Kind of a soft sequel to u/VinesAtMidnight 's "Now and Forever," which is very good and you should read it if you didn't do that.

https://www.reddit.com/r/Rathara/s/aPNu5ALMvS

**Content Warning:** Toxic romantic dynamics, stalking, some body horror


Marna awoke refreshed and a tad disoriented in that way one does when sleeping somewhere other than home. She stared at an unfamiliar ceiling, blinking in the ever-present gloom and trying to make sense of her surroundings. 

Blearily, the knight went to open a window to let in some light and found the world outside just as dark and uninviting. Something shrieked as its fell wings cast a shadow across what little light there was to be found and, by that faint contrast, revealed that no, her senses were not deceiving her. Despite the murk this was, *somehow,* still midday.

Sluggishly, the cogs of her half-awake mind clicked into place and began to turn. She began to get her bearings, recall the events of the last few days. No this wasn't her home. This wasn't Ithacar at all.

She was in Kelvecta.

Normally, that was a notion that would inspire terror. And it did, in some small degree. But one far outweighed by an unearned sense of smug satisfaction. 

Marna was alone, which made sense. The bed looked brand new and it occurred to her that Nethis didn't actually *need* to sleep. Possibly *couldn't*, even. With amusement she noted that some shadowy horror or another had laundered her clothes and left them stacked neatly at the foot of the bed along with a thick black cloak to account for how damnably cold it was here.

Well, when left unattended, what was one to do but go exploring?

Kelvecta was cold, dark, and at times quiet as the grave, so one could be forgiven for thinking of it as an *empty* place. But this was far from the truth. The twisting corridors and labyrinthine complexes of stairs that were the Esoterum Obscurum housed countless denizens, each more fascinating and more horrific than the last, even as the shaded isle beyond crawled with every manner of stygian violence and hate in a neverending riot of brutality and domination.

Marna was aware Nethis had followers that could be described as human, or at the very least, originally mortal in a way that meant they could be *talked* to with minimal complications. But thusfar she had yet to encounter one. Just shadows and ghosts flitting about and horrors lurking in the dark that desperately wanted to rend her flesh but were forbidden from doing so. Even these were all either too busy with their tasks or diligently shrinking away from temptation to avoid upsetting their mistress and as such couldn't really hold a conversation.

It got kind of lonely whenever Nethis wasn't around. Being left alone with her thoughts was a *poisonous* thing as of late with the nature of her relationship with the archfiend still somewhat... ambiguous and fraught with ideological conflict. 

A quest then, to distract the mind. Objectives were always more fun when you called them quests, but maybe that was just the knight in her talking. Marna's mission? Make a friend somewhere in the black tower. Easier said than done. But then, she'd already had stranger bedfellows, hadn't she?

She wandered aimlessly through the meandering expanse for what felt like miles and miles, deliberately trying to get lost but innevitably coming back to the same handful of familiar sights. It could be the machinations of the Esoterum Obscurum itself, keeping the knight from something she wasnt meant to see. More likely, she eventually decided, it could just as easily be the human tendency to unconsciously fall into patterns. 

Whatever the case, Marna found herself frustrated as she meandered about in circles past an endless parade of faceless shades and horrors wrought of the stuff of nightmares. Marna knew the door at the end of the hallway well. She'd seen it on her last visit to the tower. The day she'd tried and failed to end things between them. It was Nethis's private study.

Just as the Firebrand began to walk past in a huff, she heard it. Music. An ancient lullany she'd heard a version of once as a girl, bastardized in repetition by the years since its composition now faintly plucking away on a lute somewhere on the other side of that door in all its original glory. It was a beautiful, haunting thing, wrought with such profound sadness Marna began to wonder if she'd been enchanted. And fainter still, beneath the soft melody was the distinct sound of a man weeping.

The heavy door gave no indication of what lay behind the totality of its barricade. No light wavered at the bottom to denote movement on the other side and pressing her ear against it to try to hear more clearly almost seemed to make the sound *die down.* It made sense. To those trying to spy on the private study of the dark mistress of Kelvecta a door may as well be a wall. To any but Marna, likely a wall with *teeth*.

"Well, it's something *new* at least."

She tried the door and to her mild but pleasant surprise, found it amiable to the intrusion. 

"Hello? Anyone in here? I heard your music outside and thought maybe I'd come in for a better listen if that's OK?"

It was so very, very dark within. Of course it was. Any light from her last visit would only have been for Marna's own convenience, wouldn't it? This room was only ever meant for one person and it's mistress was hardly one to shrink away from shadows. The door shut behind Marna of its own accord with a click, leaving the knight to stumble about by memory blinking in that complete tomb-like oblivion, her widening irises desperately trying to drink in the dregs of a light that was simply **not**.

"You're a fan then, I take it?" A voice responded, first seeming to come from just over her shoulder in a hoarse but hopeful tone. Almost begging, almost cloying, but not quite. Then suddenly farther away. Somewhere else with each new utterance. 

"It has been an age since someone came to hear me play, you are a *treasure* my dear. It gets so very lonely and though I confess I've shrunk away from the spotlight in recent years, I do so sorely miss conversing with charming ladies such as yourself, if I might be so bold."

