Zane lay outstretched on the wooden pew, his legs dangling over the flaking arms. He stared up at the carved stone ceiling, tracing the cracked gold gilding around each swirl that branched out from the centre. The rain was rhythmically tapping against the cobbles outside and the wind buffeted the flimsy stained glass windows. The temple was dark, the only light was the flickering candle that sat upon his altar, barely shielded from the wind as each strong gust threatened to blow it out. His clothes still felt damp against his skin, his shirt sticking to his shoulders and arms and made his skin crawl, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it off.
Everything around him felt wrong. He didn’t know exactly what it was, just that something about the day was off. No matter what he did, it was wrong. Things that had been so easy, like mixing a potion he’d mixed a thousand times before, he managed to fuck up. Accuracy potions were for beginners, it’s what Madame Rosevin would get the children to make. And yet…
And yet he fucked it up so badly his skin was blistered and torn in more places than it’d ever been before.
He didn’t know what was wrong, what he was doing wrong. Whatever God he must’ve pissed off wasn’t playing around. If he was more stupid he would’ve guessed that he was cursed. But he wasn’t stupid; this wasn’t a curse. A curse would’ve been an easy fix. No, whatever was going on was far weirder.
He idly traced the blisters on his right hand, the slight burn of the poison had worn off, leaving behind a residual ache in its place. Whatever salve Madame Rosevin had put on it was working, the blisters were already starting to heal. But even then, nothing was making sense. He couldn’t even recall what the salve she used was. He’d used it a million times before, it was made from dock leaves, elvar root and… and what? It had three ingredients. Three measly ingredients. Yet he couldn’t remember them.
Zane knew something was very, very wrong. He’d tried everything from re-reading his alchemy journal to reading the entire Alchemist’s Compendium, but there was still nothing. It was as if his brain was just blocking it out. And that’s what led him here to the temple. Prayer had never worked before, and he wasn’t about to start now just because something had gone wrong. No, he was in the temple because the rain had hindered his attempt at harvesting ingredients from his garden. He’d topped up the altar’s miniature fountain with what little nectar he could get, lit the candles, and lay on the pew. Part of him hoped Otia appreciated it, but he refused to ask for her help. If she really cared, then she’d help without him having to beg for it.
The distant rumble of thunder brought him out of his thoughts for a moment. Sitting up, Zane looked out the temple’s archway to see the dark clouds looming over the horizon. It wasn’t supposed to be a storm yet, they had at least a few days before the storm would come. But the clouds said otherwise. Cracks of lightning illuminated the sky, the flashes of light coating the temple in its white glare. Zane took a deep, shaking breath, trying to will himself to calm down. It was just a storm. Just like the thousands of others he’d lived through. He needed something to distract him.
But Merrin was out fuck-knows where, all of his books were in his room, his ingredients were in the study, and the bottle of whiskey was in the kitchen cupboard. All he had in the temple was an old journal on the other pew. The only problem with that was, he didn’t have anything to write with. Sure there was some charcoal laying around somewhere, but he didn’t want to have to scavenge for it in the depths of the drawers that were probably older than he was. He could always rearrange the altar. It wasn’t the best idea, but it would distract him for at least a short while.
Zane hauled himself up to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. The three steps to the altar felt more like three thousand, and he had to lean heavily against the polished marble to keep himself upright. There was dried blood smeared across the altar’s centre that clung to the cracks of the white stone. He’d tried to clean it off, but no matter what he did it came back, so he gave up trying. The humm of the heart-stones on their pedestals was gradually drowning out the sounds of the thunder.
As it was currently, the altar was arranged into three sections, with the left and right being made of polished obsidian, and the centre a white marble. Zane couldn’t remember how they got here, or why someone had traded what was most likely their whole life savings for three rocks, but he had to admit the way the setting sun bounced off them in the summer was mesmerising. Unfortunately, it was going to be many moons before they had that kind of sun again. Carefully, Zane moved himself across to the left side of the altar; it was going to be the easiest to sort due to how little he kept on there.
Picking up the dead gorse, Zane looked over the browning thorns. They still had hints of green, and the petals weren’t wilted just yet. He moved them to the side and swept any of the pieces that fell off onto the floor to deal with later. The three bowls lining the back of the altar were empty bar the remnants of whatever powder he’d had in there before. He was fairly sure it went bonemeal, sycamore ash, dried rose petals. Or was it albrus petals? He couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d written it down in the journal. That sounded like something he’d do.
