( 6 )
C H E L L

    Ten minutes.

    That was the longest she could maintain the summoning. The reason for that time limit was not only because Chell was still depleted after healing her fatal wound by herself earlier. It was also because anchoring a spirit of the dead to the material world was extremely and immensely draining. If she continued to press on like this, exerting herself to continue the spell despite her weakening state, the drawback she would have to suffer later was extremely dangerous-—no, deadly, even. Countless of times had Chell been warned by the dead, telling her that she was too unwary and often acted without thinking it through. And she, on her part, had no intention of proving them wrong. After all, they were right. Yes, she was foolish, impulsive, and too trusting, but those were the only traits left of the old her, the her before that day, six years ago. And Chell decided that she could not afford to lose those small remnants, no matter how dangerous it could end for her.

   Now, in the midst of a fight with the witch hunter using the spirit that she had called on, Chell could feel her life force slowly and gradually ebbing away, eating at her own reserve of mana. This was extremely dangerous for Witchfolk. Under normal circumstances, a witch or a wizard could either use a catalyst to channel an object's stored mana or borrow the mana itself from the surroundings, which also included their very own life forces. The better method of the two, however, was the use of a catalyst. They were objects imbued with power, made specifically to lessen the burden of the user. It was the safest, most secure way of using magic. Through a catalyst, the owner could tap onto its reserve mana without using any of their own and endangering their lives. Depending on its quality, a catalyst could greatly amplify a Witchfolk's effect in using spells.

    The problem however, was that Chell's catalyst wasn't currently with her. It was left back at the guard house, kept within one of the rooms. She knew this simply because she could sense where it was, calling out clearly to her. Chell knew of where to go and where to find it. This was the main reason why she had easily tracked her satchel back when the thief had first stolen it. The catalyst was something that had been handed down to her and could never live without. It was a requiem, a reminder of the tragedy six years ago and of the choices she had regretted on that day.

     The skull.

     For her, there was only one way she could escape this situation without it leading to the worst. Chell would have to wait for the thief to deliver the skull to her. This was the plan they had decided on after they had agreed on the truce. In exchange for her satchel, Chell would help him escape. However, now as she watched the fight between the witch hunter and the knight, Chell realized that she had made a grave mistake. Amidst the chaos in the crowds, she could not see any sign of Noct anywhere. She had no idea whether the thief was indeed fetching the satchel as agreed, or he had decided to abandon her instead. In the back of her mind, an unsettling thought was forming. Perhaps she had been abandoned.

    See?, she imagined the words the dead would say to her right then if they were still there. We told you. We warned you.

    No. The best thing Chell could do at that moment was hope that Noct had honored their agreement. She had to believe that he would come back to her and deliver the skull. There was nothing else to do than wait and endure.

    SZZZZZK!

    With a startled jolt, Chell returned to the scene in front of her as Worick and the knight exchanged deadly blows, the forces of their blades reverberating sharply in the air. Chell collected herself immediately. She was in a fight, she reminded herself, and she needed to focus all her attention on maintaining the summoning. That was only the first problem, however. Since she was in a public area, it was only a matter of time before the other witch hunters in the kingdom appeared. Chell did not even want to imagine what she would have to do in that situation, in her feeble state. Instead, she focused on the fight. Both of the two combatants looked to be completely absorbed in their intense battle, not even giving any notice to the chaos around them. It was as if they were in a trance, where one could only see the enemy in front of them.

   Worick backed off, a cruel grin on his face. He had decided to give up on his strategy of aiming for Chell's neck and directed all of his focused attention to the dead enemy. He spit onto the frozen floor, then abruptly leapt in to swipe down at the knight, bearing down on his axe with a heavy swing. The dead dodged the attack, and countered with its blade, swinging it in a high arc. Worick moved out of the way, narrowly missing the dark-colored blade merely inches close to his face. He parried another blow as the knight slashed dangerously close to his stomach.

    Worick seemed to be in his element. In fact, Chell could not help but be impressed with his level of skill. For an axe-wielder, it was evident that he was a master of the weapon. His movements were natural and unforced, almost seeming like an extension of him as he swung it around effortlessly, despite its incredible weight. What was more impressive, however, was the fact that he could fight toe to toe with the dead knight. After all, Chell had called on a corporal representation of a vengeful spirit, the strongest kind there was to summon from. Though Chell had given it the order not to kill the hunter, she doubted for a moment if the knight could easily do it even if she hadn't.

      "Come!" Worick laughed manically. There were already deep cuts on his arms where his armor didn't reach. His scarred face oozed bright red blood, dripping on the frozen floor. However, the hunter did not even seem fazed. Yelling once again, he charged with impressive speed, aiming for the spirit's throat. Despite most likely knowing that what he was up against was not something he could possibly dare to defeat, Chell could not help but be in awe for either his stupidity or courage. It was not everyday that anyone could meet a person brave enough to challenge the dead.

    The knight rolled to one side as it evaded another attack. This time, however, as it moved to stand up, its form shifted unstably for a split second, a sign that the connection to the summoning spell was weakening. Chell suddenly winced as a sharp pain stung from her chest. For a moment, her vision blurred. The time limit. Her mana was slowly dying out, her life force together with it.

    How long had they been fighting? Where was the thief?

    Chell swayed unsteadily, the pain getting worse as each second passed. The noise of the chaos from the crowd around her seemed to slowly fade away, disappearing into an invisible ocean. She trained her eyes on the frozen floor, only then realizing that she was on already her knees without even realizing it.

   The ice cracked at the place where her bare hands were touching it. Chell blinked slowly. Her head felt light, a familiar feeling of losing consciousness. The form of the spirit in front of her flickered weakly for a moment before appearing again. There was a clear difference this time, however. Its movement seemed slower, less precise as it had been. The witch hunter seemed to notice this as he glanced at Chell. There was a hungry look in his eyes. All that was said in his expression was a look of triumph, telling her that he was winning. He laughed wickedly.

    Chell blinked once again. This time, black spots appeared at the edge of her vision. The stinging in her chest worsened. Her breathing became uneven and difficult. It was at that moment when she realized that it was very possible for her to die at that place, right then and there. After being used to having all her problems easily solved with the guidance of the dead, she had forgotten how easy it was for death to take hold of a mortal life.

    I have made a grave mistake, she thought hazily at the back of her mind.

    "—iss—!"

   "—atch—!"

   "—ou—!"

   Someone was calling out to her. For a brief moment, as if it was a side effect of the strain, Chell thought she had recognized that familiar, familiar voice she had long yearned to hear after all this time. The voice of the person who she had once treasured the most, more than anyone else. The voice of the person she had neglected and failed to protect.

    "—Little miss, watch out!"

    A hand suddenly held hers. Real, warm and... alive.

    The physical contact snapped her back to reality. The gesture startled her completely that Chell was frozen in shock and horror. Eyes wide open, a thought passed over her mind. An... illusion?

    She looked up quickly, not even realizing that she had been holding her breath.

    Raven-black hair. Pale eyes. A red scarf. Breathing ragged. Face strained.

    Noct.

    He came back. Like some kind of hero only found in picture books, he had appeared out of nowhere, right at the moment when Chell had thought everything was about to end. For a moment, she was simply stunned, not even aware enough to realize that she had stopped moving. Dozens of emotions swelled up inside of her. However, among the confusing swirl of the others, there was one particular feeling that triumphed over them all.
       
    Relief.

   
----> thank you for reading!