle's outer walls, along with patches of slippery moss. "I'll be back soon, girl. Just need to get that gate open..." Reynar tethered Morgaine to a nearby tree, then made the effort to climb with one arm. Unable to support much weight with the left, he looped the vines around his right and pushed harder with his legs. He nearly fell twice before reaching the top, the motion to pull himself up causing him to seize with pain in his ribs. More blood seeped through the crude bandages.

When Reynar turned to descend, he slipped. A panicked, staccato shriek escaped his mouth as he plunged ten feet. Branches snapped under his weight, thorns of an overgrown bush piercing his clothing and skin. One more breathless holler erupted from the knight upon landing. The cry faded with his senses and, soon, his consciousness.

Jewel

 

[Jewel]

The violent night shed her vivacity and donned a cool, lucid eloquence, cascading upon the citadel, like a lover returns to satin after an evening of infidelity come to sooth her promised. Thunder sounded like an ache, ancient and untamed. The reticulated panes peered out at the smear of sky like windows to a godless void, the only instances of life mere reflections to the candles, clustered in wrought iron candelabras which hung from the tall ceiling by long silver chains. Ivory colored wax fell over itself in a petrified fall, stretching for the floor like icicles over a ledge. The cathedral-imitating room was composed of many layers, each more labyrinthian than the last, intricate arches beside meticulously crafted sconces bearing slight flames, which were crowded by the thick dark but danced still like savage imps, boasting their glow to the menacing shadows. Books covered the expanse on shelves, in piles, on desks, and sprawled on floors, each bearing a unique set of wornness. A lone man sat situated before one tome, ensconced in a dismal corner beside a poorly insulated window, such that mist seeped in through the cracks, creeping into the room toward the floor, lighting the forgotten markings on other windows long left uncleaned like sun to dust.

The equivocal nature of the man was untouched by the despondency of his surroundings, for though the library took on dangerous shapes in the dead of night, the comely man wore an expression of serene, thoughtful repose.

“My lord.”

The voice brushed just past his left ear, a tinkling of breath hissing just near to him, to be snuffed out like one of the flimsy candle flames. It was with the same slow, lethargic drifting as the mist which the words were registered—and then also dismissed, motionlessly, without a stirring. And though the tome was wide before him, the man’s unlit eyes were trained on the window. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something, somewhere, was amiss. But sunless eyes remained to stay in the window, staring with nothing to see but the smog, and the faintest reflection of his own sullen features.

“My lord,” the voice again, to his other ear this time. The tone was the same, an insisting, but a muddled whisper, as if the voice were passing to him through a thick wall of cloth. The only man in the room rose and took a step away from the window, squinting eyes finding the nearest of the candles to which he set his direction of walking, keeping solely to the shadows, footsteps a dull against the stone until he stepped onto the carpet outlaying that part of the room.

There were more, grander, reticulated windows framed by long drapes, corresponding with a carpet which stretched for the mile which was the grand left corridor. Rain pattered rhythmically against the glass, smudges of water catching droplets of fire from the torch, slippery golden reflections sliding downward in tiny spirals. And through narrow stairwells and past imposing locked barriers leading to expansive libraries, lavish garderobes, and holy oratories, a staggering trail of candles to guide his curiosity as the man allowed himself to chase the whims of the distantly deceased.

The man emerged into the Great Hall, a blue darkness shrouding the room while feathery grays were tenderly acquiesced by the intricate tracery. At the forefront of the room stood the stony throne, pronounced yet jaded by long shadows. Not an inkling of yellow light touched the long table and its glittering silverware, its ornate silver, its golden chalices, its porcelain plates. Everything lay dormant, dust-lain, and disused. And at the opposing side of the room there was the imposing wooden doors that towered floor-to-ceiling. A single man would hardly be able to budge such colossal doors—and none had tried in a very long time.

The man exited instead by passing through the kitchen and through a backdoor leading out into the gardens. It was cold, and the man shivered. It was rare that he would venture from the comfortable blackness inside the castle. The gardens grew wild, unkempt, and unruly, rosy briars and leafy jasmine coiled endlessly over iron arbors. Black viburnum and chokeberry unfurled around marble sculptures. Still murky pond water accepted the drizzling rain upon its algae-soaked surface.

