Chrysanthemum
Black Currant & Mint
((Hi All; I don't frequently share writing in 'public' formats, but I decided to challenge myself a little this year. This is basically a prologue story of a character I play with the illustrious
elusivethought
, who is also responsible for kicking my butt into gear to get this out 
Hope you all enjoy and have a Happy Halloween! 
))
((ps:: thank you for any/all comments/reacts, always appreciated
))
The shadows were long and grasping when he arrived at the fifth ward, the ruddy red of old blood flapping on a month-old scrap of paper. Over the last month the elements had shredded the edges and turned it translucent, charcoal doodles on the opposite side gone streaky and indecipherable with rain. The salt too, sprinkled into the fresh blood used to write the runes for extra protection, had melted off, streaking the birch the ward was nailed too. The bark below it had been licked clean off the tree, exposing the light-colored wood beneath. Deer liked it. Eph hoped they enjoyed their treat, because with winter approaching his pa hadnât been able to get a new order of salt to the farm in time. No more salt for anyone then, not for wards, and certainly not for dinner.
Eph blew into his palms as he approached the tree, warming them in their fingerless gloves before tearing the old ward down and stuffing the dirty page in his coat pocket. The resulting lack of feedback worried him, what was usually a satisfying sizzle of residual magic too faint and disappointing; still water in a warm pan when you wanted it to be hot and snapping.
He should have checked it two days ago, but theyâd been busy with the seasons last harvest. Peas. So many goddamn peas. The barn was full of them now, his ma leading the charge in preserving, trading, selling, fast as youâd like to fill the larder for winter. It left Eph alone for the day, freed from his responsibilities as the eldest. All his siblings had been kept at home, equally applied to the same war, thank the All Mother.
Regardless, standing out here alone beside the whispering hole of their defenses, he wondered if it would have been wise to bring Toby. It would have taken some convincing, but if heâd asked nicely, Ma would have let him come.
His younger brother couldnât quite set a ward yet, but he had a good sense for when shadows didnât move as they ought to.
Shifting in the autumn leaves, Eph pulled the replacement ward from inside his coat where heâd kept it flat against his chest and beneath the mountain of green wool that his ma called a scarf. Fishing his wand from its holster at his side, Eph shoved the curved spear of deer antler into his mouth, holding it at the ready while he retrieved the fifth nail and the hammer sticking out of his waistband. Two taps fixed the ward in place, followed by a shuffling of objects as he replaced the hammer and spat out his wand.
Brandishing it towards the ward and the tree, Eph cast the sticking spell with little concentration. Old hat, and all that. Heâd been in charge of the wards since his magic manifested stronger than his Maâs. A hearth witch, she could set a fire, keep out the drafts, keep a home warm and bright for a family of nine.
She wasnât a fighter though. Before Ephâs magic had manifested his parents had relied on silver weapons, blades and recycled arrow heads. Hard to come by, hard to maintain.
Thatâve been his job too if he used them at all. He didnât need to though. Ephâs magic was a well within him, depthless waters, summer green. Every day he stretched his hand down to find the bottom and couldnât, magic unspooling from him like spring rain. He blessed the crops, maintained the saltfence, convinced the worst of the storms to leave the farm alone. Today he set the wards, maintaining a barrier of safety that his family had come to rely on.
Eph stepped back from his work to appraise it with a critical eye. The magic hummed from the blood runes, salt or not, and he heaved a sigh of relief that his work was done before sundown, the golden globe of the sun long since nestled into the horizon. The quiet hour was upon him, the night gloaming closer with a stillness born of soft wind and solitary steps crunching through freshly fallen leaves.
Turning homeward, Eph returned his wand to its holster and stuffed his chilled fingers into his pockets. He felt at the edges of the used wards as he walked, thinking on the sizzle that wasnât.
It wouldnât be a problem. Even if one had snuck through, Eph would handle it like he handled all the rest; roots and branches growing upwards and sprouting through a thousand black eyes.
âTook your time!â Serah called from the wash line when Eph arrived at the fence surrounding their yard, hoisting himself over it and cutting through the back instead of finding the gate. He waded through a patch of pruned lavender, crackling stems ready for winter, pulling a face at his younger sister all the while.
Spotting the mounded basket of wet linen at her feet, Ephâs expression dropped and he groaned, looking wistfully between her and the smoke pouring from the chimney. It smelled like dinner.
