Flight by Moonlight

Distant owls and wolves howled under the bone-white moonlight. The wind swept over the trees and sounded through the castle like the moaning of prisoners. A drizzle fell outside, tapping at the window like witch fingers. Nighttime at Castle Scarwood was often tormenting in the noises it could produce, so much so that Otebon found he could seldom sleep. Even so, Summer rested soundlessly.

In the aurous gleam of the sun, the cherry blossoms floated happily. The trees stretched forever and ever like monuments before them. The air was warm and flavored with the scent of flowers; dozens of roses, marigolds, and tulips erupting in a rainbow. Everything had never felt so alive to Otebon as it did then.

They had spent the whole day swimming in the cool river, skipping rocks and splashing each other. The grass was warm beneath their bare feet and the sapphire sky was cloudless. As an auburn evening sun began to vanish behind the forest, Otebon and Summer dozed lazily beneath the shade of a great tree trunk. That memory now felt like a lifetime ago.

With her honey-gold hair, her cherry-red lips, and her pearly skin she seemed the most beautiful woman in the world. He remembered how she could ride a horse better than any man. He remembered how she would burn candlelight writing elegant poetry late into the night. He remembered how she would rather draw in her sketchbook during those boring councils. Otebon bent over to lay a kiss atop her forehead, coming to find he could still smell the flowers of that spring day. He fought back the tears and stole away into the wretched night.

Not even the rats could be heard scurrying down in Scarwood’s crypt. It was a soundless, nightmarish tomb of decay and darkness. The crypt was a long hall stretching endlessly, the effigies of his ancestors staring into his soul. Disturbingly, the faces had almost felt real; their hair, their cheeks, their ears, but mostly their eyes. As he stalked past all of them his guilt brought them to life. Eadnoth the Hammer had a gaze always full of fury and spite. Alnoth the Just looked sorrowfully at Otebon with his huge, sad eyes. Theow the Sellsword had a snobbish sneer across his scarred face, looking in pure shame at Otebon. Otebon came to the crypt door, a massive stone slab inscribed with glowing blue-white runes.

“Da’nath,” Otebon said. The runes flickered away like candles being blown out, followed by a long stretch of excruciating silence. He was too ashamed, too afraid to look back at the eyes staring at him. Eventually, the door creaked open and the corpses withered away as the moonlight encased the dark crypt.

At the rivers shore stood a raft painted black, bobbing lazily as the waters brushed against it. A sack filled with clothes, rations, and a crumpled map sat in the boat waiting for him. The winds were cold, the water freezing to the touch, the grass and flowers withering under the haunting night sky.

Down the river Otebon went, guided by the dead moon.