It wasn’t long before, following the incessant whispers of the spirits that roamed the estate, the man came upon the intruder. Not initially recognizing the man’s unconsciousness, the man retreated some paces, shocked, and concerned for the mystery surrounding the intruder’s appearance. “You shouldn’t be here.” He spoke, his voice as hurried as the wind. “What madness drove you here? Are you a spirit? I’ve enough of spirits in my estate. Begone before I banish you to hell, fae.” His tone shifted as he neared and could make out the distinctions of the man. He seemed flesh.

-

A room was arranged. By the unseen staff of the dismal estate. What remained of the sullied apparel dawned by the encroacher was whisked away and appropriate bandages were administered to the wounded knight by tentative hands. He was no medical wizard, but he was the only other man in a hundred miles, so he himself would have to suffice. Where the knight’s weapon and armor went the monarch minded not and regarded to concern himself very little. All things had a way of disappearing in the marsh. Was a mere matter of when, not how. But, if prosecuted, he conjected that the man’s belongings had been stowed in the armory. But since alone, he offered no conjecture at all.

The room was completely dark and silent, save for the breathing of the two men. He appraised the other man from the bedside. Though the other was asleep he felt abashed staring at him so openly, and so soon determined to leave the room. Not knowing how soon it would be until the other woke, the man found other ways of occupying himself, pacing about the castle, opening and then closing books, and fretting how he might deal with this unexpected guest (and get them to leave as quickly as possible).

Goonfire

 

[Goonfire]

Hours passed before Reynar stirred. His eyelids fought to remain closed, the inky, serene darkness aiding their effort. He opted to remain in his resting position, if only for a minute more. His blurred consciousness slowly sharpened as his digits passed over the sheets. He endeavored to recall what events led him from those dreadful, twisted woods and an abandoned castle garden to a considerably more comfortable... bed? Reynar’s eyes bulged open, a realization striking him harder than the creature that wounded him. This reputed domain of dread was occupied.

The knight strained to perceive his tenebrous surroundings. His neck threatened to twist off his shoulders with each increasingly frantic motion. Then, the soreness and aches assaulted him—throbbing in his side and arm, drums of misery thumping their cruel beat, welcoming him back to the world of the living. His fingertips detected dry bandages—wrapped tightly around his marred torso—as well as a crude sling. Another positive improvement he noticed was the lack of blood coating his skin; he could merely speculate how much belonged to him and how much to the beast, but what mattered was that it was absent.

A faint chill nipped at Reynar’s toes as he steadily rose and pivoted from under the covers. He wrapped one linen sheet around himself, upholding his notion of common decency. His palm sought the musty wooden table and then patted the surface until his knuckles tapped a candelabra. Slender candles that had once jutted regally from the capitals had melted to mere stubs barely rising a mere two inches above the overfull wax pans. With no tinderboxes or fire inch-sticks present, Reynar loosed an exasperated sigh and continued his fondling of the various surfaces of the room. He traced a path through the room until he found himself stroking the planks and iron fittings of an aged door. It pulled open with a nerve-wracking creak.

A frigid, winding corridor stretched as far as the man's eyes could see—several meters, consistently barely lit by the dying flames of old candles. Distant flashes of lightning from among the frothing clouds of a passing storm further illuminated the hall, casting an eerie glow upon the deteriorating opulence. Reynar eased down this passage, heart racing in anticipation of an encounter with the one who brought him inside. The pervading impression of eyes peering at him coaxed him to tighten his grasp on the linen shrouding his lean, toned form.

Faint, breathy noises compelled the hairs on the back of Reynar's neck to stand on end. A growing chorus of sotto voce whispers echoed from behind him. His warm breath hitched and he swiveled to scrutinize his surroundings. The whispers fell dead-silent and not a soul stirred. He traipsed backwards towards a more grand set of double doors, the varnish of which had faded with time. His pulse pounded in his ears.

Jewel

 

[Jewel]

Seifer was beginning to have doubts about his decision to bring the outsider into his estate. Should he have at least restrained the other in case he woke and began to wander? Or would this have caused further alarm and potentially pitted his guest against him? Seifer digressed from his worry with the hollow comfort that should his guest deem himself unmannerly or even violent, Seifer had means of subduing him. Probably.

He stood now before a grand old chiffonier with a splintered mirror, mulling over the dust-clad garments within. Unfortunately, spirits were very poor housekeepers, and many of the articles of clothing were partially or mostly devoured by moths, and not a ghostly hand had lifted to stop the infraction upon royal property. Holding up one musty overshirt Seifer caight a sliver of his own reflection in the mirror. He felt himself a shadow among darker shadows. An appearance he’d once flaunted and adored now had him shamefully avert his gaze.

