The Pentameron

Monsters ate my family.

Now, they're going to eat me.

Dusk is an omen of a grim rebirth. The sinking sun hangs like a sickly blotch, and the sky is swollen with bruises.

The fire has not yet been lit, but the withered trees are already twisting in despair, as if the daily light itself were an unbearable scorch.

You want to shout back, to jeer, to curse, to scream, but an oil-soaked rag is jammed into your mouth.

The foul, greasy thing presses against the back of your tongue. No sound escapes you but retching.

Someone wrenches the gag from your mouth. You cough, choke, gulp in great breaths of air. Drool trickles from the corner of your mouth, but you're too weak to wipe it away.

They must be the real monsters. The villagers, the priests, all hiding behind human faces, playing their parts in this sham of a holy ritual.

The monsters ring you in, axes and pitchforks raised, watching you warily.

You expose their elaborate charade, and panic spreads across the faces of the "monsters." A cruel thrill of triumph runs through you.

Bundle after bundle of dry kindling is heaped at your feet. Thorns tear at your bare skin; you thrash in agony, the iron chains rattling.

Your struggle earns only more insults and a hemp rope bound tighter still.

The fire catches.

His voice cuts off, sudden and clean, as though severed mid-sentence with shears.

Through the roiling smoke, you strain your stinging eyes. You see a stranger standing beside the priest.

When did he appear? You don't know. You look to the rest of the monsters, they stand frozen, like a huddle of gawping frogs.

The priest jerks in a fit of spasms, hands clamped to his throat. Blood wells through his fingers, spraying from his mouth; his face turns the color of the sky. He falls.

A scream, shriller than a whistle. Even the tongues of flame shudder.

Your heart pounds. You know who he is. You know your life will not end today. All this chaos is merely a prelude, a passing episode setting the stage for his arrival.

Filled with fervent hope, you writhe with all your strength, whimpering, desperate for him to look at you, nearly oblivious to the searing chains.

A gloved hand hauls you out of the pyre. Your legs fail you; you collapse, coughing and retching, tears and snot mingling on your face.

Before he can turn away, you seize his cloak in panic.

He seems caught off guard by your sudden move; his hood slips halfway off, revealing a boy's face.

You're clever enough to tell an empty threat from a real warning. Remembering how the priest just died, you flinch.

But then you look at his face again, without doubt, this is exactly what a noble knight in the stories looks like. He must have come for you. You even feel you've seen those eyes somewhere before.

Yes, you must have seen him somewhere. In a dream, a curse, or a prophecy. How else can you explain this sudden surge of courage?

Shock, bewilderment, panic, anguish flash across his face all at once.

He wrenches away from you as though recoiling from a viper, and presses a bloodstained shortsword to your throat.

The sword returns to its sheath. He rises and walks off into the dense forest, without saying another word to you.

Quick as he is, you have the advantage, you know this forest like the back of your hand.

Besides, you have nowhere else to go. All you can do is keep chasing him, even if it means falling in the woods and becoming food for the beasts.

He doesn't answer, but he slows to a stop.

His black cloak melts into the night. He stands behind the tangled thicket, his features blurred into shadow.

You inch toward him, ever so slowly, as if fearing to startle a wolf.

The scream is drowned by the lashing rain, bleeding into the gutter along the wall, left to rot with mud, horse dung, and vegetable scraps, until the dark alley swallows it whole.

The body slumps to the ground. A cold glint of metal flashes and vanishes. The murderer draws his cloak tight and strides away, his footsteps dissolving into the rain.

You hurriedly pull up your hood and trot through the downpour to keep pace.

Inviting golden candlelight fills the room, and the oak door shuts out the cold wind. For a homeless wanderer, a monastery's storehouse left open on a rainy night could be a lifesaver.

But you won't be fooled by appearances. You remember them...

You remember those in black robes, wearing brass pendants and carrying candlesticks back and forth, the murderers who call themselves shepherds.

They are monsters among monsters.

You are trapped. You cannot move. The nun wipes your face with dry linen; you never know when she might suddenly press it over your mouth and nose.

Fear crushes your chest. You cannot breathe. You can only scream.

Your desperate cries draw out many eyes, some like a beetle's, some like a goat's, some like an owl's.

