Chapter Eight:Sometimes the Light of the Moon Never Comes....

“The solution to every problem is patience and understanding”....Well, whatever idiot said that- I would sure like to give them a piece of my mind. I honestly cannot comprehend what flimsy pansy of a situation could ever be dissolved by using ‘patience and understanding’. Kurai needs to get into shape quickly, or I swear to god I’ll kill him. I may not even mean to kill him, it may just be an accident.

I throw him off of me with a scoff of distaste. All he does is roll on his side coughing like a little baby, but he’s shouting breathlessly how I just tried to kill him and how I should have warned him and blahblahblah, so no- I’m not really worried about him. Not at all. Call me harsh- but if you have enough breath to be using that sort of language, it’s clear you’re still alive. And kicking…..and shouting…..and being just as irritable as you were before…..

But anyway, moving on with our “adventure”. I stood up and brushed myself off, not even mumbling under my breath- because such an action would have been decisively beneath me. The roof of the school building wasn’t that tall, perhaps ten to twenty feet. It’s form was something like that of a box, with little added onto it to stray from that shape. It must have been old- because the concrete was cracked badly in places and there were gaping holes in others that showed into dusty old classrooms- a chalkboard at the front and decrepit chairs and desks overturned and askew in positions they had likely been in for many, many years. It was admittedly, fairly creepy. The building was tall enough to give us a vantage point over the small town, village, tiny civilization, whatever you want to call it. Most of the homes were shacks, or at least- all that was left of the previous homes were shacks. Their roofs had more holes than the solid concrete of the school building, being made of rotted wood and soggy tile. All of them had their windows boarded up with equally rotted wood, the glass long gone- along with all of the people. To be brief- this was a place that should have been condemned due to safety violations a long time ago.

“Where are all of the people…?” Kurai asks quietly, perhaps afraid to speak too loudly, afraid to disturb those long gone, or long dead.

“Gone.” I state, hopping down from the crumbling roof of the school building. I am suspicious- and I should dare say I have a reason to be. Visiting the human world is usually a treat for people of Muortum- well worth the risk of facing the Gap, seeing as you get to experience such different tastes, smells, songs, and If you were that sort of person- perhaps bring back a bit of new technology for yourself (because as said before, usually citizens of Muortum are not so fond of complicated technology. We use light bulbs, and “Primitive” Tvs(none of that flat screen plasma stuff), Radios- and a few of us may dare to have laptops, but that is about where it ends). But I can tell right off that this visit will not be such a “treat”. This place has been vacated for a long while- and my source of suspicion is this- why have no Slayers or Hunters ever been sent to this such location before, if it has been left in such a distraught condition for so long? The Dark Ones were here so long ago, I can barely catch the scent of sulfur and brimstone. Which is saying something- usually the scent of an attack or supernatural presence will linger on for years after it has happened, after it is over and done. This little shanty town- It has been desolate and empty for a very, very long time… It was attacked and invaded long ago…..Where were the Slayers and Hunters? Where were those to protect the children who surely once attended that dilapidated school building on every day of education? I dare to say that I like a very small amount of Vietellam children- they are….quaint. They amuse me. So hence, where were the soldiers meant to defend the innocence and light of this world?

“Sometimes the light of the moon never comes….” I crouch down and rub a bit of the dusty dirt between my fingers, it is dry- and any footsteps that may have once been there have long since worn away.

“What?” Kurai gives me a confused look, from the sound of his voice, I can tell he is only standing a few feet behind me.

“Think of it….We live in a world where the only light in the sky most nights, save our few stars- is the moon….and sometimes there is a ‘new moon’...No light at all…..”

“What are you saying? You’re always so cryptic….” He tries to play it light, tries to sound playfully irritated- but I can hear the tension in his voice, he too is confused. He too is smart enough to know that something terribly wrong happened here. When I accepted this job- the Missions office had only told me it was to defend a small village-like place in the middle of nowhere from perhaps only one or two Dark Ones- Three if I were lucky. I had wanted to pick an easy one for the sake of Princess over there- but the Missions Department had never told me that there was no life in this town...no life at all….They had never told me that the Dark Ones had been here a long, long time ago…..And that there was nothing left here to protect. No children. No mothers. No fathers. No people at all.

