5 | Buried, Buried
Down into one of the other structures, Eli leads the children.
He doesn’t know what the people who built this place did up here and doesn’t suppose it’s the same as what Eli does to eke out a living—collect the mushrooms growing where the forest meets the monastery, rare things that can be traded at the nearest town, made into a rather rare and sought after drink, even after the end of the world. But there’s a millstone the size of him slumbering down deep in the center of this structure. Nothing seems to grow naturally around here that would need such equipment, but this place is ancient. Besides, what once grew in the soils of this world is often no more. Now, living things are less for substance and beauty and more to avoid. Eli himself is nearly trapped upon this mountain with the surrounding forests—only a thin path leading out. He knows not how long such will last.
In the cool and damp dark of the mill, dust motes catch what little sunlight enters. The scent of cold, wet rock hangs in the air, the occasional drip of moisture collected in the overnight dew. Klia’s head finally unburies from Thistle's shoulder to glance about with open fear.
Pointing to a decrepit wooden set of stairs leading to a small platform over the main circle of the floor, Eli says, “Go up there and stand over the millstone. And I need you to do as I say. If it kills me, it’s still going to hunt you down. Your best chance is to listen. Hate me later.”
“Why?” Thistle asks, glancing at the balcony, trying to parse out Eli’s plan.
“Because that thing seems to be after you, and it’s going to sniff us out eventually. The stairs are too small for it, so I think I can get it to go under the millstone if you’re above it. Is that acceptable?”
Thistle glares at him, glares at the dust-coated millstone, and makes a run for it up the stairs.
Well, at least he’s listening.
Hearing nothing from the outside world, Eli leans out the door and watches the building he’s been living in be ripped apart.
He never made this place his home out of direct choice but for the sake of saving his life, but he’s grown a sense of fondness for the place. The solitary cluster of rocks and harmless mosses. The creature rips it apart in search of them, and Eli struggles not to let the burning heat of rage consume him. This is not a battlefield and even if it were, he is no longer a young man.
Eventually, the window overlooking his front steps explodes in a shatter of tiny stones and leftover wooden shutters. The cat crashes to the ground, petals flying from its shoulders, and shakes itself, slinking to its feet. Eli watches it, hidden in the dark of the door, hoping and praying it will leave them alone, give up and flee to whatever dark hole of the forest it crawled from.
No such luck.
Panting out heavy, snarling breaths, it pads in circles across the courtyard, circling the fountain full of leaves, frightening off some of the demon birds attracted by the noise.
Slowly and surely, it heads in their direction.
Quietly as possible, Eli retreats into the cold dark of the building. He sees the shadow of the kids on the creaking wooden platform above, doing as he says. For once. Thistle sets Klia down along the opposite wall, near the entrance to another passageway out back, and returns to lean carefully over the edge of the railing, inspecting the giant millstone below.
Lowly, Eli says, “If this thing looks like it will collapse, run out the back. There’s a path out down through the woods. If you manage to get away from this thing, you can try to follow it down. There’s a town, if you follow it long enough.”
Even in the dark, he sees Thistle's expression twist. There is doubt there, and Eli doesn’t have time to parse out which statement is the cause. Eli has no plans of avoiding death for so long only to be slaughtered by a monster cat brought upon them by his own grandchildren, but he cannot put aside the possibility. He must hope this creature is not too smart to walk under the mill—
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A growl reaches them, low and hungry. Calmly, Eli observes its shadow stalking the door, haloed by early morning sunlight. He’s so transfixed by its approach, he’s startled by the voice in the back of his thoughts—
Cursed Panther | Death Orchid
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Buried, buried, bury you alive—your bones will feed the worms, only our rot will survive—
Scowling, Eli wills the words away before they can distract him from the task at hand. Is the magic mocking him? He’s considered so in the past, but never before has it given any identifying information about a foe—at least, not since before it was broken.