Breathing an inaudible sigh, Seifer made his selection of clothing that he hoped might fit his unconscious companion and began to make his way back through the labyrinthian castle to where he had situated his guest. Perhaps his guest would never waken at all. Seifer thought he might be fine with that. And then the two could share the castle in silence and darkness, just as everything had been before, but with the exception of there being one additional room for Seifer to avoid.

When Seifer returned to the room where he had left the unconscious man, he was immensely dismayed to find that the unconscious man was no longer the unconscious man, but instead, the more unnerving, intention-ambiguous, conscious man. The conscious missing man. Who had stolen his own bedsheet and fled, apparently.

Feeling on edge, the man slipped from the room and quietly, with great hesitance, peered about for the direction the other man might’ve gone. The ghosts murmured in his ears, and he could almost feel their spectral hands tugging at his clothes, urging him to quicken his pace. Dread filling him with every step, Seifer found himself speeding up, apprehension and fear gripping his heart, but for what reason he did not know. Surely no harm would come to him. So why had his heartbeat quickened, and his breath become short?

He came to an abrupt halt at the top of one wide staircase to spot his houseguest, bedsheet adorned, standing in the room below, in the melancholy gray hues cast by the tall windows, which lay strips of geometric light over the length of the otherwise dark room. Had not Seifer touched his flesh he would’ve thought the man an apparition. He was mournfully, heartbreakingly beautiful. Seifer could only stare in wide-eyed despair as the other moved, the faintest luminosities setting his figure aglow in godlike submission.

Overcome with a confusing concupiscent reverence by what he saw, Seifer hastily retreated from the room. So hastily in fact, that he walked into a table in the outside corridor, sending few of its baubles to the floor and the rest clattering. Silently cursing his lapse of composure, Seifer began to collect the items from the floor, returning each shiny metal gimcrack to its proper place. And by the time he had prodded the final ornament into place, he had wholly accepted his defeat.

“Forgive my manners.” He said as he heard the other’s approach, giving himself a start, for his voice unrecognizable to himself being so seldom heard. He had a soft, mellifluous voice, appropriately suited to his unimposing, but regal appearance. Seifer was glad that there was no light in this portion of the hall, and that he was enshrouded in shadows so that the other could not see how his face flushed as he once again laid eyes upon his guest (whom he had undressed foolishly thinking he’d be able to reclothe before he woke).

“I could not condemn you to the night. Though you may soon wish I had.” He averted his eyes if only to save his composure. “You shouldn’t have come here.” And from there he could think of no more else to say. He fixed his gaze on a long crack stemming from the place where the floor met the wall and prayed the other might disappear and turn out to have been merely a dream he’d had.

Goonfire

 

[Goonfire]

As Reynar wandered nigh-aimlessly, a crash on the floor above startled him. He paused to stare wide-eyed, anticipating some fabled demon. A figure shrouded in the shade addressed him from atop the stairs, causing the knight to sheepishly avert his gaze. His guard lowered upon seeing what he interpreted as a human.

“Forgive my trespass,” the embarrassed warrior replied, mirroring the polite first words of his reluctant host. Accompanying the simple plea was a bow as dignified as he could manage in his awkward predicament. In a different situation, the contrast offered by his disheveled copper locks may have made the moment comical. “I had intended to mend my wounds and wait for this tempest to pass, but alas, I found myself in greater distress by some mischance. I expected this castle to be vacant; more’s my discomfiture, to be seen in such a woeful state.” The knight cleared his throat audibly, figuring he was making a fool of himself.

Reynar mustered the courage to focus on the man before him, emerald eyes catching the dim light. “Prate of my folly aside, I am thankful for your charitable intrusion in my brush with death. I am Sir Reynar of Hegary, a lowly knight. Prithee, good sir! Accept my gratitude and eagerness to return the favor.” Clearly, the young fool failed to grasp his savior’s predicament—or his own, for that matter.

Jewel

 

[Jewel]

With feelings of deep regret, as it appeared his guest as real as he was flesh, soft-spoken man at the top of the stair stepped through the arch and to the curved balcony above the stair, one pale hand coming to rest on the banister rail. The other was as cloth-less as he had left him, and with means to alleviate the embarrassment this caused both parties, Seifer began to descend the stair, readjusting the clothing he’d held under his arm to notify the knight of his reason for approaching. “Sir Reynar of Hegary.” He echoed, slowing as he gradually drew nearer.

