Sequel: Vernacular ›
Lead and Gold
Nigredo
The structure that Godricke arrived at was grand in comparison to the basic styles of village life. Whereas the countryside was dotted with thatch-on-wood cottages, this relic was composed of smoky brick upon smoky brick, its height towering far above the standard height for a normal residence. Several of the bricks were so weatherworn that it seemed as if the surrounding stone pieces would cave into the gaps, but, by some miracle, the structure remained quite sturdy. The steeply sloping roof was crowned by two pointed towers, the highest of which swallowed the figure of the sun, leaving a fiery aura to illuminate the outline of the stone. Upon one of the towers, a larger scale replica of the trinket Godricke held in his pocket had been erected, but from his position, the glare prevented him from noticing it. Lower down, large windows were evenly spaced along the entirety of the wall—at least, what had been windows. Now, they were just empty spaces, rusted steel frames still stubbornly retaining a few odd shards of colored glass. In the eastern most window, a somewhat larger glass fragment had managed to endure the elements, though its color had been completely stripped away, leaving it to closer resemble a mirror than its original design. It was to this window that Godricke advanced, for the moment completely oblivious to his surroundings, eyes only focused on the reflection that approached him as he moved.
Dull black hair hung over a pair of slate grey eyes, eyes that perfectly blended into the stone before them. A pale face stared from the mirror, expressionless, a slight nose suspended above thin lips, both slightly offset by a crude scar mapped across the chin. The body that lies beneath the scope of the reflection was similarly thin compared to his other features, but it was by no means frail. Godricke’s position as village chief required that he attend to any maintenance or repairs requested by the people; that also meant that much of the manual labor was left to him as well. Days and long evenings of towing wooden beams from one side of town to the other left him fairly toned, though it sadly was not enough to make him appear imposing. For some reason, though, he felt vulnerable. Maybe it was just his nerves, or this place; maybe it was the very task at hand, what he may have to do, that put him off; he only knew that he felt unusually vulnerable.
Another report shook him to attention, this time from within the building. Godricke dropped to his knees and pressed to the wall, eyes squeezed shut and heart beating erratically. He had done it again; why today, of all days, was his focus so poor? Taking a steadying breath, he walked forward in his crouch and around the nearest corner, the grand doors coming into view. There were no windows surrounding the entrance, and he stood without fear of being caught. The entryway was gracefully arched, engraved with countless plaster vines and granite rosebuds, never really fully blooming. The way the vines seemed to almost choke the ebony doors, the way the buds seemed to rest upon the outline of the door, made it seem as if they were trying to hide the entrance from prying eyes; the ebony was just an elaborate part of the wall, nothing to see here, move along. Above the door was etched a single phrase, now unintelligible, a possible attempt of warding; the words were just marks now, their power, if ever there was any, long gone. These words had been rendered helpless to time, leaving only an illusion of their purpose behind. A few steps away from him was the beaten brass doorknob, glittering faintly in the specks of sunlight that wasn’t hidden by the spires of the roof. For the haunt of a monster, he thought, still moving forward, this place is hauntingly beautiful. Before he knew it, his hand was gently wrapped around the bronze, angled slightly, not yet fully turning it, but disturbing it from its original position. He allowed himself a final pause, eyes trained on the scars the elements left upon the dully gleaming black before him. What was he about to face? On more then one occasion, his people had been in possessed by bouts of raving mania, pulling at their hair and screaming. They said they had heard stories about this thing, stories handed down from their great-grandfathers, and probably farther back. His eyes fell again on the faded words, and he wondered what effect Time had had upon the creature inside—had it beaten him down to a shell of what he had been? Or was Time the one who had been beaten back?
Closing his eyes, Godricke pushed the door open.
Dull black hair hung over a pair of slate grey eyes, eyes that perfectly blended into the stone before them. A pale face stared from the mirror, expressionless, a slight nose suspended above thin lips, both slightly offset by a crude scar mapped across the chin. The body that lies beneath the scope of the reflection was similarly thin compared to his other features, but it was by no means frail. Godricke’s position as village chief required that he attend to any maintenance or repairs requested by the people; that also meant that much of the manual labor was left to him as well. Days and long evenings of towing wooden beams from one side of town to the other left him fairly toned, though it sadly was not enough to make him appear imposing. For some reason, though, he felt vulnerable. Maybe it was just his nerves, or this place; maybe it was the very task at hand, what he may have to do, that put him off; he only knew that he felt unusually vulnerable.
Another report shook him to attention, this time from within the building. Godricke dropped to his knees and pressed to the wall, eyes squeezed shut and heart beating erratically. He had done it again; why today, of all days, was his focus so poor? Taking a steadying breath, he walked forward in his crouch and around the nearest corner, the grand doors coming into view. There were no windows surrounding the entrance, and he stood without fear of being caught. The entryway was gracefully arched, engraved with countless plaster vines and granite rosebuds, never really fully blooming. The way the vines seemed to almost choke the ebony doors, the way the buds seemed to rest upon the outline of the door, made it seem as if they were trying to hide the entrance from prying eyes; the ebony was just an elaborate part of the wall, nothing to see here, move along. Above the door was etched a single phrase, now unintelligible, a possible attempt of warding; the words were just marks now, their power, if ever there was any, long gone. These words had been rendered helpless to time, leaving only an illusion of their purpose behind. A few steps away from him was the beaten brass doorknob, glittering faintly in the specks of sunlight that wasn’t hidden by the spires of the roof. For the haunt of a monster, he thought, still moving forward, this place is hauntingly beautiful. Before he knew it, his hand was gently wrapped around the bronze, angled slightly, not yet fully turning it, but disturbing it from its original position. He allowed himself a final pause, eyes trained on the scars the elements left upon the dully gleaming black before him. What was he about to face? On more then one occasion, his people had been in possessed by bouts of raving mania, pulling at their hair and screaming. They said they had heard stories about this thing, stories handed down from their great-grandfathers, and probably farther back. His eyes fell again on the faded words, and he wondered what effect Time had had upon the creature inside—had it beaten him down to a shell of what he had been? Or was Time the one who had been beaten back?
Closing his eyes, Godricke pushed the door open.