The Locket

By: Wivylma Posted on: September 29, 2005

Darkness stretched on both sides of the street, unpenetrated by the dull glow of the lamps, which cast another patch of shadow with each one they dispelled. The eaves of houses and shops loomed over pools of lightless slime, rubbish, families of rats foraging one more night's meal from the litter of the citizens. Here and there, couples strolled down the centre of the way, gems sparkling at their wrists and necks. Their eyes gazed at each other, never wavering to glance beyond the light. The darkness was not their world.

Yet a world it was to many. A small figure lurked there that night. Tucked between two buildings, half crouching, she was seen by none of those who passed her only a metre away. Not only the darkness hid her, for long years of practice had honed her skills of concealment. It was how she had survived, trapping rats to feed herself and her mother, always eluding the men from the orphanage near the city who often sought out the poorest children.

She was clothed in a threadbare blouse and trousers. Filthy as they were, it was evident that they were well-made, covered with lavish embroideries. The cast-off garments of a haughty merchant, perhaps, who threw them in a puddle of muck upon discovering the tiniest of stains. Ragged holes had been torn in the back of the blouse, made for her glossy, ebon wings. In the gloom, they were as invisible as she.

Her dark eyes were intent, her small, wiry form tense. She stared toward the end of the street, where it curved away from sight. Motionless, she waited there an hour, two hours. The first stars came out to twinkle in the night sky, and still she waited.

A man rounded the bend of the street, and immediately the girl stiffened. She squinted and bent forward, straining to make out his features from a distance. Slowly, she reached up one sleeve of her ragged blouse and drew out two pieces of silver, the only ones she owned- a silver locket hung on a fraying, muddied string, and a dagger.

With a flick of her wrist she opened the locked and looked again upon the tiny portrait within. A man smiled there, young and handsome, clothed finely, his dusky-blue wings outspread. She had seen this portrait oft before, clutched in her mother's hand or hung with reverence around her neck as she tottered about on her one good leg, begging for food.

Silently, she thrust the locket back into her shirt and looked again at the man, now close enough for her to make out his features. He smiled jovially at the young woman on his arm as they walked down the centre of the street, in the light. They were laughing gaily, as if at a jest, gazing at each other with pleasure, having eyes for nothing else. All the better, thought the small form hidden in the darkness.

It was certainly the same man, though the portrait showed him fifteen years earlier. His dark eyes and blue wings were unmistakable. Had she wished to see it, she might have noticed that his full mouth and square chin, his hair and eyes, bore a deep resemblance to her own.

She had chosen to lurk only a few metres beyond the home of the woman he accompanied. Patiently she watched them say goodnight, the man bowing to kiss the lady's hand and at her inviting smile, learning forward to gently brush his lips against her cheek. Finally, she entered the well-lit, prosperous house, and he set off towards the girl, whistling cheerily.

Every muscle in her body was held in tense readiness. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted her grip on the dagger. Its blade gleamed faintly in the darkness as it caught the light of a stray star.

Only once did the man glance back toward the house of his lady. In the moment his head was turned, a small figure leapt unseen from the gloom. Silver flashed in her hand as she stabbed with all the ferocity of a wild eagle. Twice the blade slashed while the man stood transfixed by his own surprise, one hand groping for the sword which was not at his side. The little dagger plunged into his chest, and he was pulled towards her, their wings touching, her hand against his breast. Blood flowed from his neck and chest, soaking her garments and hands as she held him in their strange embrace. The coppery tang filled her nostrils, and her heart was stirred up in reply. Her senses were afire, her limbs tingling as she surveyed the darkened street with eyes filled with a new life.

She stepped backwards from his body, allowing it to fall to the ground. Uncertain, she surveyed it, lying in a pool of darkness which shimmered blood red where it caught the glitter of the new moon's light. Then, with an almost gentle gesture she gathered up his body, so much larger and heavier than her own. As she made her way slowly down the street, burdened by his weight, the last blood flowed from his wounds, soaking his flesh and hers, so that where they touched their forms blended together. A trail of his blood dripped from his corpse to line the dusky street.

She had not far to go. On the next corner was the shrine she sought, violet fire erupting from the mouth of a serpent. She heaved the corpse into the flames, gazing intently into them while his body was consumed. Biting her lip, she seemed to hesitate for a moment, and reached once more into her filthy shirt. With a trembling hand she took out the silver locket and opened it, but did not move her eyes to look upon the portrait again. She stretched out her arm and quickly cast it into the flames, then turned and did not look back. Not a tear of remorse nor of weariness came to wash clean her bloody face.

When she returned to her mother, with a loaf of stale bread for their supper, washed and clad in new rags, almost a ghost of violet flame seemed to linger around her hands, and to sparkle in the depths of her eyes.