Chapter 17

It was an odd feeling—the numbing chill of cold, that bone deep longing for warmth; she had only felt it in the depths of her nightmares or memories. It spilled dread through her stomach; it burned like acid. Her skin protested with goosebumps, against a cold that wasn’t truly there. The breath of mist curled against her skin, and as she laid in the glass, the pebbles of dew soaked into her clothes. It didn’t take her long to force herself up—while she didn’t want to face what would come, she would simply be stuck here until she stood, and faced it.

Something echoed through the air; it could’ve been mistaken for the growl of wind, or a tree bowing, then shattering like bone under the pressure of storm gales. She, however, knew it too well, far too well, to not soberingly understand it. The scalding presence, heat sloughing from its figure, stood behind her. She didn’t turn for a while, stuck in a limbo—it was easier than facing it. Only, when she began to shiver did she finally allow fear to fall away to impatience.

It loomed like a shadow, fur glimmering like shattered glass in the moonlight—she noticed something odd, something new, stripes of jagged white fur carved across its back, where her injuries lay. Steam, vile, hot, bloody tasting, curled with from its parted mouth. The sheen of saliva glistened from its teeth, yellow plaque faded down into white bone. Blood lay in the space between where gums met teeth.

A thick, beating tail flicked, then fell, tucked down weakly—its shoulders curled up, and her eyes closed, readying herself for the finishing blow; then, she would wake up in a flurry of cold moisture, and sweat damp clothes. Moments passed, she breathed in once, twice, thrice, until she slowly, untrustingly looked upon it again. It watched her, through those eyes, golden as dawn, and they stung like sunburn.

“What do you want?” She asked cautiously, still readying herself for the crunch of teeth and rake of claws. It threw a glance over its shoulder, muscles pulling tight beneath its shaggy fur, and slowly turned; its strangely graceful footsteps didn’t match its lumbering frame. The ground shook as it thudded towards that broken, fractured hole in the thicket, and then it slunk inside.

The longer she looked, the less she wanted to follow—she already hadn’t wished to—the darkness, framed by impossibly fractured wood, like shards of brittle bone, seemed to shift, ripple, and whisper in biting words of her past—the whisperings of her parents on that forsaken day. It seemed like they hadn’t expected her to hear them, if her memory served, and often enough it didn’t.

An impatient growl rattled through her.

Her feet dragged against the wet ground, grass tickling at her ankles, and numbing them with damp cold; she grabbed the wooden frame, and it prickled beneath her touch. She yelped mutely when she was pulled into the darkness of the forest. It sunk away to black.

A sickening, clawing type of panic filled her—unique in a certain way to her, which was because only one place could spark it—an old mental hospital, it belonged in the nineteen fifties, and from what her memory allowed her to recall, it subscribed to many the same beliefs that those fateful asylums used to. Her skin burned with the recollection of them.

Now, she floated there—she wasn’t in the room, but she was tethered to it in equal measure; she remembered it all, the pungent smell of cleaner, freshly cut grass—her only saving grace—that filtered through the high, steel barred windows. Chains sang with rattling, collecting to cuffs, and to the wall—it kept her barred to the small, timeless room. It was too small for her, even then, when the wolf was rake thin, much like she was, from malnourishment, and hadn’t grown to its towering height yet.

The looming, gaunt figure stared at her—she could scarcely recognise it as herself—but it had those eyes, sunken in the sockets they were worse, more striking. Though, they were entirely devoid of something—hatred. It seized her now, as looked upon her own memories, like a stranger, ones she hadn’t recalled for years, and it burned in her chest like a silver stake. It had taken up residence there. Even then, she felt no pity, only a tiredness at why it had brough her here.

Unblinkingly, but racked with shivers, she watched as it unfolded; the wolf’s ears twitched, and it shrunk back against the wall, claws scraping at the scratch mark ridden floor. It trembled as it tried to make itself smaller. The chains went slack; they had rubbed its wrists down to the skin. Lenore rubbed at her own. The door slowly opened, hinges singing with a taunting, menacing wail.

In sterile coats, came the doctor, researchers, nurses, and guards—their features shifted around, blink, and they moved, there one moment, gone the next until they didn’t have any, just a blur where they should’ve been. Clutched tightly, like a lifeline, they held buckets full of boiling, steaming syrup like liquid—her throat burned with bile when she smelt whatever they had boiled down to make it—Mistletoe.

Lenore didn’t want to watch, but she didn’t have a choice—horror strangled her into a blank silence; she wanted to tell herself to run and never look back.

