Private Tales Patience..

[Arianell]

Sleep eluded her all night. It never tried to claim her in all those hours she laid on the cold floor. Arianell willed for it, even cried silent tears to become null to this world.

The stone floor was not the only thing to keep her awake.

The beastly spirit fed on the remains of the ritual sacrifice, savouring every bit and piece of it. She had been glad she did not eat since she had broken her fast, and that when her stomach wished to empty, it was simply bile burning her throat. All the hours she wanted to sleep, Arianell laid there thinking, imagining, that she was dead. That perhaps she was now behind a veil and now only bore witness to the world around her.

But he did not forget her.

"Up." Arianell stilled, halting her breaths. "We're leaving."

She opened her eyes, purposefully averting his gaze out of fear of the picture of horror he would look like after his hours of feeding. Her dressed was ripped, torn apart in places she now tried to bunch up and hide in vain of keeping her modesty. How stupid of her to have dressed in a simple layer, to lure a human man with the promise of a pleasurable night.

How useless she felt as the Maiden of the Black Moon.

She had done it all wrong. She had meant to find pleasure and slit his throat during the act. Feed the Spirit of the Hollow a sin in order to further appease it. Now it was her own life she had to sacrifice.

Arianell turned her head, lifting her gaze to meet the absence that was the spirit's gaze. "May I have a cloak to wear before we leave?" She had no say in defying his command. Arianell knew that. She would swear it again, that she would do as he said, but she was still a being that had needs to be met. Comforts, rest...

 

[Soladrien]

She looked small in the grey half-light, pale and sleepless and trembling. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes hollowed with exhaustion. He could smell the hunger on her, the emptiness of her stomach twisting faintly against the scent of blood and smoke. She had refused his offer of meat, and though she lived, she looked very near to fading.

When she spoke, asking for a cloak, Soladrien’s sneer was immediate, sharp as a knife’s edge. “A cloak?” he echoed, voice low and mocking. “Fragile little thing.”

He stood over her in all his infernal terror, smoke rising in faint ribbons from his skin. Fire flickered deep within his chest where a heart should be, every movement a reminder that he was not, could never again be anything resembling mortal. He wore no cloak. No warmth. No softness. He had no need. But he would not listen to her teeth chattering.

The sneer softened into something almost amused and his claws flexed, curling into the air until it shivered and darkened. He pulled, and the shadows came willingly, fluid as ink, thick as night. He tore a strip free, and it shimmered faintly between his hands before he threw it around her shoulders. It settled heavy and warm, a cloak woven from the Hollow itself.

“There,” he rumbled with satisfaction. Then the amusement fled from his face, replaced by command, pure and ancient.

“Come,” he said, stepping toward the open archway where the sea wind screamed through the ruins. “You will lead me to your sisters now.”

 

[Arianell]

The cloak was something she never dreamed of. In equal parts, it held the energy of something alive, something sentient, and it also possessed a weight that should be heavy but carried lightly around her. Arianell stiffened as the Spirit moved their arms close to her, wanting to recoil from the hands that fastened the cloak beneath her throat. It was made pure, and it was made dark.

She was sufficiently warmed, and covered so that she held her modesty.

The words the Spirit spoke next made her hesitant to follow.

Only few earned her love. Arianell had spent most of her life becoming the well sought after Maiden of the Black Moon. It awarded a witch power for every sacrifice made, and doubly so when paired with sin. The witches always chose adultery. It meant they were blessed with children, that they could raise new witchlings this way. Arianell had never come to full term before, had rarely become with child either. It made the others in her coven wary, calling for her to abdicate.

When power was promised, Arianell did not wish to relent.

"What will you do to them?" Could she beg for a few of her loved ones to be spared? Would she have to test her vow, that she would obey every word, in order to save her family? "How does the destruction of an entire coven benefit you?"

Arianell took a few steps forward, obeying his call for her to come. He did not say to quicken her pace or to remain silent. She still wished to dance with deal.

"You do know... that when a witch dies, that power returns to the coven. It passes down, right until the last witch."

Would that be her? Was her death so near now?