The Knight's Eyes

31: REFLECTION OF FRAILTY

Time moved in the form of a tortoise. He felt the pressure of his knife puncture through muscle and flesh. Her eyes flashed open. He felt her squirm under the pain of the blade. She grabbed his arm in her shocked reaction. No blood seethed from his stab wound only the triple growth of tiny black veins along her chest.

Then she exploded.

Black smoke conquered the air around him eating the oxygen. He choked, stumbling backwards to free himself of the swarming smoke. It clung onto his skin and stung like a horde of bees. He strained a yelp and felt the sorcerous power slam him into the wall.

Something snatched the knife, dripping of charred blood from his hand while something gripped his neck and squeezed. He grabbed whatever had his throat and felt a hand. The black mist joined until it reformed into the witch still in her chemise.

Wretched malice screamed from her eyes and her lips snarled. She brought the knife to his nose.

You can't kill a heart that's already dead, she mouthed, but for some reason he could easily understand every word. Even in his mind he somehow knew or maybe imagined her voice.

She squeezed more and he tried to punch her in the stomach only for her to wickedly chuckle. He couldn't hear her, but just the imagination of hearing it turned his blood cold. He struggled under her grasp and the world faded in and out around them.

His heart throbbed and screamed for oxygen. A heavy pressure developed in his chest as if a boulder had dropped upon him. The strength in his arms gave in, dropping his shoulders. Every muscle and bone in his legs numbed and lost contact with his frantic mind. His screaming heart smothered into silence and all he could think about as he peered into those evil eyes, was to see his mother again.

The world brightened suddenly. He stood in the center of the same intersection of his previous nightmares. He strained for air, loud and desperate and though he received the needed oxygen, the boulder still pressed upon his chest. He spun around and took note of the familiarity of the four streets and the spooky rundown houses.

What did this all mean? Why did he continue to visit this place? A shriek of lightening crossed the sky and the thunder that followed trembled him.

Cold rain fell upon him. He wrapped his arms around himself and shook his head as his fear of drowning unraveled. He took a step forward and was astonished that he was not planted still. He sprinted to one of the buildings on a corner and pressed his back against it. Already the puddles along the ground expanded until water hid the ground. He swallowed shivering uncontrollably.

He shuttered awake to darkness. He let his eyes adjust to a plain iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. From the floor to the ceiling, everything was damped black. Long tables cluttered with jars, bottles, and bowls of all shapes, sizes, and colors sat about the room. Shelves filled with the same contents with books, strange instruments, miniature sculptures, and other unspeakable items line three walls. There were many bolted doors and two adjoined hallways. He shifted from his side and onto his buttocks to take in the rest of the room. A queen size bed sat against the wall, a sofa, a wardrobe, a large desk filled with paperwork and appeared business like, and five cots along a wall each possessing restraints.

He jerked fully awake, panting hard like an exhausted dog. He touched his neck and his own chest and scanned his body for any signs of injury. He could not believe it. He was still alive. But then again, where was he? And where was the witch?

As if hearing his questions, Kaahiss exited one of the halls and swiftly approached him. His scaled eyebrows were clashed together in fiery. Alsin sharply inhaled and knew for sure they were going to kill him, but slow for their own amusement. Behind him, Nightingale strolled from the hall holding the knife at her side as if it was just a purse.