Status: fin
Demon Eyes
the crone
Ygne’s not sure how long she’s been afloat, she just knows that it’s been a while. She’s moved upwards, she is sure, but once she stops moving her feet hit the ground and her heart beats faster. She was going up, she knows this. She knows—but she’s standing firm on her feet now.
One breath, two, then three and she calms her beating heart. She’s survived a forest, a dragon and two witches; she’ll survive this as well.
Her feet are heavy as she moves and her palms sweaty. The whole of her sweaty – her dress is clinging to her legs and her back and she feels like she’s boiling beneath her own skin. It’s a foreign, unpleasant feeling because it feels like there’s a chilly breeze moving through the darkness.
It carries the voice, a voice that says Long live the Witch Queen and if she wasn’t sure she made it up, Ygne would be sure that this is the very same voice that once told her: kill the queen. Long live the Witch Queen, long live the Witch Queen, it chants in ghastly breaths. She realises, moments later, that the breaths are her own.
In front of herself, Ygne senses the movement more than she notices it and she bows slightly, unsure of how to act before the third witch. This one is not like the others – there is something ancient and grandiose about her, but not in the flaunting way, like with the Lady. She just gives off this air – I am big. I am important. I know this.
Ygne tries to apply this for herself, too, but her upper lip is quivering and her hands are clenched, nervous.
“Why are you here?” The witch’s face is covered in a veil, but beneath the rim, Ygne can make out dark, ruby red choker and the closed dress. She’s all in black, barely standing out from the encompassing darkness, but somehow Ygne can hear her clearly. Her hands are gloved, too, and there is no skin or hair visible on her.
Her voice sounds like finality. Like the end.
It is, indeed, quite fitting.
“I don’t know.” She admits. “I came for guidance, originally. Feels more like I’ve came for death, my lady.” Her words wear more weight than she’s realised when she’s spoken them, but they are true. She feels this, every ounce of her being is dancing with this – she is out here to die. To be sacrificed like a lamb. Just another petty story of a hero, just another faceless woman to be used as a motive for knights and peasants and boys and girls dreaming of better.
She didn’t come for death; she was sent here for it.
Ygne knows that now – knows that prophesies are not real and that the stories are not real. Terror and fear are the only concrete things, the only things that matter and that she should mind. She should’ve fought it; a pretty foreign girl, a maid with big heart, surely she is sympathy-educing enough.
But not at the price of her life. Still, she cannot go back now. There is no ‘back’ now at all. Where would she go? To the people who want her to either work a miracle or die trying? No way.
“You are wrong.” The witch says, elderly voice oddly comforting. It feels like Ygne knows her, like she’s grown familiar with it. Like a grandmother, and yet not quite. “It is not death you will find here, child. Not now, not ever.”
“I haven’t come here to seek mine.” The witch’s words do not make her feel any better. Getting back empty-handed is worse than not getting back at all. If she had anywhere to go, things would be different. But she has nowhere else to go. She can’t go back to Sivo, a land where she’s never been to before, and she can’t go anywhere else. In every corner of the world, the Witch Queen will find her.
Even here, in the Kingswood, where the higher magic should rule, the Witch Queen can find her.
“You wish to kill the Witch Queen?” The crone sounds amused. Ygne cannot see the mocking smile beneath her veil, but she can imagine one very well. It shows in her voice, even, but the young woman cannot call her out. It is not the time and it is not her place.
Instead, she nods vigorously, because she has no words left. She cannot justify this without slipping over her own words, but she has a goal, a miracle to bring to life.
“I can help you.” I can help you, I can help you the voice chants now. It’s the walls of the tomb, it’s the air around her and the darkness surrounding her. “But you do not wish to kill her. You wish to fulfil the goal of others.”
“That’s not true.” Ygne’s voice waves at the very beginning. She feels small. “I have to kill her.”