“I’m saying…..that even though the moon is still there….It’s light does not show….There is a gap in it’s presence….”

“I’m afraid I still don’t get it- can we just be straightforward for once Aurora?” I don’t look back at him, but I look up from the dirt slightly. This is the first time he has even used my real name in a long time, maybe even ever since that first day we met. He would always call me ‘Miss’, in a mocking sort of tone, among other things. I’ve never exactly asked him to call me by my name, I never ask it of anyone. I don’t want my name to be something that everyone feels at liberty to use- because that would imply that I am friendly, and in fact have many friends. And I don’t. I also don’t want many friends, don’t want to be ‘popular’. I should dare say that sometimes I don’t want to know or care about anybody. And I surely do not want anybody caring for me. I grew up with nothing, no family- and a family is the foundation for all relations in a person’s life. I have grown to respect and perhaps like very few people. And so, I don’t really expect them to like me. If they even find something to like inside of me I would be surprised. Without the building blocks for interaction- Without the history of a family, I know I will never be ‘likable’.

My Mistress Kay was the closest thing I had to a mother- and let me paint this picture for you. Mistress Kay was the one that whipped my back until it was raw for stumbling over my recitation of the Slayer Code. She was the one that chained me up in a dark room, my little feet several feet off of the ground and my arms above my head- and she left me there, to teach me endurance. To teach me that nobody would come to save me. She was the one that severed my pinkie and left me to stitch it back on again, because I had made such a terrible mistake….A mistake that I will not tell now...But I will tell you that it did cost a life….I will never forget the look of such disappointment on my Mistress’ face…..I was lucky she didn’t take my entire hand. But I know why she didn’t- she didn’t because she loved me. Like her own. And she was hard on me because she wanted me to do well, to live a long life in this world that likes to cut even the lives of the semi-immortal, short. With no warning. With no real reason. She ripped out my fingernails because I needed to know pain in order to be able to understand it. She whipped me harder than all of the other girls because she knew….she knew that one day...I would choose the whip as my specialized weapon. She knew that one day I would be here, in Vietellam, on a mission, the coil of hard leather and barbed wire, shards of glass and lacquered venom crafted by my own hands as a rising Slayer Graduate of the third district, she knew that my own whip would be resting against my right hip. Just like hers. Always like hers. She knew that I was going to be stronger than any other before me- and that is why she pushed me harder, that is why she showed me no mercy. And now...looking back….I am glad she didn’t. I do not wish that she had ever been even an ounce easier on me. She may not sound like a motherly figure to you- but she was all I had. She was the only one that looked after me and cared about my survival. And no matter what happened- she was there. She was one of those people who you could tell was not going to die until her time was due. I knew, and I still know, that she will always be there, maybe not always for me- but that she will always be there. And I will always be her pupil.

“I’m saying...that the light of the moon was not there on the night that this happened….or even soon after…..There is corruption in Muortum….And I am sure that something is going on here that has yet to be revealed….something sinister….Slayers and Hunters far before our generation should have arrived to deal with this- but they didn’t. And because of that, even those that may have survived are dead.” I stand up and look around, my right hand resting on the polished handle of Bloodlust, the grooves in it tailored specially for my fingers, and no-one elses.

“I would say you were being paranoid but….even I can tell this place is old…..What do we do….? There’s nobody here to protect anymore...”

“It’s a slim chance, but while people may not be here- the thing that either killed them or made them vanish may still be. And even if that isn’t, we have an obligation to investigate.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand why we do this….why we fight for humans...humans that hate us.” He says this as a passing remark, as something that wasn’t really meant to be listened to, but I kick my legs, shaking the pins and needles feeling out of them before I go, approaching the first shack.

