That night, Pitch lay curled up in the pantry, one of the only rooms in the house as yet untainted with gore.
Still, the smell of death was heavy in the air, and she found herself unable to sleep.
She thought about the journey she was about to undertake; the way back to her home…the castle by the river that she had fled from so long ago.
She thought about her stepmother’s eyes, always flaring with envy and resentment…and her father’s eyes, so very mournful and lifeless until the day he died.
Surprisingly, she didn’t feel angry…or at least, she didn’t think she did. She wasn’t sure how she felt about what she was going to do, which then prompted her to question her motives.
“…I’m doing this on principle, not out of spite,” she assured herself. “It is my home, after all; I was born there, and I lived there first. If anyone should have been chased away it should have been her…it will be her, if she dares try to hurt me again.”
Suddenly, a faint sound interrupted her thoughts. She sat up.
“Was that…a piano chord??” she thought.
Pitch followed the dissonant sounds upstairs, curious and bemused.
She was almost certain that Azor was the one playing the music…but why he was playing at that hour, and so very badly, she could not understand.
She finally found him in one of the bedrooms, standing before an upright piano. The keys continued to dance, but he didn’t touch them: either he owned the worst player piano she had ever heard, or he was operating it telekinetically.
As she approached the doorway, he stopped. “…What did you hear?” he asked without turning around.
Pitch blinked. “Well, I…in short, you seem to be out of practice,” she replied.
“I am not talking about this; I am referring to…what you explained before.” He curled his eye-tail. “I’d like to know what you heard that was so distressing, you felt compelled to come running to my rescue.”
“Oh, Azor…you needn’t be embarrassed, really,” Pitch said, trying not to smile. “Besides, I wasn’t planning to rescue you; I live much too far away to have arrived in time for that. I just thought I might—”
“Collect my mangled corpse.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Now, stop that…you know I don’t think any less of you now than I did when you were cowering from the sunlight last year, and if your pride could survive that, it will survive this, too. Besides…I suppose you just haven’t had much experience dealing with firearms.”
“When I was your age, they didn’t even exist…” Azor muttered.
“Actually, they may have…I read once that the first ones were invented over 500 years ago. And if I remember correctly, you are only half that old.”
“…Thank you for that useless piece of trivia.”
He turned to face her. “…Whatever you heard, I hope you know that it was not intentional,” he went on. “I would much rather die than beg you for help in any situation. It’s probably just that I’ve grown too used to speaking to you in particular, and I haven’t yet managed to rid myself of the habit.”
“Azor, I understand—”
“No, you don’t. This is all terribly amusing to you…despite how hard you are trying to hide it, I can tell you are just a hair’s breadth away from dissolving into a fit of laughter.”
Upon hearing that, Pitch could not help allowing a small snicker to escape from her lips…but quickly recovered.
“…Azor, what do you want from me?” she asked, approaching him. “I think I’ve said plenty of reassuring things already; what will it take for you to stop being upset?”
“For one thing, you could stop patronizing me...”
“I’m not trying to be patronizing; I’m just being…nice.”
She took one of his shadowy hands in hers: it felt like a cloud of dark sand, constantly shifting between her fingers.
“…What if I told you about some of my personal, private thoughts?” she offered. “Then we would be even.”
“We really wouldn’t…besides, I feel I already know far too much about you, thanks to your overly talkative friend…”
“Oh? And what did Zellandine tell you about me…?”
“She mostly complained about your constant criticism.”
“Well, those are hardly private thoughts…”
“She also mentioned that you’re rather sensitive about your appearance.”
Pitch frowned. “…Did she…?”
“I must say, I found it hard to believe that you’d be at all preoccupied with that sort of thing. It doesn’t seem like you.”
“It…it isn’t; I’m just…” She sighed. “It’s more than just a ‘preoccupation’…if you were me, and you had to grow up with my stepmother, then you would understand. The idea of ‘beauty’…no longer means to me what it means to other people. And I’d rather not be reminded of it.”
Azor’s false eyes flickered. “…I understand that,” he replied.
“Really…?” Pitch furrowed her brows. “You do?”
“I don’t think I appreciate your tone of voice…I was a human once, you know. I used to have a life beyond…this.” He gestured towards the room full of dusty, damaged furnishings.
“There was once a time when I cared a great deal for beautiful people and things,” he said. “But after I turned, I found it more useful to my survival to ‘see’ with magic, and I never went back. Now everything is just patterns, sensations…at some point the very concept of physical beauty became rather meaningless.”
“…Except when it comes to your roses~.”
“Actually, my roses have an intrinsic beauty that transcends the human visual spectrum, and perhaps if you were even capable of comprehending them in the way that I do, you might appreciate them properly.”
Pitch just laughed. “…Wait, wait…now there’s something I have to ask,” she said. “So if you really don’t see the way humans do, does that mean you have no idea what you look like now?”
“I do have some idea: obviously, I couldn’t wear these clothes if I weren’t at least vaguely humanoid,” he replied. “But as for the details…I have no way of knowing what they look like to you. Horrific, I suppose. Of course, as I said, it no longer matters.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Pitch agreed. “But…just for the record, I find you rather adorable~.”