Curse of Ferreus

5 - Crescent Valley

Voices haul me right back to awareness. I sit up, my bleary gaze scanning the room for threats.

There are none. The voices are outside, laughing about running late for their flight, and the motel has incredibly thin walls. Sunlight streams in through the curtains — these, too, are thin — and casts the room in a blinding glow. It illuminates the cracks growing like vines up the corners of the walls.

With a sigh, I melt back into bed and rub at my eyes. The night has been a restful one, and with a silver knife tucked safely beneath my pillow, I could close my eyes and let myself be vulnerable enough to sleep.

My stay at the motel, I muse as I come awake properly and will my racing heart to slow down, however pleasant, is short-lived. It's a temporary solution to the problem of no sleep, and now that has been remedied, I can shift my focus towards the future.

I long to settle, to find a place and stick to it. I don't want to spend my life running and looking over my shoulder and constantly worrying about anyone following my tracks. I want a home— a real, true home.

Running has never been my forte, but if there's one thing I can do, it's defend like my life depends on it. It is, after all, what I have been trained to do since I was old enough to clasp my hands around the hilt of a silver knife.

I think of leaving and it doesn't seem right. A part of me longs to stay, to settle, to belong. My heart has grabbed hold of this little town and won't let go.

I can sleep in the car, that eager part of me says, fitting fragmented plans together and hoping something will stick. It'll save money and I can find a job that pays cash and work for someone who doesn't ask questions and I'll save up and pay off the police to hide me if my family comes searching. They are going to expect me to run as far away as possible— they won't expect me to hide just yet.

It would, I muse grudgingly, throw them off my scent. I can fight better when I'm not on the run, when I know the area better than them.

Thus resolved, I get up and trudge into the bathroom, eager to make use of the facilities whilst I can.

As I shed my battle attire and let it drop in a heap on the tiled floor, I realise I'll have to find some discreet clothes to replace them. All the belts specifically made to hold throwing knives and holsters for guns I don't have and stubborn blood stains will raise too many uncomfortable questions. If I want to call Crescent Valley my home, I need to blend in.

Blood and dirt swirl in a vortex down the drain at my feet as I dump the entire bottle of courtesy soap into my hands. I scrub and scrub at my arms and chest until my skin is raw and agitated, until the lichtenberg figures and symbols and runes scarring me are stark and more noticeable than before. They won't come off. They're a stain burrowed too deep. They are chains to my legacy, and ones I'll have to endure.

When at last the water runs clear, and the shower pressure has gone from a steady stream to an insubstantial trickle, I step out and dry myself, feeling refreshed if not entirely eager to put on the uniform again.

It'll have to do, for now.

My opinion of Crescent Valley, as I drive around soon after looking for a place to park up and explore, is only strengthened. There's little squares of market stalls and people wandering beneath colourful bunting stretching from quaint cottage to cottage. Cafés offer house specials and welcome dogs (on a leash) on blackboards propped up outside windows decorated with an assortment of cakes and sandwiches and fruit. There's bookstores and libraries seemingly on every road, and little flower boxes on every window, blushing with corals and lilacs and sky blues. People laugh and grin at one another as they stroll to and fro, calling greetings across the street. Woodland seeps through the cracks, creeping as close to the bustling town as it can. It's a picturesque haven, and I wonder if I've somehow stumbled into some form of paradise.