“Say that again, and I’ll kill you.” I say coldly. “If you ever start to believe that humans have no right to live, that we have no obligation to protect them- You are no man at all. Not only is it the honorable thing to do, but if we didn’t- we would be responsible for their deaths. We are not so unlike humans, if you look at the bigger picture. Is it not the obligation of the powerful to rule the population? By the same law, is it not the duty of the stronger to protect the weaker? Only evil ones think that humans have no right to live. Humans have done nothing so terrible to us that we have not done to them. In the Dark Times, they had a right to fear us. But we aren’t in those times anymore. It is time to abandon such ways of thought and move on. Let the evolution of mind occur, and perhaps, eventually, the humans will accept us. Maybe one day….” This was a very hot topic for me, My mother was human. This much I know. Hence- all humans cannot be all bad.

“That’s not what I’m saying- I just….Not all humans are bad, but I don’t get why we defend their world when ours is just….so….you know.”

“People will die, everyone dies eventually. Muortum just has a way of killing off the weak ones early. Come on now, Let’s split up. Meet me back by the school building with whatever you’ve found.”

“What if I run into something?” I can feel his eyes on my back and I turn around, pulling a knife from my boot and tossing it at him. A machete-style blade, universal and useful in many situations. From clearing greenery to beheading a boa constrictor. It’s the only knife I make sure to have on me at all times. I toss it at his feet.

“Use it smart. Break it and you owe me a new one.” I turn around, my hair in a long high ponytail that sways in the dry breeze. I can hear his footsteps against the dusty dirt as he heads off in the opposite direction, I twist the knob to the shack before me, and, not to my surprise in the slightest, it is locked. I let out a discontented sound and swing my leg once before my stiletto heel whacks against the rotted wood and sends it caving in, there isn’t the thunderous sound you would expect from breaking a door down- in fact it is muffled. Hollow.

“Termites….”I mumble, even the gross larvae are dead within the destroyed wood. Dust clouds my vision for a moment, the only way I can even tell that it is dust and not just sheer darkness are the moonbeams filtering between the gaps in the boards on the windows, showing the little particles drifting about like flurries of snow. I wait for them to settle before taking a step inside. The boards squeal in protest beneath my feet, I would have to be careful and step lightly- these boards were weak and could cave in if I stepped too heavily. My heels leave their odd prints in the snowy layer of dust that coats everything in sight as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I can see a table, chairs- an old iron stove with a kettle pot. A desk is rammed beneath one of the windows, There is a bed for two in the corner, and a smaller bed over in the other, a child or two probably would have slept there….long ago….

My head sears with splitting pain for a moment as I blink and see- I see a little girl with dark hair and a boy, perhaps a few years older than her, curled up in the same bed- a bed larger than the one in this shack, snuggled up close and lovingly- fast asleep in a sweet way only children could manage. There is a hand on each of their heads- a delicate hand, a woman’s hand, with long but non-threatening nails- for an instant I think I may get to see the face behind the hands- but with a shudder my vision snaps back to the dilapidated shack. I stumble back a step and breathe in, the stale dusty air fills my lungs- choking me back into reality. Choking me back into a reality of brokenness and dark shadows- perhaps I wish the vision had lasted just a little longer- that shaky, color faded image….

I don’t know why I felt that way about the unfamiliar glimpse back to another time- hell, I don’t even know where the vision came from, but I know that for some reason, for some unknown rationale- I felt like that vision was important.

Isn’t it strange? That I of all people would be moved by what was likely a hallucination from sediments and minerals and fumes that had long since been undisturbed? Because that absolutely has to be what happened. The only visions I have ever had were broken snags and snippets of blood and shadows, and they happen, mostly, when I am asleep- my mind dormant, when it is most vulnerable. This was a full-on, if a bit shaky and faded, image that had lasted for a few miraculous seconds. And it left my head swimming and grappling for a firm purchase on reality. I take a deep lungful of the dusty air and step forward, the firm feel of my boot on the ground helping pull the last of my mind out of the dregs of the hallucination.

I let my eyes focus further, my diluted night vision capabilities taking over- emerging from the impure vampire blood coursing through my veins with each lullingly slow heartbeat. Its a strange thing, only having half night vision and one eye- both halved and incomplete. The room is violet hued and annoyingly blurry- like a picture so close to being in focus but one that can never quite click into place, and as usual, from my left side, there is nothing but darkness.