“Welcome to Castle Brahkenreich. I’m afraid that you,” his voice growing stronger as he regained his composure, “are a very, very long way from Hegary.” He had stopped just before the bottom of the stair but held out the clothing so that the knight could take it from him. “Castle Brahkenreich rests in the very heart of Malchikhar. There is no place on earth as far from heaven.” And as near to the devil. But Sir Reynar would find that out soon enough.

“You have my permission to stay.” He said, moving now to return up the staircase in a calm, collected form of escape. “I’ll ensure food is brought to your room. I’d prefer that you remain in your chambers, but should you decide to explore, I have two rules I require you to adhere to.” He gave Reynar a serious look over his shoulder that he wasn’t sure the other could even see. “I must ask you to refrain from the upper east towers. I would prefer not to be disturbed in my… studies.” A pause. “And there’s a mess up there, I’d be embarrassed for you to see the disorder my estate is in.” He added that last part quickly, another break in his phlegmatic persona. “I’m afraid my servants… are currently on vacation.”

He stood at the top of the stairs and looked down at Reyner long enough for it to become clear that he was waiting for Reyner to follow him. “My second rule—”

Lightening flashed and every stark white detail of the room became bright in petrified clarity. The man at the top of the stair threw up his hand as if to protect himself from the shining, his face turning away sharply. But for that instant of vividity something unholy transpired in the place where the man stood. It had lasted less than a moment, it could’ve been missed by a blink. But where the light touched the man, the comely man no longer appeared. But instead, something indescribably, inconceivably monstrous stood in his place.

But in the dark again, it was the man who stood there. Now glowing with agitation. “No light!” He snarled in a complete turn of tone. “The only place light is permitted are in the places where I have put it there.” Thunder rolled as it chased after the lightening. “Now disturb my peace no longer! Least you find yourself sleeping in my dungeons instead.” And with a flip of his cloak he was gone, striding off into to the castle to recover from the irking, vexatious encounter.

Goonfire

 

[Goonfire]

The gracious host silently offered Reynar more appropriate garments during their conversation. With a gracious bow of his head, he approached and accepted them. A mystified expression crossed Reynar’s features, though; the garb seemed quite antiquated.

More puzzling was the state of the castle and its servants; the concept of vacation was often reserved for nobles and royalty. To leave a lord and his abode unattended was entirely a foreign concept in Hegary. Reynar consciously battled the skepticism threatening to bleed through his accepting facade. He knew what he had been told regarding Castle Brahkenreich. Had he not been physically aided by this lord, the knight may have thought him a specter.

The sudden flinch at the flare of lightning goaded Reynar to also wince reflexively. Though his head instinctively matched the cloaked man’s motions, he noticed a defined shadow cast on the stairs. His heart palpitated as his eyes traced the penumbra to its source. By then, all he saw was the man, visibly and audibly infuriated by the flash. Reynar glanced back to the shadow, which obviously matched the form casting it. Had he imagined it? No; the changed demeanor and odd rule implied there was more to his person than met the eye.

“Very well... Good night,” Reynar gently called after the man. He donned the fine old clothing soon after, taking care to not snag the bandages when threading his battered limb through the sleeve of the shirt. He also neatly folded the sheet; he planned to bring it back to his room. His mind wandered, for he had neglected to ask one important question. What question, though...? “Morgaine...!” he gasped, twisting dramatically to seek a path to the front gate. How could his host know of the tethered war horse?

Flailing his good arm as though it would magically increase his velocity, Reynar barreled through a corridor and, by happenstance, found himself in the foyer. The imposing doors seemed far too heavy for him to render ajar, yet he gave them a spirited shove. As expected, it didn’t budge—not immediately. It wasn't until he ceased that the lefthand door gradually peered open. Though bemused, he wasted no time dashing barefoot into the rain.

Outside, the remains of a stone path led to the formidable iron gates. Once Reynar drew closer, the portcullis miraculously rose for him. Beneath the same warped tree was Morgaine, exactly where he had left her. Though damp, she was faring well beneath the relative cover of the Malchikarian forest canopy. The temptation to flee this land surged, but a phrase lingered in his mind:

“I’m afraid that you are a very, very long way from Hegary.”

The fog encroached upon the castle grounds, threatening to consume the land in its entirety. From the corners of his vison, Reynar could swear there was movement, like skeletal hands threatening to seize and drag him into the abyssal night. He had to peek several times while escorting Morgaine inside in search of stables.

