FFJ - 11 - Sleep, love; forever sleep

A rasp of wind breathed into the long-dormant hall sends cobwebs swaying. Sunlight ekes into the stone tunnel, a disrupted haze of dust caught in the shimmer. The man rests, exhausted. The gap is enough to squeeze into the passage below if he removes his pack. A piton hammered, rope lowered. A way out. He grits his teeth, trying in vain to stop his body from shaking. His mind is racing, but he must push on. First, he lowers his bullseye lantern into the hall. The wide beam illuminates the Northern tunnel. No movement. Next, the pack goes down with a forceful push.

The contents are wrapped, but the sound of the impact is louder than he would have liked. He waits, patience dissolving with his courage. Still, he pauses. It is too dangerous not to. He glances down the corridors from above. Nothing. Last, he drops in, scratching a long line down with reflective chalk. He does not expect to see the light again, relishing its warmth for a moment before allowing himself to submerge with the shadows.

He gathers his belongings and moves down the Northern tunnel. He is banking on his research as he winds through forking tunnels. The air is damp, droplets condensed on the cool stone walls. Moss sprawls between the cracks and lines the floors, softening his booted steps. The man keeps a steady hand on the lantern’s door, ready to snuff it at a moment's notice. A waterlogged, swollen door blocks his path forward. He listens, only the drip of water from the other side. 

With careful movements he unwraps the crowbar from his pack and situates it just above the handle. Incrementally, he leans his weight onto it. A soft creak then a crack as soggy boards bend. He stops, presses experimentally against the center. It is enough. With hands that remain unsteady, he pushes it open.

A round chamber with six branching passages greets him. Empty. He lets out a breath. It clouds in front of him, confirmation that he is getting closer. Scattered, mundane furniture lay broken about the high-ceilinged room. Mold and decay has reclaimed it. The man produces a well-worn silver compass and moves to the tunnel furthest to the East.

The chill intensifies until his tremors are no longer just from nerves. Each breath a sharp discomfort to his nose and throat. Time wears thin. The cold has reached a crescendo, and his pace quickens if nothing more than to keep blood moving. Counting his steps, he douses the lantern. He is close. A distant door illuminated from flickering candlelight within. He sets the pack and lantern down and draws forth a delicate hand crossbow and a single silver bolt, fletched in white and gold. An almost imperceptible glow surrounds the weapon. He knocks the arrow and sets the string. 

The shuffling of dragged feet from the other side. Groans and the muffled chatter of an ageless man. Tears burn in the man's eyes. He readies the bow in his right hand and reaches for the door with his left.

He barges through with a cavalcade of motion. Black candles hover in the air, illuminating a lavish study. Untitled leather tomes line weighty bookshelves that wrap around the desk of the crimson-robed figure in the center. The man with the bow feels nothing but rage and remorse at the sight of this creature, this thing. Bones protrude from paper-thin skin drawn taut. It’s empty eye sockets adorned with gleaming amethyst gems. Yet, the man dashes to the left, away from the rising thing.

To the side of the room stands a dead man, flesh decayed and rotting. Clothes tattered and caked with dried blood from old wounds. Eyes-unseeing, only a vessel for commands given by the one who makes a mockery of life and death. Tears fall as the man levels the crossbow at his husband. The bolt strikes true, white flame trailing behind it. Flesh burns, flaking away like ashes to the wind. Rest, at last. The man pivots, sprinting back to the door as a grim laugh echoes behind him.