The Haunt of Danzig Ruin

Return of the Scribe

        Nora was only 13 years old when it was revealed to Petrich Hollenburg that assisting a celestial scribe was her true destiny. She had accepted this and began her training as she had been able. From that moment on, neither looked back in regret no matter how frustrating it had all been for both of them frequently along the way. 
          Overwhelmed in emotion, Nora had kissed him once, an innocent kiss of a girl who was not quite yet a woman.  It was the first time that Petrich realized that their psychic bonding had happened far too soon, and he pitied her and himself when he had no choice but to gently wretch her arms from about his neck and step away.
         Moving forward, they continued to grow close, yet were acutely aware that inappropriate behavior was most unacceptable. 
But now she was on the verge of her coming-of-age, an age when scribes and assistants traditionally began their journey of becoming officially bound.  Physical relations between such unions came rather natural, whether it was a man and a woman, or even two men, for in this union one had found their lover for life. 
        The thought of Nora as his future lover perplexed Petrich in the beginning. More recently, however, as the time grew nearer, the more he had come to terms with the fact that she had grown in both body and mind in such a way that he could no longer deny his attraction.      
         There had been times, that with only the slightest signal, he would have very easily thrown away his convictions and simply taken her into his arms.  But he had made promises to himself and to Nora's family long ago. Promises he could not bring himself to break. Not just yet.
          And now, here she was on a stone cold floor, resting with her back to him, her long, slim silhouette outlined by the bright embers of their campfire.  She had come here, without reserve, just as Petrich knew she would, for wherever he was, she could not help but be there also.  The same was true in reverse.

          Thy step is also mine own.

              It was a quote from an ancient text of the nature of a celestial scribe's devotion to his bound assistant.  It was also a thinly veiled disguise for the act of ritual suicide if a scribe or an assistant met death. 
             To those who did not understand the bond of a scribe and assistant, their immediate reaction to the thought of ritual suicide was abhorrence and disgust. In many countries to the east, the act had been ban for over a century or longer, more out of the doubt that modern scribes and assistants were in a close relationship, indeed, but surely not that close. 
            Petrich had to agree. In more modern times many celestial scribes took on assistants without being psychically bound.  In many ways he wished beyond all things that he and Nora had not bonded in this way.  Yet to never know the pure joy of finding and adhering to one out of millions and millions would have been a life ultimately wasted.
             It crossed his mind that if he should meet death before Nora, he would forcibly break his bond with her in order to buffer the shock of loss.  But there were consequences for breaking this sort of mental attachment by force.  There was a chance of severe damage to the survivor's psyche, shattering it and leaving the victim alive but in a vegetative state, yet in agonizing pain due to forced separation.
              Of all things and of all people, why?? Why put this young girl in such a position?? Petrich scolded himself. It was certainly not the first time he thought this, but here in a dark, supposedly haunted ruin, during a rain storm, his mental scolding was particularly harsh.
            Then Nora stirred and repositioned herself, now facing him.  A stray lock of raven dark hair fell over her cheek, near her nose where it would surely tickle her awake. Petrich reached out and very stealthily placed it behind her ear again, careful not to disturb her slumber, but just then across the way, Leon started and sat himself upright. His head turned toward the dilapidated stone stairway leading to the upper levels of the castle.  If something was there that had taken Leon's attention, it was too far for Petrich to see.
           Petriched snatched his eyeglasses from their case and hurriedly put them on.  If something had been standing on the stairs, it was gone now, but whatever it was got Leon moving. Petrich watched him get to his feet, pause, then head toward the staircase at a determined pace.
            "Leon!"  Petrich shouted in a whisper, but Leon did not hear him, or chose to ignore Petrich's call, for he did not even turn to his voice. Petrich quickly slipped on his jacket and hopped to his feet. He glanced over to the pallet where Fitz slept, but even in the dim light, Petrich could see immediately that Fitz had stolen away as well, her knapsack creating a lump to look like her slumbering body.
             "Where in the bloody hell?" Petrich spat irritably through clenched teeth. Then he felt something thin wrap about his ankles tightly  and give a swift jerk, taking his legs out from beneath him, landing him to the cold stone floor. It knocked the breath out of him. As he gasped for air, the thin ropes, or whatever it was about his ankles began dragging him out of the room.  Still gasping, Petrich reached out to snag onto whatever he could. It was like being swept down river in a slow but strong current, and grabbing onto and hanging on tight was of upmost importance.  He found his breath and then his voice and he shouted.
           "NOR—" 
            It was all he could shout out, for at that moment, everything fell from stormy, nightfall dark to pitch black. He had fallen unconscious, unable to reach out to Nora even with his mind.

