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They rushed through the woods, black and gold clothing upon a dark green mosaic of plants and underbrush. Casimir went left, and Joseph turned right, both men panting heavily but unfaltering. Ahead of them a black shape pierced the growth, faster and faster.
The men burst into a clearing, each on opposite sides of it. Their prey was gone, and in the forest all was but silence. Then, suddenly, it wasn’t – the black shape rushed out from the brush with a deadly silence and was upon Casimir before the men had time to react. Growling, fighting, wrestling, the beast and man rolled over and over in the mud – and then Joseph was there, dropping his sword in favor of a boot-knife, trying to get in a clear hit. With a sudden jagged plunge, the blow landed, sinking deep into the demon’s back. A short growl, and the demon was off of Casimir, off both of them, and circling around the pair warily.
The two Tarn-men shared a look, and at the moment both of them thought the same thing. Silver wasn’t it. Ever so slowly Casimir’s hand reached into his pocket, and when the animal pounced again the former noble whipped out the contents of it – salt – into the demon’s face.
Salt wasn’t it.
The demon grabbed a tight grip on Casimir’s body with its claws. Bloodied red and pale, its teeth sunk down, clamping on the man’s neck. A scream, a stab, everything was a blur — the demon was fighting Joseph now and Casimir fell to the ground, prostrate in the mud. The beast was soon done with Joseph, leaving a motionless body torn and ripped on the other side of the clearing. It stepped ever closer, confident. Victorious.
The breath was fetid.
The teeth sank deep.
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Screaming, Casimir awoke, enveloped in a cold sweat. The sheets of the cot stuck to his body like a second skin. The bed beneath him was wet with sweat. Inside his mouth, Casimir tasted blood – his gums giving way beneath a vicious grinding. Outside, snow flickered and swirled around the window of the keep; The air was freezing inside, but it wasn’t the cold that made Casimir’s shoulders shake. He needed to get out of the Keep, out into the snow. In five minutes he had his gear on – over it he strapped his sword and cloak, the blue and silver banner clashing vividly with his black and gold outfit.
Within thirty minutes he was out into the forest, and Midnight breathed heavily at his side. He directed her reins, leading her down a deer trail where the underbrush was bent down, through paths that by now were all to familiar to him. The forest around the Keep had become his home, just as much as the Keep itself was a substitute for Avonna. He walked through it as if walking down the courtyard to Azadar Manor. Snow caught in his hair and clung to his clothing, little flecks that soon began to stick as the man got colder.
The hunting lodge was up ahead. The cold didn’t bother him much, really – he was from the Tarn after all. A winter in those peaks was as wretched as one spent in Vandago. So, when he stopped short of entering the lodge, it wasn’t the cold that began to bother him. It wasn’t the impatient treading of Midnight behind him. It wasn’t even the wetness, slowly seeping into his boots from melted snow.
It was the fact that he didn’t deserve that life. The life in there was too good for him. He would gain friends, family, maybe even children. Above all, Casimir had always coveted starting a family of his own. First with Emily, then with Linnea, Beronica – and now Cellan. It was a thought for the distant future, of course… but it was always there. What would he name them? Would they look like Hugo? Would that break him, like seeing Bryce laying crippled had?
Bryce, Maxwell, Ariel, Karrina, Cellan… friends, lovers. Maybe family. Did he really deserve it? To go in there, feel the warmth, touch Cellan’s face, speak to her honestly and lowly…
“I thought we were supposed to be saving people – together.”
It was over two years since Casimir vowed to destroy the Taint. Two years since he burnt the Labyrinth and rewrote the Codex. In that time, he had as many friends as he had fingers, none of them trustworthy. One, in particular, though… that ringing voice… and always, the thought that that was the life he deserved. That was the penance he had set himself on. To do whatever it took, to take whoever need be taken, and kill whoever stood in his way – because he was the only one who could take so much darkness and force themselves into the pyre at the end of it.
Or at least that’s what Casimir thought.
1. No part is pure if one part is tainted.
2. No evil is justified devoid of conscience.
3. No word is given beyond the Masque.
Three tenets. A code far simpler than the Knights’. Free to do whatever it took, and consequences be damned…
But he could no longer be that person. He would need to be more… and perhaps in that way, he could deserve what was being given to him. He shook off the cold, tied Midnight to the post outside, and went into the lodge. Inside, Cellan was removing her jewelry… the fire crackled…
The page was turning.