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I see a song of past romance
I see the sacrifice of man
I see portrayals of betrayal
And a brother's final stand
I see you on the brink of death
I see you draw your final breath
I see a man who gets to make it home alive
But it's no longer you
Raverne pushed the large door to the castle open, rain pouring down on him, soaking his dark hair. Thunder rumbled around him, and he immediately was set on edge. Even though he was far from home, it still made him nervous. Thunderstorms were very common when Maleanor was in a bad mood, and he imagined that she wasn’t taking being left behind by him very well. Never mind the fact that as of late, the Silver Owls had been trying to demolish parts of Briar Valley. The soldiers of Briar Valley had been constantly at odds with the enemy.
Raverne had no doubt that Maleanor was taking great care of their egg. However, she had been even more temperamental as of late because of it, and had begged him not to go, though her mother Maleficia had ordered him to.
“Do you really have to go, Raverne?” she had asked tearfully, clutching their egg—Malleus, as she had called him. Raverne was not about to argue with his wife. Whatever name she chose for their child, he would accept.
She seemed so certain that they were going to have a son. He didn’t bother to question it. Her moods had been so up and down as of late that it was best just to smile and nod. But he supposed part of it was also a mother’s instinct. He regretted not spending more time with the egg.
After all, eggs needed both magic and love to hatch. He could only hope Maleanor’s love and magic would be enough for their child.
Though, he thought with a soft, sad smile, if he was not there to provide love for the child, perhaps Lilia would be the one to do so in his stead. After all, Lilia loved both him and Maleanor. No matter how much he wanted to stay, no matter how much he wanted to help—he couldn’t. He had his orders, and he had to fulfill them.
Raverne leaned in and kissed Maleanor long and hard, his hand brushing up against the egg in her hands. He hoped that his efforts would not be in vain.
The message he was at least attempting to bring to the western fortress was one from Maleanor and the royal family trying to broker some kind of peace treaty.
Based on the rumbling thunder, however, he didn’t think that this attempted peace treaty was going to be successful.
Maleanor, my love, hold out just a little longer for me.
With that, Raverne took a deep breath and pushed the door open further.
Raverne was surprised to find that the interior of the fortress was empty. There was absolutely nobody within.
His heart sank. Given the current thunderstorm outside, along with the fact that the enemy’s fortress was left empty and he had been able to enter nonchalantly through the front door, he didn’t feel too positively about the state of things. Any hope he had of brokering a peace treaty was gone. His task had more or less been in vain.
Still, Raverne took the time to look around the area. The fortress was decorated with the insignia of the Dawn Knight on various bannerets, and the empty room appeared to be a throne room. It appeared he had stumbled upon the residence of the Dawn Knight and his loyalists — such a thing would make sense, as the Dawn Knight was known to be more receptive to peace talks than his adopted brother Henrick, however, it appeared he and his soldiers had been sent to fight. With a sinking feeling, Raverne looked out one of the windows. The Dawn Knight had likely been sent to deal with Maleanor.
And yet here he was, in an empty enemy fortress trying to deliver a pointless peace message while his own wife and unborn child were sitting ducks for the enemy. He wanted to curse, wanted to scream, wanted to single handedly destroy this fortress. It had taken him so long to reach this location. If he turned around now, there would be no guarantee that he would reach Maleanor in time, if she was in trouble.
Lilia was his only hope for Maleanor and Malleus. His old friend was the only one who could protect the two now. And if there was one person that Raverne trusted to do so, it was Lilia. He loved Maleanor as much as he loved Raverne.
Now was as good a time as any to investigate the enemy territory, at least. If he had been sent this far and after having left Maleanor and Malleus in such a vulnerable position, he was at least going to see what information or knowledge he could gain.
Raverne made his way towards a spiraling staircase that led up to a second floor. Aside from the throne room in the main floor of the fortress, there were a few miscellaneous doors, but Raverne ignored them for the immediate moment. The staircase continued on to a third floor, and though everything in him wanted to go up and see what else there was, he forced himself to continue looking around the second floor.
There was a rather ornate door in front of him, and it was cracked open ever so slightly. Raverne couldn’t hear anyone inside the room, which was a relief. Though it looked empty here, he could never be too cautious. Still, he entered the room with his sword cane in hand, the blade drawn. The top of the cane, when concealed, had a raven atop it. When the blade was revealed, the raven was part of the pommel instead.
The room inside was illuminated by flickering candlelight, and it didn’t take Raverne’s eyes long to adjust to the change in lighting. The room was surprisingly sparse. There were some bookshelves in the room, as well as a few tables covered in various items, some of which looked to be potion materials. Others looked to be covered in books that were opened to differing pages. He glanced over the texts. Some spoke of communicating with the deceased, and others spoke of the power of mirrors.