Conveniently, a humble, pale woman emerged from the fog, giving the knight a start. "Madam?" he called to her, stroking Morgaine's mane to alleviate her clear unease. "Is there a stable on the premises?" The blood suddenly drained from his face. This lady was transparent; the foliage was visible through her, and her legs were nonexistent four inches past the hem of her skirt. Her slender finger pointed towards a barely-perceivable wooden structure. With a gentle smile, she vanished.

Reynar gawped for a moment longer before rubbing his eyelids. Had he not been fully awake in the cold rain, he'd have assumed the occurence was but a dream. The sighting of ghosts challenged both the beliefs and sanity of a rational mind at once.

Once composed, he rushed his steed to the stables, in which he boarded her. He wondered whom he might implore for feed, given the servants were 'on vacation'. He resolved to inquire on the subject, should he and the master cross paths in the morning.

Parting with Morgaine, Reynar found his way back into the castle. He shivered, his clothing and hair drenched following his successful task. He backtracked through the decrepit, repellent spaces to his chambers, retrieving the linen along the way. Utilizing a candle from the corridor, he lit those in his candelabra. The warm glow brought life and comfort to the restful retreat.

After replacing the borrowed lighting implement, Reynar hesitated in his doorway. Four gouges across the tabletop earned his notice. “Are those claw marks?” he mumbled, tracing each scratch with a fingertip. His brow furrowed at the uncanny scars in the wood, his suspicions roused. “By the very gods... Into what reach of hell have I fallen?” He released a quivering breath, then bolted his door without question.

Jewel

 

[Jewel]

The dark lord trod down the grand left corridor, incessantly pulling his fingers through his hair. Long shadows leapt in his wake, distant candles shuddering to the ongoing storm. He fled through high marble arches, stunning architecture hidden to darkness, exquisite stain glass windows encrusted with layer after layer of dust. And the spirits trembled, fickle in nature, always whispering but never fully taking shape. The castle was veiled in a deep sadness, but nothing was more depressing than the dark-haired youth, banished from heaven and loathed by his fellow man.

He ascended, his clouded thoughts rampaging in disorder, as if mimicking the state of the stormy world outside. How long had gone by since the last time he saw a man of flesh? How long since anyone had passed through his gates? He worried now of his visitor. Had he come to kill him, perhaps? Had he let an enemy into his castle? He was distressed and he was fearful, hugging his arms to himself while he carried himself across thresholds to rooms even more forgotten than the rooms from before.

The man came to stand before a wooden arched double door. He stretched out one hand, letting his fingers graze along the surface of the door. “How pitiful.” He murmured to himself; eyes fluttering shut as he replayed the recent encounter over in his mind. How strange the other must think him. Perhaps a reconciliation was in order. He would be sure to provide a meal to the knight. And then later, perhaps he would return to check on him. But for now some quiet would do to calm him.

He entered through the doors into the stairwell leading to the upper east towers. And soon he came to situate himself in a large study, all the furniture having been pushed up against the walls, and the long dark curtains shredded half-way reaching the floor. In this room there were many candles, and many books stacked upon each other. Seifer preferred to spend his isolation reading through the endless library his castle had cultivated, but he could not read in the dark. So resolved to hide himself in the most remote parts of the castle so that he could be in the light alone. Though he was alone everywhere. So really, it was a foolish, pitiful thing to do. But still he did it, as if afraid a person might discover him for what he truly was.

Where the light touched him, his form underwent unnatural changes. His physic grew, and bulkened, and with it his flickering shadow grew, an imitation of what the man had become. His face became elongated, and his nails turned to that of the claws of an animal, shiny until furred where the luminance reached where skin should’ve been. Nearing the candles still, his pale arms took on a furred texture, patterns and markings accompanying his beastly transformation. He had the black mane of a lion, and he walked on all fours like some abominable beast. In place of a face there was scarcely skin at all, a skull so white and visible that it was his lupine face, long, curved horns protruding from the sides of his head. Four pairs of eyes blinked down at the pages of the books laid open before him, books which were comically small now to the creature presiding over them.

Even the ghosts rarely neared him in his wretched, cursed form. He couldn’t blame them. He couldn’t stand to look upon himself either. Not even in his human form could he stand to see his face. He spent so much time in beastly form that he felt weak and pathetic in his human flesh, but spent enough time in his human form that he was awkward and clumsy in his other form.

--

Some time passed before he became agitated once more, unable to focus on the tomes of literature and language for favor of thoughts of worry. What was the knight doing now? Was he exploring places he oughtn't? He was distressed, but also obsessed with thoughts of the other. What if he had hurt himself, and was lying unconscious at the bottom of some lengthy stairwell?

