Photo by Raamin Ka
Fairest of Them All
There is a quiet that falls over the forest with the first snow. A silence that holds its breath, so as to not wake any sleeping creatures. For the deadliest creature lay inside the abandoned chapel in the heart of the forest.
A man approached the forgotten sanctuary. It was not his intended destination, that was the small village that was cradled in the valley below. He couldn’t remember when he was last there possibly a century or two. If the man thought long enough he could probably remember, but why dwell on the past. He preferred to stay in the present.
The silence was undisturbed.
He seemed to float as he walked toward the chapel. His black boots left no impression in the snow as he walked through the door, ignoring the rusted chains that held it together. Taking notice of the runes that were carved into the weathered stone--praesidium: protection.
But from who? Or better yet, from what?
He pulled out a pocket watch out of habit rather than necessity. Time was something he had in abundance--however, his clients did not. During his centuries walking among the mortals the man used many names, none of them real. Lately he was referred to as: Mr. Mortimer. There were few humans Mortimer deemed worthy to dabble in magic. And they got nervous when he was late for their appointments.
Dealing in souls is a game of chess. One needs to understand how the pieces move within the confines of the rules, and then learn how to bend them to their will. The laws of nature may not break, but they do bend: and like a lover’s touch they bend to him. And time, he discovered, was his favorite piece to play. Human souls were valuable, though one would think otherwise the way humans threw them away.
Souls were energy--pure energy. What most humans didn’t understand was that magic is a balance, and always required a price.
Mortimer took his time as he made his way down to the crypt he knew was hidden under his feet, careful as to not wake any restless spirits--just yet. The remains of forgotten candles clung to the walls, but like everything else within this place, had long since crumbled away. No vines grew on the walls: nothing grew down here. At the top of the ceiling was a small window that once held glass, its jagged teeth glimmered in the moonlight.
In the center of the room lay a coffin made entirely of glass.
There was nothing else in the tomb. Mortimer could not smell any rot or decay--not even bones were left behind. He let his magic sweep through the room, it wrapped around the perimeter of the coffin finding nothing, before settling back.
Whoever slept here slept alone. The man approached the coffin and peered inside. It was unlike any corpse he had ever seen: hair black as night, lips red as blood, and skin white as snow.
He admired the beautiful corpse. She looked peaceful, as though she were sleeping. Were it not for the mangled hole in her chest; someone had angrily cracked open before they set about removing her heart.
Who would do such a thing to this beautiful creature?
He studied her closely; saw how the moonlight seemed to catch on her skin. He could sense how nothing alive flourished down here, how life was sucked out of this place. Death hung in the air like perfume. Even with her heart gone Mortimer felt as though she would rise at any moment, like she was watching, waiting.
Noticing the same rune mark on the wooden base of the coffin he bent down to inspect it. But unlike its twin, this one had been worn down by time, age shown on its face. ‘Someone went to great lengths to conceal you.
He circled the coffin twice more.
Mortimer was certain that wherever the creature's heart lay, it was not here. But that was no matter, he could make due without. Nothing a desperate deal can’t fix. It seemed that over the years the man had perfected his game, and it almost seemed to be getting boring--almost. Now it seemed that he had found the last chess piece for his game: a queen.
Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into together, darling.
The man departed the tomb, leaving the silence once more undisturbed, and the glass coffin: empty.
The Author
As a 27-year-old aspiring writer, Kimberly enjoys reading, traveling, and when she’s not too busy: writing. Her day job consists of being a marketing manager in the wine industry located in Napa Valley. When she’s not among the vines you can find her on the banks of Lake Tahoe, enjoying the water, and of course–a book in hand.
