The Knight's Eyes

29: SLEEP TIGHT

Haven't anyone told you to never sleep too tight?

He sat on the chest at the foot of his bed and studied the butcher knife. Hours earlier he had made a final decision and vowed to kill Nightingale. She had to die in order to stop the curse on his kingdom and to avenge all those who lost their lives because of her. He must prepare himself to die as well. He had never been fond of the gods, to the point he barely knew much about them. The priests of the temples would pass him by at times and greet him with the holy blessings of humility and forgiveness so the journey to the afterlife would be pleasant.

After all that has happened to him, it made him wonder if there were any higher beings watching him make a fool of himself. Indeed, what he was planning to do was foolish. Obviously, Nightingale had power and Kaahiss and Abebe had told him stories of people who had crossed the witch the wrong way and never saw the light of day again.

Then there was the fact of the witch's age. His only answer and final conclusion to her being twenty-three was immortality. Maybe after digging around with dark powers of the underworld had given her the gift of living past her time. This was the Mystic Realm and he had seen too much to deny that claim. No. She must die.

He rose onto his feet and entered the washroom. He stood in front of the covered mirror and thought about the giant. What was he doing about now? Was he regretting his exchange? Was he out hunting a grizzly bear forgetting about the Terran Knight? His words about his soother-blood surfaced into his thoughts now and then.

He switched hands holding the knife and brought his fingers to the towel. Slowly, with great caution he lifted the corner of the towel upward until he could see his plain clothing. He huffed, his chest puffed and tensed as he risen it to look at his neck. He swallowed and felt beads of sweat form along his brow.

Frailty, Galiathan had called his strange fear of mirrors. According to his parents and Walta it was just a phobia he would soon outgrow, except he never did. Every time Walta would give him the opportunity to fight back, he'd run away or form excuses. He sucked in a stomach full of air and raised the towel higher to expose his head.

Like other failed trials, he managed to scan his face in a mere second. The scar Kaahiss had given him his first night had healed completely leaving behind a smooth light scar. He locked his gaze into his marble green eyes and instantly squeezed his eyes closed. His heart pounded wild and shivers scaled his body. He jumped away from the bloody mirror gasping for air to calm his pulse. His head ached and his eye sockets throbbed.

"Apples, birds, flowers, Walta, father," he mumbled in great speed then repeated it until he felt back to normal.

He returned to his room, strapped a belt around his waist, and stuck in the butcher knife. Combing his fingers through his hair, he exited his room. He peered around. No one was on his floor, as usual. Casually, as if this was just a normal day, he made his way to the staircase leading to the fourth floor.

The sun had set taking its cheery light with it and causing the floors to appear dark and gloomy. His skinned crawled. He heard muffled voices from the first floor and the faint clicking of Kaahiss' clawed feet. Alsin moved faster. Today was the first time seeing the witch since his first night stay. He didn't know her routine. Maybe she would sleep in her dungeons. Maybe she was in her room early to prepare for a good night's sleep. Whatever faced him on the fourth floor, he must do so as a knight of Terra; brave and persistent.

The fourth floor held a similar appearance to the others except there were only four bedroom doors and one hallway leading to the back staircase. One of these rooms was Nightingale's. He just had to pick one. He approached each door and tried the knobs until the last turned.