With a huff, he roused himself, fur bristling, and exited through the door he had come, long twisted horns dragging along the ceiling until the light faded and the man, who was not quite a man, became almost a man again. To his annoyance, it was at that moment that some impish spirit decided to light the candles in the hall, retriggering the man’s transformation before it had scarcely turned him. Blowing out candles was incredibly difficult in his present form. An unforeseen issue he had resolved by eating the candles. That is, chomping them up in his massive jaws. This, however, also led to the common occurrence of him in his human form with a mouthful of candle wax.

--

Seifer went next to the library. This was one of the few rooms in the castle where light was abundant, yet it was one of the few rooms of the castle Seifer genuinely felt at ease. Many of the long shelves had suffered being knocked askew by his intimidating form, and many of the tomes had been, to Seifer’s lament, unfortunately shredded by clumsy claws. But he had learned. He would, with great care, locate a book he wished to read, and then snuff the light, and then retrieve the book. And to his delight, there were many shadowy places in the library where he could sit in peace and still see the pages of his books, though it was cause for great eyestrain and could not be done for more than a few hours.

Seifer lumbered up to the center of the library where there was a raised rostrum with a lectern poised at the forefront. He had spent the morning in the library watching the rain pitter down the windows. The windows, which, rising behind the rostrum, were ginormous, imposing pieces, pointed at their curved tops, and positioned beside each other like tombstones in a military cemetery. He climbed over one low balcony, agile body easily able to climb the expanse, and he proceeded to the second raised level—which was one of a dozen winding higher into the endless room.

Goonfire

 

[Goonfire]

The early morning would have been wholly unremarkable for Reynar, if not for his overarching predicament. He left his borrowed outfit draped over the chair in his room. The burning candles revealed more features of the chamber; a fireplace sat empty, useless to the knight. The faint warmth dried the fabric unhurriedly while he slumbered for a couple hours more; his past ordeals left him needing more rest than he allowed himself prior to his first encounters with the castle’s curious denizens.

Reynar rose again to dull light peering through his window. The subfusc wash at least revealed the faded grandeur of the cozy suite. More regal hues and elegant patterns had discolored over the years. Once-lavish furniture served as both witness to and victim of the degradation. The time-ravaged sights instilled an ounce of pity within the young knight.

As Reynar prepared to venture out, he noticed near the foot of his bed were his belongings—his coin purse, iron ring bearing the crest of his order, and his boots. All articles had been cleaned of blood. Had the lord endured such toil for him, or were the evident spirits of Brahkenreich at work? He gleefully adorned himself with the cleansed accessories, then hastily resumed his exploration of the locale.

Reynar wandered for several minutes, poking his head into various rooms, starting with other guest chambers and moving towards the center. He surveyed the frescoes, depicting outlandish scenes. Skeletons parodied a festive scene, fountains and chalices overflowing with red wine—nay, fresh blood. The painting sent a chill down his spine; there was no way one would be tasteless enough to adorn a wall with such shocking artwork.

Another featured a bloody battle, there were humans in this one, only... they were losing this fight against the undead, their blades sliding between the ribs of the skeletons. The humans pierced with the monsters’ weapons were visibly rotting, their own bones exposed around the point of contact. Reynar cringed at the carnage in this imagery and made a point to shuffle quickly past it.

Now that he had time to appreciate it, the foyer was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Lengths of plush carpet connected the various branching corridors. A fire pit ten feet in diameter once kept this bitter atrium bathed in light and warmth. Iron lanterns with glass enclosures adorned the pillars, some empty, others containing a single snuffed candle each. The two sets of towering doors—one leading outside, the other to the great hall—were closed, as though whatever force had opened them to accommodate Reynar’s frantic errand had shut them once more. His touch revealed most surfaces were coated with a thin veneer of dust.

In the east corridor, a most peculiar bulge in the lengthy rug was immediately noticeable. Reynar halted his wandering to inspect the bizarre object. He shuddered upon recognizing it as a humanoid form. Apprehensively, he knelt beside it and lifted the edge of the rug. Flipping the length of carpet revealed nothing underneath, which did little to relieve his unease. The knight then looked up to a portrait on the outer wall. The image of a regally dressed, middle-aged man, rendered at a three-quarter view, stared back. The royal’s head turned to glare directly at Reynar. He then reared up and lunged, the canvas stretching unrealistically as the entity strained to attack. Reynar howled in horror and backed into the double doors, which gave way and let him topple into his back, hitting his head against the marble floor.

