41~ II ~
It was certainly very dark. A thick, inky darkness that seemed possibly more powerful than light, which would explain why she could see nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even the silhouettes of her own two hands.
But she could certainly feel.
And what she felt was damp and cold and hard, like stone. Grime scraped against the tips of her fingers, and as she rose to her knees the heavy scent of wet earth grew stronger.
She waved her arms desperately through the dark, as if to sweep it away. Her hand smacked against hard brick, a burst of pain exploding in her knuckles, and she yanked it back to cradle it to her chest.
It became evident that she was closed in.
The sound of her heavy breathing was her sole company in the dark, and she could hear it gradually accelerate with panic. Perhaps she was still in her cellar. It was entirely possible that she had fallen unconscious and forgotten where she was.
But this didn't smell like the cellar. Didn't feel like the cellar. It was clouded with the scent of damp and the surrounding air seemed to bear a heavy weight. As if she could feel it resting upon her, like a black velvet cloak.
No. It wasn't the cellar.
"Hello?" she managed weakly. Somehow, her voice was raw. Had she screamed? It was either that, or she had fallen ill. The sound was swallowed up by the darkness and the damp, and there was no response. Only cold silence.
Lena urged herself to remain calm, and on her knees, she began to feel her way around upon the stone. One wall she met immediately, and she traced her palm along it for as far as it extended. The next wall was much longer.
She must have followed it for several minutes before pitching forward suddenly when it broke off, and her pulse was once again sent racing. Perhaps she wasn't closed in, after all. It seemed less like a cell now, and more like the entrance to a tunnel.
An equally dark tunnel.
Lena, while still cautious, moved with less trepidation now. The air was more open in this space, and it seemed to continue straight forward, the walls narrow and at her sides.
And after a while, the smallest, faintest amount of light became visible ahead. But in this darkness, it was a beacon.
With a gasp, Lena sprang to her feet, taking off in a weakened run, heading for the light. It was not daylight. Not sunlight.
It was firelight.
She could tell by the way it flickered and danced, and when she reached its source - a torch in a metal sconce, mounted upon yet another brick wall - she was content for a while to simply stare.
That darkness had been blinding. More blinding than the brightest of lights.
This hall stretched in two directions, the torch seeming to serve as a sort of midpoint. And, instinctively, Lena chose to go left.
About thirty paces ahead, another torch appeared, and then another. They were closer together now, and the warm light became brighter. Lena glanced down at herself for the first time, both somewhat surprised and relieved to find that she was still wearing her white nightgown.
It was stained, now. Smudged with dirt and what could've been ash or coal or any number of things. It was also damp, clinging to her bare legs. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.
She felt exposed - but to whom, she was not yet certain.
The owner of the voice in the basement was nowhere to be found.
Eventually, the long hall of brick gave out, and she found herself quite abruptly at the foot of a wide set of marble stairs. Marble...not dirt or stone. Beautiful and glossy, black marble.
Timidly, she began to ascend, her bare feet stinging against the cold rock. If anything was certain, it was that this was not her home. She had never seen a place quite like this. And it seemed more a labyrinth than anything. A maze with endless paths to be followed.
Endless paths, and no populace. Not a soul in sight.
Was it possible that she might be entirely alone? Was this the escape the voice had granted to her? Eternal isolation?
Lena swallowed thickly.
At the top of the stairs, the sight was breathtaking. A massive, cavernous hall, entirely lit by torches and glowing fires. No windows. Only walls, lavishly decorated with paintings and swirling designs.
There were statues, as well.
Gorgeous and enormous things, constructed from a similar marble as the floors. Four of them. They were men, each in a powerful stance, adorned in armor.
And she was so enamored with them that she hardly noticed who was watching her.
That is, until one of them spoke up.
"I was wondering how long it would take you."
A strangled gasp wrenched itself from Lena's throat, and she whipped around, falling back against the statue she had been admiring.
It was the man. The very man whose statue she was pressed against. She could discern it immediately. And she found herself quickly crossing her arms protectively over her chest.
He sat upon a tall, thorned throne, his three counterparts seated beside him, and an expression of curiosity was etched upon his graceful face. Long, black hair fell in a silky curtain to his waist, some of it tucked back behind the tall crown atop his head, and his elaborate, scarlet robes fanned out around him like the feathers of a mighty bird.
She was speechless, her voice lodged in her throat - choking her.
"Good evening, Magdalena Cross."
A shuttering breath whistled out from between her lips. "Y-You...you know-"
"Of course I know your name." He sat back in his throne, evaluating her. "It was quite a cordial introduction you gave to us, in fact."
And his words reminded her that he was not the only one whose scrutiny she was under.
To his right sat a large, muscular man with thick, brown curls, his eyebrows drawn together as he studied her, his skin the color of earth, eyes as green as emeralds. And on the opposite side sat a handsome, blue-eyed man, scantily clad and soaking wet, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water droplets dripping from his skin. He was smirking at her. And lastly, on the far left, the final man was seated, his hair auburn and wild, with fire in his eyes.
They were the most striking combination of beings she had ever laid eyes on. All youthful, all strong. All attractive, and all quite obviously in charge.
She felt very small in their presence.
"Are you ill?" asked the blue-eyed man after a long silence.
She swallowed once more, hands shaking where they supported her against the statue. "I...I don't know."
