Young Writers Society

The nights of the mountain were harsh, but it was stark relief from the pain of his confused thoughts. The shadows danced across the cavernous walls, scrawling out a language that in a mocking dance that the shadowed man never bothered to understand. Still, he could feel the flames grow hungry for more than just embers as its darkened counterpart ridiculed and belittled him. He growled at the ravenous flames and it answered back with a roar. It was a battle he would not win, as he needed some kind of sustenance, and only the fire would be able to give it to him.

He spat at the fire but rose, conceding his loss. He struggled with a frozen carcass in one corner of the cavern; it had frozen to the stone and parts of its iced flesh tore apart as it stubbornly clung to the icy ground. He did not remember what had previously inhabited this deceased flesh. Whether it was a wolf or a human, it no longer mattered. It was now survival. He balanced the hunk of meat on his knees and punctured the longer side with his sword and hung it above the fire. melted blood and guts dripped onto the flames below, which devoured it feverishly.

He hobbled over to the makeshift stone workshop and collapsed on the stool. Glancing down at his stomach, all he saw was bloodied, darkened bandages wrapped around a too-thin stomach. He couldn't bear to uncover the countless wounds that etched along his abdomen. His vision blanked for just a moment. Instead of the blackness he was used to, his vision flickered to something much worse: fragments of a life before. His hands shuddered and his breath faltered. In a fit of rage, he slammed against his stomach, and he almost whited out against the pain, but it was so much better than the alternative. He could feel the glass embed itself deeper into his insides, could feel the debris from his past find deeper homes under his buried regret. He tightened the bandages. It would have to be something for another day. He would exist, for better or worse, with the physical pain instead of the mental.

He focused his blurred vision on the masks in front of him. On the edge of the table was a clay pot with several black ingredients and vials adorning the area around it.

Something clacked at the mouth of the cavern, disrupting the constant howl of the winter winds. His hands clutched his otherly sword, the flesh of its handle cradling his blistered palms.

A frail figure hobbled into view of the cave and uncovered a snow-covered hood to reveal an equally frail face. Stark white hair flowed out around a plump female face donned with a thousand wrinkles and scars. She lifted up a cane and disclosed her otherwise empty hands. "I mean no harm."

He stood, not letting his face be revealed by the traitorous light of the flame pit, but he readied his blade in a casual stance that let its full length be seen in the light. They both knew it was no empty threat.

The old woman's voice did not falter, however. "I am no thief. Well, only a thief for a space from the biting cold." She gestured vaguely to the outside.

He grunted, but relented and set the sword back on the table and went back to work on his table. He did not look at her, but his attention was not focused on the clay pot. He felt the old woman's presence meander closer to the fire.

He crushed a seed in the mortar and pestle absentmindedly, grinding to a subconscious rhythm of a song or a lullaby he no longer remembered. Once it was crushed to a point so fine the former seeds were no longer recognizable. He set the mortar aside, but his hands shook so fiercely that he spilled some dust on the table. He stabilized it with his other hand and gentle set it aside. Now that he had an audience, the spasms wouldn't subside.

The woman sighed. He got an almost irresistible urge to slice her throat, then and there. He resisted.

"The night grows. Rest is a good idea."

He said nothing.

"We should rest."

He flicked a finger at the meat roasting on the fire.

"True." She hobbled over to the meat. "How about this? I will prepare the food. You rest."

He said nothing.

"You should rest. Even my old eyes can see that you need it."

He grunted. Killing her would be easier than talking.

"I've seen dead people look more lively than the face hiding itself beneath that mask."

His hand twitched, and he glanced at the otherly sword on the edge of his workstation. He cleared his throat. "You speak too much. Be quiet before I silence you."

The old woman scoffed, but she didn't say anything else. He focused his attention back on the masks in front of him. He grabbed the latest mask from the wall, a feat that took a surprisingly amount of effort, and he slumped back on the stool, catching his breath.

"Do you have any spices?" The old woman's voice cut through the cold silence, crackly and distant. He said nothing. "Oh, it's no matter, I have some in my sack. You can never go anywhere without the essentials." She rustled through her bag, creating a cacaphony of noise that resonated through the cavern in a way that nothing had since he arrived there, so long ago.

It was an unwelcome occurance.

His eyes wandered back to the otherly sword, and it spoke to him, whispering words of seduction and destruction. It sought souls. He sought souls of the damned, but it didn't mind; it was not picky on the bodies it cleaved into another existence of nothingness. The old woman knew too much. She would have to die, and it would be more than willing to assist in the feat.

He turned to the old woman, but she was right in front of him. She shoved a bowl into his frail hands. "Eat. Then rest. I know a weary soul when I see one." He glanced down at the bowl. It was a concoction of the meat plus spices and what seemed like a kind of broth. He looked back up at the old lady, but she was back at the fire, rolling out a mat. "You should hurry. The fire is dwindling."

He swiveled back to the workbench and reluctantly took his mask off. He laid it to the side, face down, and devoured the food. It shocked his mouth and his senses screamed in protest at something that actually had a taste. He did not take time to savor it, for something that was actually more than bare sustinance forced his body to remember it was still human, and needed to recover. It needed to rest.

And so, for the first time in what felt like forever, he laid down to rest.