Last Light

Moth - III

His voice snapped the woman out of her trance; she flinched, withdrew her hand from the stone, and looked in his direction. She breathed hastily, astonishment clear on her face. Their gazes met. The Drow himself was surprised, surprised that the sound of his voice had brought her back –
The last one hadn't been so lucky.

  »What? -«, the woman faltered. She could barely speak.

The Drow shook his head. »I don't know much, and only one thing for certain: If you touch it for too long, you won't be able to let go. It just consumes you. Over time.«

  »Consumes...«, she repeated the word incredulously. Her voice sounded hoarse, but her breathing calmed.

  »That's the only way I can describe it«, the Drow explained. The memory of the fool who had stood by the stone for weeks, whimpering to himself while slowly dissolving and becoming one with the stone, was still vivid.

The woman took another deep breath, rubbing the hand that had touched the stone.

The Drow observed her: Her aura was bright and warm, shimmering in familiar colors with a sense of home. She was surrounded by magic, similar to his own but different. It had been a long time since he had felt something so familiar.

She picked up the glove that had slipped off earlier, then looked back at him, as if she had momentarily forgotten his presence. She seemed lost in thought, but then she composed herself. The Drow could tell by the way she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. »And who are you?« Her voice was now challenging. She tried to regain the control she had carelessly relinquished earlier. Her aura flared as she focused her attention on him.

  »I am no one of interest«, he remarked calmly, raising his hands placatingly.

She had large, almond-shaped eyes; they sparkled. The Drow could see how torn she was between caution and curiosity, careful not to make the next mistake. »Perhaps you should let me decide what is of interest to me and what is not«, she said boldly.

The Drow smiled smugly; he played along. If she truly wanted to know who he was, then he would show her, but she would also have to reveal something about herself. »I think if the host must introduce himself, the guest should do the same«, he uttered, moving slowly towards her.

She followed his every move, her aura blazing. He felt splinters under his feet, broken tiles, tiny stones, fine crystals, and glass. He continued, it was almost like a dance. Her skin was velvety, delicately colored, her hair long and dark, mostly braided into many differently strong and long braids. At the back of the head, part of the braids formed a loose, wild tangle, tied together by a red bead band. Her dress consisted of several layers of different fabrics, their colors reminiscent of a forest deep in the valley, boots and cloak had been marked by weather and long marches. However, utility could not deceive about their grace. »I'm not a guest.«

  »Not? I thought that's what you call someone when they enter your home. Even if it's uninvited -«, he took another step, now feeling her aura very clearly ahead of him. »Unexpected visit, so to speak.«

One last step and he touched her aura, and it was like entering a circle of fire. Immediately her aura enveloped him. He felt the fine magical structure, pulsating like a second heartbeat, capturing him with every new vibration just as he did with her. A dance indeed; on the one hand so familiar and yet so strange.
The Drow couldn't help but continue to look at the Witch, now with a different view: The magic inherent in her made the green of her eyes shimmer and pulsate in sync with her aura. Countless scars were now visible to him, scars that marked her wrists, hands, yes, even each individual finger, her throat and her face. Like fine spider threads they ran across the skin, finer on the hands and fingers, stronger and clearer on the wrists and neck, like bands. Around her throat they encircled the throat and traveled up in fine veins, over the chin and around the mouth, like delicate fingers trying to shut it close. He knew that kind of pattern the scars formed; imprints of witch shackles. But he wasn't sure how she had managed to get rid of them. The witches he had seen with witch shackles had not survived the procedure.
But what captured his attention the most was the shadow that surrounded her; wavering and elusive like mist on a gray morning, yet at the same time distinctly visible, sharp-edged, and menacing like living thorns. She was surrounded by darkness that lurked like something hidden inside her, unfathomably deep, both alluring and terrifying at the same time.

The Witch looked at him steadfastly; she did not waver, not even now, when everything seemed to be laid bare. »Close enough to find out what you want to know?«, she asked. Her expression betrayed no more uncertainty.

The Drow smiled, this time genuinely. The dance was over and he had lost the game, while overwhelmed by her and her secrets, she seemed hardly impressed by him. Unexpectedly, defeat didn't feel bad; on the contrary. To be surrounded by her aura was almost intoxicating and drove away any bad feeling. His first impression hadn't deceived him, she was breathtaking. There weren't many people who had a bond with the earth, and the few who did often paid with their lives. Especially when their aura was so powerful, overflowing, so pervasive, consuming everything. »Forgive me. I wasn't prepared to greet someone of such beauty here. And your aura, well – I couldn't help myself«, he said.

The Witch looked at him scrutinizingly: »Beauty –«, her voice sounded as if she was about to laugh.

  »Powerful and gentle, combative and fragile at the same time, beautiful, but visible only to those who know where to look in the shadows. Like a moth.«

Something in her demeanor changed: »Are you always so generous with compliments?«

  »Only when it's true.«

  »I must confess; your words honor not only me but also yourself and your eloquence«, she pulled the glove back over her hand and broke eye contact, »although I'm not sure what exactly you're referring to. Me or my aura.«

  »We Pale Ones are known for our poetic words, as well as for our mysteries. Perhaps I mean both«, he replied provocatively.

He could see her assessing him. There she was again, torn between caution, defense, and the admission that she felt flattered. Finally, her gaze fell on the stone on his chest and her expression softened even more. »Snowflake dance, winds far away, so white. A voice like velvet, whispering your name -«, she looked him in the eyes again.

  »- Greenlight shine, blossoms in frozen hand, so cold. The sound of morning, yet back they never came«, he finished. Knowing the legends of his people impressed him even more, as if the familiarity of her aura and her beauty had not already captivated him enough. »That doesn't make it any easier, does it?«, he said smiling, shaking his head.

She didn't reply, but a smile flickered across her face. There it was; the admission he had been looking for.