The Littlest Light

#Chapter7-01

#Chapter7-01

The icy ambience that cauterized all traces of life from the many rooms of Battleridge was the gentle reminder that all things changed. The once magnificent home had fallen, and although the stubborn remnants of the time before my rule still roamed the halls in suffocating stillness, mocking away from the covered portraits and hidden secrets that stowed away in the manor, it was a victory.

But not all victories were sweet.

As the fall of my feet disrupted the layer of dust that had settled between the fibres of the thick carpet, blistering into unpleasant waves that settled against my chest, there was little pride at the achievement. The unlit corridors offered as little solace had they had the first day I claimed them as my own; naivety had birthed the belief that once I had avenged my parent's honour, the anger inside would have settled like strewn confetti, and the dull, senseless ache would have evolved into an offering of peace — It hadn't taken long for that idea to take a one-way trip to where childhood innocence went to die.

"Mowser." Bable, bable, bable, the noise that spurted like a fountain, picking apart the usual silence, it followed me. For every step I took, the boy, his hand pinched against my sleeve, took two, bouncing to keep up. The fear that had cradled him to its breast only moments ago was replaced by an energy that had the shutters of my mind slamming shut.

If not for the words of the Vidua, I would have accidentally stuck my foot out in front of it when we were coming down the stairs. I figured that a marble step sandwich was good for quieting people down. But for however grand an idea it was, the kid remained oblivious to his close call, his volume cranking and the newfound comfort taking roots.

"Sit there," I ordered once we'd bypassed the foyer, taken a merry 'ole stroll down a strip of darkness and rounded into the large quarters that fabricated the kitchen. It was one of the few locations that were tended to, cleaned regularly, and used daily. The grey granite of the countertops gleamed beneath the fluorescence overheads, a mirage of diamonds catching from the corner of my eyes.

"Seet der," the boy badly mimicked, extending his arm in the same manner, poking his finger at the velvet-backed kitchen chair the same way I had. "Seet der."

The hulking, hand-carved table, each leg engraved with the crest of our pack, overlooked the opulent glass doors that extended out towards the backyard. Stranded at a slight tilt, the disposition of the Asher family relic split the kitchen into a divide. The appliances gathered to the right, caged in by the obstruction of the conjoining breakfast bar, leaving floor space and a gathering area for what I assumed was meant to be loving families.

I'd pictured it many times: Malcolm Asher and his perfect little Luna and his perfect little heir, all seated and cosy, basking in the undisturbed calm that had come before the storm I had bought. In my head, the walls, the sickly golden yellow they'd been before I'd painted over them, the sun would dance between the brush strokes, and the scent of freshly prepared seasonings would bask in the air.

Call me sadistic, but envisioning that, it induced a slither of cold satisfaction at how empty and void the space had become. Any warmth it had held, it had died along with its previous owner.

"Star, seet der," Lumen chirped, flinching as I lifted him up by a handful of his shirt and dumped him on the chair. "Star, hall duh mowser der." Using his poky little finger, he clambered to his knees, almost falling, and jerked it towards the sliding doors. Stealing the brightness of the room, his eyes were like pinwheels, twinkling, breathing out his emotions as easily as the air exhaled from his lungs.

"And I'm supposed to understand any of that?" I demanded. My chair, head of the table, holding a prime position for all-round awareness, looked mighty appealing. The crushed velvet of the seat was plush and inviting, promising to take the deadweight off my feet and ease the spasms that needled the muscles in my thighs. But sitting down was a shut-down point, and I knew the chances of getting back up were going to be slim to none.

Peeling off my jacket and disposing of it in front of the machine, ditching my boots and socks along the way, I closed the distance to the sink. The scrapes and nicks that sunk into the flesh of my hands should have healed by now. Would have healed by now, had they been inflicted by natural means. But the anomalies of those woods? They were anything but natural.

They were puffy and sore, and the deeper ones wept. A thin film of puss had congealed around the wound that arched around my wrist. It wasn't severe, but a tongue had whipped out from between the trees and wound around it. I'd managed to get free, but it'd left behind suction indents that had broken the skin. Dousing them all with anti-bac hand wash, and then going back for a second helping just to be sure, the water ran dark before clear.

The pain was welcomed. It distracted from the derailed movement of wayward thoughts, and as my eyes dropped closed, I was able to momentarily blot out the mambo-jumbo routine the kid was spewing. And those few quietened seconds? They were bliss.

The difference that came from scrubbing my mitts and giving my face a once over was almost unexplainable. The clawing, the feeling of bugs migrating beneath my flesh, it lessened, and it was like it was the shock my body needed to kickstart and throw out some whining demands. Sleep. Eat. Sleep. Eat. Strip. Sleep.

Not specifically in that order.

"You hungry?" Opening the fridge, giving the lowly contents a once over, I zeroed in on the plate that dominated the middle shelf. It was heaped with halved sandwiches and covered in clingfilm. Jonathan's messy scrawl stared back at me from the pink post-it note that had been attached. It bore two simple words: Eat Something.

It wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last. I wasn't sure why he bothered. It was a thankless job, but he was hyped up on some jaded sense of loyalty, and an immoral sense of obligation followed him around like a puppy because of that.

Screwing the note up into a ball and tossing it in the general direction of the bin, I pulled the meal substitute out. The film layer wasn't enough to keep the identity of the filler a secret, and after inhaling deeply, I identified them as chicken and mayo.

"Hungie?" Lumen parrotted, almost falling off the chair again as he twizzled in his seat to follow my movements. "Hungie, hungie, seet der."

It wasn't clear if he was confirming that he was hungry, or just extremely dull. But remembering the mushed up food that he'd ground into the carpet, which had another tick of annoyance bobbing down on my jaw, I set the plate on the table and placed a segment in front of him.

"Eat," I instructed him. Coffee was a miracle juice, and after shoving a mug under the machine, the gurgle of life it emitted was like music to my ears.

"Jam?"

"What?"

"Jam?" Lumen asked. He'd spun around in the chair to follow me again, his fingers dug so deep into the bred that they'd tore through, and the filling fell from the bottom where his grip was slacking, falling against the navy tiles.

"Does it look like jam?" A blank look and an owlish blink was his only response. "It's chicken."

"Chickies," he gasped, awkwardly reaching over with his other hand, which had been gripping the back of the chair, to pet the thing.

Eyes closing, I sent up another plea for patience. Or an asteroid. I'd have taken either. But the Fates were malicious, and the seconds that followed were as draining as those that had already passed. "Just eat it."

Chickie became another chant added to his growing broken-record syndrome, and after stirring my coffee, taking comfort in the bitter aroma that coiled away from it in thin wisps of steam, I poured him some milk on afterthought.