Rotten Petals

Turning away from the statue, Henox began to walk along the nave by the side aisle. The stained glass seemed opaque for lack of enough light.

“Hey, you, the great clumsy oaf. A piece of advice. Find your friend and leave this village.

     The voice had spoken to him. Unknown, twangy and, above everything else, insolent.

     Henox stood still, turning to the origin of the noise.

“Orhh… Tip, you didn’t need to tell him that. Maybe he had just been looking for a pretence to get rid of her.”

“You really do believe he’s pretending to be sillier than he is, Nick?”

“It’s what I’m hoping for him, Tip. After all, in his shoes, I would certainly have wanted to get rid of a girl who sputter rainbows each time she opens her little mouth.”

“It’s exactly because of this kind of behaviour that you were never able to get married.”

     While both voices kept on their little discussion, oblivious of the attention they had aroused, Henox approached the wall where small sparks danced in the gloom.

“Tapers don’t get married, you damn fool.” The so-called Nick grumbled, seemingly badly stung.

     Where burnt the tappers lit by a few goddess’s worshippers – obviously having time to lose – stood two figures the same height as rods of wax. Besides, they had the same complexion, the same trickling hair and at the end of their elongated head shook the same flame.

     At the sorcerer’s nearness, both faces seeming carved into the wax turned towards him. Their cheeks as chubby as a newborn’s ones. Both were dressed – what already was an astonishing fact – in vermilion short trousers and jackets of the colour of bronze.

     By the form of an unexpected benevolence on their part, they had let a way to distinguish them as one had a bow tie while the other one hadn’t bothered doing so.

“Ohh… Great. See, by dint of chattering you’ve attracted him.” The grumbler grumbled.

“Who are you exactly?” The sorcerer asked.

“I am Candle Tip.” The taper with the bow tie introduced himself.

     Silence.

“Nick.” Tip whispered with a stern gaze.

     The latter rolled his eyes.

“I am Candle Nick.” The taper without the bow tie introduced himself.”

“So, Candle Tip and Candle Nick. My presence seems to infortunate you.”

“Importunate.” Nick rectified.

“Neither one.” Tip rectified. “You can stay if you wish to lose your mind.”

“Psst, Tip. You shouldn’t say it to a man wearing a goatskin.”

     Henox wondered what would happen if he pinched the edge of their flames with damp fingers.

     Though he merely thought about it.

“What do you really know?”

     Both exchanged a look.

“What we know is what you suspect.” Tip began.

“So you suspect of what we know.” Nick completed.

     For their greatest pleasure, the sorcerer didn’t even hide any more his annoyance. Though rather then to continue this absurd discussion, he straightened with the clear and visible intention to let them quarrel with one another.

“You wondered what was inside the cure that held the High Priest, right?” Candle Tip told him. “Deep down, you already know the answer. We had intentions of causing some trouble to the villagers, but it must be said that they handle it very well themselves.”

“Go behind these columns over there, and turn the head of the gargoyle.” Candle Nick added.

     Henox refrained from responding to Tip, though he took note of their instructions.

     Drawing his eyes away from their mischievous faces, from their little elven ears, the sorcerer headed towards the sand tinted columns.

     Protruding from the wall, the head of a gargoyle he had no trouble tipping over.

     At once the ground began to vibrate, bicolour tiles to slide. Fine dust escaped from the latters, falling at the bottom of stairs plunging into grim abysses.

***

“For how long have you been living as a hermit?” She wondered. “Don’t you know what they do to phœnixes, these days? They are no more what they used to be.”

***

His feathers glowed red, his wings crackled weakly. Thus his warm light did meld with shadows, chasing only a part away.

     Lying against the stone, at least his flames spared him the coldness.

     The one the body does feel.

     His large wings spread from both sides, numb. It had been long since he forgot the colour of the sky. Though he still breathed. Weakly. His breathing couldn’t unfortunately be less.

     Around his claws, silver bracelets provided with a chain.

     He didn’t even react to the enclosing footsteps of the sorcerer. He knelt near the eternal bird, not far away from the latter’s head. The sorcerer’s gaze lingered for a long time upon his, his eyes still swollen, too weary to make the effort of following his moves. Nevertheless, he had noted his presence.

“What have you come to do here, human?”

     After a long while, the phœnix’s voice had raised. He didn’t need to open his beak, it had simply resonated. Low and crystalline.

     The sorcerer’s gaze was grave, his features indecipherable. However, as much as he strived to conceal it, one could discern the traits of disgust.

“Human, you say…. It’s been long ago since I’m not one any more. I am a sorcerer, a necromancer.”

“Really? I can’t see what draws a distinction between you. All right… Whatever.”

     A pause. A respite. An endless wait.

“Are they the ones who did this to you? The people of this village?”

     The phœnix let out a low sigh, exhausted. The question seemed to afflict him, as if he would have preferred to keep the answer.

“It shouldn’t have happened this way…”

“Tell me how it occurred. Is it the High Priest who locked you in?”

“No… He was but a child when I arrived to Desphia. At that time, the village was poor and seldom were the ones who ate their fill. To see all these sick children made my heart ache. Their soils weren’t very fertile, and they had no particular gift, nothing that could shelter them from misfortune. I was well aware of what humans did to my kind for the last centuries. But the one who offered them my teardrops was me. I allowed them to fill phial after phial, enough for them to trade them and scrape by. In a short while, Desphia even became a place where it was rather pleasant to live. The children no longer cried there. They played with me, and sometimes I brought the boldest ones for a flight in the sky. It took long to Oswynn to try. He was afraid. But he was always among the first ones to come to see me when he wasn’t under the surveillance of the High Priest of these times. I wish things had continued like this…”

     The phœnix interrupted himself for a while. He seemed to hope that tears would come. A vain hope. Same to the trust he granted them?

     The words fell out one by one. Speaking wasn’t easy for him.

“How many years had passed like this? I only remember that Oswynn had already begun to officiate. And then, after a troop of armoured humans passed by, the villagers started to ask me for more teardrops. They didn’t have enough to provision them. So, I cried more. So that the villagers would lack nothing. Unfortunately, the more I cried, the less easily did the tears come. Until the day it was no longer enough. Facing the pressure from the soldiers, the village’s chief took advantage of my sleep to have my tied up. And they drove spears into my body. So that my pain allowed them to fill their phials with my teardrops. Anyway, my wounds would heal. This way, they continued. For fear that I might be seen, for fear to see me, they took me there. The ones I once carried on my back became the ones who bruised my body, who tore out my feathers. Oswynn… He had witnessed all of this. I saw the wound in his eyes before he inflicted it to himself. Do you know of which colour they were?”

     For the first time, the phœnix slowly turned his scarlet gaze so that he could observe the sorcerer.

“Green. Of the same green of the most beautiful forests I’d ever flown over.

     His gaze became more vague again.

“What was it for… All I had protected withered anew. From my ashes, I was endlessly reborn. But the body, it, does remember. Over time, my teardrops’ healing power had weakened. I was already of little use to them when Kishar announced the end of the world. With this piece of information, wars soon ceased.” He paused. “There are no more warriors needing to provision remedies.”

     Despite the warmth provided by his ardent feathers, it was cold. A coldness that creeps in where no clothing can protect against it.

     The phœnix murmured lower, as if for himself.

“Today… Where are those children…”

Jaw clenched, the sorcerer reached out a hand towards the one who years ago had set the heaven ablaze. Slowly, he ran a hand against the shivering feathers.

“Soon, the end of the world will come. And with it, rest will be granted to you.”

Meanwhile, at the other side of the room, a silhouette had slipped between the shadows.