I can see more details now, in the little shack- per example, a chair by the table has had two of it’s legs splintered and shattered into bits on the floor- whether this is from age or an impact long ago, I can’t say. I can’t even say if the splinters are sharp- as my vision swims and boggles I reassure myself to use common sense, and assume that they must be. There are warped pieces of paper pinned up on the wall above the children’s bed- and there is the faint outline of dusty half-melted candles and sheaths of paper still upon the desk. I approach the warped papers on the wall first- and run my fingers over them gently, raking back several layers of dust. I can feel the numb weight in my chest, the numb weight that has always been there, as my suspicions are confirmed. Little drawings, drawn crudely by inexperienced hands- perhaps one had been a cow? A dog? And what is this one- a family of lumpy people? They are images of a world seen from young naive eyes, eyes that had yet to experience the evils the world had to offer. I can’t imagine what such innocence must have felt like. Even now, as I look upon the drawings, I don’t feel remorse or sadness. I feel acceptance, emptiness. Like the place where my heart is has just said to me “ok, this happened. Now lets move on to matters that are actually important”. I don’t think Megan would feel like this.In fact I think any other person would cry at the sight, at the feel of the simple forgotten drawings beneath their fingers, at the pounding notion of knowing exactly what happened to this town branded in the back of their mind.

I turn away from the drawings and go to look at the other bed and the table. The bed is still messy and unmade. Upon the table there are remnants of a breakfast long ago, still uneaten. It looks rather unappetizing now. Rock hard petrified biscuits in a withered bowl, foggy glasses cracked and dusty, dirt and rotted dried tea leaves in the bottom of a heavy black kettle- making a bed beneath the old and dry skeleton of a common rat. I reach out and tickle it’s little head with my index finger, the skull shifts at the touch and clicks softly as I pull my hand back softly. Me and dead things, we understand each other. We both have an understanding that life is nothing more than a bland gust of wind passing through, lost amidst the howls of the powerful and prominent. We understand that in the end, in the end that awaits all things, all that will remain of what we once were will be a rotting husk infested with writhing maggots, left alone in it’s hollow suffering. Food for the soil and grotesque larvae. That is all we will ever be. We pick food from the earth all our lives, we think ourselves lucky- but most of us fail to see that in the end, the tables turn. And the earth that we have thrived off of will reap the benefit of our life, of all that we were, when all is said and done. Yes. Me and dead things- we understand each other quite well. They have no heart left in them, no feeling- and so I can pretend that the deceased at last understand what I feel every day.

I go over to the desk and brush aside a thick blanket of dust, the desk is also dilapidated and disappointing. The woods have swollen and shrunk in different places from the passing of seasons and shifting of humidity, and the candles,without a proper dish, have seemed to glue themselves to the table. The shapeless globs were no doubt once standard and erect in form, the tall cylindrical shape we have all come to familiarize with at the thought of the candle, but now are just a mass of hard wax that has melted and cooled over and over again with many a summer day. I try to pick one up, just to see if perhaps I could, and as I hoist upwards I hear a crunch-like sound. I peek at the bottom of the candle and then at the table- along with the lumpy candle, came a layer of wood from the top of the desk. I almost laugh. Almost.

The large chip of sheet-like wood is stuck to the bottom of the candle, I tug on it- and it crumbles away for the most part. Dried old glue flakes off along with it, surprising me. I look at the crystallized substance curiously- so the candles actually were glued to the table? What sort of person would do that? I scratch at the remaining wood that covers the bottom of the candle, and as it flakes off I can see a pattern, perhaps a symbol or sign of sorts, left as an imprint from the old glue, a paler color against the discolored wax of the candle. The sign makes me curious- and so I tuck the odd lump in my little bag before proceeding with my thorough search.

I tug on one of the drawers to the desk, it only has two, and, not very much to my surprise, it is stuck. The woods have swollen, and the gorged fibers have crammed themselves against it’s determined frame in a way that would be very tricky to open under normal circumstances. But you see, I’m quite knowledgeable about a lot of things- some more than others, and the thing about old wood, is that often times, if not cared for properly (as an item of precious value would be), it becomes brittle. Easily breakable, even to the weakest of men- if time has been so unkind. And I’m not saying that I’m the weakest of men, but I am informing you all of a fact that may be useful to you in the future. When? Hell if I know. Maybe you get trapped in an ancient wooden box, or have an old wooden sword you would be well advised not to go into battle with- Heck if I know what all of you do in your spare time. Everybody is so weird. Which by default means that yes, you too are weird, and I am weird. I don’t deny anything. We’ve covered that, right? Well, we’ve also covered that I am bluntly honest and do not lie. So, voila. You have your little informational nugget of the day.

