Chimera

07|Seven

The cemetery remained quiet and safe. Hemlock suspected it had to do with something in the air, because even the wind quivered in his ear and the headstones offered no hint as to who rested beneath his feet. Almost as if they were afraid of speaking their names in the presence of whoever—or whatever—lurked in the shadows. It couldn't be Hemlock, he had no drop of power to his name, but the danger that kept him safe refused to poke or prod at him. Not a single nervous spider's crawl up his spine. Curiosity itched beneath his skin in its stead and begged him to stick his nose where it didn't belong, but hesitation picked at him too.

Gaining his freedom had been a moment of desperation fueled by the unanswerable nips at his heels urging him to go. Death spoke to him in his dreams and a weirdly aware raven with magic in its feet guided him to an impossible crack in Dregan's defenses. That the gods ruled Kaskan was such an ingrained fact that even Hemlock still knew it despite his lost memories, but even those interventions felt strange.

He remembered Dregan's backhand the first time he heard Hemlock whisper a prayer. His hissed words. Don't waste your breath on what's forsaken you. They lost all ears the moment your veins tasted my venom. Numbly, he wondered if Dregan had simply been upset that Hemlock cried and fought the first time he was summoned to his bed. He didn't know what truth would feel better.

Still, though, Hemlock had gotten free and then... And then what? What was he to do? He found an eerily unkempt cemetery that provided just enough shelter to keep him safe from Dregan, but then what? Keep running? Until Hemlock crossed the threshold of Dregan's territory, he'd be running every night and begging the sun to keep him safe during the day. He had no means of food, water, or even a plan as to what to do with his life beyond survive. Sure, he had thought about it before, but reality had quite a way with dashing all kinds of thoughts of plans the moment it became apparent you had no idea what to do. Hemlock was alone, and scared, with no instinct for survival, no capability of making decisions on his own. He'd be doomed by the end of the week.

Scrubbing his face with a groan, Hemlock surveyed the cemetery with a stressed pinch to his eyes even he could feel. Nosing about would do him no good besides act as a distraction and... and maybe let him pretend to have a normal life for once. The life of someone who could be nosy and investigate trivial matters. Realistically, too, he could do nothing until the sun went down and no longer stood as a threat to his still-healing state—her scorching touch continued to pull uncomfortably at his barely stitched together skin, though the sluggishness of his healing started to lessen a bit. Maybe he earned a bit of poking around. A treat.

Before he could comfortably settle on his decision, his feet already started moving.

A good portion of the headstones had names long since worn away by time, but the relics of their origin persisted—immortal in their own right. Hemlock crouched in front of one such nameless grave and pressed a hand to the cracked but beautiful stonework of the towering statue. Whoever rested beneath him had to have been important, or at least loved enough to receive such an intricate memorial.

Three tiers tall, the top-most part of the grave contained a detailed stone sculpture of a weeping winged man hunched over a cloaked figure. Multiple colors swirled within the stone, like it had been hewn from the earth specifically for its unique visuals and textures. The statue itself sat on top of a slightly bigger middle section, a faux plaque likely carved into it from the weathered but precise indentations and the remnants of a name and dedication. Around it were more carvings, some more visible as florals and others less discernible, and more carvings that he couldn't make out. The main base had a carved mural covering the entirety of it, on every visible side, and Hemlock picked out a few different aspects—more florals, some feathers, reaching hands, all an elegant blend along with others. Perhaps this person had a personal connection to the mural's contents, or it was an artwork they liked.