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It was the brooding figure of Mark Ellery who uttered these words. He reclined beneath the ancient buttonwood, its leaves casting foreboding shadows upon the grass which seemed to wither from sorrow rather than heat. The sun had reached its zenith, yet no birds dared sing, all but one daring titmouse, who fluttered near with audacity, alighting on the tip of the dwarf’s boot. It peered into his soul with an eye that glimmered like a dark gem.
“Tweet-tweet,” the titmouse dared to proclaim in the haunting silence.
“Indeed,” whispered the dwarf with a grave tone, “What shall come to pass now?”
His query was cast into the void; was it an inquiry for his avian acquaintance, or had he become enamored with the echo of his own voice in these lonely years? His thoughts took a grim turn.
“What if I tarried just a while longer in this cursed place, indulging in sinister delight before my inevitable departure?”
“But as in wailing
There’s naught availing,
And death unfailing
Will strike the blow,
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
Before we go!”
“Do you concur, Brother Titmouse? Observe! She—they—abandoned their precious charge. Surely, their departure was not at my bidding, was it? No fault of mine lies therein, certainly. Destiny—or some darker force—name it the Divine if it pleases you—has delivered this treasure to my threshold; is it not within my rights to claim its guardianship, albeit temporarily? The ecstasy that could be mine! My life has not been awash in joy, you might say. They possess one another’s company. This child is an isolated being, dwelling amidst her fanciful tales, left largely to the care of nursemaids and tutors; no maternal caress exists to weave a different genre of fable. The Prince and Princess”—his laughter takes on a harsh, guttural tone, chilling enough to cause the child to quiver—“scarcely require her presence if they can so easily depart for twin months, leaving her, the delicate gem, the tiny blossom, the slice of pure rapture, forsaken amongst the unfamiliar. I have the means to offer her bliss; I could fill her diminutive palms till they overflowed. She shall possess all that which lies dormant behind locked doors; those treasures and countless more by tenfold. We would immerse ourselves in our games, perhaps for weeks or possibly months; and then—before weariness sets in—no certainly well before such a time—I would return her. To restore her! But how shall this transpire? There persist several methods.”
He shifts his foot, launching the bird skyward into a brief flutter before it alights upon his wrist again, preening its feathers in utter complacency.
“Now then, brother titmouse,” whispers Mark Ellery sinisterly. “Your affections for me are strong, no? My company pleases you? You believe I am capable of kindling happiness within a young soul?”
The titmouse cocks its tail and observes him keenly; ’tis a shame it lacks the ability to grin; nonetheless it nuzzles against his palm with its beak and he discerns every unspoken sentiment.
“Numerous methods,” he mutters once more under his breath. “I might simply cradle the child in my grasp and proceed toward them; labor up the grand steps—I’ve been told their new abode eclipses mine in splendor—and present myself at their doorstop submissively, beseeching entry. ‘Behold your offspring here before you,’ I’d intone gravely. ‘She had been left adrift without care and wandered unto me. You usurped every possession I once valued; now receive this too as an offering from one cast low.’ How delightful to watch distress cloud her gaze and flush creep over her normally pallid cheeks. If only silence would persist! Should her voice reach my ears—
“Alternatively,” he contemplates with an ominous glint in his eye,” I might summon her to approach me instead. That act alone would be steeped in drama! Await her beneath this very tree like a sinister shade from some gothic tale. Perhaps during an interlude akin to this present one—the little dove slumbering just up there.”
“I summoned you, madame, with a question: have you misplaced something precious to you? Perhaps a treasure unknown in value—a small girl, a child. An innocent soul who found herself adrift in the savage woods, where any lesser creature would have succumbed to the elements. She arrived at my door, her feet bare, her little frame languishing from hunger, and I let her into my abode. Now, she is enveloped in slumber, nestled in her favored nook within that brooding tree. To rouse her seems a cruel fate; she is embraced by dreams so serene. Make no mistake, I could easily claim her as mine—indeed, she has shown no desire to escape—but we are long-time acquaintances of circumstance; henceforth I felt compelled to alert you to her presence within my dark threshold.
“To awaken the child and witness her rise, cheeks kissed by sleep’s embrace, as she clasps me tightly with tender arms—no terror apparent at my monstrous form, no recoil from me. To feel her soft skin against the coarse grime of my own visage; eyes that sparkle with an innocence unraveled gazing upon me—me, Mark Ellery—with affection unfeigned and profound. Certainly not a deception! How perfect this scene would be... But alas, I am far away from the realm of dramatic heroes; isn’t that true, Brother Titmouse?
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“However, there stands another path—the path untaken: the simpleton’s choice. Bewitched into mere spectating as fate—or should we utter ‘God’, if one dares—marches indomitably forth to shape destinies without my intervention. Why should I involve myself? He is capable enough of twists and turns! The child is here in my grasp; let those who yearn for her find their way through the labyrinthine forest that stretches mere miles from civilization’s edge. No fence nor claim—even that belonging to a reclusive dwarf tycoon who forsook his life for distant shores seven years past—will thwart their pursuit. As they near me with intent and purpose to rescue their lost heirloom—trinket hunters already on the prowl—I shall call forth my little lamb from shadowed shelter. Stuffing her hands with baubles procured by errant hands like Phillips’s; bid the sweetest of farewells as I thrust her into their unworthy embrace—‘The missing offspring? Indeed! Here she rests. Curiosity never struck me to inquire whose progeny stumbled upon my domain. Relieve me of this burden! Extend my regrets to those who claim keeper’s rights for sparing death’s cold grip and nurturing their daughter amidst these ghostly woods.’