Raverne knew mirrors to be a method of transport in some cases, but clearly there were other uses for them. He hadn’t spent much time investigating the magic present in such items. However, the mirror in this room looked to be particularly important.
Some of the texts on the desk spoke of catoptromancy, or divination and scrying via a mirror. Raverne had heard mention of such magic before, and Maleanor had used it occasionally, though he was not a practitioner himself.
He wasn’t surprised to see a large mirror hanging on the center of the wall in the room, above a desk with lit candles on it. The mirror was somewhat ornate, with the spiraling shape of snakes curling up the top portion. At the very top of the mirror, there appeared to be the shape of a crown. Almost as if on autopilot, Raverne reached forward and touched the mirror with one gloved hand.
Green flames flared around the mirror, and the shape of a face appeared in it. The color of the flames set him on edge. It was far too similar to Maleanor’s own flames. He started in surprise as he looked at the figure. It appeared to be a mask with a filigreed lace pattern decorating its face. It was unlike anything that he had seen before, but there was an eerie and almost ethereal beauty about it.
“I am called the Dark Mirror,” it said, speaking in a somewhat monotonous tone. “I have the answers that you seek. I see the past and future running free,” it continued. “Ask me your questions.”
Raverne glanced at the windows in the room, where the thunder was still rumbling outside. The rain was pattering against the window and he almost wondered if the aggressive raindrops would be enough to break the window. He had never practiced catoptromancy, yet he felt a pull to interact with the mirror. “Mirror, tell me of home,” he said cautiously. “I have been gone for far too long. I must know of Maleanor, our child, and the state of things in Briar Valley.”
The mask-like figure in the mirror spoke calmly, but its words chilled him to the bone. “I see a past, and a whirlwind, yet dedicated romance. I see the sacrifice of man and fae alike. I see portrayals of betrayal and a brother's final stand.”
Raverne shook his head, his breath coming in more panicked spurts. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. What was this mirror saying? “What?” he asked, and gripped the frame of the mirror with both hands, looking at the mask-like figure in the center of the mirror.
The Dark Mirror continued its ominous premonition. “I see you on the brink of death, and I see you drawing your final breath. I see a man who gets to make it home alive, but that man is no longer you,” it recited.
“What do you mean?!” Raverne shouted, ready to toss the mirror down upon the ground. “What of Malleus? What of my son? Tell me! ”
“Your son will grow to be a fae of great power,” the mirror continued. “But he will know nothing except loneliness for much of his life. Neither you nor your beloved will be the ones to hatch him.”
Well, that just confirmed that they were in fact having a son. Raverne chuckled a little to himself sadly. It figured that he would find out what they were having in such a fashion. And of course Maleanor was right. She always was.
“Who?!” Raverne shouted. “How will he hatch? If he will not go to the stars, who will give him the love he deserves, and needs to hatch?” This was getting more and more frustrating. He was standing here in an empty room, begging for answers from a mirror that was simply speaking in cryptic riddles. Maleanor would likely think him foolish. “And what of my wife?”
“Your son will hatch but not without much tribulation,” the mirror conceded. “I see your palace covered in rеd, and the faces of men who had long beliеved you're dead. I see your wife with a man who is haunting—a man with a trail of bodies.”
“Who?!” Raverne demanded. This was humiliating. He was begging and trying to reason with a mirror.
“A general,” was all the mirror said in response to the last shouted question. Raverne didn’t have time to react, before the flames around the mirror flared in response.
“What are you doing here?! Intruder!”
Raverne whirled to see the burly silhouette of Henrick Istvan, the adoptive brother of the Dawn Knight, who had resided at this fortress, and who had likely been sent to deal with Maleanor. He was alone.
Shit.
Raverne unsheathed his sword cane. It wasn’t going to help him much, but he hoped it would at least stall for time. Henrick immediately rushed him, and Raverne thrust his blade up in a defensive maneuver. “Foul fae!” Henrick spat. “Damned Dragoneye Duke!”
The sheer might of the Dawn Knight’s brother overwhelmed Raverne, who was shoved back against one of the nearby tables. Books were sent flying, pages flipping frantically. “You and your kind will die!” Henrick exclaimed, and then stabbed his blade into Raverne’s stomach. “First you, and then your wife, and fellow general and soldiers, and then your egg. We will deal with your kind until there is nothing left. ”
Raverne coughed up blood, which quickly changed from a deep red to an inky black.
Oh. I’m overblotting. Well.
This can't be
We've suffered and sailed through the toughest of hells
Now you tell us our effort's for nothing?
