Descent - Mattheo Riddle

Chapter twenty

Turning away from the carnage, I focused on Lucia. She was shaken, her ordeal etched deeply into her eyes. I offered no comfort, for what solace could words provide against such trauma? Instead, I left Mulciber to his fate, a broken man bleeding out in the dirt, a fitting end to a vile existence.

As I turned my attention back to Lucia, her figure slumped against the tree, her breathing shallow and uneven, the gravity of what she had just endured hung heavily between us. Her face, usually so composed even in duress, now bore the marks of raw terror and vulnerability.

I stooped beside her, my usual cold demeanor softened by the circumstances. "Can you stand?" I asked, my voice low, almost hesitant. It was unfamiliar, this tinge of concern in my words, reflecting a change within me that I was only just beginning to acknowledge.

Lucia's eyes met mine, a mix of fear and relief swirling within them. She nodded weakly, accepting my outstretched hand. As I helped Lucia to her feet, I noticed her unsteady legs were too shaky to support her weight. Resigned to the necessity, I lifted her effortlessly, an act that seemed as natural as it was unsettling. Her proximity, the warmth of her body pressed against mine as she clung to me, stirred unfamiliar sensations within me, feelings that were both foreign and oddly comforting.

We moved through the quiet of the estate, the silence a stark contrast to the turmoil within me. The air inside was stale, heavy with the memory of days long past, yet the kitchen retained a semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. I set Lucia down gently at the table, fetching the kettle to brew some tea, a simple act, yet one that felt profoundly grounding.

As the water heated, I watched her closely, her face shadowed by the trauma of the ordeal yet marked by a resilience that commanded respect. She managed, with a quiet dignity, to rearrange her clothes, an attempt to reclaim some sense of self after such violation.

Handing her a mug of the freshly steeped tea, I observed her closely, searching for any sign of what she might need in this moment. Her thanks was whispered, a fragile sound in the vast kitchen. "Thank you, Mattheo, for coming when you did."

"It was nothing," I replied, my voice low, the words feeling inadequate for the gravity of what had occurred. "You don't have to thank me. If you need to talk, I'm here."

She nodded, a silent acknowledgment of my offer, yet it was clear she wasn't ready to speak further on the matter. I respected her silence, understanding that some wounds were too fresh for words.

Not wanting to leave her alone with her thoughts, I suggested, "Let's sit in the living room. It might be more comfortable." Supporting her gently, we moved to the living room where the soft couch offered a welcoming embrace compared to the hard kitchen chairs.

Once settled, the silence between us grew heavy, filled with the unspoken and the unspeakable. In an attempt to ease the tension, I scanned the shelves for something, anything, to distract us both from the darkness of the night. My hands found an old copy of "The Tales of Beedle the Bard," a book I remembered from my own childhood, albeit from a distance.

"Would you like me to read something?" I asked, holding up the book. Her nod was hesitant, almost shy, as if accepting a part of her childhood back into her life.

I opened to a story I recalled as less grim, "The Fountain of Fair Fortune," and began to read aloud. The words felt clumsy at first, stumbling through descriptions of quests and magical adventures, but slowly, the rhythm found its way. As I read, Lucia's breathing steadied, the tension easing from her shoulders as she listened, her eyes fluttering shut.

Eventually, her breathing deepened, signaling she had fallen asleep. The book slipped from my hands to rest on my lap as I watched her, the lines of strain softening as she drifted deeper into sleep. Realizing the significance of this simple storybook, I tucked it into our bag, a tool for future moments when the past or present grew too heavy.