"She seems so frightened," said the fiery man. "Like a little, trembling rabbit."
None of these voices were that of the man from the basement. Where was he?
"And yet she asked to be here." It was the first man again. The proud one.
She felt it was time to speak up for herself. "I...yes. Yes, I did."
The proud one sat forward again with interest, resting his chin on his folded hands, as if to say I'm listening.
Attempting to compose herself, Lena at last stepped away from the statue, careful not to come too close to the thrones, her arms tightening around her body. "I wanted this. I...want this." Her voice was small and frail, but her words were not lies. She had known from the beginning that she would not be guaranteed safety. That she had no idea what to expect.
And she was quite aware of the fact that she had not yet been harmed.
"Why?" Asked the blue-eyed one. "It is a rare thing to beg for damnation. Nearly unthinkable."
Lena met his eyes, struck by his direct stare. "I know," she whispered. "But I could not stay."
"And what makes you believe you are welcome here?"
She shifted her attention to the proud one once more. "I could not stay," she repeated.
"Yes," he purred. "That is what our servant told us. But it was not within his rights to claim you."
Their servant...
The one from the basement.
"I...I am sorry," she breathed, fear simmering within her chest. "I begged him. I begged for his help. For your help."
"It was not his help to give."
"I am sorry. So sorry. Please. He tried to turn me away. I - I begged him."
"You are defending him?" asked the strong looking one, curiosity in his tone. "You do not even know his name."
"But it is my fault!" she implored, making to step forward and then thinking better of it.
"An honest girl..." the proud one mused. "A brave girl. How odd."
"I was wrong to expect anything from you," she said, bowing her head. "Please. I am so very sorry. But I could not stay."
Shivering once more, Lena backed up several feet, somewhat surrendering herself as she attempted to rub warmth into her arms. The four studied her a while longer in silence, seeming to communicate with one another wordlessly.
And then, suddenly, the temperature of the room rose several degrees, and the warmth fanned out across her skin like an embrace.
She visibly relaxed.
"Well..." chuckled the fiery one. "She likes heat. Isn't that fortunate?" And the others laughed along with him.
Lena's cheeks flushed.
"We will need more time to discover what to do with you, child," said the proud one. And with a graceful swish of his hand, a man entered the room from an unknown hall behind her.
Lena jumped, startled by his presence beside her. He was a stocky, gruff-looking man, with a full beard and a scarred forehead.
"In the interim," the proud one continued, "I think you deserve a taste of our brand of hospitality." And he gave the man a nod.
Lena's breath hitched, and she prepared herself, expecting to be seized and dragged away - only to find the man's arm outstretched to her, waiting.
Swallowing, Lena gathered a deep breath, making eye contact with the four upon the thrones once more before she took his arm and was lead away, bearing the distinct sense that she had just sealed her fate.
The man had been silent the entire way, leading her through baffling halls of impossible grandeur and finery. There were glass tables with unimaginably beautiful - and yet all the same dangerous looking - flowers, torches upon every wall and painted ceilings.
Damnation was not supposed to look like this.
At last, the man stopped her at a door. A large, mahogany door with a beautiful brass knob.
"Please, do not leave this room," he told her, and had she not been so distracted by the realization that this man was not the one from the basement either, she would've been surprised by the word 'please.'
He opened the door, stepping aside to allow her in.
And Lena was introduced to the true definition of hospitality.
The walls themselves were lined with red wine velvet, surrounding an enormous bedchamber that could only be suited for royalty.
And in a daze, eyes wide, Lena stepped inside.
The first thing she noticed was the bed. A massive affair, easily larger than her entire bedroom before, draped in silk of gold and scarlet and overflowing with pillows of all shapes and sizes. At it sides, two identical tables stood, topped with all sorts of expensive looking trinkets and with bowls of glowing embers that provided some of the room's light.
Above the bed hung an enormous mirror, framed in elaborate gold. It enlarged the look of the already massive room.
A crystal - or were they diamonds? - chandelier dangled from the beige ceiling, aglow with flame and casting the rest of the light over the chamber. Trunks and chests of drawers and doors caught her eye at every angle. A large sitting area with beautiful and plush looking couches and chairs was off to the left, along with a table crowded with refreshments and a feast for eight or more.
And the carpet beneath her worn and cold feet was a soft as Egyptian cotton.
"You will be received when necessary," the man said gruffly, just before he shut and locked the door behind her.
The sound shocked her out of her daze.
This was too much. Too kind.
So very confusing.
When she had awoken here, she had been a prisoner. And now she was a guest?
A highly important guest, by the looks of it.
For several minutes, she stood awkwardly by the door, still attempting to take it all in. She had spent her life on an old, hard mattress, and on dusty wooden floors. She had never had toys or jewels or anything beautiful. Her mother had called such things gluttony, and gluttony was a sin.
And Lena's largest fault had always been that to her...sin felt so good.
She could not contain the smile that broke out across her face. And with an excitement to her step, she approached the bed.
Brushing her fingers experimentally along the fabric, she felt the softest material she had ever touched. She leaned forward, pressing down on the cushions. They sank beneath her weight, enveloping and inviting.
And she could no longer stop herself.
She sprang upon the bed, burying herself within its seemingly endless pillows and disappearing into the softness.
Sleep found her more quickly than it ever had.
Damnation felt too good to be true.