LACRIMAL BLOOD ✔

I sat there immobile watching the last flickers of the lamp burning the oil to the lees and as it was about to extinguish, my hand dropped a few more drops of oil while the wick started yet another lifetime of incineration. 

Dying wasn't a choice.

I set back the forceps and rested my stiff shoulders on the armchair picking up a copy of the celebrated Rosemary's Baby (1967). The fact that it is widely proclaimed but the concept remains farce till date. Satanic covens... I almost laughed to myself in the secluded chambers of my lab.  The feeling of the spine of the hard covered book against my fingertips gave me the odd feeling of being misplaced, reminding me of the purpose of the whole being once again. 

My eyes moved on instinct to the pair of light boots near the bed as my gaze trailed towards the lying figure of Branwyn Ferelith who refused to be the cause of misery for so many others at the stake of... what? I keep asking myself the same. 

She's worth whatever chaos she brings to the table and you know it. 

These words kept ringing as I placed the deceiving copy of the novel back on the table. The irony of how I ended up here made me let out a dry chuckle. There was something in me that stirred that made me walk up towards the little makeshift couch where she lay in my lab. 

Her light blonde hair was sprawled on the pillowcase and her dry pale lips which once had the rosy hue parted as she breathed slowly but heavily. The sweet brow only so slightly creased showing her discomfiture. I sat on the stool near the couch and my fingers pressed against the crease mildly rubbing it seeing Branwyn relax against it as her mouth shut and her breath evened out yet once again.  I smiled at her gesture enjoying this moment. I wanted the beauty of it to last forever but knew that the charm was pro tempore.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the gate, the obnoxious sound of disturbance in my solitary expanse. It was my acceptance of the inevitable that made me rise up from the seat and proceed to receive my inescapable 'guests'.

I opened the door to receive two men attired in expensive robes followed by a man dressed neatly in a suit which almost paled out in comparison to the former two gentlemen whose dark velvety attire weren't ordinary or accessible. 

"Hope we are not interrupting your... your liturgies, Madame Bernadette?"

I moved away from their way and held the door open for them to enter, and it was only after them having placed themselves in this abode that I said,

"Since my liturgies, as you so fondly termed my work, have come to a halt at your arrival, may I know what blessed opportunities bestowed me with the chance to greet the Master of the Seven Houses of the Sacred Coven, Master Ferelith?"

Master Ferelith was the sole surviving member of Coven and on default the Head, the Lord, who fortunately or unfortunately (this, I can't decide upon) happens to be Branwyn's father, who is quite ashamed to even be associated with the crest of the Rose and Tulip.

Along with Master Ferelith, the grave-looking gentlemen with similar robes is somebody I remembered to be a part of the Privy Council when I first arrived on this Land. Keeping at bay all niceties he looked at me with those cold grey eyes and spoke with the same voice I remembered he used when he threatened my brother with,

"If you think I am someone you can trifle with, I have more than numerous ways to prove you wrong. I'm here still talking to you because it is my daughter who seems to have taken a particular interest to your race. I can snap that little bone at your neck in the blink of an eye but I fear a loss of a nobody like you would cost me a loss of a daughter. You very well know the sole purpose of your life now, don't you, Madame Bernadette?"