Instead, it tilted its head at the researchers, an intelligence that wasn’t simply instinct glimmering behind its eyes, like starlight on a rippling lake—it was only the surface they saw. The gummy, scalding syrup glided through the air, and covered her fur in a glossy film.

It howled—it wasn’t a moon drunk song—but instead, her own voice wailing at her, shrill, and desperate, so unlike she sounded now. She couldn’t deny it was her. Her face crumbled, and she felt her body weaken as she watched herself thrash, and panic; the chains sunk deeper into her skin.

She hadn’t wanted to remember this—she would gladly have lived believing that she was allergic to mistletoe. It blistered her skin like an allergy, and thickened her throat so breathing came as a luxury.

Lenore awoke like she always did, trembling slightly, feeling uncomfortable in her own skin, soaked with sweat, and gasping for air, like river water silt weighed heavy in her lungs. She ripped at the covers pooling about her, and shoved them away. It felt like she had walked into open water, and crawled back out with how her clothes clung moistly to her figure, and with how she shivered. It felt like pins were scattered across her skin.

“Why make me relive that?” She whispered into the darkness, voice raw, and broken, and so unlike her; she didn’t expect an answer, though. The swirling darkness certainly wouldn’t answer, nor would the wolf, it liked to speak in riddles, and Lenore always thought it took joy in watching her mind strain to understand them.

An inelegant grunt slipped past her lips and gritted teeth as she pushed herself up, her skin pulling against the stitches, and testing them. A nagging thump resounded through her shoulder; she knew it wouldn’t be easy to change. Though, she needed to, as the dampness of her shirt made her face burn with annoyance.

The laquered wooden dresser draw smoothly opened, clicked, then stopped; her clothes were folded neatly, nearly neurotically, ordered by type, colour, and then by commonly worn. It unsettled her mind when it wasn’t right. She laid her Nevermore uniform on the dresser, and closed the drawer clumsily, it closed loud enough to pull a wince from her throat.

Then, there in the darkness, came a groggy, “Lenore?” Lorelai’s voice was thick with sleep and confusion. Lenore could hear the rustling of covers, and brush of blankets; her eyes cut through the darkness. She caught Lorelai’s dim figure, hardly distinguishable from darkness, but her concerned gaze cut through the shadows. She rubbed her eyes with her hand.

“Lorelai,” Lenore responded softly, but her body remained stiff, like a deer in headlights; she watched as the sirens ghostly figure approached, she seemed to Lenore, still captured in her nightmarish daze, to float, but the light tap of her feet against the floor followed her. Her hand wrapped around Lenore’s arm, cool against her feverish heat.

“Nightmare?”

Lenore’s lips pursed, and she stubbornly pulled her arm away, brushing away her touch—but as she stepped back, Lorelai’s voice came equally stubbornly, dry of her usual levity, “what was it?” It resounded around them, in the expanse of darkness, and neither spoke, Lorelai clearly wouldn’t ask again, and Lenore wanted anything, but to respond. Bite sat daringly on her tongue, but she didn’t snap.

“Mistletoe,” she answered, and it earned no response for a few long moments, only a resigned, worry-ridden sigh. She felt her touch return, grasping tightly around the silver scar on her forearm. She remembered what Lenore couldn’t, what slowly drifted from her mind, and knew what it meant.

“Why?”

Lenore’s fingers curled into the wood, almost tight enough to splinter, and her vision fractured with uncried tears, “I don’t know.” She said. “I was never allergic to mistletoe, was I?”

“No.”

“Then, why did they do that?” She gritted out—there wasn’t any sadness, only barely repressed anger. It bubbled beneath her skin like her own blood was boiling. Lorelai’s flinch rippled through the air, and through her own skin, where she held her; she pulled away.

“Why else?” She answered like it was obvious, “to control you. Even you, when in your right mind, shrink away from it. Maybe you should skip lessons today, I don’t think you’re in—”

“—Oh, and do what, Lorelai? Sit here, running it over in my head, waiting until it fades again,” her memories had a tendency to fade, and then felt like itches she couldn’t scratch, thriving under the skins surface. “That won’t do me any good.”

The hallways stretched out before Lenore, early morning light filtering through the iron clad windows, as rich and golden as marigolds at dawn. It carved shapes across the oiled mahogany floors, stretching, shifting, and dancing across the wood as clouds drifted across, and blocked the sun, which sat low, and painfully bright on the horizon.

