06-25-2022, 10:08 PM
Malachi was quiet for another moment longer. Aware as he was of his own distance from it all, after nearly sixteen years away – he reminded himself that ordinary children did not grow up like this.
No. If he had been allowed an ordinary childhood, he would have spent it climbing the hill in his village every evening, watching the sun slowly set behind the border wall.
“Alright,” he said, and stepped forward to lead him through the darkness.
The corridor down here was long, and the air was thick, but gone were the modern mazes built into the structure of the house itself. One door stood at the end, dark and heavy. Malachi stopped once they reached it and, with considerable effort, shouldered it open.
Old, but overpowering, the smell of lavender smothered all else.
The room was small, comprised of a stone floor and similarly stone walls. Half the size of the bedrooms, about, but devoid of furnishings and knickknacks and the rest of the clutter that filled the rest of the house. Malachi released Arthur’s hand only to grab an ancient-looking candleholder from the floor, and struck a match to light the half-burned candle and provide them with some light.
Stalks of dried lavender found themselves scattered about the floor, liable to turn to dust at the slightest touch. Towards the opposite side, just as ragged and thread-bare, there was a pile of fabric that might have been a blanket for a bed, and that was it for the room’s amenities.
In the corner, bones. It was difficult to tell from their broken shapes what, exactly, they belonged to.
“I stayed here until my father made me join the priesthood, when I was twenty-two,” Malachi explained, walking the short distance to the other end of the room, casting light over the few items within.
“I suppose looking back on it now, it was a blessing. At the time, though, I could not have been more upset to leave. Ah! Look,” he leaned down to grab what appeared to be a longer scrap of fabric, but it fell apart between his fingers.
“…Well, perhaps that is for the best.”
No. If he had been allowed an ordinary childhood, he would have spent it climbing the hill in his village every evening, watching the sun slowly set behind the border wall.
“Alright,” he said, and stepped forward to lead him through the darkness.
The corridor down here was long, and the air was thick, but gone were the modern mazes built into the structure of the house itself. One door stood at the end, dark and heavy. Malachi stopped once they reached it and, with considerable effort, shouldered it open.
Old, but overpowering, the smell of lavender smothered all else.
The room was small, comprised of a stone floor and similarly stone walls. Half the size of the bedrooms, about, but devoid of furnishings and knickknacks and the rest of the clutter that filled the rest of the house. Malachi released Arthur’s hand only to grab an ancient-looking candleholder from the floor, and struck a match to light the half-burned candle and provide them with some light.
Stalks of dried lavender found themselves scattered about the floor, liable to turn to dust at the slightest touch. Towards the opposite side, just as ragged and thread-bare, there was a pile of fabric that might have been a blanket for a bed, and that was it for the room’s amenities.
In the corner, bones. It was difficult to tell from their broken shapes what, exactly, they belonged to.
“I stayed here until my father made me join the priesthood, when I was twenty-two,” Malachi explained, walking the short distance to the other end of the room, casting light over the few items within.
“I suppose looking back on it now, it was a blessing. At the time, though, I could not have been more upset to leave. Ah! Look,” he leaned down to grab what appeared to be a longer scrap of fabric, but it fell apart between his fingers.
“…Well, perhaps that is for the best.”
