In the frigid cold of a winter storm, a boy sits quietly on a lake. The bare skin of his heels burns against the ice below, and the howling winds strip any warmth from his being. His heart beats slowly, faint and stuttering, sending sharp pains through his chest each time. It beats more slowly every minute, gradually fading away to nothing. Still, he sits unmoving, silent as he watches.
On the ice before him, an eel writhes slowly. It’s larger now, several feet long, and with skin so black it could have been made from oil. The eel gasps at the air, floundering in a way that would have almost been peaceful, if it wasn’t so desperate and pathetic.
The boy’s vision begins to fade, and his head hangs low with a dizziness. Everything aches, but he can’t remember what from.
Howling winds grow quiet, fading into the distance as his world seems to shrink. Down and down, squishing and collapsing until it’s nothing more than him and the eel. Darkness surrounds him on all sides, pressing in until only a little spark of light remains, right at his feet. Right between him and the eel.
The eel too, seems to watch the world shrink around it, gasping and thrashing more desperately than before. The boy watches, his expression never changing, his body never moving to help.
The amber eyes of the eel meet the boy’s, but it’s an alien, unknowable gaze they hold. The boy averts his eyes first.
Then, he collapses. Slowly, rolling forwards onto first his knees, and then his side, shivering hands reached out to cup that tiny light that held back the darkness.
His heart slows, and then stutters. It beats once, twice, thrice, and then… stops.
The boy’s vision begins to fade, the darkness pressing in as the little light is diminished. He feels no fear, no regret, nothing. Not even acceptance. The cold of the winds have numbed him to it all.
As his eyes begin to close, he sees movement in the darkness. Something stirs, just beyond his vision, something dark and terrible. Something different than even the beasts he’d seen.
Eels. Countless, giant eels, stacked atop each other high into the sky on all sides, hiding in the darkness. As the light dimmed they pressed in closer, squirming and slithering slowly as they approached.
Then, something else moved. The lone, tiny eel in front of him moved closer as well, as that tiny, fading light sank down to rest on the ice. It immediately began to flicker, like a candle at the end of its wick, the ice sapping away what little light remained.
The eel opened its eyes, just two glowing specks of amber on a glistening black body. The boy thought, maybe, just maybe, it was looking right at him with something akin to an expression on its face. An expression that he could not read.
Then the eel strained forwards, shuddering and shaking… and swallowed the light.
The world went dark, and the boy’s eyes shut at last.
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Matthaeus awoke with a whimper, every part of his body aching and shuddering. He coughed up blood then vomited, his body shaking and heaving with every heartbeat. When he tried to move, he found that he could not. A weight lay over his chest and legs, crushing him down painfully.
He could taste blood and acid, the acrid, harsh tastes burning at his tongue. He could hear rain and the shouting of soldiers, but could see nothing. It was like he was trapped in a void, only he could feel cold, wet stone and wood over and under him.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The boy strained against the weight on his chest, whimpering in pain as he lifted it and tossed it off to the side. Whatever it was landed with a dull thud on the ground next to him, and he slowly pulled his legs free from whatever held them trapped. Climbing to his feet was a struggle, his legs felt horribly wobbly, but there was enough stone on all sides for him to hold on to.
He followed the sound of the rain, shuffling through the darkness until he came out through a hole in the wall of the tower. It was brighter outside, but only barely. Matthaeus collapsed onto the first large piece of rubble he could see, wincing as everything ached in the process.
It was loud out here, compared to the darkness inside. Soldiers shouted, the rain battered the earth, his own heart beat in his ear just loud enough to be audible.
He curled in on himself, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. He pressed his palms into his eyes until swirling, sparking lights formed on the insides of his eyelids, then dropped his hands with a gasp as he started to shake.
Around him was rubble and bodies on all sides. The heavy musk of rain could not block out the stench of blood and innards, man and beast spread out in the mud all the same everywhere he looked.
He drew his dagger, staring at it idly, tracing his nail across the simple engravings in the pommel. A cold, numb darkness threatened to well up from deep in his gut, and his hands rattled faintly.
A question burned on his lips, but he did not speak, even though none would hear him.
Could… could I have helped, even at all?
He looked up at the field of dead in front of him, eyes settling on every beast he could see. Wolves, like he’d seen in Arcaster. Boars, with tusks that had grown and twisted into unnatural, overly sharp points. Something that looked like a porcupine, but with quills that faced forwards instead of back, and no lips to cover the crooked, dagger-like teeth that lined its mouth.
Matthaeus hung his head, nearly dropping his dagger.
There… there wasn’t anything I could do.
Frustration, rage and self-loathing welled up in his chest, and tears pricked at his eyes. He wanted to help, he wanted to save people, not be saved constantly. Not to be just a useless kid that had to rely on everyone. He wanted to be someone that others could rely on… like Griff. Like Reyland.
But he’d been so scared. His limbs shook at the memory of it, that thing they’d called wyvern. Or the direwolf, large enough to carry a full grown horse in its mouth. Even the hordes, that rolling, writhing swarm of black fur and scale and skin that he’d only seen from a distance…
He sucked in a breath, trying not to cry.
Did Reyland survive, too? What about Griff? Or Arthur… Matilda?
He wiped his nose with his arm, collecting himself as he tightened his fist around his dagger. He didn’t hear the first time Reyland called his name, continuing to battle the thoughts in his own mind. But when Reyland called the second time, he looked up, instantly flooded with relief.
Then, he started to nearly cry again, and he threw his arms around Reyland and squeezed with everything he had.
Reyland was warm, in spite of the rain. It was a comforting feeling, one that Matthaeus did not want to let go of. It was all that kept away the pain and the numbing, somber cold.
He let himself be led away, refusing to let go of that little bit of warmth. When they entered an outbuilding he was set down in the first cot available, and a servant began tending to his wounds. Reyland left with the girl who was with him, promising to be back shortly, though Matthaeus never knew for sure if he followed through.
The moment his wounds were bandaged, he was given a thick, sweet tasting liquid that numbed the aches through his body. In a matter of moments he became drowsy, and then slowly crawled into the cot as everything went dark.
He dreamt of a lake that night. One with thick, white ice, so clear that he could see through to the impossible depths of the lake below. It was a peaceful place, with a gentle, if cold wind that was blowing through his hair, and a faint, pale sun that flickered in the sky.
And a lone black eel, which rested on the surface with him.