It was awfully quiet, ghostly so, there were only whispers hardly audible through the thick stone—students either hadn’t left their rooms, or the poor souls—like Lorelai—had early lessons, and were hardly conscious while being droned at by Ofloff. He had the sort of watery voice which could easily put you to sleep.

Lenore, herself, was exhausted, like she had never even slept, and she carried it like a lead lined cloak, weighing down her shoulders, and making her feet drag. It scuffed the toes of her shoes as they clipped against the stairs she slowly ascended. Tucked beneath her arm, a worn, thin book about guitar sat—it was clearly used, subtly stained, and peppered by rips.

Beyond her, at the head of the stairs, a closed door sat, decorated by the gentle streams of sunlight; the handle was cold as her fingers wrapped around it, and it opened with a soft click. She intended to slink inside, and deposit the book on the teachers desk. Dust danced in the streams of light, and she noticed how the guitars weren’t tattered by dust, spiderwebs, and stains anymore. A heaviness settled on her when she realised she couldn’t play, and wouldn’t be able to for a while, until the next full moon at least, and she never wished those to come sooner than they did.

Lenore approached Ms Capri’s desk, spilled with papers, and the ring of a coffee cup stained the wood. Despite her curiousity, she didn’t pull open the slightly ajar drawer, and closed it instead; she placed the book down, before she could turn, and promptly leave—she heard a voice, “Lenore?” She hadn’t noticed Miss Capri enter, who looked entirely ethereal when sunlight glowed around her like a halo.

“Oh,” she breathed, “hey.” She said airlessly. Ms Capri looked between her, and the previously open drawer, she didn’t need to say anything for Lenore to notice the less than subtle concern, and the question in her eyes. “I didn’t see anything, I just closed it.” She reassured, and Miss Capri’s face flickered with surprise. “I’m only here to drop this off, I should get going now anyway.” Her wrist was swiftly caught, before she made much stride; her touch was soft and warm. Lenore didn’t pull away, instead turned her face her.

“You looked tired,” Ms Capri said.

“Charmed.” Lenore replied dryly.

Miss Capri smiled, a small, bittersweet one, and a thoughtfulness underlined her every feature, and she released Lenore’s hand. Her hand raised up, and she lessened her distance between them. Her touch came hesitantly, softly at first, caressing Lenore’s cheekbone, where a small, angry cut lay, framing the rosy bruise on her eye, the skin was reddened, and purple and ever so sensitive. Then, she pressed her finger beneath her eye, on the tenderest of the flesh; Lenore didn’t pull away, and instead leaned into her touch. Her palm cupped Lenore’s jaw, and she brushed her thumb repeatedly over the bruising, her expression was unreadable, and Lenore only could only tell it was tinged by worry.

“Your eye is bloodshot,” she wasn’t wrong. The pearly white, on the right of her iris, had bled yesterday, and it looked ink dipped, a pigmented red bleaching it. “Does it hurt?”

“It isn’t my first rodeo.” She responded, and she found herself unable to look away, transfixed by the woman before her, by her honeyed gaze, so sweet she could practically feel it, and the few unruly strands of her coils that caught dawn light.

“Lenore,” she said, equally soft and pointed, “does it hurt?”

“A little.” She admitted.

“What about your arm? Your back?”

“It isn’t pleasant,” she said wryly, offering a smile—it wasn’t a common sight, perhaps that made it more dazzling; it revealed rows of sharp, blinding teeth, with canine’s that often nipped at her lips. It was interrupted by a yawn she tried to stiffle.

“Tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t sleep well.”

“Well, I assumed that.” She responded, the faintest brush of humour painting her words, but behind that, it was brutally honest, and she waited in silence—Lenore knew what she wanted, an honest answer, and wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for that. Though, under Ms Capri’s stare, softened to ruin, she felt her defences, her armour, get peeled back, to reveal her own raw, ruthful heart. She couldn’t look away, no matter if she should’ve, or wanted to.

“Nightmares,” she murmured, “I had one last night.”

“Was it bad?”

“Worse than I’ve had in a while,” she almost cursed herself, wondered what had taken her over, what had softened her so.

“What was it about?”

“It was a reminder of something I had forgotten,” Lenore knew, deep in her gut, if she stayed, with Miss Capri caressing her face, and looking at her like she hung the stars, she would spill her guts, and the thought sickened her. She knew how Ms Capri would look at her, with either pity or horror. Lenore gently placed her hand over Miss Capri, sunk her own fingers between the gaps in hers, and pulled it away. She held her hand for a few lingering moments, then stepped back. “I should go.”

