Snippets and Stories: (SS) Heart Wrenching

Cheshire stared at the scythe.

A blinding light.

And for a moment he believed himself to be by the moon, watching the lunar ascension.

He collapsed, left cold and bleeding in the streets with a sharp, nasty, cackling echoing faintly. He could scarce hear it above the suddenly deafening torrent of rain and odd emptiness in his head and chest both.

It was purely a misfortune born of coincidence.

Cheshire was of Bantam. 

The "miniature garden", or so the term of endearment used to describe their diminutive folks was, and likewise their town.

But he wanted to see more than just the circle of sky above the well he grew up in, and left. 

His journey would bring him far, far away.

Many things he saw, and fewer still that he understood.

It was upon a rainy city of cobblestone roads and houses that he had stopped. The hour was late and the raven was just about to seek shelter at an inn when a figure drew his gaze away from the invitingly cozy warmth of the inn's light.

But it was the same warmth that prompted him to the stranger who must have been so terribly drenched.

The torrential downpour was downright miserable. 

What few lamps were hung by the doors were battered by the wind and rain, looking as if they would go out at any moment.

And so he trudged on and approached, calling out and offering his umbrella as well as a warding seal. 

But there was something unsettling in the way their breath rattled. 

Were they ill? 

There had been talks of a plague ravaging whole cities farther to the west, but he had not thought it to have traveled this far, not with the Plague Doctors having set up quarantine.

One couldn't be too cautious, he supposed. 

Perhaps he would also pay for and make use of the bathhouse. The hot soak would be revitalizing after this bitter cold.

So lost in his thoughts, he hardly noticed until it was too late. 

When they turned and he saw beneath the hood a grotesque face of sickly shade and bulging yellow eyes, did his breath catch.

A witch.

One whose spirit had corrupt, who was cursed by their own source of power and rife with the diseases of ailments their aura so seemed to attract.

She screeched and lunged, her long claws catching on his cloak even as he jerked back.

The umbrella clattered against the stone road, forgotten.

Cheshire wanted to run, but suddenly found everything so far away.

He watched with surging panic as she crept closer her breath in harsh pants that were audible above the rain.

But even that seemed far away.

Was this... A spell of sorts?

She rose above him and the rancid stench of decay flooded his sensed, his eyes and nose stung as if he had taken a lungful of hot ashes that had been flung into his face. His skin prickled and a hot clamminess stuck to his skin despite the unrelenting downpour. 

The sheer density of the miasma was suffocating and enough to make one retch.

He barely noticed the scythe, so choked up as he was, until it hung against the true moon.

And so the Harvest Moon descended, to reap its bounty.

Cheshire stared at the stone as he felt a sticky warmth pool around his hand. Something hot and pulsing fell into his palm, as if pulled from nothingness. 

Dazed eyes creased with a smile.

It was warm. 

So warm.

When they found him the next day, his body was taken to the cathedral, where the resident priest rushed to examine the body, despite the sight of the gore enough to wrench one's meal from their bellies. 

Had in fact. Some poor passersby subjected to the sight lost their breakfast.

He himself fought the urge as he fretted over the tattered, mangled, body, rushing to cover the sight from prying eyes.

The holy water he poured into the wounds hissed as if scalding, though it had not been heated.

The kindly priest told the townsfolk not to worry, for it was not the plague that took him. There would be no need to call in the Plague Doctors, though their presence may still be mandated.

The corruption spreading through the corpse irrefutably the work of a Night Waker. And in such close proximity to town. The presence of the night kin would cause panic and unease.

The priest fretted. He would have to prepare rosary beads, soaked in a fragrant bowl of water, infused with herbs. Procuring such supplies and in such quantity on such short notice would be difficult. But he wouldnnot skimo if he could.

He would stay up late that night preparing many to distribute in town the next morn. 

The Wiccans worked their own arcane rites to ward off evil, but despite their differences in faith, he would offer them a mean of protection. Better to live with caution, than with regret.

Well, the matter was out of his hands now. 

By protocol he would be require to send word, and if confirmed, which it doubtlessly would, it would be enough to warrant a summon for the Plague Doctors.

Finally able to put the locals who wished to cremate the body with utmost haste at ease, he sighed and returned to stitching up the wound and tending to the body.

Cremation was, of course the proper rite of passage, but he would give the young man the proper respect he was due. 

He would be sent off on his final journey clothed and with tender care. 

Not in unsightly torn rags, drenched in blood, and a gaping gash from his chest down to his loins.

He purchased the clothes from thw local tailor, those of the Church, lived frugally. His own plain garments, while clean and uniform, had seen many years and many more repaies. Would continue to be mended too.

A passing monk of another sect entered then. He had sought shelter from the storm and the priest had graciously extended the hospitality of the Holy Light to the elderly traveler.

It was the old monk who was startled to learn that the priest was preparing for the rite of passage.

"This boy still lives. Dimmed though it may be, the fire burns still within him."

Startled the priest hesitantly permitted the monk the care for the body. 

Far be it from him to question another, but the pallor of his face, white eyes still in death when he lifted the lids. And more importantly the lack of a pulse. Surely the unfortunate youth had passed.

Still, perhaps there was truth to the aged monk's words, or the body remained free of decay and foul odors.

As if merely asleep.

A week later, one early morning when the priest wandered through the church rooms to give his prayers before the alter, did he see the young man, sitting upon the casket.

The dead eyes met his and he rushed to the young man's side. 

He was indeed amongst the living. He breathed, he ate, suffered the same biological needs as any other. His mind too was intact despite the ordeal, and if anything he seemed unfazed.

Uncannily so. As if severed.

The monk pulled the priest aside and whispered to him the same morning in the privacy of the corridor leading from the kitchen to the dining hall.

Whatever assaulted him was tore his Heart from his chest, the gash on his chest and the empty cavity were more than enough to tell the story, though what became of his Heart was the real mystery.

The monk held out a beautiful, murky, and perfectly spherical jewel.

This, he believed, was the Heart. 

Torn from his body, it had crystallized and formed this odd jewel.

They returned it to the placid youth, looping a long necklace of prayer beads around his neck. To stay whatever corruption may have been overlooked in his flesh and spirit both.

So the days passed in slow recovery.

And then one day he disappeared just as suddenly as he showed up. 

Obligation gone, the monk too bid his farewells, for there was naught else to do but wish him well.

Impermanence was the way of life.