Promise of Dusk (Endings #1)

Chapter 12

Fionn doesn’t pause, but becomes a pillar of calm and determination for my panic. He slowly, methodically trudges forward.

A single chirp from the south: Elva. Nothing from her end, then. A relief, as we are far closer to her.

The plant we came to retrieve stands proud in its home of monsters. The four tear-shaped petals are scarlet, a splash of color in this place of gray and brown hues.

I take a breath, preparing myself to go under the water to retrieve it; the water whirls around my chest and the flower lies somewhere around my ankles. Fionn nods at me in encouragement.

Icy water shocks my body when I go under.

I carefully grip the base of the plant and gently work the fingers of roots out of the ground, keeping the tearing minimal. We need every tendril of medicine the plant contains. The roots cling to the moss and mud, entwined intimately with its life source, unwilling to leave it. The lack of air burns in my lungs and I’m forced to leave the plant half-hanging from its home.

My head breaks through the surface and I gasp for breath, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Three quick trills break through the silence and echo off of the water behind us.

Abandon mission.

But I think of Armund and push myself back under, grasping for the plant once more.

Fionn, having followed me into the frigid murk, grips my hand where it holds the base of the plant and tears it the rest of the way from the ground.

We both gasp as we re-emerge. I peer back through the surface to look for more.

Roots stick out from where they broke from the plant. Like fingers grasping up from the earth, reaching for sunlight.

A disturbance sounds from far to the west—splashing. Crashing waves in the water.

Deri and Konan.

I lunge to grip whatever is left sticking out.

I get a bit more.

Three more trills sound from behind us.

Fionn has forgotten all pretense of being quiet and gentle. He is fighting to get to the edge of the bog, the gleaming prize gripped in his fist.

I fight to follow, the mud sticking to my bare feet, water pushing against my body, roots clenched in hand.

Fionn heaves himself onto a patch of brush and grass; it sinks under his weight, causing him to struggle to get out.

I am a few arms-lengths behind him when I feel something.

Not a physical touch, but a presence.

Creeping up on me in menacing curiosity .

A shadow in the murk.

I push harder, legs fighting to cut through the deep water.

“Fionn, please!” I reach desperately for him.

His eyes become frantic as he glances behind my right shoulder. It is all the warning I get.

He reaches for me wide-eyed, gripping my slippery arm.

A slick, clawed hand grips my shoulder, tearing me backwards into the water.

Under the water has always been a peaceful place for me. A weightless place of calm power that would block out the constant drone of life. Even after my near-drowning as a child, I still feel safest there.

But now it is a hissing, inescapable cacophony in my ears as I fight for my life. But it is not loud enough to block out the voice of darkness and murk that meets me there.

“You smell of him,” it hisses in a voice of endless agony, its rasping voice obscured by the water.

I thrash, panic in my bones, trying to pry free of its slimy grip. Claws dig in but do not pierce my flesh.

The Merrow drags me along the bog floor. The silt and roots grasp for me, some force trying to keep me with Fionn.

“You smell of souls and death,” she muses. The voice is now lilting and eager.

I open my eyes despite the water that burns them, so I might see death’s face.

She is a thing of nightmares—a creature of vengeance and murk. He is no alluring siren, but a phantom of gray skin, black hair whirling, like ink in water, and webbed fingers tipped with claws. Her skin blends into the clay. Black, beady eyes stare so intently as she pulls me further. That snarling face is twisted in vengeful excitement, gleeful at her prize.

I fight harder, digging my fingers harder into the silt, panic making me gasp and choke on sharp-tasting bog water.

Something pelts us from above, narrowly missing the Merrow as she moves backwards. Arrows, slicing through the water, stirring up muck with every impact.

“You smell of him. I will have you. I will torment you as I have been tormented. Soul-eater. Kin-killer.” The Merrow croons her mantra as she pulls me further.

The thrashing is only serving to exhaust me further, allowing her to drag me to her lair more quickly.

The pelting arrows come less and less frequently, as if the archer above is afraid of hitting me.

I wish they would. Better that than this.

The bog has depth and darkness. Places to hide. It is a place for things that people have forgotten—for those that have no kin but the dirt and the darkness. It does feel like it has memory—like if I died right here it would hold me and remember me until the world turned to ash.

The surface gets further and further away, the light dimming, unable to pierce the darkness. As it goes, so does my hope for being saved.

A feeling swells in my chest, more than panic, more than doom. Icy power, wrathful, and intent on saving me.

My frantic search for something, anything, to grab onto is fruitless. No matter what I grip, she is stronger.

That power surges, taking hold of all that I am.

It grips my hand. Makes me tilt it towards her, instead of trailing behind me, grasping at moss.

The water around begins to swirl and take shape, breaking and bending the light. Fracturing and piercing the gloom.

She releases my arm with a hiss, jerking it back, whirling to look back at me again.

Black blood, like ink in water, swims from a long slice on her arm.

Shards of ice, longer than my arm, whirl like blades through the bog.

Black spots pop across my vision.

I keep fighting, held in the hands of dark power. Even in my darkening view, I can see the murk fracturing and twisting in the sunlight, twisting my reality.

She shrieks and flees in a slash of movement. Her dark scaled tail swishes, propelling her away from this power that feels like a part of both me and something grossly other.

With the dregs of my energy, I push for the surface, that blissful light. Shards of ice caress my skin as I rise, feeling like icy fingers tickling over my face and arms.

My entire being is suffering, drowning slowly, and every second is a lifetime.

And then it’s gone.

The air on my face cues me to hack the water from my lungs, begging to get it out so I can get air in. Nothing matters but the air.

Warm hands grip under my arms and yank me out of the water. My water-logged clothes weigh on me, my limbs heavier than stone. As I’m pulled against a heaving chest, I revel in the warmth, eyes closed.

My thoughts are water slipping through the fingers of my mind. All I know is a yawning chasm before me, waiting to envelop me into an endless void.

All I know is I never want to leave this warmth.

“Alyx!” Fionn’s firm voice pulls me from the void.

Fingers grip my face, shaking me lightly.

I open my eyes begrudgingly, narrowing them to slits.

Fionn’s golden eyes are wide with questions and shock, inches from my own as he leans over me.

“What did you do, Alyx? How did—Are you alright?” he questions me in loud, panting bursts.

I have no answers for him—for this shaking, scared version of the golden man.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

My mind is but a ship sinking into the waters of unconsciousness. It’s inevitable.

I’m only vaguely aware of him calling my name, demanding that I stay awake, before I let the darkness take me.