Withered

She held a flickering candelabra, lighting her path throughout the hall. Her left hand, occupied by the weight of her gown, the color of a fully formed bruise. As she began to pick up her pace, she attempted to remember the directions from the ivory-stained scroll that was left in her chamber.  

Before she registered what happened, the light died as it hit the stone. The shake in her hands led her to drop the fabric—feeling a scrape from her scabbard—when she was met with a familiar voice. The sound uttered drowned her in a sense of relief as she welcomed an old friend.

“Looking for what is not meant to be found, Quella,” the woman said with crimson splattered on her sleeves.

“I must find him, Solène,” she murmured.   

“Finding him will be of no use to you. You forget yourself.” It wasn’t until now that Quella noticed the pool that followed Solène’s path, and her remarks vanished into the hall.    

Quella treaded against the rhythm of the coarse ground, which seemed to guide her movements. She moved as if there were an endless supply of light that beamed through the corridors. Though nothing but darkness draped around her, she halted.   

Bloody wrinkled hands met her chest. Underneath the gossamer she hides herself with, Solène began with a plea, “Countess, restrain yourself. He is not himself; he is lost.” Quella examined the woman’s state. Although internally struck, her expression remained vacant. 

“And so are we all,” she shrugged off as she shifted her hand towards Solène.

The crash into the stone lasted mere seconds and left Quella to encounter his sunken eyes. Forming a hollow so deep, only the flickers of the lover she once knew remained. Though he wasn’t a man, but a creature she could hardly recognize any longer. 

It was only nights ago when the two had been together. She felt her pulse beginning to quicken as she reminisced about that memory. Hints of laughter echoed in her ear, almost casting voices out loud. Through the fragmented window, light illuminated from the moon onto the moat. As if snapped out of this trance, Quella noticed the darkness that shadowed his sharpened smile. 

A breathy whisper expelled from her lips, “Casimir.”   

The laughter that once echoed from memory materialized in him, almost as a jest. It wasn’t now that she knew, but Quella did as she must. Feeling sluggish, she gripped the hilt of her dagger, and as if he knew her next moves, he grasped his. Her obsidian hair matched with his eyes, tousled around her being. 

The brute took a step closer, taking hold of the visage of her woe. With tears welling in her eyes, she dropped the grasp of her weapon. A glint of sadness followed in his gaze, as he too let go of his blade. Here in this hall was where they stood, she and he. When they both had heartbeats. 

A single blink of emotion that Quella had beheld—a confirmation, as she allowed the cold steel she once let go of to betray her heart. Only now, a void in his eyes and sorrow in hers.