Peripeteia

Lita could still feel their hands on her shoulders; their voices intermingling into one urging her to read the words on the scroll before her. She could still feel the bite of their nails as they dug into her arms as she settled her gaze on the scroll, instantly recognising the language as her own. That was when she realised…

The damp coldness of the cell penetrated Lita’s spine and the bones of her hands. She stared intently at a particularly jagged crack in the floor below her, tracing the edges with her jittering fingers. The rhythmic dripping of raindrops behind her had become so familiar over the last few days - or had it been weeks, Lita wondered - that the soft, scuffing footsteps outside her cell did not register in her ears, until a deep shadow eveloped her form.

Lita instantly recognised the scent of his cologne as it invaded her nostrils; she refused to lay eyes on him. The figure shuffled pathetically from one foot to the other; Lita could hear his hands anxiously brushing against his trousers as he cleared his throat.

She wouldn’t look up at him; she refused to pay him the courtesy.

“I didn’t have a choice,” He mumbled.

Despite the quietness of his voice, Lita felt as if he had just screamed into her ears, just like the others had that night in the vault, when she was forced to reveal the secrets held within the words inked in her language on that scroll.

Lita lunged at the iron bars that separated her from him. He flung himself backwards, hands splaying against the adjacent wall, fingers searching for purchase on the damp stone. “You have no idea what you have done, Ambrose!” Lita screeched. Her hands bashed against the bars; the clanging reverberated against the walls of the dungeon assaulting her senses even more.

Sheepishly, Ambrose righted himself, “Please, Li, see it from my perspective. You know the Red Enclave would have had me killed had I not revealed the truth about your ability; you know I struggle to lie.” His eyes danced around the cell, looking everywhere but at her. He sighed, “I truly am sorry that they’ve put you in here. But, Li, please know that your help has meant that we can now uncover the wonders of a land most believed didn’t even exist!” He shuffled closer to the bars, “just imagine what good could come from the magic within that place if we could jus- “

“Has it ever occurred to you that there are people still living in Thornfront?” Lita seethed. She recalled the images that flashed in her mind, whilst she was translating the scroll: of Nariel and her bakery always warm and welcoming; of Thalorin and his endless lectures on the importance of careful consideration and planning before she should attempt to undertake her mission; and of little Alara’s watery eyes as they both embraced before Lita left Thornfront for her new life in Todlich as many Mages had before her. The thought of the Cryptkeepers storming the city of Mellas and ransacking every home and shop in search of the entrance to the Chrysalis Catacombs haunted Lita, her skin erupting with goosebumps.

She slowly sunk to the damp stone floor, the cold surface a shock to her flushed face as it made contact. Her shoulders heaved with each shuddering breath that left her; her lips felt numb; her head pounding with each horrible image of destruction and torment that invaded it.

Lita heard Ambrose stoop down to her level.

“I know that you tried to stop me,” he whispered, his tone strangely lacking his previous anxiety; it was dry and flat. He continued, “I know that you tried to erase my memory of the day you told me what you truly were.” With a soft thud, he sat on the dewy floor. “But what you need to realise, Lita, is that what I am doing is for the greater good of Todlich,” he breathed.

Lita sucked in a sharp breath. Slowly, she lifted her watery gaze from the floor and laid it upon the person who she now believed to be a stranger; for his face had seemingly changed, now possessing a sneer that seemed almost inhuman; his hair seemed far more tightly bound than usual, she noted. Her breaths were short and shallow, her head felt light and airy. “How did you...” She stuttered.

“Know?” Ambrose smirked. “Lita, I didn’t take you for an idiot; but I suppose I am particularly talented at acting.”

Her heart thrummed against her chest. How could he have remembered? She panicked, I did what was expected of me; I performed the correct spell, I used the correct materials-

“Now, now,” he chuckled mirthlessly, “no need to prattle, Lita; I will happily tell you why your Mage spell didn’t work.” Ambrose leaned against the bars of the cell, his breath caressed her face, “I believe you are familiar with Caladrel Talon,” he continued, “between you and I, he’s been providing the Cryptkeepers with some very informative lessons on deflecting Mage spells.”

Slowly, he rose from the floor, shaking the damp from his hands; even those, Lita noticed, appearing unnervingly cadaverous, now.

Admittedly, she was not shocked that Caladrel had been helping the Cryptkeepers. He was a defector from Mellas’ legal district. His slimy personality was befitting of his unnaturally skeletal form; often clad in dark robes and a hat so pointed, Lita was surprised it was never classed as a weapon. Undoubtedly, Caladrel was under the protection of the Cryptkeepers, for if she – or any of the other active Mages – laid an eye on him, it would be the last time anyone would.

Ambrose huffed. “Honestly Lita, I wouldn’t take it personally if I were you. It just seems that our interests aren’t as aligned as we first thought.” He went to turn away, when he paused. “You know, I quite liked you,” he began thoughtfully, “you were always willing to listen to me drone on about the patients that were placed at my door; about witnessing hundreds of people perishing to the Cruentis that had ravaged their bodies.” He appeared to wish to say more but stopped himself.

With one final glance towards Lita’s pitiful form on the cold, damp floor of her cell, he turned and strode towards the great wooden door that groaned and scraped along the floor as he heaved it shut after himself. As the door settled in its frame it sucked out any warmth produced by the torches lining the corridor. Lita stared at the spot where Ambrose had previously stood; something worried her. It worried her more than Ambrose’s betrayal, more than that night in the vault when the Cryptkeepers mocked the cadences of her foreign accent as she spoke her native language.

Someone yelled outside, Lita heard them through the grate that supplied the dungeon with the cold night air, and rainwater that rhythmically dripped inside her cell. And as sharply as the man outside swore; Lita rose up from her contorted position on the floor.

She realised what was wrong… His eyes, their colour; his body, its build; all of it was wrong.

As her heart pounded inside her chest once again that night, so did Ambrose’s. The binds that had been wound around his wrists ripped at his skin; the unforgivingly firm wood of the table he was forced onto grazed his back with each struggle.

Their hands groped and smacked, their nails dug into the skin of his arms. His head thrummed; his muscles screamed in protest to the additional restraints that were wound around his form; his skin burned.

“Thinkin’ he could get away wi’ tha’!” Howled one voice, the others joined in, a crescendo of disturbing laughs and agreements. Mercifully, Ambrose heard them trudge out of the room and the door slam shut. The click of what he presumed was a lock sounded next.

When he was sure their footsteps had travelled far enough away, he broke down. His breaths sputtering and heaving out of him; he didn’t bother fighting the restraints.

Breathlessly, he whispered, “Li, I’m so sorry; I tried to not speak, I tried to protect your secret.” The images of Caladrel’s face flashed into his mind choking the words he tried to speak next. The memories of Caladrel’s intrusion of his thoughts, the knife that slit his skin, the cold of the glass vile pressed into the palm of his hand that collected his blood clouded his mind. This sight of him consuming whatever concoction he had made and the vulgar bubbling of his skin sickened Ambrose.

But nothing horrified him more than staring into his own eyes.