The Keeper came again tonight, interrupting what was an otherwise peaceful afternoon in the stygian depths of my personal abyss. A cell devoid of light, bereft of human interaction or the solace of any amusement. A solitary confinement characterized by an imposing lock and an even more formidable door, a staunch barricade between me and the outside world.
There were rare moments where we socialites could get away with conversation, our voices traversing the narrow, echoing corridors of our prison block. But such exchanges were often met by retaliation, magical or otherwise. There was however, one exception – a fellow a few cells down who spoke Shriel, a language made up of whistles and clicks. He was a great conversationalist.
But on the days the keeper came, we cell dwellers wouldn't think to make a peep. The sound of its chains, clanging ominously against the unforgiving stone walls, had the power to paralyze the bravest among us. Even a seasoned war hero would quail in the presence of these monstrous jailers, much less some ragtag thief or cutthroat. We'd all heard the stories of the keepers in Grey, officially they constituted the judicial branch of The Scales, but in reality they were far more nightmarish than any court of law. Souls whose essence had been inadvertently or forcibly tainted, condemned to eternal servitude.
The Keeper was drawing nearer to my hall now, its chains creating an unsettling symphony that sent shivers coursing through my body. I couldn't recall a time I had heard it so close, and the realization set in that time had flowed inexorably forward during my seemingly endless confinement. How old was I now? Perhaps two-hundred and sixty, two hundred and seventy? I'd never actually seen a keeper, despite all my years. They were the prison guards now, but I had been brought here in a different age.
As the Keeper's chains fell silent just outside my cell, disbelief washed over me. Had it truly been that long? A profound sense of aging gripped me, like a vice closing in around my heart. My eyes locked on the rotting door of my cell, covered in dust by centuries of neglect.
And then it opened. My cell door, weighted and rusted from centuries unturned, creaked as it was swung ajar. The sound was violent as a bow gliding across twice taut string, ready to spring a peg at any moment. Yet what truly unsettled me most was the sensation as the Keeper entered, a scratching deep within the core of my being, as though someone was probing the outer boundaries of my soul. The stories I'd been told by the inmates had done no justice to the profound wrongness of the being in front of me. They were, perhaps, too ignorant to comprehend its true nature.
The Keeper advanced into my chamber, its form hunched as it passed through the iron door. Light streamed from a strange device held in its claw-like hands–crystal encased in a luminously polished metal that seemed to pulse and diverge, emitting a new wave of cerulean light with each reconvergence. A marvel of craftsmanship really… Though the same could not be said for the creature holding it.
The curse of darkness had been a blessing, I suppose, because the sight of the Keeper will be forever etched in the recesses of my memory. It was much like a human, and at first glance you might even peg it as such. But it wouldn't take more than a moment for every instinct in you to scream 'run' once you really began to take it in. It was a grotesque misrepresentation of a human being, the mouth dominating the lower half of its visage. With lips a thin sliver of silver and a mouth full of pearly white teeth in much too many sets, it appeared as though its ravenous hunger could consume the world if given the opportunity.
Its eyes reminded me of kindling, dark and smoldering but without a hint of life. I realized then I had inadvertently met its gaze for the first time, and a crooked smile crept across its entire face. A shudder coursed through me at the repugnant display. It knew my thoughts and reveled in my fear–a wicked creature indeed.
Nonetheless, it remained an observer, vigilant and patient. It took its place in the doorway, chains that resembled ethereal tendrils swaying and weaving around it, brushing against the walls and floor with a fluidity that mimicked kites caught in a tempestuous wind. A choreography of malevolence carried along by their own sinister current.
It took a step toward me, and to be completely truthful I would have instinctively recoiled, if it weren't for the shackles that had held me to this wall for more than a century. I curse myself for that knowledge. I had faced the Diem-kin in the southern continent, averted a coup single-handedly in the Telar kingdoms. I had traversed the mirror world of the fae and uncovered the origins of weaving. I was the first and last man given free passage to the Felurian Estates.
Yet here I stood, on the precipice of succumbing to irrational fear provoked by a mere monster–a monster in appearance and strength, true, but one whose power lay elsewhere. The thought of such a creature, a being so malevolent, was akin to blasphemy against the divine.
Something that's mere presence begins to corrupt the soul.
Blackened breath, those Diem bastards thought nothing sacred. It was a relentless struggle to maintain my composure as its presence encroached on mine, breaching the carefully constructed barriers I had erected in my psyche. Describing the sensation proved challenging–a turbulent sea set ablaze, both destructive and tumultuous, yet strangely alluring. Like a siren's song it beckoned, tempting with its bizarre beauty and deceptive tranquility.
With deliberate focus, I closed my eyes, retreating within the sanctuary of my own thoughts. I would not be treated as prey, especially not by some mindless malformed slave. Stagnant memories and long forgotten songs filled my mind, along with the distinct feeling of being lobotomized by an ice-pick. I took a deep breath, the acrid scent of burning skin and hair assaulting my senses. It hurt, of course it hurt, but I smiled through the agony as the grating feeling gave way to a scratching, then a scraping, and then finally a gentle tapping in the periphery of my psyche.
Upon reopening my eyes, I made a conscious effort to ignore the dull throbbing that emanated from my forehead and radiated outward like ripples in a dark pond. I had been prepared for the restrictive sigil to react the moment I invoked any form of weaving of course, and it was worth the cost to ward off the creature's toxic aura for now.