“That’s different from wanting, my child. But it’ll tell you this.” The witch comes closer, gloved hands reaching out and she touches Ygne’s face. Even through her gloves, Ygne can feel the coldness seep until it reaches her skin and she shudders. “It’s an age-old story. Send a pretty girl to die, so you could have the chance to tell stories of witches killing virgins and queens slaying them for their blood. But here’s the plot twist – the girl doesn’t die. Then what?”
Ygne’s heart is beating. The witch is old and frail and shorter than her. One push, she is sure, and the witch would break, but Ygne doesn’t push her because she has a point.
“You tell me. Then what?”
The witch pulls away abruptly, red rubies on her neck leaving fiery trails in the darkness. She leans up towards Ygne and the girl can see her skin, dark. Sivo-dark, like the girl’s and like the lady’s. Like her own. She can see, also, the scars – the molten skin and bones on the right side of the face, only a flash, and then witch is looking forward again.
“That depends on the girl.” Ygne opens her mouth to inquire, to ask again—then what? Then what? “If the girl has the demon eyes, the girl survives.” Then what, then what?
She doesn’t get her chance, because the seconds she opens her mouth, the darkness is thick around her again and the witch is gone. Ygne can no longer sense her presence, even though the magic is strong, and Ygne’s stranded in the middle of the no-world, somewhere between her own imagination and the horror maze designed by the strongest magic-wielders in tales and reality.
She doesn’t know where to move, she doesn’t know how to move and even if she did—where would she go?
Backtrack, the voice says, so the only option to backtrack from here would be to go down, so that she can get further up. On the third try, she loses the footing and body goes up for a brief moment before it sinks through the floor. She is moving downwards.
She exits through the same small hall she got inside through. Looking back on it, she’s not sure how she managed to squeeze, but a moment too late, she realises that it’s shrinking. In several minutes, there is nothing of it but the smooth stones and then, sometime later, nothing but the mess of ground and roots where there the Great Tomb once stood.
Past the Queen’s Crossroad and into the Kingswood, the prophecy said. There, in the deepest part of it, you shall find the Great Tomb and the three witches within it. Get their guidance, and only then shall the reign of terror end. She’s gotten here, but she doesn’t have it. She doesn’t have the guidance. She’s survived the dragon and the disappearing tomb and the three witches and so far she’s survived the anger of the Witch Queen that is sure to come.
Then what?
She walks, fatigued, and walks until she’s not sure how much she’s gone. She has no food, nothing in her dress and the inner, patched up pockets are ripped and bleeding salt and iron. If something unholy attacks her down, she’s dead, but Ygne is very sure she would be dead anyway. These woods may not be made entirely for killing, but they’re made entirely for death.
Her throat aches and her legs hurt and all she wants is food, food, food, shelter and water, in no particular order. She’s not sure how long it’s been. The fate of the hero is not a good one, when the hero is fated to die.
The girl feels the water only when it gets through her shoes and splashes against her feet, chilling her to the core. She falls down, breaks the fall on her hands and nearly falls face-first into the small, small puddle. The water clears quickly, and she slows her breathing.
Behind her shoulder, quiet like a shadow, is a dragon. She’s seen it before, around the kingdom. She’s seen it about the same time when she’s heard the screams in the castle. Large, golden and black and menacing, dangerous, with a knack for human meat and appetite for human sorrow and fear. It’s the one that’s chased her, she’s sure, but it breathes in even intervals and it looks at her with smart, golden eyes – as if though it knows her.
She turns around, slowly, then takes a better look – sharp scales, sharp teeth, knowing eyes. She turns back to the puddle, and her eyes are the same. Large and afraid. Black sclera and the red blaze. If the girl has the demon eyes, the girl survives.
Ygne only has one second to turn around, only one second to raise her arms and poorly shield her face from the incoming fire. But she’s not afraid. She’s disappointed because she’s been cheated, because she’s been left for dead to be another pretty story. She’s sad, she’s excited, she is angry, but she is not afraid.
