[b]THE SLAYER[/b]

Lorcan opened his eyes and stared at the stillness of the cellar. He had been thrown awake, and yet he felt no sense of drowsiness as he quickly scanned the room, sensing something was wrong.

A brief inspection revealed that the gravedigger was gone. The cellar door had been thrown wide open, and yet Margrave was sleeping soundly in her cot. He turned himself over and frowned, looking at the hearth. The flames were smoldering and only a small bundle of wood remained. The room felt unnaturally cold, and he noticed that the dripping had stopped.

Turning over in the bed, he put his legs down on the floor and wondered what time it was. Then glancing at the hallway, he saw that the dark light had faded from the end of the hall. The way to the Iron Keep was steeped in darkness. He could not see more than a foot beyond the kitchen door.

‘’What’s going on?’’ He whispered.

Standing, Lorcan limped across the cellar, frowning vaguely at the hearth. He then knelt down to break up the last bit of kindle. In moments, the fire was going stronger; and the darkness of the room lessened somewhat. Then he heard a scuffle behind him, and he turned his head to welcome the gravedigger back to the cellar.

''You’re just in time. It was about to go out. I hope you fetched some wood—'' Lorcan started, then felt his voice catch in his throat.

A man stood in the hallway. Though it wasn’t the gravedigger. It wasn't like any man Lorcan had ever seen. His hair was curly, lapping against his cheekbones, the colour of fire, and his eyes were red-rimmed and severe as he stared at the hearth. All he did was stare at the hearth, though his hand groped at the corner of the kitchen door introspectively. His fingers were long and sensuous. Very pale, with sharp nails and muscular veins rippling across the knuckles. He moved with ancient, primordial grace as he slipped into the room, almost like a serpent, and across his back a pair of wings ditched, collecting across his spine. Lorcan saw the muscles and tendons rippling inside them and knew they were made of skin and bone; and they were as much a part of him as his heart and mind. It was an angel, Lorcan realised.

He fell against the hearth and went very still. Beside him, the bucket that held the drinking water rumbled as it swished from side to side.

A low hissing sound filled the room as the angel glanced towards him. He watched the creature, for it seemed to stare straight through him. It did not blink. It simply stood there, listening, waiting for him to move again—and when he didn't, the angel took another step towards the fire. It walked through the kitchen and past the cutting board, its fingers drifting over the handle of a knife, and then stopped before the hearth and stared into the flames.

Lorcan dared to raise his head, and above him he saw the forceful body of the angel towering over him. Its feet were porcelain-white, with strict tendons, large calves, and a pair of powerful thighs. Its skin resembled marble; its eyes—carved into its face. They were judgemental, full of wisdom, and yet laced with anger and sadness.

''Lorcan...?'' came a voice from across the room, and a shadow climbed the wall as Margrave sat up in her cot. She rubbed at her eyes, clearly disturbed from her sleep.

''Margrave! Stay there, don't move!'' Lorcan hissed at her.

The angel spun around, and Margrave gasped as she clutched a hand over her mouth. He saw how she looked at it; the same way he had. The angel was both beautiful and terrible, like the morning and the night. Its eyes were wide and distrusting. But when neither of them said anything, it quickly seemed to forget about them.

''What does it want...?'' Margrave whispered as the angel began searching the kitchen.

''I don't know,'' Lorcan whispered as the angel ran its hand across the shelves. Pots and pans clattered as he quietly reached towards his father's sword. The blade was standing next to the cellar door. If he lunged for it, he could likely reach it in time.

''Where's the gravedigger?'' Margrave whispered frightfully as Lorcan crawled across the floor. The angel had found the water barrel and was examining it at length.

Lunging at his father's sword, Lorcan unsheathed it and glanced at the blade. It was dark and wet. The gravedigger must have serviced it whilst he'd slept. That, at least, gave him courage. Gathering himself, he then quickly stood up and made himself known. He soon  realised, however, that the angel had no more interest in him than a python would a child. It simply continued what it was doing with the water barrel as if he wasn’t even there.

‘’Hey!'' Lorcan shouted, feeling how his knees had turned weak. He could hardly stand for the fear. ‘’I said hey!'' He shouted again, this time with more body. And at last, the angel stopped what it was doing and turned towards him.