Zane left the altar to grab the journal from where it lay on the pew. It was an old, tattered book, with frayed edges and a solid brass clasp. With a bit of polish it would have looked incredible, but instead it was left in a sorry state. As he held it, Zane noticed the slight bend in the journal’s shape, as if there was something wedged between the pages. But that couldn’t have been the case. He was the only one who used the journal, and he barely did so.
Opening the journal up, Zane flicked through the blank pages, peeling them apart one by one. He felt like he was losing his mind. Each one was stuck together, as if the edges had been painted over. He took care with each one, careful not to tear the paper as he did so. Page after page, there was nothing, not even a doodle in the corner. He knew it was old, but he didn’t realise that he’d never used it. Even then, he felt the residual trace of charcoal on the pages. The rough grain on the paper left a strange feeling on his fingertips as he turned each one over.
Again and again he was met with nothing. He’d gotten through more than two thirds of the notebook but he could still feel the lump sandwiched somewhere between the remaining pages. Through the thin paper Zane could just about make out the rectangular outline of something underneath.
As he peeled the page, he saw a crumpled envelope. The sides were torn and stained with ink and dirt. Picking it up, he turned it over in his hands. There was no writing on the outside, o
nly the dark purple seal keeping the folded page together. He could see the deep grooves made by a heavy hand with what must’ve been a dull nib. The scratches formed words that Zane couldn’t make out from this side.
Zane ran a finger over the seal, tracing the strange pattern it made. It wasn’t a sigil, nor was it the symbol of any divine being. It curved and swirled into what seemed to be two horns. Without breaking the seal, Zane peeled the letter open, unfolding the fragile paper until he could see the words written on the page. I was faded and smudged in places, but he could just about read it.
My dearest child,
I hope this message finds you well. It’s been so long since I’ve seen your smiling face. I know it’s been too long, and I hope you forgive me. You’re struggling, but you shouldn’t have to struggle on your own.
The season of storms is approaching, but you shouldn’t be afraid. The loud noises are just that, noises. Nothing more, nothing less. The rain is cold but you can always dry. Lightning is unpredictable, you never truly know where it strikes. But you’re safe. I’ll always keep you safe. You’re a smart boy, too smart to be afraid of such things.
I’m sure you’re confused as to why I’ve even sent you this. Although I’m sure you’re confused about just about everything recently. Your brain’s a mess, but that’s okay. There’s something about you that’s always been different, strange and other-worldly. It’s only gotten stronger over time.
I want to know why, my child. I’m sure you do too. This letter was meant to find you when the time was right. No sooner. No later. When you’re ready, all will be revealed to you. Until then, your mind will slowly unravel, thread by thread. Let it all play out on its own.
Have faith in me, Firefly.
Zane read the words again and again. There were no names, no recognisable symbols. No nothing. It was all far too coincidental. Scared of storms? Zane didn’t know anyone else in Ashenport who was afraid of storms other than him. His mind was a mess, even more so recently than it used to be. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was struggling.
But who was the letter for? This was his journal, and no one else was allowed in the temple. In fact, no one else ever came into their garden other than Orlia. But she’d never step foot in there. Anyway, it wasn’t her handwriting, and it definitely wasn’t Merrin’s.
“Firefly,” Zane said to himself, testing the way the words felt on his tongue. It felt familiar, like the warmth of his bed. But he didn’t know where from.
He held the letter in his hands, focusing on the words before him. Outside, the rain continued to hammer the ground. Thunder rumbled in the distance, further away than before. The storm was retreating. Just a few more hours and he’d be able to go back inside. Maybe he had all the answers he needed already, hidden away in the depths of his bookcase.
Was the letter truly about him? If it was then what did it mean? What did it mean that he was different? Was it because he was dead? That was definitely possible, he knew he wasn’t meant to be alive. And yet here he was.
Why was he meant to find the letter? Was it because he was forgetting? Because he was a mess both inside and out? Surely it couldn’t be. Zane leant back against the pew and turned his gaze towards the altar. Have faith in me. In who? Who was the letter even from?
Perhaps it was a sign. It could’ve been some form of divine intervention from Otia. But he knew that wasn’t true. There would be no reason for her to write a letter when the altar was right there. It could’ve been someone else, another divine he wasn’t as familiar with. But why? None of it made any sense. But then again, what did nowadays?
Zane lay himself down against the pew, watching the heart-stones spin on their pedestals. With each rotation, Zane felt himself grow more and more weary. His head was still overwhelmed. Who was the letter meant for? He thought it was him, but it still didn’t make sense. He’d make sense of it later, right now all he wanted to do was sleep.
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