Ignoring his stomach, for now, Eph drew beside her and reached for the first sheet. âNext time Iâll can peas and you can cast the wards,â he teased, flinging it over the line and fussily neatening out the edges while Serah easily swept through two more.
She laughed sarcastically and rolled her eyes at him while pinning the sopping fabric down. Serah wasnât a witch herself but she managed enough magic, helping Ma wrangle their two younger siblings and the twins while Eph, Toby, and their pa worked the field.
Eph reached for the last sheet and arranged it messily, lacking his sisterâs finesse. He hoisted the empty basket onto his hip while Serah neatened his work, and behind them both, four shrieking children bolted across the yard, hair wet and clothes fresh.
Their ma was already sticking her head out the porch door, flour dusting the linen apron tied around her waist, her hands, streaked across her forehead and blending with the dove gray of her hair. Harvest days were difficult, and Eph watched her wipe a considering hand across her brow, tiredly smearing more flour into her hair line.
âDonât worry, Ma, weâll get them in for dinner,â Eph called as he and Serah neared, ignoring his sisters snort of derision at his choice in pronoun. He couldnât ignore the laundry basket being snatched from his hands right before she disappeared into the house, laughter echoing back at his scoffs of indignation.
Ma let Serah go, smile soft and warm. âDonât mind your sister, it was a long day for all of us,â she tutted, reaching forward and cupping Ephâs cheek, tilting his face this way and that with narrowed eyes, looking for something she wouldnât find.
âMa, Iâm fine,â Eph protested, sticking out his tongue and batting at her calloused hands. With a humph she released him, her hunt for magical fatigue coming up pleasantly empty.
âYouâll let me fuss, itâs the only thing I can do,â she scolded, licking the pad of her thumb in preparation to rub something off his face, surprised when she got the chalky taste of flour. Eph snickered, turned to watch as Caleb, Natan and Itai disappeared around the front of the house with shouts of manufactured terror. Maren was in hot pursuit, her sodden curls still dripping, a patter of water trailing behind her.
From behind him Ma smacked her apron against her thighs, knocking out puffs of flour onto the porch as she tiredly muttered to herself, âWish someone could place them with you⊠Goddess knows where you get it fromâŠâ she sighed, finally cleaning off her hand and reaching forward to wipe dirt from his chin with a loving scowl. âGo clean up. Dinnerâll be ready when you are.â
Eph followed her instruction with only a few grumbles, pausing to smack a kiss into her forehead, printing the gesture into the flour adorning her brow. He wondered how long heâd get away with it, chuckling to himself as he entered the house, replacing his coat and scarf on the hook in the mudroom, kicking off muddy boots beneath them.
There was an odd quiet settled over the house, the hardwood cold beneath his socked feet as he stuck a head into the kitchen and found Toby reading at the table, his brotherâs nose pinched in a headache. Pa was asleep in his armchair in the living room across the hall, snoring beside an unfed fire, and Eph paused his ascent to his room to add a few more logs.
Out of sight and across the house, the front door slammed open and shut, a jarring riot of footsteps implying that the game of tag had taken his siblings through the house, moving like a single, many limbed beast. He rose to scold them himself, but they were already careening through the back door, hinges swinging in their wake.
Eph turned down the hallway, already moving on, thinking about the cooling bath water waiting for him and running through the spells that could warm it. He wasnât very good at them, any spells, really, that werenât centered on the green and growing. Still, itâd be worth it to practice⊠âEph!â Marenâs voice cut through his musings, shocking him near out of his skin, sending him rocking up onto his toes with a hop of surprise. He looked left and right, confused to find her waiting at the foot of the stairs, lingering in front of the door to the basement. She must have come inside after the first time theyâd looped to the front of the house.
âAll mother, what, what?â he groused, nearing her and reaching out to tousle her long hair, laughing when she wove out from beneath him before he could.
Maren stabbed a finger towards the basement door, âToby said the lamps are out of oil but heâs too busy reading his dumb book. Can you come with me to get some?â
With a sigh and a shrug, Eph opened the basement door and peered down into the gloom, the end of the stairs just visible where they met the packed earth floor. âNow?â he bemoaned, thinking about his bath.
âIf you want to eat dinner in the dark, be my guest,â Maren grumbled, clearly in a terrible mood. One of the boys must have gotten her good and sheâd quit early, accounting for her mood.
