Eliza In The Flesh!: the call of godspawn. VI

The house was now in view, but it would be some time before she got there. Around her, the faces of the forest only grew more uncanny. She couldn’t tell if it were the light or her eyes, but images of olden stories began to swarm around her head. Stories tracing back to her younger years when she was sent to a boarding school. They held religious classes there, and one of the lessons they taught was the tale of “The Dagger.” The perilous weapon is thought to have betrayed Providence for the sake of the rest of their existence. A sacrifice to some. A murder to others.

 

The Dagger was a spiteful thing of nature. Forged in the pits of The Mother’s agony, they say she passed her pain to him. There are many interpretations of how The Dagger looked. Some thought it to be a starless blade of the night. Others determined it to be made of a cool steel, fiery to the touch. But Eliza grew up knowing the blade as nothing more than a sharpened piece of iron, flourished with wilted red roses that climbed its hilt after Providence’s death.

 

The Dagger was known to be angry. Angry he was subjected to a purpose of only violence. Angry at The Mother for making him do such a thing, angry at the mortals, angry at the stars, and especially angry at the flowers that bloomed before him. He took a certain accountancy for every breath of man. It was he who stopped Providence’s heart after all. And yet, his legacy known to all was a symbol of distrust and death. 

 

Like the cool breeze in the woods, and the shade from the trees, they say that The Mother’s weapon—used only once before being dropped into nowhere—likes to feed off the fears amidst the unpredictable. He likes to hide between shadows of the darkest parts of the mind. They say that loved ones who murder loved ones were overtaken by his influence, their hearts shrouded in it. 

 

She shuddered with the sway of the branches. A sudden rustle behind a bush made her pause in her tracks. The glint of silver, the bud of a rose—

 

A fawn leaped from behind it, timidly shaking with fear. Eliza clasped a hand over her mouth to muffle her shriek of surprise. She stood for a moment, watching as the poor fawn, glassy eyed, slumped to the ground, twitching like mad. She watched the deerling’s lights in its eyes fade as it was replaced by a dreadful darkness. A cold reminder of what could become of the duchess herself.

 

Something from the bush rustled again. She expected to find the fawn’s mother, but instead, a slow, creeping arm—all too disturbingly human—reached out to grab its leg. She could not see its face nor features. It seemed as though a part of the starless sky had manifested into a mortal form and dragged the youngling behind the bush. Trails of a copper red blood left behind in its passing.

 

Eliza did not move for a while, but fearing for the same fate, she began to sprint as quickly as she could from the fawn. Its mother was not her business. Neither was the arm in the bush. Nor the dagger in people’s hearts. She gets her magic back from the godspawn, and she gets out.

 

End of discussion.