They stare straight at you, as if you were the only one here without eyes.

You snap your head up. Your knight has somehow doubled back, and now stands before you, blocking all those staring eyes.

Monsters eat people, you've long known this, so it doesn't surprise or frighten you at all... well, not that much. You have your knight.

The vast manor stands empty, no guards, no servants, it feels long abandoned. In the narrow, endless corridor, only your carefully muted footsteps echo.

You ask one question after another, and the knight lowers his head in response.

He suddenly halts, raises a finger, and gestures for silence.

You freeze at once, breath catching in your throat.

On the fourteenth heartbeat, a dull thud echoes from the end of the hall, followed by the crash of something hitting the floor. A few panicked cries break the silence.

A sudden, flickering light flares up, casting frantic shadows like figures locked in a violent struggle. You charge forward, only to be forced back by a wave of heat. It's fire. Blue fire.

An acrid smell fills the secret room. A suspicious dark-red liquid trickles through glass tubes. Set alight by a candle, the clear liquid spilled across the floor burns silently with ghostly blue flames.

It's an alchemical workshop, hidden in the depths of the manor.

Amid the glass vessels, a goblet of pure gold gleams brighter than the candle flame.

That must be the Holy Grail.

The knight loses his composure and rushes toward the Holy Grail. Hideous markings emerge on his skin, and countless shadows rise like flames behind him.

The shadow behind him shudders violently. The flame falls into eyes wide with shock, igniting something, fear? Or hope?

Those words must conceal a powerful spell, for your knight suddenly freezes solid like a statue, and yet, for the first time, seems truly alive. His shadow trembles incessantly.

The shadow writhes. The shadow surges. The shadow dances wildly. The shadow coils tighter and tighter around the monster's throat; its lips part and close in a futile gasp.

Snap.

The words die unfinished, the shadow snaps its neck.

The bloated head lolls to one side like a cinched sack. From the torn hole two rusted eyeballs bulge out, still staring into the void.

He suddenly turns to look at you. Like a ghost caught in the light, his face is caught between vacancy and venom.

On the wall, the shadows sway in a jubilant dance, closing in around you.

At your words, he slowly turns toward the goblet on the table. Then, with effort, he tears himself free of the shadows and lifts the cup, still half full of antidote, or poison; you cannot tell.

You watch him throw his head back and drain the cup.

You once heard that everyone's name is a spell.

If you lose your name by accident, whether forgotten by yourself or by others, you become like a sheep strayed from the flock, stripped of protection, marked by devils.

Perhaps your knight, like you, was robbed of everything by monsters. Perhaps he lost even more, not even his name was spared.

And so the lurking demon has bared its fangs.

The moonless night is pitch black, the dense forest darker still, its depths unfathomable. Clutching your lantern to your chest, you search for him, following the traces of his panicked flight.

Before the shadow swallowed him, he told you to leave.

But how can a princess be without her knight? You tried to pull him free, but he shoved you away, smashed through the window, leapt from the attic, and vanished into the wild woods beyond the manor.

The downpour obscures the broken branches and footprints, and everything around you looks the same. Your steps grow slower and slower, until at last you stop, lost and bewildered.

You recall that rumor, and your fear deepens.

You will not let your one and only knight be defeated by the devil. You will remember his name. ...You already do.

A howl of anguish tears through the curtains of rain, sounding more like a wounded beast than a man. You run at once toward the sound.

The lantern light flickers weakly, unable to dispel the darkness pressing in from all sides. Your knight has been cornered, his back taut as a fully drawn bow.

His babbling is cut off by a scream. As if someone had driven a spear through his chest, he stumbles to his knees, but the shadow behind him remains standing, like armor, like a cage.

A wave of panic seizes you. You know that if you don't stop this now, the shadow will become a man, and the man will be reduced to a shadow.

Dazed, he lifts his face toward you, if it can still be called a face.

The shadow has corroded his flesh, leaving marks like snail trails. His face is a rotting blur, weeping thick, black slime.

Whose answer is he waiting for? The cold rain has frozen your lips and tongue. You stand stunned in the mire, a belated shiver finally taking hold.

Black ooze bursts from his chest. Your knight exhausts his strength in silence and crumples like a discarded shell.