Eph, knowing better, shut his mouth around a smarmy retort.
He followed Maren down into the basement, yawning into his fist as they descended creaking steps. The sconce at the head of the steps held a lit candle, and the light flickered behind them, casting long shadows into the dirt floor of the basement below. Maren kept a hand on the guard rail as she inched down into the dark, her other knotting nervously into her skirts. An improvement. Last time sheâd asked to hold his hand.
Her dry curls bounced with each step, chocolate brown going inky black as they crept into the dark.
âDid Toby dry your hair for you?â he asked, scrunching his nose in consideration. Sometimes their brother cast little odd spells like that.
Maren didnât answer, though she did tilt her head back and smile as if heâd told a funny joke. Or⊠well, not quite. It was more like a smile when he did something stupid; tripped over the firewood, blew a spell up in his face.
Rolling her eyes at his curiosity, Maren shrugged, mumbling vaguely as they reached the bottom, âYeah, Itai got mud in it.â Ephâs satisfaction at his correct assumption was cut short when, above them, the door to the basement ghosted to a close.
Eph cursed, feeling the suck of air that had pulled it shut, an errant wind hunting in the dark. It was colder in the basement, causing drafts that often shut them in. From beside him, Maren fumbled at the alcove in the stone foundation, an indent at the bottom of the stairs where they kept candles and matches.
âEph,â she whispered nervously, âThere arenât any matches.â
Scowling, Eph reached forward to paw at the alcove as well. Sure enough his hand searched over several candles, waxy and stiff, but the usual box of matches was missing. âMaybe they fell?â he said, leaning over to pat at the ground. He felt, more than saw, when she left his side.
âMaren?â he asked the dead air, wondering if the basement had always felt this still.
She didnât answer and Eph stood, muttering a spell and scowling at the sluggish response of his magic, light flickering reluctantly in his palm. Eph could pick out the shelves and shelves of canned food, freshly pickled this afternoon. The smell of vinegar was familiar and overpowering, masking the usual musk of the damp, cool earth.
He heard a giggle, and Eph was forced to admit to himself that heâd been had. Apparently, sheâd overcome her fear of the dark in the last few months and was taking advantage of his ignorance. He should have known, with a smile like that. âMaren, honestly?â Eph groaned, walking around a corner with his faltering light, catching an edge of movement, black hair slinking around another turn.
âSânot funny!â he hissed, chasing after her and that maddening giggle. There, again. So much like the first, an echo of an echo reverberating in the stuttering dark.
Realization came sick and slow with the third mimicry of the sound. Less a laugh and more like bird call, a hunter luring in pheasants.
Not Maren then, not really.
Eph turned the final corner, palm first, and saw It standing beside the shelves of oil they kept for the lamps. It cast strange, contorted shadows where it swayed, pale limbs too long, growing ashen, then translucent. Black hair strained towards the floor, writhing and alive, and only then did the buzz of terror in Ephâs chest crystalize with the proper clarity. Something had gotten through.
Unthinking, Eph tore his wand from its holster. The spell for light stuttered at the sudden presence of a conduit, snuffing with a panicked stammer that mimicked the pattern of his own pulse.
Across from him, the daemon repeated Marenâs laugh, the sound warping and guttural.
Eph summoned a frantic flame into his left hand, whispering the spell for fire through clenched teeth. He would not scream. This was his job, his responsibility, and he couldnât comprehend summoning his family to face the lurking nightmare of his failure.
Shouldâve checked the wards earlier, shouldâve known it wasnât Maren, shouldâve, shouldâve, shouldâve â
The fire caught, blooming in his palm hungry and hot. It cast a lazy lick of light on the face leveled inches before him, a mask removed. The daemon was staring at him through a hundred lidless eyes, mouths upon mouths peeling open to reveal rows of sharpened teeth, a tongue like an oil slick falling wetly from the seam of the largest.
And with a half-formed spell choking on Ephâs tongue, the daemon tipped forward, forehead first, a formless black ether that reached into Eph and tightened around his soul.
The effect was scorching, infernal heat unspooling from behind his ribcage. Eph heard its seductive whisper, the words molten and coiling, fire in his mind, in his mouth, in his eyes. Coughing didnât help, great clouds of flame and ash choking in his lungs. Eph could feel it within him, a foreign body that could be expelled if he could only summon the proper force.