“And then, when her presence is no more than a lingered memory in the corridors now repossessed by gloom—that unhallowed darkness encroaching once more—I shall embrace what remains unchained: the key to boundless fields!”
With a hushed whistle he beckoned the titmouse that responded with a flutter and stark chirrup; his eyes cast a final longing look towards the impenetrable tree before whispering once more into the encroaching stillness of twilight’s advance: “The key to boundless fields...”
He had not cradled it in his palms for endless days, that cherished plaything, the sinister sleek trinket that was once his obsession. Hidden from the innocent grasp of a child, it lay dormant on its shelf. A void grew within him, yearning for the ritual he’d nurtured—a dance with death each dawn, caressing its sheen, thumbing the barrel’s chilling hoop against his skull, imagining the finale. Time and again—he lost count—whispering, “Today is the day,” aligning his affairs, anticipating his departure. Yet he tarried; awaited the nestlings’ leap into flight, the leaves’ autumnal blaze, winter’s white to wane and spring bloom’s return. The world bewitched him; hence, his exit was postponed—ever so easily—as eternity’s door was forever unlocked, ready to swing upon a whim.
But loneliness was looming; without the child’s light, what remained but shadows? Now urgency gripped him; he must hasten to embrace that final dusk—the uncertainty of an odyssey beyond. A soul’s liberation into strange new realms or just silent oblivion? No evidence forbade a reunion with his mother, her touch soothing as in bygone days amidst the sylvan quiet. Proof denied neither hope nor fantasy. He envisioned revealing all to her—if she was out there if he remained; if existence persisted beyond this coil.
Conversely should eternal quiescence beckon—a cessation of all consciousness—the turning of the key seemed all the more compelling; stripped then of ethics or sin, paradise or inferno. Absolute repose! Alive still on such a day as this—how could one contemplate embracing darkness eternal? Who would relinquish life’s vivid theater for an enigmatic voyage—perhaps fruitless—amidst such vibrant splendor?
The dappled sunlight of an early May morning, now took on a more sinister hue as it spilled through the gnarled branches of the ancient tree. The leaves whispered secrets in hushed tones, each rustle no harsher than a collective preen of the hidden avian flocks nesting within its shadowy boughs. They slumbered alongside the child, under a deceptive midday calm; even the watchful titmouse succumbed to rest, leaving the forest floor to creatures who stalked with unnerving silence across the mossy carpet. They showed little concern for the motionless gray figure nestled at the trunk’s base – his form had become a fixture here, a peculiar choice when the wild offered swings from supple branches and cozy digs beneath its loamy veil. His own lofty abode, larger than any osprey’s nest, perched high within the wooden sentinel, stood empty – yet, here he rested. Brother Chipmunk paused in his industrious trek, casting a wary eye upon the slumbering giant. A creature strange but of no threat, often proving an unwitting accomplice in forage. Erratic plumes of smoke may escape his lips, inconsequential to Brother Chipmunk – concerns lay only with what treasures resided within his side-pouches.
The delicate beast scampered deftly up the man’s limb, perching upon his knee and peered with eyes alight with grim expectation; yet met with none but a vacant repose. The man’s eyes remained shuttered, locked within an oblivious slumber. A sudden note prickled in the air – one that belonged to him by all rights? No whisper or word did he utter; the source floated down from above. Hark now, Brother Chipmunk; dearest ally of these haunted woods - heed these eerie strains! Let them guide you to disturb this silent figure from his doom-laden repose before dread grips him whole and despair claims dominion over his soul. Whose spectral voice permeates this sinister stillness? Rise now, Mark Ellery; should life’s ember yet smolder within you!
At the beginning, there was only a faint, tired whisper - the gentle stir of a child rousing from slumber’shold; then a plaintive voice pierced the stillness, “Mark! Mark, where have you vanished to?” An oppressive silence engulfed the space, soon shattered by the animated chatter of innocence not yet lost.
“I surmise he’s likely off securing our meal; that’s his current quest. For now, I shall entertain myself until his return; though this place bears no charm for amusement. Ah! Wait, there lies Mark’s gleaming key, masquerading as a firearm. I am convinced it is indeed a pistol, and he remains oblivious due to his dwarf stature. Dwarfs bear swords and daggers aplenty; never has one held a pistol, not even those clad in gold. Yet Mark forbade me... well, naturally I shall refrain – but harmlessly examining it couldn’t invite misfortune. Merely to scrutinize it can’t possibly court calamity; and should it be a genuine firearm, he mustn’t keep such an object within reach - they erupt into violence and snatch lives even when dormant. And lo! If I stretch upon my tiptoes – just so, my tiptoes – I should grasp it...”
In an instant, Mark Ellery was jerked from his dreams. Awakened abruptly, he found himself upright amidst chaos, with an explosive din assaulting his ears and an agonizing scream slicing through his heart.
“Mark! Mark! The beast has slain me!”
Then all fell eerily silent once more; the man collapsed to his knees as wisps of gunsmoke coiled through the air. The smoky tendrils caressed his face with a ghostly touch as if they bore away part of his very essence.