The shadow coils around him, laughing and weeping all at once.

You have witnessed a person come apart.

The storm has melted the forest into a putrid bog. You scream and weep and drag at him, only to sink deeper and deeper.

You don't know where else to flee.

So this is how the world dies... buried alive by despair.

...

He falls silent, staring straight upward, to where all swamps end, where all memories and oblivion dissolve, from where the rain descends, thinning the air ever further.

But neither of you can reach the sky, the graveyard is the only place left to go. It's the closest to the end.

The rain has been falling for three days straight. At last, it lets up briefly.

The headstone is a blank slate, bearing no name. You don't know who it is for.

A light bundle, just a few things inside, but all badly damaged. You rack your brains but find no answer. Your knight's past is just as much of a blank to you.

Monsters in armor walk through the graveyard. They move in perfect, identical unison, like a giant centipede.

One of them suddenly stops, and then the entire line halts.

The monsters' expressions change. They exchange looks and hurry away, terrified of catching whatever lingers in the air. In their eyes you see a fear all too familiar.

The rain starts again, turning the streets into rushing rivers.

Clutching the bundle of keepsakes to your chest, you dash through the backstreets, slipping past patrol after patrol of guards as you head for the thatched shelter where you've been hiding.

The monster feared even by monsters is, without doubt, your knight. Word of his brazen killings has finally reached the lord. The guards will search every corner of the city tonight.

The cramped little shelter is tucked at the dead end of the alley. Burlap bags are piled high around it, yet the mud still comes flooding through.

Inside the shelter there's nothing but straw. Your knight is nowhere to be found.

What is a promise? A spell that only works if you believe.

What is parting? The moment right after arrival.

What is death? A tomorrow without reunion.

What is oblivion?

...

......

A curse.

A curse. A plague. A punishment. A worm-eaten hollow. A broken riverbed. Rotting in silence. Weathering. Sinking. An exhausted gaze. A story fading into shadow. The final death.

You have already lost everything. You cannot bear oblivion again.

The rain has put out the raging fire. You pass through the unguarded gate into a scene of devastation.

The castle stands in silence. Empty oil barrels, torn sacks, shattered shields, broken spears. Arrows bristle in clumps like coarse grass bowed by the wind. The raw smell of wet earth mingles with the lingering stench of burning.

A bloody battle once raged here. Now only the shadows remain.

The shadows spread unchecked through the dark, climbing the high walls, crawling over the crenels, engulfing the sprawled corpses with a wet, squelching sound. You try not to think about what that means.

A pained groan leaks out from under the misshapen helmet. One of the shadows nestles against the monster like a lover. You gather your courage and step forward.

A thick, gluey sound wells up from the monster's throat. It thrashes like a stranded fish, yet its arm rises slowly, reaching for the bundle in your arms. Squirming ooze seeps from the joints of its armor.

It's the shadow. It wants the Grail.

"No" is not an option. The shadows pour down off the walls, rushing to gather around you. You clutch the bundle tight and flee deeper into the castle.

The gatehouse. The great hall. The chapel. Stone stairs spiral down into the earth. The castle is a perilous dragon's lair.

The air grows colder with every step; your ragged breaths and footfalls echo off the stone, amplified until they sound like someone else's.

Firelight glows at the foot of the stairs. You see a familiar figure.

You are about to call out to him in joy when you realize you are not alone. The monster speaks before you can.

The table is laid with fine wine and rich food. Silverware gleams in the candlelight. Were it not for the bitter cold seeping through the cracks in the stone, the lavish setting would almost make you forget you are deep underground.

The emaciated lord sits alone behind the table, eyes sunken, cheekbones jutting. Buried beneath layers of heavy silk, it resembles a dragon crouched upon its hoard.

Your knight walks toward it step by step, a long shadow trailing behind him. Perhaps he is a shadow himself. His clothes are in tatters, his face hideous, and his footsteps make no sound at all.

An invisible bolt of lightning strikes your knight, pinning him to the spot. In the dark, the shadows shudder violently, whether in joy or fury, they can wait no longer.

A shapeless spear splits the long table in two. Cups and plates crash to the floor, and the false feast breaks apart, baring its wretched truth beneath.