Heâd fallen, he didnât know when. The packed dirt floor provided no relief, drying beneath hands, going sand like and dusty as he scraped for purchase. Through squinted eyes he could see great black claws superimposed over his skin, the daemon settling into his body, making it home.
It was like nothing he had ever felt, a force like a volcano shaking him free of his own body. His skin wasnât his own, blackening, cracking, rivulets of red steaming blood pooling on the ground and bursting into flame. Fire mounted the shelves beside him, catching on the dry goods that lined the walls, bounding towards the oil as if excited for the impending inferno, him at its heart.
He was waning beneath the heat and the pressure, the daemon gaining ground, cooing promises to him if only he would let go. Sleep, it insisted. He would find safety in obedience, in stepping aside and allowing the daemon a space within him. If he acquiesced, some part of him would be allowed to remain. A compromise, as syrupy as fresh lava flow.
Eph was uncertain how much time had passed when footsteps thundered down the basement steps. They werenât a relief. There was nothing his family could do, the magics necessary so far out of their reach. Unwillingly the daemon raised his head, forcing him to absorb the horrified expression carved into his maâs face, Serah holding her arm and ineffectively trying to wrench her away from the fire. He must have looked a sight, flames gnawing on him, outside and in.
The daemon was whispering about letting them burn too, and wouldnât that be the easiest thing?
Never. No amount of hellfire would ever convince him that was easy. âGo!â he heard himself, voice interlaced with a supernatural snarl, his maâs reactive wail almost too much to bear. He coughed up cinders, watching as his pa arrived to help haul her away, dragging her thrashing around the corner. Good.
Theyâd be safe. Theyâd get away from the house, from the fields, and theyâd be safe.
Not if the daemon won, though, Eph realized, alongside his dimming light. If it was allowed to rise from this event, wearing his skin and harnessing his magic, it would hunt them down, one by one. Then it would turn its attention to the nearby village.
No. No, no.
With a hoarse shout of effort, Eph reached through the mental barriers and the pain to grasp at his magic, new determination sending the voice inside into a howling rage. If the daemon wanted to play with fire, then they would play.
He drew from his magic a drop at a time, the effort excruciating. It behaved less like water and more like oil, feeding the blaze, frenzying it higher and hotter than before. Glass and timber crashed around them, the air howling. Flame by flickering flame, Eph wrested control from the daemon, each douse of magic tipping the scale further in his favor, the whispers quieting, turning fearful.
When the daemon was tugging, hunting for release, Eph knew heâd won. He looked inside of himself, found its energy plied helplessly against his blazing soul, and scorched it with a white fire so hot that not even an imprint of its shadow would be left within him.
In the wake, Eph woke feeling somewhat bereft. The sun was high above him, filtered behind an autumn cloud, a cold pinwheel of judgement that did not pass. He sat up, his muscles protesting with a cold lance of pain.
The corpse of his home creaked around him; a blackened shell that had collapsed outwards. He sat in the bottom of a smoking crater, silty ash dribbling towards him, as if to bury him alive. The voice inside him was his own.
He crawled forward onto his hands and knees, staggering up the incline like wading through tall snow. It was still warm, but he hardly minded it, busy staring at the miraculously uninjured expanse of his skin. Soot caked, but unmarred. Bloodless.
Still crawling, he asked himself a question, and waited for the answer, happy when the answer was his own.
At the end of his climb he dragged himself onto his knees in a swaying kneel, staring out at the devastation that surrounded him. The wash line was gone. The lavender patch. The fence.
The field remnants from the harvest, their barn. Their neighbors home. The forest that bordered the fields.
On and on, all around him lay smoldering ruin, fingers of smoke pleading with a blameless sky. His grief had fingers too, pulling at the hole in his chest and turning it into a gaping thing.
âEphram!?â His ma called from behind him, the sound broken and desperate and joyous, a tangle of emotions that he turned to face on creaking joints. And there they were. Safe.
Safe. Oh, Goddess, they were safe. All eight of them, trekking across the wreckage of their lives.
Ma reached him first, heedless to the potential danger, that it might not be Eph who crawled out of the ruin. In later years sheâd say that âmothers knowâ, but the truth was she hadnât. Sheâd careened into him only hoping, chanting his name like a prayer, crying in relief when he raised his arms and held her back.