*.       *.      *.  

              For how far he had been dragged, Petrich couldn't say. It must had been a fair enough piece. The buttons, or more like those that were left on his jacket, were just barely tethered by their threads. His trousers were ripped at the knees.  He felt the pain of scraped flesh underneath. What had not been scraped raw was bruised, but nothing broken that he could perceive at the moment, strangely enough.  Even his eyeglasses still sat on his nose, askew, yet unscathed. 
             Petrich tried to move, but his ankles were still bound, as now were his wrists.  Now he could see they were lengths of yarn, and they were the color of fresh blood. He tried wrestling out of them but they slithered and grew thicker, and tighter, as if they were living things. They were equally mesmerizing and repulsive.
            Petrich soon discovered the futility of his struggling and thought it wise to save his dwindling strength by relaxing as best he could. He looked about, surprised to realize the room in which he lay was lit, albeit dimly, with a lonely sconce on a far wall. 
             Petrich rather clumsily righted himself into sitting position from where he lay on his left side.  The red tethers threatened tightness again, but then loosened a bit when he was again still.  He studied the room about him, and recognized it as the ruin's library and study. It would have been the space in which Celestial Scribe Theo Xander set to work on the tapestry more than two centuries before.
He thought of the question Fitz  had put to him as they discussed the fate of Davin Rowe while camping at the river. She had questioned the possibility of the tapestry itself being cursed. Petrich had not been able to answer, only hoped above all things that they would not be having to deal with such a thing. But the more he considered the blood red tethers about his wrists and ankles, the way they seemed to pulse ever so slightly, the more a panicky horror spread throughout Petrich's body, stiffening his lungs, restricting his breathing.
"At last, a celestial scribe has returned within these ancient walls. Your presence has been long awaited."
             Petrich could not decipher if the strange, yet gentle disembodied voice was actually being heard or was simply in his mind.  Regardless, Petrich replied aloud, as calmly as he could manage.
              "Who speaks? Show yourself."
"Who do you suppose? I could be a sprit of one long dead. Does such a thing frightened you, Master Scribe?"
                "Not particularly." Petrich replied.
                "Hmmm. Well, then. . .there are far more entities in the vast universe that even a blind and babbling fool could tolerate, and then for only a short moment. Are you blind? No. You sport ocular gear. You don't seem to be babbling, but you are, indeed, a fool. No celestial scribe should have entered here without even a well versed assistant. You appear to be alone, Master Scribe.  You've made the task of tearing your mind open ridiculously simple."
               Petrich's pulse quickened ever so slightly, his calm slipping in its steadfast grip. A cursed celestial document. . .what would his mentor, the great Sir Barnabas Frey say of this dilemma? It was a subject only briefly breached at Justitia, the only lesson of any worth being to have your completely bound assistant at your side and within your mind, or else. . .well, mental devastation and then death.
Petrich, understanding, of course, that Nora was not yet completely bound to him, had no choice but to bluff and stall for time. Time for what? Perhaps Fitz and Leon would ultimately come after him, but above all things, Nora needed to be here. Together, even if she was not ready, even when he had made promises he intended to keep, they needed to be at each other's side. They needed to be bound.
I am sorry, my ever loving Nora. Petrich thought, then directed his mental concentration to the girl possibly still sleeping near the warm embers below.
NORA!!!!!!!. . . . . .