The shadows put out sticky limbs, greedily devouring everything they touch. A mire wells up from the dark, and the world begins to sink.

Your knight clutches his head in agony. Shadow wells up from his chest, his ears, the corners of his eyes.

The demon's ceaseless torment has worn him down, he can no longer make a sound. He's like a clay doll dissolving in a black river.

While neither of you is watching, the lord pivots his wheelchair, revealing a fist-sized opening in the stone wall behind him.

A dark shape flashes past like a snake. With a dull thud, an iron spear pierces straight through your knight's chest.

Several fully armed guards emerge from a hidden passage, their shields and swords glinting coldly. The final trap is revealed.

A deafening roar fills the air, and the entire keep seems to shudder. Shattered masonry clatters down in showers. The remaining monsters close ranks around the lord, ushering him toward the hidden passage as they retreat.

Your knight forces himself upright, a hoarse roar of fury bursting from his broken chest. The shadows surge over him like a tide. They seem far more eager to swallow him whole than to feast on his foes.

Frantic and furious, you hurl the bundle with all your strength. It's packed full, and the loose knot comes undone in midair, scattering someone's keepsakes: a candle, a comb, a little stone figure...

...And the Holy Grail.

Golden light tumbles high over the shadow's bog, strikes the stone wall, bounces twice off the floor, and rolls straight to the lord's feet.

You see him raise a hand to hold back his guards, then bend down himself to pick up the small golden cup. His thumb traces the pattern on its side. Then he seems to remember something and turns to look at you, his eyes full of mockery.

Then, they flash into pure terror.

...Before the castle collapses into rubble, burying the shadows, the dragon, and the keepsakes alike, your knight draws his cloak around you and pulls you into a secret passage.

He's spent, too weak even to stand. You grip his arm tight and grope forward through the dark. A rough, freezing surface grazes your palm, it's the scales of a dragon.

You don't know how far you've walked when a breeze touches your face. It's salty. It's the sea.

He makes no sound at all. You can't feel his heartbeat or his breath. Waves crash against the rocks; icy spray and rain lash your face.

You begin to shiver, as if feeling the cold for the first time.

His faint murmur sounds like sleep-talking, so easily scattered by the sea wind that you have to hold your breath to catch it.

You don't know what painful memories he's reliving, but you can feel him curl in on himself, like a slug covered in salt.

For a long while he doesn't answer, but then he stirs.

The rising tide creeps past your knees as you trudge through the darkness.

Jagged rocks cut your calves, and the seawater numbs the wounds. You grit your teeth without crying out.

Your words come apart between ragged breaths. You force each phrase out of your throat.

With each sentence, you take another step, as though the words alone are keeping you moving.

Your feet slowly go numb. Rain lashes at your eyes, blurring your vision.

Then the new princess gives her final command to the barely conscious knight.

In that last moment before the sound of rain drowns out all awareness.

Someone gently nudges you awake. Half-conscious, you hear the soft patter of rain.

It's raining again. The rain has never really stopped.

The forest hid the fugitives, but word of the monster's slaughter at the castle reached the rulers. Wanted notices were nailed to the city walls, and the Church's knightly orders and the mercenaries were sent out, driving you both onward, day and night.

You hate to be left behind, but you're burning with fever, with no strength left to keep pace with him.

The wound on your leg still hasn't healed, the endless rain has made it ache all the more. Your leg is red and badly swollen below the knee. You cannot take a single step.

These past days, Ogier has carried you over mountain and valley on his back.

As if to comfort you, he presses something into your hand. Dazed, you take a bite, and only when its sharp, puckering taste fills your mouth do you realize what it is.

He unwinds the bandages, packs fresh herbs onto the wound, then carefully wraps it again. You study his face, and what you see there isn't anticipation.

Before you can press him further, barking rises in the distance and draws closer.

A sheepdog bursts from the thicket, barking fiercely at the intruders. The girl chasing it spots you both and drops her wicker basket with a startled cry.

It's Ogier. His face is covered in twisted black scars, making him look like a rag doll torn apart and clumsily stitched back together, a face straight out of a horror story.

He meets her eyes in silence, then rises and pulls up his hood.

Ogier has barely taken a few steps with you on his back when the girl hurries after him.

...

What should paradise be like?