Eph said nothing yet about the unending burn beneath his skin, the changed feel of his magic. What was a well had been condensed, pressurized by heat, wood and stone and water unmolding from a crucible in the form of a coal, alight and ever burning.
elusivethought
, who is also responsible for kicking my butt into gear to get this out Hope you all enjoy and have a Happy Halloween! ))((ps:: thank you for any/all comments/reacts, always appreciated
))The shadows were long and grasping when he arrived at the fifth ward, the ruddy red of old blood flapping on a month-old scrap of paper. Over the last month the elements had shredded the edges and turned it translucent, charcoal doodles on the opposite side gone streaky and indecipherable with rain. The salt too, sprinkled into the fresh blood used to write the runes for extra protection, had melted off, streaking the birch the ward was nailed too. The bark below it had been licked clean off the tree, exposing the light-colored wood beneath. Deer liked it. Eph hoped they enjoyed their treat, because with winter approaching his pa hadnât been able to get a new order of salt to the farm in time. No more salt for anyone then, not for wards, and certainly not for dinner.
Eph blew into his palms as he approached the tree, warming them in their fingerless gloves before tearing the old ward down and stuffing the dirty page in his coat pocket. The resulting lack of feedback worried him, what was usually a satisfying sizzle of residual magic too faint and disappointing; still water in a warm pan when you wanted it to be hot and snapping.
He should have checked it two days ago, but theyâd been busy with the seasons last harvest. Peas. So many goddamn peas. The barn was full of them now, his ma leading the charge in preserving, trading, selling, fast as youâd like to fill the larder for winter. It left Eph alone for the day, freed from his responsibilities as the eldest. All his siblings had been kept at home, equally applied to the same war, thank the All Mother.
Regardless, standing out here alone beside the whispering hole of their defenses, he wondered if it would have been wise to bring Toby. It would have taken some convincing, but if heâd asked nicely, Ma would have let him come.
His younger brother couldnât quite set a ward yet, but he had a good sense for when shadows didnât move as they ought to.
Shifting in the autumn leaves, Eph pulled the replacement ward from inside his coat where heâd kept it flat against his chest and beneath the mountain of green wool that his ma called a scarf. Fishing his wand from its holster at his side, Eph shoved the curved spear of deer antler into his mouth, holding it at the ready while he retrieved the fifth nail and the hammer sticking out of his waistband. Two taps fixed the ward in place, followed by a shuffling of objects as he replaced the hammer and spat out his wand.
Brandishing it towards the ward and the tree, Eph cast the sticking spell with little concentration. Old hat, and all that. Heâd been in charge of the wards since his magic manifested stronger than his Maâs. A hearth witch, she could set a fire, keep out the drafts, keep a home warm and bright for a family of nine.
She wasnât a fighter though. Before Ephâs magic had manifested his parents had relied on silver weapons, blades and recycled arrow heads. Hard to come by, hard to maintain.
Thatâve been his job too if he used them at all. He didnât need to though. Ephâs magic was a well within him, depthless waters, summer green. Every day he stretched his hand down to find the bottom and couldnât, magic unspooling from him like spring rain. He blessed the crops, maintained the saltfence, convinced the worst of the storms to leave the farm alone. Today he set the wards, maintaining a barrier of safety that his family had come to rely on.
Eph stepped back from his work to appraise it with a critical eye. The magic hummed from the blood runes, salt or not, and he heaved a sigh of relief that his work was done before sundown, the golden globe of the sun long since nestled into the horizon. The quiet hour was upon him, the night gloaming closer with a stillness born of soft wind and solitary steps crunching through freshly fallen leaves.
Turning homeward, Eph returned his wand to its holster and stuffed his chilled fingers into his pockets. He felt at the edges of the used wards as he walked, thinking on the sizzle that wasnât.
It wouldnât be a problem. Even if one had snuck through, Eph would handle it like he handled all the rest; roots and branches growing upwards and sprouting through a thousand black eyes.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
âTook your time!â Serah called from the wash line when Eph arrived at the fence surrounding their yard, hoisting himself over it and cutting through the back instead of finding the gate. He waded through a patch of pruned lavender, crackling stems ready for winter, pulling a face at his younger sister all the while.
Spotting the mounded basket of wet linen at her feet, Ephâs expression dropped and he groaned, looking wistfully between her and the smoke pouring from the chimney. It smelled like dinner.