Running his hand up the decaying rope holding the system of pulleys controlling the millstone, he keeps a feather-light touch upon it. One rough tug should snap the entire thing. Truly, Eli is surprised it’s managed to hold so long as it is. Holding his breath, he watches the shadow of the cat in the doorway as it slinks down the steps into the nest of the room, angry hot breath curling in the air. It pauses, spotting Eli in the shadow of the back of the room. Its too-bright eyes roll upward to Thistle. Dust drifts in the scant sunlight as the boy shifts his weight ever so slightly on the dust-coated beams.
A platform sits along the ground for the stone to rest in when it isn’t hoisted high—it shouldn’t be enough of an obstacle the cat should attempt to walk around it instead of simply stepping up. Still, Eli aggressively regrets throwing his sickle. He should’ve unburied his sword from the floorboards, no matter the risk. He’s been quite startled today, and his nerves are not what they once were, but he knows better than to make such foolish mistakes.
What has Abner thinking, sending these children here?
He could be dead.
Eli shakes off the thought. It will do him no good in the current situation.
Prowling forward, the cat’s eyes trail the rafters above, the millstone fixed to them and Thistle standing just above. Eli can see the panic in the boy’s eyes, the too-quick movement of his chest. As he hoped, the cat wanders closer, nearly under the stone. Eli would fear the creature simply jumping up into the rafters as cats tend to do, but there are so many beams there’s no direct path for such a large animal.
A foot steps into the shadow of the millstone.
Eli whistles at it, sharp and quick, and the panther growls, lips twitching. Edging around the squat platform, Eli never takes his hand off the main rope, hoping his movement will draw the creature, if only for a long enough moment. Heat of its breath drifts over his skin, the eyes only a few hands breadth from his face. He lets his breath out slowly, determined not to allow his heart to beat too quickly.
Above them, there’s the brush of footsteps. For a moment, Eli fears the little girl is trying to join her brother, but it’s Thistle backing away from the edge, losing his nerve.
Slinking down, tail twitching and casting off sickly purple petals, the cat lunges up. Against all better judgment, Eli releases the rope to snatch at one of the vines hanging from the cat’s torso. His scant strength coupled with the creature’s shoulders striking the beam stops its wild claws from reaching the shrieking children.
Bringing it down much too closely to Eli.
Yanking back—he’s not nearly as quick as he once was—he narrowly avoids a swipe to the face. A hot, familiar slice of pain shoots across his wrist. It’s been a while, he considers, hitting the ground hard and scrambling back. It accomplishes exactly what he was hoping. The cat’s thick paw tangles in the fragile rope, snapping it like a thread. With a groan, several beams crack for good measure, and the millstone crashes down as the cat scrambles after Eli with rage in its eyes.
When the dust settles, there are a few twitches and the scattering of petals and vines and little else. A humane death, at least. Eli kicks at the millstone mere fingers from his boot and lays his head back against the cold stones, relaxing in the relief. A moment later, he hisses at the pain in his wrist and holds it up. In the bare light, there’s not much to see but the dark of blood running down his arm. It isn’t too severe, but he bleeds more than he once did, and there’s not much in way of healing supplies on a lonely mountain. He’ll have to ruin some of his blankets for bandages. Perhaps he has some bandages buried away under his bed.
A creak is heard overhead, and Eli trails his gaze over the dusty beams still remaining. Both sets of eyes stare down at him. Well, at least they didn’t flee the moment the cat was disposed of.
“Come down,” Eli croaks, coughing the dust from his throat and heaving himself to his feet, holding off the bloodflow on his arm.
For a moment, he entertains the idea they will not, that Thistle will snatch up his sister and make a run for it out one of the back tunnels, and whether Eli will attempt to chase them down if they do. Then, Thistle leads Klia down by her hand and stands at the door, waiting for Eli to go out into possible danger first. Well, at least he learns.
Trudging into the chill sunlight, Eli gazes around for signs of any other threats but finds nothing but a few bothersome birds watching them. Across the courtyard, his sickle glints in the sun, undamaged.
Glancing over his shoulder at the children, he says, “Come.”