A Forest On Fire

The Candle-Maker

Lydia left the manor entirely when Elliot had told her to leave. She was seething and hating, but she did not hate Elliot nor did she seethe at the thought of her. She hated herself and seethed at the thought of what she'd done. She could not and would not hate the Governor, for what she felt early in their relationship did not stem from Elliot herself but from her father, who had made her harm Elliot; Lydia only hated him more for it, and this was why she had killed him. All of the things which she had done flooded her mind like a river after a storm, like the tears in her eyes. Lydia left the manor, weeping silently as she walked, covering her face with her hands as if the action of sobbing itself caused her pain.

Lydia did not know how far she walked. It might have only been minutes after she left when she stopped. A smell had halted her in her purposeless wandering. She lowered her moist hands from her red eyes and peeked out from above them. She held her breath, and wonder filled her as a breeze fills a room when a window is opened. Lydia found herself in a crowded street. The scent which had distracted her from her despair was melted wax, for she stood in front of a candle-maker's shop. She recognized this shop- this shop which she had seen so long ago; this was why wonder so took hold of her. It could not have been real. Could it be? She could have sworn the building had been torn down. Lydia wiped her face on her apron dress, fixed the cloth holding her hair up, straightened her back, and entered.

The room carried within it amalgamations of different scents- too many for her to recognize any one. The room was crowded, not by people, but by shelves crammed with a variety of candles of unique color, shape, size, width, scent, even stages of disrepair, for many were broken or crushed. Many were lit and oozing wax down the spindles of tables and cabinets, where it dried and encrusted the wood with a diverse palette of color. On another side of the room, new candles hung from a string, awaiting sale or placement upon one of the overpopulated slats of splintered wood. An elderly man- the candle-maker- sat on a rickety stood in front of a large cauldron, which was suspended above a fire by a chain on either side connecting to the walls of the cobblestone fireplace. He was melting wax, no doubt.

Without turning toward the visitor, the man said in an airy, faraway voice, "Welcome, welcome, please- have a look around. My name is Monsieur Baptiste, should you very well need anything."

Lydia stood in awe of the man. She looked about and whispered, "Torvald Baptiste?"

The man grunted lightly and turned; his eyebrows were raised as if he had been the one asking. Torvald's mouth dropped open. "Nitt Luoja!" The man grabbed his cane sitting behind him on the ground and shuffled up to her. He adjusted the glasses sitting precariously on the tip of his nose. "My dear Lydia, is that you?"

"I was wondering the same thing about yourself," she said. "I could hardly believe this was real when I saw your shop. But why are you here again? Why did you not stay in Chalin? In the forest? Surely the forest is much safer than the city, swarming with hunters."

"I, too, could ask the same thing about yourself, Lydia. Why are you here, in Rousette? Why are you in the city? The last time I saw you, you had hidden away, quite like myself." He shook his head. "You have found someone else?"

"Of sorts."

"You should not have done what you did with that man, then." Torvald eyed her. "I knew it would not last. But you are well, no? I suppose that is all that matters."

"I came to ask you something, Monsieur Baptiste."

"Please, sit." Torvald pointed his cane at the stool. Lydia did as she was told. "What is it? Wait, wait- don't tell me-" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath inward. Torvald looked at her again, but it was with admonition. "You are looking to close off a bond- with who?- with that governor, that governor- who?- El-something, El-something- Can it not be Elliot?"

"It is. Governor Phorus."

"By God, what business did you have bonding with her?"

"It was revenge, at first, Monsieur Baptiste. Revenge for-"

"-for her father. Yes, yes, I know all about it, dear Lydia."

"It is killing her."

"So I would have guessed."

"I do not want her to die."

"So I would have guessed," he repeated.

"What shall I do about it?"

"You've become stronger since you first asked me to turn you into a monster, Lydia. Much stronger. Where did you learn to do that? I certainly didn't teach you."

She felt her skin grow warm beside the boiling wax, and she looked at him sternly. "That doesn't answer my question. What is to be done about it?"

"Well," Torvald started; he sat with a grunt on a ripped armchair next to the fire. "There is one way."

"And?"

"I don't think you would like it very much, dear."

"Get on with it already, Baptiste."

"Yes, yes, well- It is quite cliché, you know- like what you hear in fairytales and the like, but, well, I suppose the stories have to get them from somewhere- one holder of the bond must die," he finished frankly.

"One must die?"

"Yes, one must die. Since you do not want Elliot to die, it cannot be her, but, since you cannot kill yourself, it cannot be you."

"But it must be me," she breathed.

"How you would go about doing that is up to you, my dear Lydia, but you will find away- I'm sure."

Lydia slumped forward and buried her face in her hands in frustration. "Aren't you supposed-" But she stopped. The smell of wax had vanished. The rough wood was replaced by the feeling of itchy grass. She removed her hands from her eyes, and no longer was the candle shop there, no longer did she find herself in a busy street. No longer was she with Torvald, the tudemé. Instead, she was just as alone as she had left. She was not sitting on a stool, but a rock. She was not sitting next to a cauldron of boiling wax, but a well. Lydia was no longer sitting across from Torvald, but a twisted, old, gnarled scots pine. She looked up at its leafy, faraway branches and did not wonder how she got there, but why Torvald had decided to give her such a vivid hallucination instead of showing himself directly to her.

Lydia sat on her rock, next to her well, across from her pine, and thought. She thought about how she would fix the bond, how she would have to die in order to liberate Elliot from it. She had never thought of death until that moment, and she thought of it eagerly, willingly. Her death would bring life, but what Torvald had said was true. She could not kill herself, for she could die only two ways- decapitation or burning. She could not decapitate herself, and she was far too much of a coward to set herself aflame. Someone else would have to do it for her, and, perhaps, she could convince someone to do it. But what Lydia thought of most, sitting there, was how much of a fool she was for running off like this and how much she needed to get back to her Governor and how much, really, the Governor needed her.