I give the drawer a firmer tug, and my ears are greeted by the familiar sound of crunching wood, the swollen woods grinding against one another. It budges a small amount- but still remains stuck. Another curt jerk frees the drawer, and it’s contents rattle slightly as I place it on top of the desk and pilfer through them. There are chunks of raw lead, from a time before pencils. The rectangular rods are dull at the tip and cool to the touch. They clunk about as I rummage through the space, beneath them there are a few sheets of crumbling and yellowed paper, and a pocket knife that was probably used at one point for whittling away time and wood. Back from a simpler time when all man needed was sustenance and a way to keep his idle hands busy to be content. Those times have changed, and changed rapidly.

I pull on the second drawer- and am surprised, not because it is stuck, but because I can hear the click of the bolt of a lock clunking against the wood of the frame. Sure enough, I look down and see a rusted keyhole. Even if I had the key to go with it, The lock would probably not turn. Which leaves only one option- since finding said key would waste more time than I would like, and even if I had found it, the drawer would likely still not open, I was left with the act of forcing the locked drawer open. And so I did. One hard jerk rattled the desk and caused it to make a unique screeching sound. But still, the drawer remained stuck fast. Another forceful wrench pulled it out about an inch, snapping the rusted bolt like a rough twig before the distorted frame squeezed the sides of the aged cubby again. And a third powerful tug splintered the back end of the wooden case before it bumped and skittered out into the open. There was a singular thump as it clattered against the creaky floor.

Picking it up gingerly, a musty old book bound in leather greeted me. The binding was surprisingly intact, with minimal cracking and flaking- and there was no sort of cover art or identifying stamp on it. There was a clasp on the front, wrapping around from the back panel to the very front like a sort of journal. The clasp was bronze, and tarnished from time but still surprisingly well-off. Turning it however, was a different story. I jiggled and wiggled it between my fingers, nothing. I rammed one of my fingernails underneath and tried to pry it up gently, still no success to speak of. I sighed and tucked it in my bag with my shape-less candle lump, to be investigated later. When there was more time and the current situation was not quite so serious.

I had just finished tightening the opening to my meager bag- when I heard the loud resounding crash. Not from my own little shack, I was too smart to be even momentarily stunned by that thought as most would have been, it was a distance away- but not a very far distance at that. Which could only mean that Princess had gotten himself into trouble, I don’t know what part of “be careful” and “thorough investigation” he doesn’t understand, but this is really getting tiring. Maybe he stepped too heavily and got his leg stuck, perhaps he had decided to try “showing off” with my machete blade(though I have no idea why he would try, seeing as he was conclusively all alone. But as I said before, people are weird.) and accidentally caused one of the shacks to fall in on themselves, either way- Kurai has yet to master the art of inference. One must observe and infer before diving into a situation- or the outcome is almost certainly assured to be unfavorable.

I step out into the moonlight, prepared to give the worst sort of scolding you could imagine- when I actually see what is happening.

And for once- It isn’t his fault.

It isn’t my fault.

It is the fault of a power far beyond either of us- that controls the forces of light and dark and pulls the puppet strings of life-

Because there isn’t any possible way that Kurai could call upon a demon like that, and make it appear. There isn’t any way in the world that he could create a monster of such a caliber- with a scrunched up mutt-like face, narrow glowing eyes, and razor sharp snaggle-teeth that seem to pierce through even it’s own lips with their odd angling, with a body covered in rippling black fur that reeks of sulfur and what looks like a human skull latched onto it’s short tail, biting down in a desperate attempt for who-knows-what. It lumbers in a limp-gaited sort of walk, halfway upright and halfway on all fours, primitively human and yet gruesomely not. Most often, Hunters and Slayers will have dealings with monsters rather than demons- but perhaps from the moment I set eyes on this little village, I knew that this could never have been the act of a monster, or even a thousand of the like. I feel like some part of me knew that this could only be the work of a being that belonged in the hottest fires of hell after (hypothetically) being born from the darkest oblivion of the Gap. What else could make an established centre of people just up and vanish? Because they didn’t die. I know this because death always leaves a particular scent- a scent that will linger through ages and ages, and that scent is dismissively absent in this scene. The people didn’t die- and so, what sort of terrible fate were they sentenced to?

