There was darkness behind those irises of bright blue, a monster that lurked in the depths of two dark pools. Grestine Durmon was the stranger you didn't know you feared until you were at her blade's end.
"Popularity is just something that makes ordinary people feel like heroes," she had said once, "there is no true reward for popularity that is worth having."
In Grestine's world, attention was more likely to get you killed than to save you in a crowd of your most devoted followers. When it came to a real fight, no-one would be there to take a bullet to the head or a knife to the heart for their beloved. Grestine knew that more than anyone.
And for that reason, as a bounty hunter, she kept her identity secret. When someone died at her hand, they didn't scream her name, to tell the world who killed Linda Glenn or Roger Salas. Each of them died in shadows: nobody to comfort them in their last moments, no light for them to see before their fatal end, no hope for them to escape. They could scream whatever they liked, but no calls to heaven would stop Grestine's hand from making that last killing stroke.
It was a pitiful thing, really. They believe they were killed by shadows, but they had no idea what real monsters lived in those shadows. In a way, she could relate to those she killed. She died once, and nobody was there for her then, in her world of shadow.
Why should it be different for anyone else?
Grestine glanced at the Reptile who sat before her. Her shoulders were calm, her body stretched over the chair as she rested her muscles before the upcoming night. Black fabric was plastered onto her entire body, from the tips of fingers that were concealed with gloves, to the black trousers that covered her from the waist down. She had long, thin ovals for pupils, and the scarlet iris blended into the tangerine scleras of her eyes. After years of observation, Grestine realised that when the Reptile felt a certain way, her eyes would change texture, as if the orange in her eyes was a river rather than two stagnant pools like Grestine's. There were many things that the Reptile was ashamed of, including her inhumane eyes, but her coat of emerald scales was her deepest sorrow.
The sun had only made its retreat an hour before, but already a few worker's men had dragged themselves in and began their nightly drink early—already a few beginning to lean on one side and topple over a bit. Each was sober enough to know that an Aimra was among them, but were already too drunk to try and think about anything else but their next mug of lager. The Reptile wore the same long, hooded cloak as Grestine, the hood pulled enough over her head to mask her face from the casual onlookers in the tavern. The darkness of her hood shadowed her face barely enough to fool someone sober, but if anyone looked deeper into the dark shadow, they'd see a serpentine face and two slitted tangerine eyes look back at them.
When the two were not in towns or villages, she would shed her cloak, gloves and hood, and let her scales be seen in the open, where only the other beasts of the forest could see her. When it was just the two bounty hunters, the Reptile was called Scalia—her actual, human name.
"It's almost time." Grestine said to Scalia, as she pushed her chair back. It was time to hunt Ben Fox, their next victim. The Reptile nodded, and stood up to walk out the tavern with the widowed queen.
"The darkness awaits."
The ones in the light are weak, for they have never wandered in the true depths of darkness.
Darkness was always the first to come.
YOU ARE READING
Light In Darkness
FantasyLight. Darkness. Kings. Queens. Who is to say who is right or wrong, or what is good or bad? In every villain there is light that leads their path, and for every hero there is a shadow that drags them down.