Ignoring his stomach, for now, Eph drew beside her and reached for the first sheet. âNext time Iâll can peas and you can cast the wards,â he teased, flinging it over the line and fussily neatening out the edges while Serah easily swept through two more.
She laughed sarcastically and rolled her eyes at him while pinning the sopping fabric down. Serah wasnât a witch herself but she managed enough magic, helping Ma wrangle their two younger siblings and the twins while Eph, Toby, and their pa worked the field.
Eph reached for the last sheet and arranged it messily, lacking his sisterâs finesse. He hoisted the empty basket onto his hip while Serah neatened his work, and behind them both, four shrieking children bolted across the yard, hair wet and clothes fresh.
Their ma was already sticking her head out the porch door, flour dusting the linen apron tied around her waist, her hands, streaked across her forehead and blending with the dove gray of her hair. Harvest days were difficult, and Eph watched her wipe a considering hand across her brow, tiredly smearing more flour into her hair line.
âDonât worry, Ma, weâll get them in for dinner,â Eph called as he and Serah neared, ignoring his sisters snort of derision at his choice in pronoun. He couldnât ignore the laundry basket being snatched from his hands right before she disappeared into the house, laughter echoing back at his scoffs of indignation.
Ma let Serah go, smile soft and warm. âDonât mind your sister, it was a long day for all of us,â she tutted, reaching forward and cupping Ephâs cheek, tilting his face this way and that with narrowed eyes, looking for something she wouldnât find.
âMa, Iâm fine,â Eph protested, sticking out his tongue and batting at her calloused hands. With a humph she released him, her hunt for magical fatigue coming up pleasantly empty.
âYouâll let me fuss, itâs the only thing I can do,â she scolded, licking the pad of her thumb in preparation to rub something off his face, surprised when she got the chalky taste of flour. Eph snickered, turned to watch as Caleb, Natan and Itai disappeared around the front of the house with shouts of manufactured terror. Maren was in hot pursuit, her sodden curls still dripping, a patter of water trailing behind her.
From behind him Ma smacked her apron against her thighs, knocking out puffs of flour onto the porch as she tiredly muttered to herself, âWish someone could place them with you⊠Goddess knows where you get it fromâŠâ she sighed, finally cleaning off her hand and reaching forward to wipe dirt from his chin with a loving scowl. âGo clean up. Dinnerâll be ready when you are.â
Eph followed her instruction with only a few grumbles, pausing to smack a kiss into her forehead, printing the gesture into the flour adorning her brow. He wondered how long heâd get away with it, chuckling to himself as he entered the house, replacing his coat and scarf on the hook in the mudroom, kicking off muddy boots beneath them.
There was an odd quiet settled over the house, the hardwood cold beneath his socked feet as he stuck a head into the kitchen and found Toby reading at the table, his brotherâs nose pinched in a headache. Pa was asleep in his armchair in the living room across the hall, snoring beside an unfed fire, and Eph paused his ascent to his room to add a few more logs.
Out of sight and across the house, the front door slammed open and shut, a jarring riot of footsteps implying that the game of tag had taken his siblings through the house, moving like a single, many limbed beast. He rose to scold them himself, but they were already careening through the back door, hinges swinging in their wake.
Eph turned down the hallway, already moving on, thinking about the cooling bath water waiting for him and running through the spells that could warm it. He wasnât very good at them, any spells, really, that werenât centered on the green and growing. Still, itâd be worth it to practice⊠âEph!â Marenâs voice cut through his musings, shocking him near out of his skin, sending him rocking up onto his toes with a hop of surprise. He looked left and right, confused to find her waiting at the foot of the stairs, lingering in front of the door to the basement. She must have come inside after the first time theyâd looped to the front of the house.
âAll mother, what, what?â he groused, nearing her and reaching out to tousle her long hair, laughing when she wove out from beneath him before he could.
Maren stabbed a finger towards the basement door, âToby said the lamps are out of oil but heâs too busy reading his dumb book. Can you come with me to get some?â
With a sigh and a shrug, Eph opened the basement door and peered down into the gloom, the end of the stairs just visible where they met the packed earth floor. âNow?â he bemoaned, thinking about his bath.
âIf you want to eat dinner in the dark, be my guest,â Maren grumbled, clearly in a terrible mood. One of the boys must have gotten her good and sheâd quit early, accounting for her mood.
Eph, knowing better, shut his mouth around a smarmy retort.