A spiral of beautiful stained glass spun along with the entire room. Reynar came to his senses and immediately sprang to his feet. The portrait had returned to normal, and he found himself in a ruined chapel. The religious statues had long since crumbled, the room stripped of any holy iconography. He panted as he backed into the chapel, watching in case the frightful specter had, indeed, emerged from the portrait.

Jewel

 

[Jewel]

“…the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains, everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future.” -Hermann Hesse

Seifer poured over his books, draped over the polished remains of a macassar ebony shelf, his eyes fixed on the prose of philosophy, his imagination thick around his head, blocking out the quiet sounds of the castle while the gray morning dawned. He thought to himself how profound the study of man, the study of anatomy, of astrology, of history, all of which were just philosophy in altered forms. Men could prove science, but all hypotheses began with conjecture, which must then be proven, and weren’t then studies of mathematics, physics, and language, weren’t they studies meant to pursue the fundamental questions of existence, reason, knowledge, and of mind? Then they were philosophy.

What meaning or purpose man derived from science or religion, Seifer thought he must be excluded. He was hardly a man anymore, with his affliction and his depravity, with his freakish transformation, his curse, his unnatural burden. To be alone, to be separate from man, and to be forbidden from Heaven. Cursed like the serpent in Eden and condemned to his own hell. Vain to liken himself to Lucifer, but of all religious figures he knew, his story was the one that resonated the most.

He stewed in his dismay. He thought he, of all the men on earth, he must understand the devil like none other. Like the devil, he was thrown from grace into a desolate waste of death and misery, to live abhorred by man, pitied by none, and likened to monsters. The son of morning driven from paradise for a crime that the mortal man commits daily. Seifer wondered if he too had offended God. But he wondered more that he believed in an ancient god at all, with texts so worn and withered they contained more illegible passages than readable ones.

Seifer was pulled from his thoughts by a peculiar sound he heard elsewhere in the castle. It took him a few frightening moments to remember that he had a guest in his estate. Rousing himself, he crawled out of the toppled shelf’s debris, tucked his current read under his arm, and proceeded out from the darkness. Where the light dared to touch him, his skin rippled, but he ducked into the shadows, skirting around the edge of the room until he could safely return the tome to its place. A silly action since the whole library was in such disorder, and a great number of the bookshelves had toppled or caved in, sending dust-colored books sprawling in all directions, but a habit he maintained in reverence to the books he had not yet destroyed.

It became dark again as he left the warmth of the library. The rest of the unlit castle was cold. Often at night there was frost on the windows, even into the late summer, and now as the distant sun touched the castle windows through many layers of thick, flocculent clouds, the ice glittered prettily. Seifer had taken to sleeping during the day—though so often it was impossible to tell the time of day with the constant spell of gloom—and he began to feel the fatigue of the night settling in as he crossed the gallery and stepped into an adjacent corridor. It had to have been several hours since he left his guest alone. He hoped, despite the cry of distress he had heard, that his guest was not being tormented by the spirits of the castle. It was enough to drive anyone mad, being so surrounded by the dead at all hours.

He circled back around to the Refectory and saw, in the new light, the thickness of the dust that had settled over everything. With a wave of his arm, he bid the ghosts (who were always lurking at his heels) to follow his command, and to rid the room of its filthiness. And the ghosts (who revered him still as their lord) commenced cleaning, pellucid maids lifting feather dusters to the filmy tables, specter servants wiping the silver and the plates. Seeing this in order, the lord moved next to the kitchens. And not long after, the kitchens had come alive (ha) with paranormal activity, ghostly cooks rattling cupboards and dancing across the hearth.

To the sudden blaze of the kitchen fires, Seifer retreated, crossing back through the dining room, and then moving up the stair and exiting to the hall which led to the place where his guest had been situated. But to his (not) surprise, he discovered that his visitor was not in his room. He breathed a heavy sigh. He looked over to the table he had knocked over earlier in the hall, thinking again of the encounter. Oh, how clumsy and awkward that had been! He’d completely forgotten in all the confusion to introduce himself. Now the other probably thought he was some nameless dimwit interloping in his own estate, with no title or relevance, and with his complexion, as much a ghost as the rest of the haunt.

With a second sigh, Seifer began his search of the other, hoping to find him before dear knight Reynar found his sword and made up his mind to kill Seifer, having perhaps discovered his true nature.