Inside of her, the voice of ancient magic keeps chanting: the queen, the queen, the queen.
Long live the Witch Queen.
One breath, two, then three and she calms her beating heart. She’s survived a forest, a dragon and two witches; she’ll survive this as well.
Her feet are heavy as she moves and her palms sweaty. The whole of her sweaty – her dress is clinging to her legs and her back and she feels like she’s boiling beneath her own skin. It’s a foreign, unpleasant feeling because it feels like there’s a chilly breeze moving through the darkness.
It carries the voice, a voice that says Long live the Witch Queen and if she wasn’t sure she made it up, Ygne would be sure that this is the very same voice that once told her: kill the queen. Long live the Witch Queen, long live the Witch Queen, it chants in ghastly breaths. She realises, moments later, that the breaths are her own.
In front of herself, Ygne senses the movement more than she notices it and she bows slightly, unsure of how to act before the third witch. This one is not like the others – there is something ancient and grandiose about her, but not in the flaunting way, like with the Lady. She just gives off this air – I am big. I am important. I know this.
Ygne tries to apply this for herself, too, but her upper lip is quivering and her hands are clenched, nervous.
“Why are you here?” The witch’s face is covered in a veil, but beneath the rim, Ygne can make out dark, ruby red choker and the closed dress. She’s all in black, barely standing out from the encompassing darkness, but somehow Ygne can hear her clearly. Her hands are gloved, too, and there is no skin or hair visible on her.
Her voice sounds like finality. Like the end.
It is, indeed, quite fitting.
“I don’t know.” She admits. “I came for guidance, originally. Feels more like I’ve came for death, my lady.” Her words wear more weight than she’s realised when she’s spoken them, but they are true. She feels this, every ounce of her being is dancing with this – she is out here to die. To be sacrificed like a lamb. Just another petty story of a hero, just another faceless woman to be used as a motive for knights and peasants and boys and girls dreaming of better.
She didn’t come for death; she was sent here for it.
Ygne knows that now – knows that prophesies are not real and that the stories are not real. Terror and fear are the only concrete things, the only things that matter and that she should mind. She should’ve fought it; a pretty foreign girl, a maid with big heart, surely she is sympathy-educing enough.
But not at the price of her life. Still, she cannot go back now. There is no ‘back’ now at all. Where would she go? To the people who want her to either work a miracle or die trying? No way.
“You are wrong.” The witch says, elderly voice oddly comforting. It feels like Ygne knows her, like she’s grown familiar with it. Like a grandmother, and yet not quite. “It is not death you will find here, child. Not now, not ever.”
“I haven’t come here to seek mine.” The witch’s words do not make her feel any better. Getting back empty-handed is worse than not getting back at all. If she had anywhere to go, things would be different. But she has nowhere else to go. She can’t go back to Sivo, a land where she’s never been to before, and she can’t go anywhere else. In every corner of the world, the Witch Queen will find her.
Even here, in the Kingswood, where the higher magic should rule, the Witch Queen can find her.
“You wish to kill the Witch Queen?” The crone sounds amused. Ygne cannot see the mocking smile beneath her veil, but she can imagine one very well. It shows in her voice, even, but the young woman cannot call her out. It is not the time and it is not her place.
Instead, she nods vigorously, because she has no words left. She cannot justify this without slipping over her own words, but she has a goal, a miracle to bring to life.
“I can help you.” I can help you, I can help you the voice chants now. It’s the walls of the tomb, it’s the air around her and the darkness surrounding her. “But you do not wish to kill her. You wish to fulfil the goal of others.”
“That’s not true.” Ygne’s voice waves at the very beginning. She feels small. “I have to kill her.”
“That’s different from wanting, my child. But it’ll tell you this.” The witch comes closer, gloved hands reaching out and she touches Ygne’s face. Even through her gloves, Ygne can feel the coldness seep until it reaches her skin and she shudders. “It’s an age-old story. Send a pretty girl to die, so you could have the chance to tell stories of witches killing virgins and queens slaying them for their blood. But here’s the plot twist – the girl doesn’t die. Then what?”