No monsters, no despair, no unspeakable terror, no eyes hiding in the dark. No lying down at night afraid you'll never wake again. Hot soup every day.

You can't imagine anywhere closer to paradise than this.

A sharp little blade slits the abscess open, paring away the rotted flesh bit by bit, and a red-hot iron presses into the wound to stop the bleeding. You scream through clenched teeth, drenched in sweat.

It's over. The wad of cloth is pulled from your mouth, and you gulp for air with all your might, nearly swallowing it down into your stomach.

This time is different. You know it. They're doing it to save you, and your knight is right beside you.

He takes out a few coins, but the barber waves them off. In a place cut off from the world, money carries little weight. It's not what these people live for.

Your knight sets you down on a fallen log, then kneels to ease your injured leg into place. His gaze is intent and worried. Clearly, your revelation has failed to astonish him.

Why should you be afraid? From the first moment you saw him, you knew he must be a knight.

Through the shadow that clings to him, you can still see him as a knight, so clear, so unmistakable, as if you'd seen it somewhere before.

What makes a true knight? Loyalty, valor, mercy, sacrifice, and...

His liege's accolade.

Your knight is stunned. He clutches his cloak with one hand, as though he could hide in its deep folds of shadow.

The cloak conceals every trace of the shadow. Only he knows what shame lies beneath that disguise.

A slender branch, still beaded with rain, comes to rest lightly on his shoulder.

A dream so old he has almost forgotten it suddenly comes true. Yet what sends a tremor through his soul is not joy.

It is fear.

The flames of fear rise from a bottomless pit, beneath his feet, above his head, in the terrified eyes behind narrow slits.

Scalding, warm, spraying from severed necks, welling from chests.

The flames writhe, driving the shadow into a frenzy. Fire and shadow have always been one.

It was a massacre after the war was over, dressed up as a decisive victory. There was no honor in it. No justice. Not for anyone.

The bloody ending stripped away every pretty lie. Death was only death.

His grand duke was dead. His princess was dead. Only the knight who had failed to protect anyone survived.

He cannot remember how he survived. Perhaps he didn't survive at all. Perhaps all that remains is a fallen monster, a vengeful wraith exiled to the world of the living.

Then slaughter fed new slaughter, and death begot more death.

His quest feeds only the flames he sought to quench, leading him further astray and ever closer to his doom. He had never believed he could be redeemed.

But... but...

Closing his misshapen eyes, the knight swears a solemn oath to a penniless princess.

The end may stand for all eternity, casting its heavy shadow over all things, but until you reach it, you are still free to choose what you make of your fate.

A breeze, sunlight, the scent of ripe apples. Mist rises like clouds through the trees. The world is as lovely as a painting.

You laugh with delight. At last, a happy ending for the princess and her knight.

But you know the story goes on. Life doesn't stop at the last page.

The night fuels the fury of the downpour. Ten thousand stones rain from the sky, and the muddy water surges over the riverbanks with the thunder of charging warhorses.

Figures dash back and forth, shouting, hammering on every door and window.

But the fairies can only hobble, stumbling across the uneven low ground. You know they will never make it.

BOOM!!

A crash makes your heart lurch. But the flickering torches barely pierce the darkness. People look about in confusion, unable to tell what is about to give way.

Pleading, groaning, wailing. The paradise of your dreams teeters, about to crumble beneath the endless rain.

Before a boundless ocean, every island is hopelessly small.

Your knight lifts you onto the edge of the cart. He takes off his cloak and wraps it tightly around you.

You clutch the hem of his clothes with all your strength, though in your heart you know it's futile. He's already made his choice.

Ogier bows to you, as gentle and faithful as any knight in any story.

Shadow gushes out in place of blood, pouring into the roaring flood.

A person would vanish into those waters in an instant. But the shadow remains.

It writhes. It surges. It gathers.

It becomes a shield, a wall, and finally an unbreakable dam.

You stare hard into the deepest dark, until the ox-cart rounds a bend and the river slips from sight.

At last, you break down and sob.

You never hear from your knight again.

He fulfilled only half his vow, yet left you with a promise so cunning that even when you cry yourself to sleep, you still look forward to tomorrow.

Because a new sun will rise. Every day. Without fail.