Holding the barrel in its arms, the angel stood there, studying him with maleficence. It then glanced towards the sword and into his eyes, as if realising his intentions. Then parting its lips, it spoke at length.

A thought came over Lorcan, honest and pure. The gravedigger had lied to them both. He was protecting the last hearth out of guilt. He had allowed this world to fall to the Shadow, and the responsibility was all his. He was so-far fallen, in fact, that he would keep him and Margrave trapped here for an eternity, filling them with pretensions of hope. Their best hope was to defile this sanctum whilst they still had the chance, for he would not allow them to leave otherwise. The angel would assist them in this before leading them to salvation.

The angel's mouth moved slowly, spelling out this realisation, and despite the ugly nature of the truth, Lorcan realised he could not look away. The angel's lips were gorgeous in their sincerity as they told him what had to be done.

''Lorcan!'' Margrave shouted across the room, looking nervous. ''What's it saying!?''

''It says... that the gravedigger lied to us,'' Lorcan said as he studied the angel at length, pausing for thought. ''That he's responsible for the priests and the shepherds abandoning the hearths. It says that if we put out the fire... then it will escort us through the keep.’’

The angel offered him the water barrel and he instinctively came closer, putting the sword aside.

‘’Lorcan,’’ Margrave said doubtfully, shuffling with her feet against the cot. She looked ready to run. The fear in her face was palpable, and yet she did not move; the angel’s influence over the room was so great.

‘’It’s alright, Margrave,’’ Lorcan said, and taking a spare bucket, he knelt before the angel and allowed it to fill the pale with water. He felt the angel's sincerity once the bucket was full. It made way, gesturing towards the hearth, and as it did so, its eyes were pure poison.

''Lorcan... I'm not sure about this?'' Margrave whispered, leaning further against the wall. She then glanced towards the angel with dread. ‘’We should wait for the gravedigger to get back.’’

''We don’t have time, Margrave. It's the only way,'' he said as he lifted the bucket in his arms. He eyed the twilight flames crackling in the hearth, then felt the angel securing its hand across his shoulder. Its grip was firm and imperious, telling him what needed to be done. And he knew that it was right. He then drew back the bucket and prepared to cast it into the fire.

The cellar doors exploded as the gravedigger burst inside. The bundle of wood he’d been holding spilled across the floor when he saw what was happening, and then with a shout, he leaped across the room and threw himself between Lorcan and the angel.

‘’No!’’ The man bellowed with a voice like thunder. ‘’Don’t listen to it! Cover your ears!’’

Several things happened at once. The gravedigger yanked Lorcan’s arm away from the fire, knocking the bucket aside. In the same moment, he tore Lorcan's blade from its sheath—he had collected it whilst lunging across the room—and drew it upon the angel. The creature seemed to recoil, and with a hiss, it swung out for him with a back-handed blow. The steely muscle of its arm should've splintered brain and bone as it struck, but instead, the gravedigger heaved the sword across his body and parried the blow; and the fire spat and hissed in retort as the very air thinned about the room.

''Lorcan!'' Margrave shouted as she made a grab for him. He'd landed on the floor before her cot. Protectively, she threw her arms around him.

A struggle fraught the kitchen barracks. The angel twisted, lunging across the table and back towards the hallway, and the Gravedigger heaved with the blade, cutting through pots and pans, sacks of flour and raw garlands. The angel ducked the blow, lightning-fast, moving so quick its face remained a still image in two places at once. Its eyes wept with betrayal on one side. The other—an expression of the illest contempt. Yet it was retreating back towards the hall. It was attempting to speak to the gravedigger, but the fold across the man's eyes winced in response, and with a last effort, the man tossed a handful of ashes from the fire, and this time the angel screamed in agony and took off in flight. It neither ran so much as it walked, it neither walked so much as it hovered; it struck the walls and rebounded, its wings carrying it the rest of the way. And then it was gone, black wings in a monotone hallway, laughing and sobbing as it went, both fretful for the fate of man and anguished by a desire to extinguish the sacred fire and bring about the end of Mankind.

In the aftermath, the gravedigger breathed heavily, leaning against the sword. His robes had torn during the struggle, and across his back the occult depiction of a dragonslayer was tattooed across his shoulders. A barbarian, cleaving his way through a long black drake. Lorcan took one look at him, then heaving himself up from the floor, he whispered in surprise:

‘’... Dad?’’