Ygne’s heart is beating. The witch is old and frail and shorter than her. One push, she is sure, and the witch would break, but Ygne doesn’t push her because she has a point.
“You tell me. Then what?”
The witch pulls away abruptly, red rubies on her neck leaving fiery trails in the darkness. She leans up towards Ygne and the girl can see her skin, dark. Sivo-dark, like the girl’s and like the lady’s. Like her own. She can see, also, the scars – the molten skin and bones on the right side of the face, only a flash, and then witch is looking forward again.
“That depends on the girl.” Ygne opens her mouth to inquire, to ask again—then what? Then what? “If the girl has the demon eyes, the girl survives.” Then what, then what?
She doesn’t get her chance, because the seconds she opens her mouth, the darkness is thick around her again and the witch is gone. Ygne can no longer sense her presence, even though the magic is strong, and Ygne’s stranded in the middle of the no-world, somewhere between her own imagination and the horror maze designed by the strongest magic-wielders in tales and reality.
She doesn’t know where to move, she doesn’t know how to move and even if she did—where would she go?
Backtrack, the voice says, so the only option to backtrack from here would be to go down, so that she can get further up. On the third try, she loses the footing and body goes up for a brief moment before it sinks through the floor. She is moving downwards.
She exits through the same small hall she got inside through. Looking back on it, she’s not sure how she managed to squeeze, but a moment too late, she realises that it’s shrinking. In several minutes, there is nothing of it but the smooth stones and then, sometime later, nothing but the mess of ground and roots where there the Great Tomb once stood.
Past the Queen’s Crossroad and into the Kingswood, the prophecy said. There, in the deepest part of it, you shall find the Great Tomb and the three witches within it. Get their guidance, and only then shall the reign of terror end. She’s gotten here, but she doesn’t have it. She doesn’t have the guidance. She’s survived the dragon and the disappearing tomb and the three witches and so far she’s survived the anger of the Witch Queen that is sure to come.
Then what?
She walks, fatigued, and walks until she’s not sure how much she’s gone. She has no food, nothing in her dress and the inner, patched up pockets are ripped and bleeding salt and iron. If something unholy attacks her down, she’s dead, but Ygne is very sure she would be dead anyway. These woods may not be made entirely for killing, but they’re made entirely for death.
Her throat aches and her legs hurt and all she wants is food, food, food, shelter and water, in no particular order. She’s not sure how long it’s been. The fate of the hero is not a good one, when the hero is fated to die.
The girl feels the water only when it gets through her shoes and splashes against her feet, chilling her to the core. She falls down, breaks the fall on her hands and nearly falls face-first into the small, small puddle. The water clears quickly, and she slows her breathing.
Behind her shoulder, quiet like a shadow, is a dragon. She’s seen it before, around the kingdom. She’s seen it about the same time when she’s heard the screams in the castle. Large, golden and black and menacing, dangerous, with a knack for human meat and appetite for human sorrow and fear. It’s the one that’s chased her, she’s sure, but it breathes in even intervals and it looks at her with smart, golden eyes – as if though it knows her.
She turns around, slowly, then takes a better look – sharp scales, sharp teeth, knowing eyes. She turns back to the puddle, and her eyes are the same. Large and afraid. Black sclera and the red blaze. If the girl has the demon eyes, the girl survives.
Ygne only has one second to turn around, only one second to raise her arms and poorly shield her face from the incoming fire. But she’s not afraid. She’s disappointed because she’s been cheated, because she’s been left for dead to be another pretty story. She’s sad, she’s excited, she is angry, but she is not afraid.
Inside of her, the voice of ancient magic keeps chanting: the queen, the queen, the queen.
Long live the Witch Queen.
♠ ♠ ♠
3 / 3