Erwachen

viii.

"Preston," It was a small purr, quite a dangerous sound and it sent chills down his spine. "What are you running away from?"

"I-" A pause as he looked around the place obscured in darkness. "I don't know."

"Little Preston, listen to mother, okay?"

Where was his mother?

"It's almost your time..."

"My time?"  He asked, uncertain of what she was uttering about. "My time to what?" 

ix.

1726

Danveur awoke with a pounding head and he was lying straight on the floor, several aged papers that he barely recognised scattered around.

His muscles were hurting and were stiff from his position. He felt cold and dirty, parched and completely ravenous. He was at unease as he tried to recollect the events that had happened the night before.

Had it all been a dream? Was he that exhausted and disturbed that he was able to direct his fear to an innocent man who had tried to help him gather information about the unknown?

Danveur sat up and was immediately flashed with bright yellow light from the window. It was sickening and was making him feel more unwell.

He slowly rose to his feet, absentmindedly picked the fallen chair up, and sat on it, staring at the bed and the littered papers. They were somehow a bit different than the first time he had seen them.

The chair felt frail, the bed sheets greyer than white, but he supposed he didn't just notice it before.

He tried to put pieces of what may have ensued last night and came to a conclusion that after talking with Thomas, he might have fallen asleep and dreamt that horrible nightmare.

But it didn't explain why everything seemed odd and that why he was on the floor.

Was the horrendous dream made him jolt in his sleep that he went flying towards the ground? Possible.

He took a quick bath and clothed himself with the little civilian clothing he has. He must desist from wearing the church attire as this might lead him back to the town that he had escaped. But the cross, that little ornament in which he has dire faith with, he placed it inside the lapel of his long burn sienna coat.

He was still starving.

When he went down to talk to the tavern owner, the whole place was empty. A contrast to what it had been last night. There was not a single soul anywhere in sight, nor there was any furninture apart from some stools that were upturned. It was too quiet, the place too wide and empty that he could hear his own confuse thoughts as if they were being played all over the enclosed area.

Every step he took echoed and when he reached the counter, the dusts that weren't there the night before were present, collected as if this place had not been used in ages.

He was still parched.

The upper floor abruptly collapsed, right in front of him, barely missing him.

Danveur was in a pit of questions and he felt like his whole being was stitched with confusing elements, he could physically feel nothing. It was as if he was trapped in a body that wasn't his, but what little consciousness he has inside seemed to be fighting to take over. He feels dead, but a little part was asking why.

The door, almost off its hinges, banged opened. A man in white pants, and high boots, and odd fashion walked in, aimed a long weapon at Danveur's face, declaring, "Don't move!".

Danveur doesn't understand.

He was still ravenous and parched.

x.

He never understood what was happening, why the body was there, why it was drenched in blood, mangled in places. It dawned to him that he did this repulsive work, that it all happened in a blur.

He wiped the blood dripping from his chin, thumbs dancing across the wet skin, moving sluggishly until he reached his own lips and licked off the excess thick liquid.

It tastes perfect, just enough to temporarily fill his hunger.

His eyes indolently looked down to the weapon impaled through his chest. He felt pain, little pain that could never equivalent to the pain he felt deep in where his heart is supposed to be beating as it dawned to him that he isn't what he used to be anymore. That he was dead.

Dead but living.

Danveur pulled it off with ease and the wound that should be there and the blood that is intended to go gushing was atypical than the usual. He felt pain, something he could not exempt himself from having, but the blood was dark, wasn't crimson like the dead man's.

The wound slowly stitched itself back, rapidly healing and soon, what was left were the dark stain and torn piece on his attire.

xi.

After shallowly lamenting the incident and grasping the truth, he placed the cross against the dead man's corpse and sauntered away. He now knew what he has to do.

Find Thomas and whoever that dark figure was who stole everything from him.