The Witch's Toy ✔

22: the mistress, madame blanc

It was a slow burn.

I could feel the flames lick up from my toes, fiery fingers circling my ankles and slowly snaking up my legs to take hold of my heart.

The gold pendant that hung low against my chest beat like my heart, each thump slow as I held my breath.

I wanted to expel all the air from my lungs, force it out and suck in new, filtered air that wouldn't make me so dizzy from the memories, but that was impossible. I'd heard it now; I remembered almost every part of the beginnings, eyes moving rapidly behind my closed lids as each piece of the puzzle gradually made the bigger picture clearer and clearer. Yet, I still couldn't figure it all out. The picture was ambiguous — hard to understand if each piece wasn't present though it was. It felt like torture, but I somehow had to find the strength to endure it all. Even then, I could feel my stamina running low, burning me out a lot faster than I thought.

And now I was faced with poverty, his original towering form hunched over on his hands and knees in front of me, hands slipping in the dark liquid that poured out like thick syrup from the center of his chest. It was so dark that even the black of his shirt couldn't hide the stain that was spreading across each cotton fiber.

In this midnight with the sky an inky black and the sight before me turning to the same color, the only bright thing that shone was the gold talisman that had been released by my pendant. Just like the countless times before, it had shot out to pierce my assailant's heart, the golden threads latching on so tightly there was no way anyone could escape it.

At the realization of what had happened, my jaw began to throb and when my fingers came up to graze the side of my aching face, I was met with pain. I could barely open my mouth without it hurting.

"My apologies —" Samael ground out, voice strained. "It had to be done. I'm not sane when I'm in that cursed state." He let out a shaky breath of air, and I thought I could hear a wisp of a laugh in there somewhere — like he was almost relieved that this was almost the end.

If he was the Samael back then, he wouldn't accept this. He'd try to push on, to persevere. But he wasn't the same.

"I should be used to this," I whispered. My fingers curled into the dirt, my throat tightening and eyes heating up. So why did it still hurt so much, remembering everything that happened in that time I spent at my grandmother's place? The truth was, it wasn't easy to accept this. I wanted it to be; I wanted to think I could just brush it all away, but I couldn't.

"No one is used to death. No one should have to witness and suffer the same things that you do, Yu Rui," Samael responded, letting out another shaky breath of air. He sighed out through his nose, leaning forward as he took my chin in one hand to look right into my eyes.

My bottom lips quivered and I wanted to turn away from him, but he didn't let me. I squeezed my eyes shut when the tears came, trying in vain to stifle them. A sob rose up to my lips, and I shook my head violently as if to refuse it. But I heard it from my own throat nonetheless, entering the space between us as a small whimper before becoming heavier as tears started to fall from my eyes. The sobs wracked through my body, making my shoulders shake.

Samael pulled me into him and I let him, face burying into his bloody shirt, hands still curled tightly into the ground. He pushed my damp locks away from my face, tucking them behind my ears, and rubbed my back, large hands comforting and soothing. "Shh," he hushed, "It will be over soon, Yu Rui. You understand what you need to do." He was in pain, and yet he could still manage console someone.

I remembered that he always did this. When Maalik was busy with work and Azazel was greeting my grandmother's guests at the door and treating them with tea as they waited for her, I'd sit in Samael's study, watching him quietly as he worked at his desk or produced lilting pieces on his piano. I had watched as he played a few measures of music before writing the notes neatly across lined paper and watched when at times he would lean back, an exasperated sigh at his lips when he was frustrated and couldn't compose something he liked.