Goonfire

 

[Goonfire]

The castle had reverted to its previous quiet state—quiet enough for Reynar to hear so much as a pin drop. As he rested his hand on his chest to monitor his pulse, which was settling to a slower rhythm. He eventually mustered the courage to abscond from this wing, carpet be damned; not a second was spent correcting the overturned matting.

Reynar glanced behind himself as he scrambled in the direction from whence he came. With no ghouls or demons in pursuit, the hapless knight assumed he was free and clear.

The knight circled back around to the hall in which he first met his host. The multiple entranceways and columns occluded his view, so he unwittingly walked past his host . The footsteps, however, caught Reynar’s attention, and when he went to gawk, his legs guided him into the exact same table of trinkets and baubles. “Oh...!” he gasped, barring the decorations from clattering to the floor with his capable and dexterous hand.

By then, he espied the lord, who no doubt took notice of the circling, disheveled fool. “I beg your pardon, m’lord! I can explain...!” he averred, his worry evident. The overwhelming embarrassment momentarily took his mind off the harrowing encounter near the chapel. By the noble’s whereabouts, Reynar conjectured the two were headed for the same destination, if the former had not done so already. The thought also crossed his mind—what if the gracious host had come to investigate the scream and assumed the knight was merely skylarking?

Jewel

 

[Jewel]

Seifer was pleasantly surprised to run into his guest whom he had been seeking. Though still aching from the embarrassment of their last encounter, he resolved right then to correct his error. And he couldn’t help but laugh as the knight knocked into the very table Seifer had impacted earlier, saving the ornaments with greater suave than Seifer had exhibited.

“Please,” He said, thinking how poignant the significance of his laugh, a sound he had not heard in so very long, accompanied by an inexplicable swell of heat in his chest. “I am afraid it is I who should be apologizing to you. I was harsh with you—and I failed to be a decent host. I am Lord Brahkenreich, and this is my estate. Let me make my poor comportment up to you. I’ve arranged for a dinner to be prepared in the hall if you will do me the courtesy of accompanying me.” He gestured for the other man to follow him, and then lead the other back to the hall from whence he’d come. He was glad the other was behind him so that he could not observe his chagrined expression.

In the refectory a long, dark-wooded table was situated. The further end of the table illuminated by low candles and set up with an arrangement of porcelain and silver dishes. The opposite end of the table, also set up, was unlit.

Though dark, the room was spectacularly embellished, with painted angelic figures spanning the walls and ceiling, marble cherubs dancing above the doorways, diamond-shaped chandeliers overflowing with tiny glass spirals, and long wispy curtains draped around the tall black windows. A great fireplace sat to one adjacent wall, a large dark mirror situated above it, engraved by one twisting crack that splintered down the center of it. The table was lavishly decorated, supporting glittering candelabras, figurines in the shapes of biblical women, empty vases with entwining vines budding with bright flowers of blue, pink, and yellow.

Seifer resigned himself to the dark end of the table. The insinuation seemed to be that Reynar should situate himself on the opposite end of the table. This arrangement would make conversation extremely inconvenient. But Seifer refused to near the light. And he was insistent that his guest not be made to dine in the dark. It had seemed like the most logical solution to seat them far apart and contain the light strictly to Reynar’s side.

They had hardly sat before ghostly figures began to emerge from the kitchen, bringing with them platters of fine foods and rosy beverages. So much food was brought, in fact, that the table was soon full. It was completely absurd that the two alone might consume so much. Seifer, apparently unpressed, folded his napkin across his knee. He did nothing to acknowledge the awkward distance between them, or his peculiar propensity to eating in the dark. He also made no attempt to converse with Reynar.

Though he had not eaten in some time, Seifer hardly had an appetite. It was nervousness that made his stomach ache. He watched the other with owlish trepidation, fearing what feelings had emerged in him since the other man’s arrival. It had been so long since he’d been in the company of another person—he hardly knew how to act. Was he staring too much? He looked down at his plate. Should he speak? What might he say? How uncomfortable he was making everything!

And after the spirits had brought food, they removed untouched dishes to replace them with trays containing all assortments of sweet cakes and treats. Seifer refrained from dessert, thinking only how he might regurgitate his meal should he be forced to endure much more of this anxiety-inducing dinner.

He got up from his chair and neared as close as he would dare, eyeing the candles with grim dismay. "If you need anything... I'll be in the Library." And then, feeling quite drained, he turned to leave the knight to finish his meal in peace.