Raverne cast his gaze up towards the mirror. The green flames were tinged black. Was the mirror acting as a sort of magestone for him, even though he was near death?
Raverne’s general garb morphed into a more formal, dressy outfit, his cape separating into the shape of raven wings. A dark black raven shaped mask covered his face. How fitting, for his last hurrah. He was now sporting a greatcoat over a rather dapper suit. Thick black feathers curled out from his cape’s blue collar.
Raverne’s gloves had morphed to add golden claw rings over each of his fingers. Three mirror-like accessories had appeared to attach themselves to his hip, with four golden keys dangling from them. He gained a top hat in his overblot, which also contained a mirror-like charm. Three more keys dangled from that charm.
Oddly enough, it appeared that the mirror itself was serving as his phantom, given that the flames present around it were turning black.
Whatever the case, if he ended up dying here, at least he was going to go out fighting. Raverne gripped onto Henrick’s blade with his gloved hand, and ripped it out from his guts, sending inky black blood spattering all over. “You and yours will not see the fall of Briar Valley,” Raverne spat, and raked his golden claw rings over Henrick’s face. They were sharp enough that they drew blood almost immediately.
“Even if I die here, you will not escape unscathed!” Raverne screamed, and drew his blade, aiming for Henrick’s shoulder, where there was the slightest bit of exposed skin. He drove the blade in, and Henrick coughed up blood. “This is for my wife!” Raverne withdrew his sword cane and then dug the weapon back in.
After a moment or two he repeated the action. “And this is for Lilia!”
Rip. Tear. Stab.
“This is for Malleus!”
Rip. Tear. Stab.
“Damn you! Damn all of you!”
Raverne stabbed Henrick at least twice more, but somehow the brute was holding on. “Unfortunately for you, fae beast, I have other matters to attend to at Castle Wildrose,” Henrick spat. He drew his own sword and slashed it across Raverne’s midsection, immediately drawing more inky black blood from the Dragoneye Duke.
While Raverne was regaining his sense of coherence as well as his magic, Henrick had somehow already managed to slip away. Raverne cursed internally, pressing a hand to his stomach wound. The blood on his fingers came away with the inky, viscous texture and color of blot. Was this how he was going to die? Here in the enemy’s fortress, miles away from his wife, best friend, and unborn child?
The voice from the Dark Mirror spoke up once more, and Raverne managed to turn his head towards it ever so slightly. His vision was a little fuzzy, but he made eye contact with it. “I see you on the brink of death,” it said. “I see you draw your final breath.”
It said nothing else, as if this particular remark was intended to be a nudge of sorts for him. “If I give myself over to you, I trust you will keep me as I am safe in some fashion. If I relinquish myself, I expect to be kept alive in some manner and not just killed outright,” Raverne remarked. “Even if I am no longer me .”
At least if that ended up being the case, perhaps he could find his way back to Briar Valley someday, if someone saw fit to speak to a dead man and try to free him. And perhaps if he handed himself over to the mirror, if it didn’t entrap him, it might grant him the power he needed to get back to Maleanor, Malleus and Lilia.
Maleanor, I’m sorry.
Raverne then closed his eyes, letting go.
The man came to, and winced. His stomach hurt like hell. He coughed, and forced himself into a sitting position. There was an inky substance on his fingertips, but the wound in his stomach was coated in ruby red blood. Surprisingly though, despite the pain, the wound wasn’t as bad as he had thought it was.
Had it healed? How long had he even been here? He had the vague memory of a thunderstorm battering the windows, and fighting some kind of foe, but beyond a hazy recollection, he couldn’t remember anything.
What was his name?
He forced himself into a standing position, bracing his body weight on a nearby table. He looked into a nearby mirror, and was greeted with the sight of a birdlike mask, top hat, and an overall dapper assemblage. He glanced behind him and was greeted with the sight of a winglike cape. It looked almost like a raven or a crow. Yes, a crow…He couldn’t remember his name. Perhaps until he remembered who he was, he would call himself Crowley.
“Hm…Dire Crowley, perhaps? Such an alias could work for the time being.”
Crowley looked at the mirror, which had an almost irresistible pull to it. Wherever he went, he was taking this with him. It seemed important.
Maybe someday, he could reclaim his lost name, whatever it was. Whoever he was before was lost for now. Who knew, maybe he would enjoy the life he was able to build now more than whatever he left.
Whatever the case, if he remembered things, the person he had been would no longer be the same.
I see a song of past romance
I see the sacrifice of man
I see portrayals of betrayal
And a brother's final stand
I see you on the brink of death
I see you draw your final breath
I see a man who gets to make it home alive
But it's no longer you