The keeper's reaction was disappointing, to say the least. It didn't even seem disgruntled by my little trick, its wisp like chains winding their way around my ankles and wrists as the restraints I'd previously had fell away on their own, almost as if they'd acknowledged I was no longer their charge and had retired of old age. I wondered briefly if I too would be retiring very soon. The prospect of 'retiring of old age' sparked a sudden, mirthless chuckle from my lips, earning me the response I had been fishing for as my head was rudely introduced to the unyielding wall. In my dim awareness, I could feel myself being dragged elsewhere and idly wondered if my laughter had bothered the demon like being.
I awoke to find myself surrounded by an assembly of thirteen figures sitting far above me. They occupied ornately carved marble thrones, draped with just as pompous embroidered robes of silk. Long shawls concealed their features from my view, their grandeur at odds with the solemnity of the chamber. The room was vast and opulent, resembling an auditorium rather than a place of law. I knew what it was attempting to replicate of course, the thirteen judges of 'The Scales' – The Grey Court. In my time, the cloaks they wore reflected their name to show their neutrality and impartiality. Now all I could see were cloaks white as the marble they sat on. My blood boiled at the implication, but there was nothing I could do to quell my anger in this situation.
They had sat me at a podium, my body seemingly bound but not by any tangible means that I could discern. The sensation was peculiar, as if I was sat within gelatin. I suspected that with sufficient effort I could move, if I really needed to do so, but I couldn't seem to so much as wiggle my fingers without brute forcing the strange cell and drawing attention. As I wasn't fond of the idea of being manhandled again, I opted to sit in silent defiance, glaring daggers at the bastards above. I may not be able to see their eyes, but I was acutely aware they could see mine.
Upon realizing I was awake, a guard, decked in finery ill-suited for a proper warrior, gestured in my direction. The soft murmuring came to a halt, and all hoods turned to face me, though their features remained frustratingly concealed. "Elodin Cross," A gruff voice began, emanating from a rotund figure in one of the lofty seats. His salt and pepper beard was one of the few discernible features visible from beneath his hood. "I would like to remind you once again of your charges before we begin, as they may have faded from your memory over these long years-"
I would have interrupted him, but the restraints that bound me allowed no such freedom. I idly wondered if I'd be allowed to speak at all as he prattled off a rather lengthy list of charges, concluding with the accusation of "the cold blooded murder of a Royal." He spat the words with evident disdain and venom, I assume he was a relative.
"Decades ago, you were brought up on these charges." another voice interjected, reminiscent of a crow's raucous laughter, its pitch rising and falling with each word. "And yet, despite the evidence against you, you pled not guilty. Do you maintain your plea?." The crow's hood angled upward as he curled his nose, as if the idea were an affront to him. The peculiar restraints that had held my voice hostage loosened slightly, allowing me to speak. Nonetheless, I maintained my silence, directing my gaze at the tribunal with a hatred words could not convey.
"We will assume then, that you do." A younger, more sophisticated voice chimed in. Then, as if the weight of the world had descended upon the room, the gruff voice spoke once more. "Elodin Cross," he intoned, his words carrying the finality of fate itself. "After careful consideration of the evidence, despite your steadfast plea of not guilty, this tribunal finds you guilty of all charges levied against you."
The crow-like voice, previously tinged with mockery, took on a somber tone as it rejoined the chorus. "Your crimes, including the frigid, unceremonious departure of the crown prince, are heinous and unforgivable. Justice must be served." A cacophony of agreements and muted excitement spread through the room, and the man with the salt and pepper beard spoke once again, "Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. As you have taken the life of the crown prince, a life of virtue and worth that far exceeds your own, you have spent your own in the lowest hells until this point. And now, as your dismal and presumptuous life meets its end naturally, we will take even that from you."
The sensation of a slender piece of Ixtal steel piercing through my back, delving into my heart and lungs, painted an exquisite agony unlike any other. It felt as if fire waltzed along the edges of every point where blade kissed flesh, icy tendrils snaking through my veins as my life's essence pooled within my drowning lungs. I wasn't gripped by shock, rather an unexpected astonishment; I had always imagined it would be a more grandiose affair. Yet there I stood, on the precipice of oblivion. A mere piece of metal, a simple sword, would be the instrument to end the life of the supposed king killer.
I shifted my gaze downward to the blade, knowing that my time in this world was measured in mere moments, I had no intention of spending them gazing at those corrupt individuals who sat so far out of my reach. Cowards, all of them.
My eyes settled on the sword protruding from my chest, runes glinting along its bloodied edge. It was a marvelous piece of metallurgy, unmistakably of Faen origin. But, the serenity as I drifted to my death was shattered by the realization of what exactly I was looking at. A sword of Fae metal. An enchanted sword. Panic and dread seized me and in my death throws I looked around the room wildly, thinking they were using some magic to punish my soul, some malevolent thing … but the room mirrored my frenetic state.
The keepers had closed in with an alarming swiftness, their chains hissing and lashing toward me and the mysterious assailant who had struck the fatal blow. The thirteen scales were in an uproar, their voices raised in a chaotic symphony of condemnation as they gestured wildly in my direction.
In the midst of my anguish and fading consciousness, a gentle whisper, softer than the breeze through a forest, graced my ear. "Worry not, son of Lysandra and Seraphin, child of the Morrigan. Your sins are not your own." The words lingered in the air, a soothing balm amidst the storm of chaos, then I surrendered to the enveloping darkness.