Hazel - Post Chapter Eight (Patreon)

Hazel didn’t have a good reason for coming downstairs when she did that night.  When she awoke, staring at the peeled stars of her ceiling, she had assumed the wisps had roused her. But even they were dim in the late night hours, hovering outside her window but not bothering her or attempting to come inside. She did try to go back to sleep. To roll over in the massive amounts of comforters she had and snuggle down into a dreamless night.  But, in the end, her eyes remained open and she continued to just stare at the shadows in her bedroom.  With a heavy sigh and the knowledge that she was going to be tired come midday, she rose from her bed and dressed for the day, intent to get started on her morning chores.

When she stepped foot within the apothecary lobby, she froze.  Her left foot hovered above the floorboards as she looked around the room, almost certain she would find it filled with the dead, all staring at her in silent dismay.  But the shop was empty. The fire had a low burn of embers and the stained-glass windows were dim with light.  But the silence was far too eerie to not take notice of.

The second her foot fell flat against the floor the front door burst open, wind rustling leaves and bits of dried flowers across the entrance.  It slammed with a bang that reverberated through the entire shop, a wispy mist billowing into form right in front of her.  The sad expression of a man peered at her through the half formed cut of a mask, their eyes black. Two empty sockets devoid of a soul.

Hazel stepped back, nearly stumbling over her own feet. “You are not welcome here, omen,” she said.

The visage of the man smiled sadly at her as his feet touched down upon the floor, his body gaining form, but his skin still a sickly grey.  “I am not here for you, bog witch,” he said evenly. There was something more to him. A life that had once been lived. But now he was nothing more than an echo.  All omens were, in fact.

“I have warded myself from the likes of you. The entirety of this home is warded from your kind,” Hazel said, the desperation and panic clear in her own tone.

“It is and you have. But,” he leaned forward. “You have also been playing in magics you should not.  Your wards are weakening.  If you wish for all the things of the world not to come knocking at your door, you might want to slow it down on the dark magics.”

Hazel stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly.  The fear was still there, but the suggestion of stopping when she was so close, was enough of a boost to keep her from running.  “Why are you here?”

“As a warning,” he said. Soft, pale hair fell in a slash across his face. He looked as if he were once someone that held himself well. Hazel wondered if he had had friends or a family.  “There is an upcoming ball. Do not let your loved ones cross the thresh hold.”

Hazel frowned. “What?”

“I cannot give you much more than that,” he told her.

“You have to,” she protested. Her mind reeled at the information alone and it was not anything of substance to even begin to understand.

“Rules are rules,” the omen said with an indifferent shrug. “You know what omens are. You know what my limitations are.”

She looked him up and down. “Omens often mean impending death. Especially when they are made from the soul of a banshee from a far off fae land.”

He smiled, the edges of it cracked in sorrow.  “I have not had someone come so close to calling me by who I am for so long. I almost forgot where I came from.”

Hazel softened.  The omens tone had a hint of a voice from so far away. “Do you even remember your name?”

“No.”

“Your old life?”

“Nothing,” he said with open palms. “I have impressions sometimes but they are nothing more than images that I might be able to grasp,” he reached out, as if to take one, “but the second I do,” he let his hand drop. “Nothing.  They disappear as nothing more than a memory that is no longer mine.”

Hazel wanted to help him. It was in her nature to.  Yet, she hesitated to even get near the creature. To change the passage of time and find herself suddenly on the receiving end of his words.  Taking a full step back, she crossed her arms in front of herself, wrapping them around her waist. “When is this ball?” she or anyone that she knew had not been invited to one.  Nor did she really see a situation in which they would be. The balls all took place upon the eternal staircase or on private properties.  All the places Hazel and her loved ones did not attend.

“Soon,” the omen said. “Far sooner than you would like.”

“And someone will die if we go?” she asked.

“Pain will shatter into lantern tears upon the ground.”

Behind him, the door opened again, with less drama than before, but still on its own.  Hazel held her breath, simply waiting for the omen to leave, knowing she was not truly safe unless he did.  But still, he looked at her, his jaw flexing as if he were trying to tell her something more.  The words were stuck, however, voiced perhaps only in his declining mind.

“Wait, why are you seeking me out to tell me this omen,” she said. Omens only were given when you were unfortunate enough to fall into them. They did not seek their prey out in the middle of the night and they certainly did not make house calls.

“Because fate will unravel no matter what I do, but perhaps I can ease the passage.”

“Why would you care?”

“My life was already put upon a pedestal.  I do not wish to see anyone else end up the same.”  Turning, his feet lifted from the ground, dragging across the floor in spindling reams of mist.  “Beware the bells. If you hear them, it will be far too late.”

When the door shut behind him, the apothecary shivered.  Hazel stared at the door, feeling her heart pound and outside, the remnants of her actions howling at her door.  It wouldn’t be much longer now, she could feel it in her bones. But with the presence of the omen, she didn’t know if she would make it.  When it was a race between her own machinations and fate, surly fate would be the victor.