My machete is bloody in Kurai’s hand, a large gash running up his dominant arm as the feral beast raises up it’s glowing razor like claws. His face already looks exhausted and shocked, his dark bangs sticking to the sides of his face messily, his silver eyes set and burning in their sockets. I can already tell from his position and the way those claws are approaching- whatever comes next, is not going to be pretty.

How fast can a girl run? Well, I suppose you’ll never know until you give her no time to think, and something to protect in rapidly approaching danger. My hand grasps at my hip between each bound of my long and compactly muscled legs, cracking Bloodlust out of it’s bindings with a series of snaps as each seal holding it in place pops. No time to be gentle and properly release it- now is a matter of fractions of seconds. It lashes the earth with a hellish crack with it’s release as I bound over a rotted log. Many of you may not think of a whip as a proper weapon, may think of it instead as an implement of torture- but I assure you, Bloodlust, in my hands, is far better than a sword in any samurai’s.

But to the demon, I must not matter so much. It has been dormant for some time, and now that it is awake- it is interested only in the reaping of more souls. And the life it has it’s eyes set on now- is Kurai’s. I lash my whip, but my reach is not great enough- I am not close enough to stop that vicious blow with my own weapon.

“Duck!” I shout at him, nearly biting my tongue off as I yell it between quick bounds. He gives me a confused look, as if he knows somewhere in his head that ducking will not do him any good- but surprisingly, for the first time- he listens to me. Without questioning me. A miracle in and of itself.

“Raise up your arm! The one with the blade!” I shout, the demon is just now starting to conceive that I may be a problem for it, and turns it’s head, slowing it’s blow for only an instant. I brace my entire body only moments before the impact, placing the handle of Bloodlust in my mouth and holding it there because I know, even for me, this was going to hurt.

In the matter of time it would take you to blink an eye- it has happened. Kurai is down on the ground, ducked and raising his arm up that wields the heavy blade. There is blood everywhere, the thick crimson running down the old oak trees’ trunks, his eyes are wide- and the smell….the smell of the blood is so close I can taste it. It is so close-

Because the blood is mine.

My arm is wrapped around his, raising up the blade and supporting it, turning it outwards enough to do at the very least a halfway sturdy block, my arm twined and wrapped over his in a way that when the claws hit with such momentum, my own flesh took the brunt of the damage. I bite down on the handle of my whip and let out a rough grunt as the demon takes a dazed step back, wrenching it’s long talons out of the bone of my arm and marveling at it’s halfway-cut wrist. It’s glowing green eyes zone in on me, and it lets out a low menacing growl.

I take Bloodlust’s handle out of my mouth with my good arm.

“You missed b***h.” I spit, Raising my eye to look it full on in the face.

Author's Note

Sorry this took so long >< And I apologize if it isn't as good as some other chapter I've written. I've been so busy lately- it's been very difficult to find time to write. >~<

Reviews

[Jared Grace]

Great chapter. Aurora is odd, why is a character like hers vouching for the humans so much? Even her mother being one isn't enough reason. Are there other apart from hunters and slayers? If so it would be nice to know what they do. Also worth noting is Aurora's reason for being a Slayer.

[RedRozeNinja13]

wow, you reviewed almost every chapter- thank you very much ^ ^ I love feedback and it's good to know that somebody is enjoying the story. Details will be forthcoming with each chapter, and- spoiler- you do actually get to meet Kurai's mother.

[Catherine Frain]

Wow........that is the one word that I can use to describe this chapter. You used a great amount of imagery that made the chapter seem, well I really don't know how to describe it. It is a great chapter Saundy- and I love how you managed to pull in a flashback with Aura's past.