“Do you get them often?” She asked once Lenore turned her back, when she was paces away from the door, and she paused, then sighed.

“Every night.” Her lips blistered with the confession. She reached for the doorhandle, that felt crowned with thorns—she didn’t want to leave—but locked her fingers around it, and then gently allowed it to click shut behind her.

The looming evening sun glittered across the frosted grass, mist swirling thinly over the ground, and chilling the air. Lenore swallowed down the crisp air like a woman starved, finally free the stuffy classroom, and the chair that digged into her back agonisingly. She pushed a hand through her hair, which had swollen with moisture, during her lesson in the conservatory. She snatched the hairtie off her wrist, and clumsily tied her hair up. It took several tries to look half decent.

“Lenore!” It was a voice woven with youthful excitement, and Lenore thought about naive it sounded—it came from Tomoe, who had taken up archery; he had even bought his own bow, which was clutched his grasp. It wasn’t expensive, but the metal riser shone like diamonds in the sun, and he held it like nothing mattered more, nothing was more precious. Lenore felt like that about hers, and it stung, more than she would ever care to admit, that she couldn’t use it.

It wasn’t common that Lenore’s body had limitations, and she deeply resented herself when she did.

Tomoe’s face fell, from looking excited enough to burst at the seams to a bone deep worry; he placed his bow on a stand, but before he could approach, and possibly bring anyone’s attention onto her by making a scene, she stalked over the pebble pathway, and met him in the row of shooting archers, who shot her looks, both inquistive and concerned.

“What happened?” He asked, curiously regarding her sling, and her reddened eye. She self-consciously fiddled with the abrasive cotton, and became distinctly aware of her eye, feeling her pulse thump there. She pressed her palm into her eye, an attempt to push away the maddening sensation, but it just made the tender flesh flare with aching.

“Got into a fight,” she responded, and it wasn’t entirely wrong, but nor was it the entire truth; she didn’t want to tell anyone what happened. The less people who knew she was there, the better.

“Did you win?” His eyes lit up, and she found herself almost amused.

“Yeah.” It wasn’t a lie—she hadn’t taken many hits from Laurel, and had thrown her metres, so she wouldn’t call it a loss. “Anyway…” she cut him short when he opened his mouth to speak, and likely test her limited patience by questioning her further, “how’s the archery going?”

Her simple question, mostly meant to be a niceity, sparked a fire in him, and it was something she recognised, and she couldn’t bring herself to snuff his spark out beneath her heel; she let him speak. She couldn’t help the fondness that slipped unwillingly onto her features, and she saw the ghost of herself in him. It made a pain grow in her chest, something like longing. “What do you think?” He asked, and only then, it occured her she hadn’t been entirely listening.

“About what?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, and gave a downright spiteful look, “were you even listening?”

“Of course,” she answered, sharp enough so he didn’t question her, and instead reuttered his question.

“Should I get a sight?”

Lenore mulled over his question for a moment, “let’s see you shoot.” She hadn’t seen him in a while, lessons, or her TA sessions kept her away from the archery club, and when she did attend, he was never there. She stepped away from the line, and her eyes fell into something scarily observant as she watched him.

Tomoe looked at the archers around him, senior, and more experienced, and then to Lenore, like he expected reassurance—she simply gestured for him to start, and with a thick swallow, a kick in his heartrate, he clutched his bow, and joined the archers on the line. “Loosen your grip,” she told him, and he listened, loosening his hold, bringing back the colour of his knuckles. She noticed the subtle shake in his hand—it would take time to lessen that. He grabbed an arrow from his quiver, and she looked upon it longingly, he nocked it onto his string. He lifted his bow, pulling it back to his face as he did, and she stopped him before he could shoot, “stop,” he looked at her with all the startle of a deer, “don’t look so worried, you just shouldn’t pull it back as you move, you’ll strain your shoulders.” His heartrate leveled out slowly as his focus sharpened, and he shot arrows into the target, successfully grouping, but he didn’t have that accuracy yet—it was something that he would have to learn. Once, he finished, minutes later, he turned to her with an expression that was hopeful, and worried, “you shouldn’t get a sight yet.” She told him.

He deflated, and despite herself it hurt a little to see.

“You have potential, it needs to be honed.” She said, and scowled, to herself more than anything, at the hopeful look on his face.

“And how do I do that?” She knew what he was getting at.

“Coaching,” she said dispondently.

“Who here would coach me?” He truly wasn’t adept at subtlety.

