The Bane of Light

Home Coming

"I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood here next to you like this?" - Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Woods

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The cold air whipped pieces of hair into my face, making my skin sting with each gust of wind. I tightened my cloak around me, hugging the fabric to my body as I stared up at the looming manor I disdained to called home. With each passing moment, the wind increased in intensity, the cold storm clouds bulging in the grey sky above me.  Their dissatisfaction was acutely palpable, in harmony with mine.

My home often reminded me of Mount Olympus, and as a child growing up, I often imagined myself to be the Hephaestus of the manor. The Fontaine Manor rested on a large hill, domineering over the acres surrounding it. Often it would rain and the fog would roll in, making the manor present as a floating parthenon resting upon a carpet of clouds. I would spend days staring out the grandiose windows, to the thick stretch of clouds below, imagining that I was the only person in the world, locked up in my gilded prison, entombed in my loneliness.

We had no neighbors, and the home was gated in, so there was no interaction with other children my own age, unless my mother approved it. As a child, I believed it was because my mother didn't want anyone hearing the never-ceasing screams of help, that bounced off the walls of the Fontaine Manor, echoing into the valley below. The truth was not far from it. My mother valued her privacy.

The Neo-Classical house was sprawling and white, made of Parian marble and adorned with intricate detailing. We had thirty foot columns on the outside, with floor-to-ceiling Palladian windows. The looming house was always clean, and spotless, and quiet. We had no carpets, or pets, or plants. No color or intricate patterns or vibrant decorations. It was all white and cold and untouched. Un-lived in.

You could go days without seeing a single person, without seeing or hearing a single indication of life. It was like a home for ghosts and phantoms. All my older sisters were away at school, and my younger sisters had not yet been born. My father was always out, but I hardly cared at that point. I had been used to his absence by the time I was conscious enough, to realize that most fathers don't spend months away from the home. Mother was always gone at her job, but occasionally I caught the sounds of her clacking heels on the marble, our family healer, Cypress, always scurrying close behind.

Him, though, he was always around. He dictated my home as if it were his. Being my mothers personal consultant and doctor, he believed he had some right to a distinction among the rest of the staff. Maybe he did, seeing the way my mother prized him. Why wouldn't she? After all, the average scullery maid could not provide half the prescription drugs and life extending elixirs Cypress could. My mother guzzled them by the bottle in order to stay alert and vibrant, and he used his medical qualifications to honorably provide her more. Or to my mothers children, whenever they acted out.  I was the only one problematic enough to require sedation and constant supervision from Cypress.

I understood early on, as a child, that there was no necessity for me to be left behind with him all the time. But I still was. Sometimes my mother would leave me begging and crying, screaming and beating my frail body against the windows. Sometimes I would be silent and well-behaved while she left.  It all varied, yet simultaneously made no difference.

I shook my head, straying my eyes from those same windows, refusing to let those memories fog my mind as I stood outside the house. I refused to think of the head to toe bruises that covered my body after each fit of hysterics. I refused to think at all.

Taking a shuddering, heaving breath,  filling my lungs to capacity with crisp air, I used my shadows to open the looming double doors. The doors creaked open just a sliver, providing enough space for me to slip in unnoticed. The false energy that Cesarie's elixir had provided me felt gritty against my bones, like a layer of grime. My shadows flickered and stretched from the weak mana source. It was not enough. Nothing was enough.