Where Souls Get Absorbed

Echoes of footsteps on the surface, metal’s ones hitting stone. Yowling.

     Then, nothing more.

     At the bottom of the rift, a pile of collapsed rocks.

     Light withdrew in turn along the linings, on tiptoes, letting the minerals darken.

     Falling from stone to stone, an unbalanced pebble. Then tens followed, a hand extracting itself through the rocks. Uncovering his palm, the little fairy cautiously got down before stepping aside. This way leaving Henox enough space to extricate himself from the rubble.

     Managing to sit down, a vivid pain made him wince while he grabbed his left arm. A wince though, well, quite stilted. Certainly a ridiculous ego thing. He didn’t want it to escape him; this small grunting fading at the bottom of his throat, forgotten.

“Sir Henox! Did you hurt yourself?” Gretel worried, hurrying back to his side.

“That’s nothing… That’s not going to kill me.”

     He then raised his eyes to realise the depth at which they were. Would nature be scheming to dig him a grave he wouldn’t be able to escape? How sweet of an attention. Oh dear, he would almost have blushed.

     Instead, a sarcastic smile crept on his features.

“However, with an arm in this state I won’t be able to climb.”

“But! But! But! You can make appear a pretty little man so that he lifts us.”

     The sorcerer shook his head.

“But why?”

“To create a golem, to give the stone a will, I have to infuse a soul in. That of someone who would have died here. Though, if usually the ground is rich in deceased, this region’s lands are exempt from it.”

“De… Deceased?”

     Widening her eyes, Gretel soon seemed frightened. She had to have misheard. It was what she would have liked to believe.

“Indeed. A necromancer owes his magic to the souls of the departed.”

“That’s why the big cat spoke of an odour…”

“Are you afraid?” Henox observed her stiffen with a smile, avoiding to move not to fan the flames in his jointures.

“N-no.” She lied.

“You would be right, though. After all, if I need a soul at any cost…”

     His gaze lingered on her. For a long while. More than necessary.

“…there’s one before my eyes.”

     Finally understanding what he meant, the little fairy’s cheeks puffed out while she frowned. He misunderstood her.

“I’m not afraid of necromanchers-”

     Gretel hushed. Her cheeks reddened instantly.

     Too many syllables. She had bitten her tongue.

“I… It’s just that I am afraid of ghosts. You, you’re kind. I’m not afraid.”

     The sorcerer’s expression changed to surprise. He couldn’t make up his mind about the following fact. Would the excessive sugar consumption she practised have irremediably damaged her tiny fairy grey cells? Or was she brave?

     With a laugh, he chased these thoughts away.

“This is why I wished to avoid these lands. Each one dying there has his soul soaking a peculiar fauna.”

     Silence.

     Gretel didn’t say a word.

“Sorry…” Her voice faltered. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have insisted this much to come here. I am sorry!!”

“That doesn’t matter any more.”

“I just wanted… I was afraid.” She added in a breath having shaped into a whisper.

“Afraid? And what were you afraid of?”

     She hesitated. Gretel could answer him honestly, but if she did so it would lead to other questions. He would understand what she had chosen not to tell him. What she overheard last night. Because she wasn’t able to play act. She only knew how to remain silent, or to be honest. She was simple, and she had to live with that.

     So she merely shook her head as if to get rid of all of these naughty thoughts. Of this selfish hope.

“I’ll get us out of here!” She suddenly asserted, jumping from rock to rock until approaching the wall. “I will climb up there, then I will look for someone to help us! Someone strong. This way he would lift you back to the surface.”

“If I were you I would think twice about it. The Matagot may still be in the close surroundings. In which case, I won’t be able to protect you.

     Gretel shivered. This possibility didn’t please her. All she wanted to do was take shelter in the folds of the sorcerer’s goatskin.

     Without adding a word, she turned to head towards Henox. She began to scale him, grabbing tufts of Gwyllion’s hair.

     But she didn’t want to be the one causing the other’s loss.

     Once she reached the top of the sorcerer’s head, Gretel gathered momentum. Then she leapt into the void, beating her only wing until she managed to catch hold of the rock face. Hence beginning her slow ascension.

     When at last she looked up hoping to see the edge of the precipice, the Moon had had time to rise. Though some metres still remained her to climb before reaching the surface. Gretel was out of breath, she felt her little hands tingling, numbing. She cast a brief glance below.

     Bad idea…

     At fairy’s height, the altitude was dizzying. Gripped by panic, she desperately clung onto the roughness, instantly closing her eyes, pressing against her eyelids as if fearing they would open despite her.

“If my wings were intact, I would be able to fly up there so fast… But…”

     The words Lennac had uttered came back to her mind. Her little heart tightened.

“…then we wouldn’t have come here. ‘We’ wouldn’t be any more.”

     Gretel opened her eyes back, resuming her ascension.

     And she had almost reached her goal when moonbeams were veiled by a large head wearing glasses having just appeared almost nose to nose with Gretel.

“Yiiihhh!!”

     Both jumped. One nearly losing his glasses, the other losing grip on the rock.

     And she would have fallen along the lining if both little man’s hands hadn’t barely caught her.

“Is- Is everything alright?” He stuttered.

“Ahh… Thank you.”

     A bit dizzy, she rubbed her head while the man with glasses straightened so to be knelt. From his height anyone could swear he had dwarven blood. Although he lacked a beard as much as the musculature of his supposedly most illustrious ancestors.

     With a dazed look he contemplated the fairy in the hollow of his hands. His mouth mid-opened. The latter soon got up, clenching her little fists in front of her.

“Please! Help me to lift my friend back here.”

     Astonished, the little man jolted. Then he adjusted the frame of his glasses with the tips of his thumb and index finger. How could his vision be clear with such opaque glasses?

     Still, he seemed at least able to distinguish the silhouettes since, leaning forward, he glanced at the bottom of the rift before straightening up to nod his head at the little fairy.

     He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t tall. He had nothing valiant. He certainly wasn’t the character exuding charisma that Gretel had hoped to find.

     But he was still taller than her.

     Once placed on his hat, she crouched near the brim. Beholding as he reached for a leather pouch attached to his generous waist. He took out an object of it he brandished with the respect a knight granted his sword. Except the said object was a brush.

     A finely crafted brush, arabesques delicately embedded in the dark wooden handle. One could feel the love of the artisan who created it from his wrinkled fingers.

     To each witch her broom, to each painter his brush.

     The little man begun to wave it, his moves loose and precise, effortless. Where the tip of the brush’s tuft tickled the air, a trail of silver dust outlined the shape of an empty barrel. Soon it coloured while the artist continued his work, inking into reality a long rope, sketching the details of a pulley.

     Soon, before Gretel’s amazed gaze, they lowered the barrel down to Henox. Wobbling joyfully from side to side of the rope at the end of which it hung.

“Climb in.” The little man invited.

     Once the sorcerer had settled in, the little man stepped closer to the crank. He pushed it. He pushed with all his strength. The crank didn’t move.

     Out of breath, he paused while the little fairy jumped to his hand so she could help him to activate the mechanism. They pushed it. They pushed with all their strength. The crank didn’t move.

“Ohh… I hadn’t foreseen that.”

     As he took on an embarrassed look, he was pushed aside by something wet. And greasy.