Bereft: Demise

36 | Of a Maddening Cry

The archive was as it always was; stifling, dark, home to whispers and things that had long since fallen from the Sin of the Sloth's recollection. In fact, Amoroth was certain Peroth could barely remember when the archive hadn't been a pit of forgotten words and broken trinkets. She had trouble remembering as well.

A paltry downdraft of ash and brimstone preceded her appearance into the stuffy archive, breaking the monotonous stench of dust, mold, and stale magic. She parted the Realm and immediately misjudged her surroundings in the immiscible dark as she stepped on a teetering crate. Amoroth staggered into the nearest shelf, knocking items off as she tried to find a bit of clear floor to stand on. The pike of a Landsknecht fell and broke in two, the metal tip chiming as it struck something solid in the dark. 

"Bloody hell," Amoroth swore as she kicked a box and extracted her arm from the crowded shelf to adjust her borrowed shirt. She prayed the clothing she'd ordered would finally arrive this weekend. Getting mail out in the middle of the marsh was difficult, but it was better than waiting around for someone to brave a trip into the city. 

The shadows conspired behind her back, edging nearer between the stacks and valleys of long-forgotten refuse. Fighting the need to shiver, the Sin of Lust set off. 

Amoroth spent enough time listening to witches and mages to know magic never dies. Locked away in this timeless sepulcher, the grimoires and tossed enchantments would never lose their spark. They would only grow hungrier. Meaner. Like sentient beings, items carved with runes or slathered in the blood of an other desired the light of day. They'd do anything to be free of this place—even if it meant hitching a ride on a Sin. She walked with caution and avoided those pleading, needy things.

The click of her heels upon the stone floor should have resonated in the cavernous space, but the sound was caught by the shadows like a butterfly ensnared by a spider's web. She didn't linger in one place for long, using the Realm to pass through obstacles in her way. The Sin would only pause to listen and scan her surroundings, searching for a noise or a light that would show her the way.

After a time, Amoroth heard the faint murmur of an embodied voice speaking beyond the hissing shadows. More than ready to be done with this place, she quickened her pace and jumped through the Realm when appropriate. When she arrived at her destination, all warmth was replaced by an inexplicable, subzero chill. White frost clung to Amoroth lashes and nipped at her flesh. 

At the end of the tilted aisle waited an alcove walled with piles and piles of strewn tomes. A single candle wavered in the morass, sitting atop the melted remains of a dozen tapers that had come before. In the middle of the alcove was a flat table burdened with open texts and unfurled maps, each checked with slashes and annotations. 

The Sin of Pride stood with his hands upon the table's edge, his head hung over his amassed work. 

"Dammit, Peroth," Amoroth huffed as she spotted the Sin of Sloth standing just beyond the candle's light. The eerie reflection of the flame glittered in his unblinking eyes. "You could have shown me the bloody way!" 

Peroth was watching Darius, immobile. Pride gave no indication that he was aware of their presence. His hushed murmuring continued as he worked with fervent motions, etching and scratching and flipping through pages of the nearest books.

"Pride," Peroth said, his clear voice a startling contrast to the rasp of shadowy whispers and the repetitive tap of pages coming together.

Darius didn't acknowledge him. He didn't acknowledge anything until Sloth's hand came down on the page Pride was turning, tearing it in two. Darius tipped his head, and Amoroth swallowed when she saw the sightless black waiting beneath his lowered brows.