He followed Maren down into the basement, yawning into his fist as they descended creaking steps. The sconce at the head of the steps held a lit candle, and the light flickered behind them, casting long shadows into the dirt floor of the basement below. Maren kept a hand on the guard rail as she inched down into the dark, her other knotting nervously into her skirts. An improvement. Last time sheâd asked to hold his hand.
Her dry curls bounced with each step, chocolate brown going inky black as they crept into the dark.
âDid Toby dry your hair for you?â he asked, scrunching his nose in consideration. Sometimes their brother cast little odd spells like that.
Maren didnât answer, though she did tilt her head back and smile as if heâd told a funny joke. Or⊠well, not quite. It was more like a smile when he did something stupid; tripped over the firewood, blew a spell up in his face.
Rolling her eyes at his curiosity, Maren shrugged, mumbling vaguely as they reached the bottom, âYeah, Itai got mud in it.â Ephâs satisfaction at his correct assumption was cut short when, above them, the door to the basement ghosted to a close.
Eph cursed, feeling the suck of air that had pulled it shut, an errant wind hunting in the dark. It was colder in the basement, causing drafts that often shut them in. From beside him, Maren fumbled at the alcove in the stone foundation, an indent at the bottom of the stairs where they kept candles and matches.
âEph,â she whispered nervously, âThere arenât any matches.â
Scowling, Eph reached forward to paw at the alcove as well. Sure enough his hand searched over several candles, waxy and stiff, but the usual box of matches was missing. âMaybe they fell?â he said, leaning over to pat at the ground. He felt, more than saw, when she left his side.
âMaren?â he asked the dead air, wondering if the basement had always felt this still.
She didnât answer and Eph stood, muttering a spell and scowling at the sluggish response of his magic, light flickering reluctantly in his palm. Eph could pick out the shelves and shelves of canned food, freshly pickled this afternoon. The smell of vinegar was familiar and overpowering, masking the usual musk of the damp, cool earth.
He heard a giggle, and Eph was forced to admit to himself that heâd been had. Apparently, sheâd overcome her fear of the dark in the last few months and was taking advantage of his ignorance. He should have known, with a smile like that. âMaren, honestly?â Eph groaned, walking around a corner with his faltering light, catching an edge of movement, black hair slinking around another turn.
âSânot funny!â he hissed, chasing after her and that maddening giggle. There, again. So much like the first, an echo of an echo reverberating in the stuttering dark.
Realization came sick and slow with the third mimicry of the sound. Less a laugh and more like bird call, a hunter luring in pheasants.
Not Maren then, not really.
Eph turned the final corner, palm first, and saw It standing beside the shelves of oil they kept for the lamps. It cast strange, contorted shadows where it swayed, pale limbs too long, growing ashen, then translucent. Black hair strained towards the floor, writhing and alive, and only then did the buzz of terror in Ephâs chest crystalize with the proper clarity. Something had gotten through.
Unthinking, Eph tore his wand from its holster. The spell for light stuttered at the sudden presence of a conduit, snuffing with a panicked stammer that mimicked the pattern of his own pulse.
Across from him, the daemon repeated Marenâs laugh, the sound warping and guttural.
Eph summoned a frantic flame into his left hand, whispering the spell for fire through clenched teeth. He would not scream. This was his job, his responsibility, and he couldnât comprehend summoning his family to face the lurking nightmare of his failure.
Shouldâve checked the wards earlier, shouldâve known it wasnât Maren, shouldâve, shouldâve, shouldâve â
The fire caught, blooming in his palm hungry and hot. It cast a lazy lick of light on the face leveled inches before him, a mask removed. The daemon was staring at him through a hundred lidless eyes, mouths upon mouths peeling open to reveal rows of sharpened teeth, a tongue like an oil slick falling wetly from the seam of the largest.
And with a half-formed spell choking on Ephâs tongue, the daemon tipped forward, forehead first, a formless black ether that reached into Eph and tightened around his soul.
The effect was scorching, infernal heat unspooling from behind his ribcage. Eph heard its seductive whisper, the words molten and coiling, fire in his mind, in his mouth, in his eyes. Coughing didnât help, great clouds of flame and ash choking in his lungs. Eph could feel it within him, a foreign body that could be expelled if he could only summon the proper force.
Heâd fallen, he didnât know when. The packed dirt floor provided no relief, drying beneath hands, going sand like and dusty as he scraped for purchase. Through squinted eyes he could see great black claws superimposed over his skin, the daemon settling into his body, making it home.
