Page 90 of Fate Fiction

He had a singular objective, the same objective he’d had for the last 34 mornings that accompanied those nights, to escape. Escape was a funny word for one such as Erwyn. He’d seldom found himself in places he’d need to escape, and typically he was the one helping others escape. And yet, pressed against the damp stone in a mildew scented dungeon, that was all he needed to do. And he had failed. Miserably in fact. For 33 of those mornings. He couldn’t allow himself to fail for a 34th.

Shuffling as far as his iron chains would allow, Erwyn ran his fingers along the rivets of the door that kept him within. Each day he begged one would become loose, and they never were. He’d make an off remark to himself regarding the excellent craftsmanship of the blacksmiths of a place so terrible as Edgemore, a joke that only he would hear and only he would chuckle at.

Patterns became recognizable. Each morning, several hours after the sun rose, a turret of black smoke would rise from the onyx tower across from the narrow window in his cell. If he stood on his tip toes he could barely see through the sliver in the stone. The black smoke had been why he found himself in Edgemore in the first place. The Duke of Rospice, Groslic, was a suspicious gentleman, something Erwyn knew acutely well from years in his service. Groslic had a deeply held belief that the people of Edgemore, or more specifically, their leader, King Bespem, was hoarding a lost breed of dragons.

As they’d been domesticated over centuries, wild dragons, creatures that still could wield true flame, with claws sharper than swords, had grown far more rare. Certain breeds, such as the Whistlen, were believed to exist only in single digits across the continent. Groslic had felt as though some of them were being contained in a large turret, the very one that Erwyn had watched billow smoke each morning.

What was strange, at least Erwyn believed was strange, was that there was thick ice coated on the roof and upper portion of this turret. If dragons were being held captive there, the heat from their flames alone would surely melt any ice. Stranger still, was that there was little ice to be seen elsewhere on the extensive outposts of buildings that made up the castle grounds.

Erwyn was not a man of science, but even in his limited knowledge of dragons he’d never once heard of ones that didn’t produce any flame. Even the weakened domesticated ones that were bred for flight and not fire even still sparked small puffs of white smoke and balls of flame.

As he questioned such possibilities, he’d found himself visited by the second ghost. His General, Sturnigus, who Erwyn believed must have died in battle in the time he’d spent traveling to Edgemore. He knew little of the spiritual world, but he had previously believed that one must be dead to appear as a ghost. It was a question he’d ask the Vicar of Rospice upon his return, if he would return that is.

Sturnigus would stand, stately as always, beside the door. Erwyn found humor in this ghost deciding to protect him, but knew his dear mentor’s nature was always to treat Erwyn as his own kin. Rather than his stately chainmail and tunic embossed with the crest of Rospice, Sturnigus’ ghost wore a linen shirt and loose pants, something more befitting of an evening drinking around a table with friends. Erwyn wondered if one could select their clothes in the afterlife, or if they were bound to the wares they died in for eternity. If Sturnigus had died in battle, one would assume that he’d be wearing the uniform of a man leading a militia. The first day the specter had materialized, Erwyn called out to it. “Gus, my brother!” He’d briefly believed that Sturnigus had in fact come into the cell.

The spirit didn’t call back to him. In fact, it didn’t seem to acknowledge that Erwyn was there at all. It remained at attention, beside the door, almost waiting for something else to enter.

It was the third, and final ghost, that Erwyn dreaded seeing the most. This ghost appeared to him as he was drifting towards slumber, its appearance would jolt him awake, only for him to nervously glance around a now empty cell. Unlike his mother’s ghost, it didn’t bring about a warm comfort, and unlike Sturnigus, it didn’t inspire him to push through another day and search for an escape. This spirit brought about complete and utter terror, a primitive fear that ran icy pinpricks along his spine.

This ghost was of Erwyn himself.

Though, notably, unlike Erwyn in his present state, the spirit’s head was dangling from its neck, held on by shreds of crimson flesh. The lifeless eyes occasionally blinked, the gray lips slowly opened and attempted to speak, or scream, Erwyn was unsure.

Erwyn knew he was not dead, if he was dead then the throbbing pain in his leg was imaginary, and the wounds that split open to reveal hot, red blood were a mirage. Most importantly, if he was dead, in the same way that his ghost appeared to be, his head would not still be solidly attached to his neck. He was sure of this fact, one typically knows whether or not their head is attached, but still, he checked each evening, just in case.

sixteen

. . .

Sunday, June 7

Someone gently knocked on my apartment door sometime mid morning.

When I opened my eyes I forgot where I was. The familiar landlord-special painted walls and the light streaming in from my bay window reminded me I was in my own apartment again. Not at camp. I woke up yesterday morning thinking I’d see Evan sitting on his cabin porch, waiting to have coffee with me until the memory of the night before came crashing over me. The storm on Friday night had left small vestiges around the lake that morning. The rain had ended but the grass still clung to its dampness and there was heavy moisture in the atmosphere. I had fallen asleep with the windows open, as I had every night, and there wasn’t a single dry surface left in the cabin. This included my red raw eyes and tear stained cheeks.

Angry, ragged waves dipped up and down across the lake. They crashed against the dock, the only sound emanating from camp at all. The cabin next to mine held a stillness, a haunted breath of what, or who, had been inside.

I didn’t remember my drive home, how I spent the better part of six hours on interstates and highways. I left camp with my things tossed haphazardly into the trunk, and blinked and was in front of my apartment again. I couldn’t remember what I actually packed, and perhaps it was for the best that there were pieces of me left in that cabin still.

I didn’t remember saying goodbye to Sue and Randy, I could only remember her warm hug and the lingering smell of patchouli as I drove down the dirt road. I’m sure she knew what happened, she always knew.

I didn’t remember coming into my apartment or falling asleep on the couch. I turned and sat my bags by the door, in the same spot where Nick’s boxes were a few weeks ago. I didn’t want to be here, and I definitely didn’t want to go back to camp. My two sanctuaries had been marred by the loss of something and someone, and I had nowhere else to go now.

More knocking. I groaned and buried my face in my pillow, hoping whatever delivery driver was here would leave the package by the door. My phone started buzzing, I turned it over and saw Andrea’s name across the screen, alongside a warning that my battery was low.

“Hey,” I grumbled.

“I know you’re home,” Andrea said in a sing-song voice. “Let me in.”

I willed myself off the couch to shuffle to the door and wordlessly invite her inside. She glanced at me and was attempting to hide the shock that had slowly creeped up her face. Her mood shifted.

I’d been avoiding mirrors all morning, but could make assumptions regarding how dire the situation appeared. I hadn’t showered since Friday, bits of Evan’s and my last bonfire were still clinging to my hair and skin. I flinched whenever the scent of smoke creeped into my nostrils. My sweatpants and old college t-shirt acted as a second skin now, and my hair was twisted into a knot of sorts atop my head. I knew I looked like a ghost with puffy red eyes and smeared black mascara on my cheeks.

Andrea immediately dropped a brown paper bag and two iced lattes on the coffee table.

“What the fuck happened to you?” She was seeking answers in my appearance. The only thing that was obvious was that I was in rough shape. Rougher than I’d been when she came by after the breakup.

My lip began trembling the moment she spoke, I ran to her and slumped ungracefully onto her shoulder, dampening her trendy athleisure brand pullover with salty tears.