The man Rokah detested and hated the most was standing in front of him. Casting a shadow twice his body and revealing a face devoid of expression, as the darkness hid his eyes. Paralyzed by the unforeseen circumstance, Rokah froze in his place as his mind went blank.
It roamed into the back of his memory, the annihilating ash as it dropped from the dark sky. Yet, he thought, if his journey was going to end here, if he was going to die, He shall at least die with dignity.
At last, he mastered the last drops of strength that were left within his frozen body. He moved the palm of his hands away from his face. In an act of final bravery, he wanted to face the one who was going to end his short, pitiful life without grief or regret.
No regret…
He attempted to play the cat and the mouse game, yet he had lost it before his first turn. Because he was careless. He underestimated his enemy and got more trustful with a person whom he thought he was able to control. And he foolishly believed that an Aractantrope and a Lycanthrope will fight till death if they have crossed the path. He believed such natural enemies will not gang up together for a certain mutual benefice.
A huge mistake he had committed regarding himself as the holder of the upper hand, and now he was paying for it.
Having nothing to lose, Rokah glared at the big man without uttering a word. He didn’t want to tell him to make it quick. These demands always sounded equal to beg, and he despised begging. For him, it has been just comparable to admit your weakness.
The Aractanthrope glared at him back, then he moved his head left and right, observing the terrible state of the room. He returned his gaze to Rokah and gave a sly smirk before he said: “It seems that the bad news had reached you early …”.
After, He lifted the chair from the floor to sit on it, then continued: “Do you know why he came to me? … I wonder what you have done to him to make him gulp up his dignity and beg for help.”
…
“He wants me to kill you.”
…
“I wonder why he didn’t kill you by himself?”
The words were blocked in Rokah’s throat as Mr. Isidore’s glares grow more fierce. When he finally spoke, he sounded like he was vomiting: “Because he can’t kill me.”
“Can’t kill you by himself?” The Aractantrope raised his eyebrows. He asked again… Rokah could tell that he didn’t believe him. So he attempted to confirm his declarations: “He can’t kill you? Why?”
“It is some kind of protection measure used by healers on some of their patients to avoid a situation like this…”
Isidore’s skin wrinkles got softer, and his eyes grow wider. He adjusted his posture by making his back more straight like someone missed in cogitation, thinking that this mongrel wasn’t playing a doctor, he was actually the real deal. He clenched his grip on his arm several times, questioning the real identity of this person. Then demanded: “who are you?”
Rokah pondered a little. He felt the drops of sweat running across his face. He strove to wipe them with his Palm yet his forehead was dry as a dead tree on a hot summer before he said: “I don’t know… all of my memories before coming here are somewhat scattered, disordered… I just have a fuzzy and a vague recollection of who I am and how I ended up here.”
Isidore startled him when he stood up and drew near to him. The air he exhaled bumped Rokah’s face. His scent was a mix of sawdust and soil. His voice took a calmer tone when he asked: “Did you find a way to inside the house?”
“Yes,” Rokah answered hastily. It was a half-lie.
From the start, Rokah wondered why this man didn’t storm to the manor and annihilate everybody there. He wondered why this preferred to play the role of a woodcutter and blend with the villager while killing them in shadow.
When did he come to this village? What is his motive? And how he spotted him the moment he set a foot in here?
Does it really, the count and that Magus didn’t discern his identity or his hideout?
How about Mr. Hendrickson? He seemed widely informed and unusually wary. Could he be not aware of this person?
Whenever Rokah tried to understand what was truly going on, he always reached a dead-end… and got more convinced that this man before him wasn’t just a block of meat, as he first judged him.
Lady Savannah never warned him about the presence of such a third party.
The man declared, interrupting Rokah’s line of thought, and when he left, Rokah fell to his knees. His legs couldn’t support his weight any longer. He stretched on the floor, letting the stony soil drench his trembling and extinguish his terror.
He stayed like that enable to move to who knew how much time long, till the idea to visit the little dying girl ¨Orange¨ hit his head.
For some strange reason, he felt a powerful urge to see her in that big bed, see her grieving parents and drink on their sorrow as they watched her die slowly while they can’t do anything for her pain.
Was it a weakness! Or maybe his hollow carving and savage addiction for watching others suffering, so he could sense the fullness in his already troubled heart. He couldn’t risk seeing her the next time when he will place a flower made from paper into her coffin.
He wanted to satisfy these monstrous urges that he could comprehend, neither he could fight.
During that moment when he was face to face with the death, her face down with the lineaments of pain flashed in front of his eyes like a path to salvation.
He knocked softly, and her mother opened the door. His presence did not surprise her, as if she was expecting his return. On contrary, her face was calm, serene, yet there was that teardrop stuck between her eyelids.
He would swear that she knew about her daughter’s fate, yet… he didn’t understand the source of her courage.
It made him question deep inside his heart ¨ do the people in this village are miserable, or I am the only miserable one here? ¨.
He advanced toward the little girl, observing her breath pattern that became more irregular. Touching her tiny fingers. They were freezing, and he clearly could see the bluish coloration on her white skin. He decided to tell her mother the truth out loud to witness her reaction: “She doesn’t have long…”
“I know.”
He wondered, wasn’t she said, being fearful…
“Thank you, doctor, for coming back.”
– …
While he was ready to go out, perplexed. And before his hands reached the door. He heard the mother murmuring behind her: ¨ She fought bravely and I just want her to rest in peace ¨.
He walked his way back to the tiny, lonely room. And that word ringed horribly in his head: ¨ Rest in peace… Rest in peace ¨.
When he finished arranging the mess he had made. He took a long muse to the canvas that he got from Mr. Hendrickson, and he never perceived the eagerness to draw as he does right now.