It was like nothing he had ever felt, a force like a volcano shaking him free of his own body. His skin wasnât his own, blackening, cracking, rivulets of red steaming blood pooling on the ground and bursting into flame. Fire mounted the shelves beside him, catching on the dry goods that lined the walls, bounding towards the oil as if excited for the impending inferno, him at its heart.
He was waning beneath the heat and the pressure, the daemon gaining ground, cooing promises to him if only he would let go. Sleep, it insisted. He would find safety in obedience, in stepping aside and allowing the daemon a space within him. If he acquiesced, some part of him would be allowed to remain. A compromise, as syrupy as fresh lava flow.
Eph was uncertain how much time had passed when footsteps thundered down the basement steps. They werenât a relief. There was nothing his family could do, the magics necessary so far out of their reach. Unwillingly the daemon raised his head, forcing him to absorb the horrified expression carved into his maâs face, Serah holding her arm and ineffectively trying to wrench her away from the fire. He must have looked a sight, flames gnawing on him, outside and in.
The daemon was whispering about letting them burn too, and wouldnât that be the easiest thing?
Never. No amount of hellfire would ever convince him that was easy. âGo!â he heard himself, voice interlaced with a supernatural snarl, his maâs reactive wail almost too much to bear. He coughed up cinders, watching as his pa arrived to help haul her away, dragging her thrashing around the corner. Good.
Theyâd be safe. Theyâd get away from the house, from the fields, and theyâd be safe.
Not if the daemon won, though, Eph realized, alongside his dimming light. If it was allowed to rise from this event, wearing his skin and harnessing his magic, it would hunt them down, one by one. Then it would turn its attention to the nearby village.
No. No, no.
With a hoarse shout of effort, Eph reached through the mental barriers and the pain to grasp at his magic, new determination sending the voice inside into a howling rage. If the daemon wanted to play with fire, then they would play.
He drew from his magic a drop at a time, the effort excruciating. It behaved less like water and more like oil, feeding the blaze, frenzying it higher and hotter than before. Glass and timber crashed around them, the air howling. Flame by flickering flame, Eph wrested control from the daemon, each douse of magic tipping the scale further in his favor, the whispers quieting, turning fearful.
When the daemon was tugging, hunting for release, Eph knew heâd won. He looked inside of himself, found its energy plied helplessly against his blazing soul, and scorched it with a white fire so hot that not even an imprint of its shadow would be left within him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In the wake, Eph woke feeling somewhat bereft. The sun was high above him, filtered behind an autumn cloud, a cold pinwheel of judgement that did not pass. He sat up, his muscles protesting with a cold lance of pain.
The corpse of his home creaked around him; a blackened shell that had collapsed outwards. He sat in the bottom of a smoking crater, silty ash dribbling towards him, as if to bury him alive. The voice inside him was his own.
He crawled forward onto his hands and knees, staggering up the incline like wading through tall snow. It was still warm, but he hardly minded it, busy staring at the miraculously uninjured expanse of his skin. Soot caked, but unmarred. Bloodless.
Still crawling, he asked himself a question, and waited for the answer, happy when the answer was his own.
At the end of his climb he dragged himself onto his knees in a swaying kneel, staring out at the devastation that surrounded him. The wash line was gone. The lavender patch. The fence.
The field remnants from the harvest, their barn. Their neighbors home. The forest that bordered the fields.
On and on, all around him lay smoldering ruin, fingers of smoke pleading with a blameless sky. His grief had fingers too, pulling at the hole in his chest and turning it into a gaping thing.
âEphram!?â His ma called from behind him, the sound broken and desperate and joyous, a tangle of emotions that he turned to face on creaking joints. And there they were. Safe.
Safe. Oh, Goddess, they were safe. All eight of them, trekking across the wreckage of their lives.
Ma reached him first, heedless to the potential danger, that it might not be Eph who crawled out of the ruin. In later years sheâd say that âmothers knowâ, but the truth was she hadnât. Sheâd careened into him only hoping, chanting his name like a prayer, crying in relief when he raised his arms and held her back.
Eph said nothing yet about the unending burn beneath his skin, the changed feel of his magic. What was a well had been condensed, pressurized by heat, wood and stone and water unmolding from a crucible in the form of a coal, alight and ever burning.
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