Monster

19. Too Late

"I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free ... Why am I so changed? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills."

        -Emily Bronte (Wuthering Heights)

1832 February 29th

Half past ten O'clock at night

Too Late

Two days had passed, in which Elsa stayed in her house, surrounded by spiders and their webs. She remained on her father's old study chair for a great while, contemplating everything Sven had said the night he left the pocket watch for her. It sat on her palm now, glittering in the dull moonlight that spilled in through the smudged window pane. 

Eventually, the young woman could bare the thoughts no longer and marched up to the attic, where she pondered through old boxes, in search for maybe a clue as to who her mother truly was. What she found was much more than she had hoped for. 

Leaned against the far, darkest corner sat a rectangular shape, engulfed in thick dust. She moved toward it on her knees, and swiftly wiped a hand across the surface, just enough to reveal a familiar face; she had dark hair, almost the color of black bark. Her narrow face was beautiful, and in the chipped painting the woman was staring blankly, either if as she had no care in the whole world, or she was lost in another world completely. But none of that was what, quite unfortunately, surprised Elsa. It was her mother's eyes. They were the color of candle flames.

Elsa wondered how her own expression looked these nights. She raised the pocket watch to her mother's painted eyes and whispered, "Did you steal this? Or was Sven lying to me?" 

Her mother stared back, impassive. 

"Tell me," Elsa nearly growled, and clenched the watch in her own fist. "Please." She peered closer into her mother's eyes. "Who are you?" 

Suddenly she paused and sat bolt upright, the chain of the watch rattling as she did so. She looked over her shoulder, having heard a loud noise. It sounded like an implosion, and demanding voices. 

She scrabbled to her feet and backed against the far corner, cobwebs tangling in her hair as she did so. Footsteps echoed through the emptiness and only got louder, faster as they ascended toward the upstairs rooms and then... to the attic. 

Elsa wasn't sure what to do; these people, whoever they were, did not sound as though they were here for tea and a chat, so whatever it was for, the result would not be pleasant. She looked both ways and in vain at that; the small, cluttered attic was simply made up of boxes... and then more boxes. There was no escape route to take—no window or door. She had to simply face them, and she would probably have to kill if she wanted to survive. 

"Better you than me," she mumbled. 

Suddenly the door was kicked inward, sending tornadoes of dust and debris everywhere. Elsa decided then and there it was now or never; she sprang forward through the storm of dust and attempted to rip past the approaching SKS members, but she was trapped, her hands locking on what felt like thick fish nets. She stumbled, the ground rising up toward her and colliding with her body. She struggled and twisted in the net, her hair tangled and covered in webs. The men hoisted her to her feet and slammed her to the wall. She glowered at them but stopped instantly when she saw a familiar face glowering right back at her. 

"Ronan," she started, reaching a hand toward him, but the ropes prevented her from contact. "Ronan..." 

He stood with his arms crossed, his tense face nearly a complete silhouette, as a man just behind him held a lantern, the bright orange light turning Ronan's hair nearly the color of fire.