“Meet me here, at seven am, tomorrow.” She said, and he grinned at her, before realising what time she said.

“Wait, what? Seven am?” He sputtered, and she raised a single, daring brow.

“If you want to be an archer without quiting or losing your sanity, you need to be resolute. I’ll help you build that,” she said.

“Okay.” He sulked.

Lenore felt a stupid, amused smile bite at her cheeks, stubborn as her own will, and so she turned on heel, ensuring he couldn’t see her crack—once, she did, her breath was stolen from her, finding Ms Capri stroll past her, papers, and an ever so familiar book pressed against her chest. By the amusement shining in her eyes, and the fondness on her face, she had clearly heard their conversation—she winked at Lenore, who flushed around her ears, then it crept down south, and she looked away sharply.

A bitter, writhing disappointment washed over her when she laid eyes on a short, irritatingly familiar girl—Agnes. “DeMille,” she breathed out, playing with the muscles in her jaw, that rippled against the pressure she forced on them. “What do you want?”

“What happened yesterday?” Her squeaky voice made Lenore’s brow twitch subtly.

“What are you talking about?” Lenore’s voice dripped with an innocent deception.

“You know what exactly I’m talking about.” Agnes jabbed her finger at Lenore’s chest, who took a moment as to not snap it off, and then in a rare occurence used her height to her advantage—only a short time ago, most people seemed to loom like giants over her—but now Lenore did, blocking out the sun, swathed by shadows, bar the light twinkling in her eyes like stars on a moonless night. It was breathtaking as it was terrifying.

Agnes puffed out her chest, and Lenore almost admired her nerve—she leaned down, and her eyes seemed to eclipse; she smelt Agnes’s fear streaming off her in droves, “I’m telling you nothing happened.”

“Wednesday’s in a coma, I know something happened.” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t back down. Lenore’s head began to throb with aching, like it had when it crunched against the concrete yesterday, she winced, and she stepped back, jabbing a finger into her temple.

“Your idol miscalculated.” She answered, and a fire sparked in Agnes’s eyes, she opened her mouth to argue—

“—DeMille, get away from Miss Yuson.” Relief washed over Lenore like a wave when she heard Ms Zhangs sharp, polished voice ring through the air, and the crack of her heels against the ground. “Didn’t you learn from what happened last time? Don’t think you can win simply because Lenore is injured, something you should know, and strongly consider is how a wolf is most dangerous when cornered.” She glowered down at Agnes, and gestured for her to leave, and she did, after glaring at them both.

“Oh, lord, you look worse in person,” she muttered, taking in Lenore’s appearance, who narrowed her eyes in overt offense. “Don’t look at me like that, Lorelai told me you were injured… though, she avoided it when I asked why.”

“She told you.”

“Dear lord, you truly have mastered that look of utter reproach. She was awfully distracted during our tutor session, and I asked her why.” Miss Zhang informed her, and Lenore felt her hostility melt away. “So, will you tell me what happened? I have a gut feeling it’s related to the state Ms Addam’s is currently in.”

“Nothing of note happened.” Now, that was a complete lie—there wasn’t a scrap of truth in her words, and Miss Zhang knew it, either from the subtle rise of her heartrate or the strained way in which she said it.

“Oh, so you dislocated your arm, got a black eye, and managed to shred your back as a result of nothing,” she said. “At least tell me how you earned that shiner. It’s impressive.”

“You remember Laurel Gates.” Lenore said lowly, hesitantly.

Ms Zhang’s face twisted into a vision of hardly concealed anger, and a worry so deep, it seemed to finally show her true age, “where could you have possibly been to interact with that repugnant wench?” She asked with more bite than Lenore knew she was capable of.

“Willow Hill.”

“What?”

“Wednesday hadn’t planned well, and I went to ensure she didn’t kill herself, or anybody else. It didn’t go well—the news hasn’t released this yet, but Tyler escaped.” Lenore quieted to a whisper only they could hear, and felt the palpable horror that eminated from Miss Zhang.

“For your own sake, avoid that girl, please.” Ms Zhang implored, and threw her glossy, midnight black hair over her shoulder as she looked around, “I should go. I haven’t yet heard back anyone about your book, but do hold out hope.” She said, and swiftly left.

Lenore’s head lolled back, and looked up at the sky, “shit.” She muttered. 

– 

Hi, this will probably be the last chapter for a few weeks because I have exams coming up. Hope you enjoyed, and I will try to post another chapter of Bloodborn in the next few days.