Carved from Darkness

Hybrid

SYNOPSIS: Tortured men and fallen heroes, won't you share this hybrid's sorrow?

This is my entry for the Wattpad Witching Hour contest, hosted by @WattZombie, @fright, @ParanormalCommunity, @ParanormalLovers, @WattVampires, @WattVampiros, and @WattyWolves.

Whew. What a mouthful.

~#~

Through the severed, rusting chips of what was once a jail cell, Nova watched the skeleton of a prisoner across from him. The man was young, with cheekbones that scooped towards the mouth and a striped uniform pressed stiffly to his lean limbs. Each time he took a step - a step to the block of cement chained to the wall, a step to the sharp-scented waste bucket in in the corner of the cell - he tripped and fell to the floor with a scream of agony, ankles splattered with scarlet.

Nova wasn't very old himself; in fact, that day was his nineteenth birthday, a slate turned to its smoothly polished backside.

Maybe he could start again.

Nova hadn't yet spoken to the man across from him; he couldn't have, however, for his voice had deteriorated to a deep croak from misuse.

Suddenly, parting the mist of silence was the sound of a resonating bell. Its sharp ticks jammed into Nova's chest, and he gasped through its weak lungs.

A man wearing a velvet top hat and a suit, complete with coattails, raced into the majorly unwalled prison, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. "You're the watchmen, are you not? The town is in danger!"

Nova and the man across from him nodded, both dragging themselves to the rusted iron bars, both clicking their teeth together in screaming pain.

"Well? Why are you just standing there?" the man asked, paying no attention at all to the deathly conditions of the place. "You've slacked off enough."

Nova coughed into his hand, feeling the power of a scalding fire in his throat; when he wiped his palm along his pants, blood stained the fabric. "We're dying, sir."

"Dying, dying." He clutched the rim of his hat, clicking his tongue. "Hurry! Are you men or not?"

With a horrible, zombie-like groan, the other prisoner fell to his knees. He bowed his head as he spoke. "My name is Paris, and I was once a man. This town praised Nova and I; we thought that we were good men, but what good can be done if all we are given is a sentence to dutiful prison?"

"I did not ask for a speech," the man said. "Your — Our town is in danger!"

Nova sank through the cement floor of the prison, choking beneath memories of his sister, Streah, and her mother.

"Fine," Nova said. "We'll be on our way."

-----

Time ticked a beat off in the thick air of Bayeux as Nova and Paris struck their feet into the loose rocks of the lake. Nova cast a glance towards the other boy and noted the blood seeping into the earth from circlet wounds at his ankles, but he did not speak, for the wealthy man was too close.

When they reached the ledge, the section of land where pebbles met dirt, Nova heard the ghostly screams of townspeople echoing down the alleys.

"It's the curse of the witching hour!"

"Has anyone seen my daughter? Anyone?"

Suddenly, Paris cried out and fell forwards, sliding down, down the hill.

"Paris!" Nova yelled.

The young man's eyes were closed, and the wounds about his ankle trailed glistening blood through the gaps between the rocks. As he tumbled, Nova couldn't think, his mind horribly static.