There was a soulful gentleness that came through the longer he spoke. The weeping of moments ago and catch in the man's throat vanishing as the performer began to, well... perform. And Marna had to admit he *did* play the part quite well. Something in his tone had a way of making it seem like his sadness of mere seconds ago had been a curse, one *she* had benevolently lifted to his eternal gratitude, the flirtatious nod at the end subtly implying with plausible deniability just *how* he might repay said kindness.

But if the speed with which the voice snapped into the admittedly flawless persona from abject despair didn't clue her in, her track record of sparring with far more practiced manipulators would have. It didn't help the stranger's case that he was barking up the wrong tree.

"I'm uh... flattered. But you're not exactly my type I think, if you catch my meaning," Marna answered as delicately as she could while trying to make the stance firm.

"Truly? From just my voice? You're *certain?*" The voice purred. "I thought you liked my singing? Ah well, more's the pity... I'm sure you'll make some lady *very* happy."

There was a brusqueness at the end of the half-compliment that implied he didn't really think that would be the case. A touch of patronizing sympathy to boot, but so subtle Marna didn't quite feel comfortable calling him out on it.

"Er... I'm trying to at least. Things seem to be going kinda well."

Marna gropes her way to a familiar armchair and has a seat.

"Mind if I shed some light? Or at least get a name? I know light is a touchy subject in this place."

"This... place?"

The voice goes silent for a beat, considering. Almost as if trying to remember something.

"I'd much prefer the dark, for now. As for my name? Cyril Hawthorne, at your service. Playwright, bard, and mage of some renown. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

Of some renown was putting it mildly. Hawthorne was famous the world over. Responsible for much of the known literary canon and also well known for his... eccentricities, later in life. Off-putting behavior, a prolonged and worrying reclusivity, and finally his sudden and mysterious disappearance. All in all, the story of a classic temperamental artistic genius capped off with an unsolved whodunit. It was all very romantic in the classical sense. One last tale to excite the masses. A mystery Marna was beginning to feel she had solved on accident. 

"I saw one of your plays, yeah. With Sonja. The one about the statue?"

"*Colossus Weeps?*"

"Uh... probably?"

That elicited a huff, which Marna privately found very satisfying.

"It's not really *about* the statue. The rigidity is a metaphor for... look, it doesn't matter. I'm glad you liked it."

She hadn't said she liked it. But whatever.

"Listen, Cyril? I don't want to push things, but do you know where you are? What you're doing here?"

The room grew very cold in response as Cyril considered in silence. Marna pulled the cloak tighter around herself, feeling something akin to menace radiating off the figure.

"Do I know you? You seem familiar."

"I don't think so?" She answered honestly. "I've only ever been in this room the once."

The menace receded. The chill remained. 

"I... see. To answer your question, dear lady, I'm having trouble remembering where *here* is. As for the why of it? For love, of course. The only reason worth doing anything at all."

Ah. Damn. That more or less closed the case on the little murder mystery didnt it? "*There but for the grace of the gods go I,*" or so the saying goes.

"So you're, what? Another admirer?"

"Another?" Cyril exclaimed, aghast. "How many could possibly be left?"

At least one more, she thinks to herself.

"Cyril, what do you mean *left*? Are we talking about the same person?"

"Who else would even be worth speaking of?" He almost spat. "She is a *vision*, is she not? But like all visions she is a fleeting, transient thing. She gives her affections away where they are not earned, so full is her heart that she simply cannot spare the room for the rare worthy soul when he appears. It's sometimes the way with women I've found. They're such gentle souls it sometimes gets in the way of their better reason. It's laudable really, but with no room left in her heart I had to *make* room. You understand?"

Wow. Random misogyny aside it did *NOT* sound like they were talking about the same person at all.

"Cyril, did she even give you a *name?* I don't know how to break this to you, but it sounds like you didn't even see her real face! Er... her real fake face?"

Marna's breath fogged in front of her. **That**seemed to upset him. And in the black stillness of the bard's silent contempt Marna reevaluated the dead man's words. "*How many were left,*" he'd asked. "*had to make room*" he'd said. 

"Cyril," she said, hesitantly. "What the fuck did you do?"

**"I DID WHAT THAT... *THING* MADE ME DO!!!"**

And just like that, the mask dropped. All men wore masks, after a fashion. Cyril Hawthorne's was a well-practiced one, but after so long with his soul shackled in Nethis Balmiri's black tower it was just barely enough to cover the ragged edge of mad despair underneath. She had made him remember what he so desperately wanted to forget.

"THE BOOK! It **put it there**! It *knew* I would take it. It lives inside her, wears her **skin!** Teeth and malice and horrible, horrible, hunger! It **made** her do those things! I had to, you understand?! It **wore her face** and gave out her affections to the unworthy. Tempted me with black arts that I used to make them GO AWAY! Of course I did, how could I not, it had its hooks in us BOTH!"

Finally, having had quite enough of a dead playwrights deranged rant, Marna produced a flame. The thing she saw there turned her stomach and made her skin *crawl.* There was no focusing on any part of the mangled thing that once was Cyril Hawthorne. The mind simply wouldn't allow it. The only thing she could picture properly were ths fingers of what must have once been the right hand, worn raw and bloody at the tips. She allows the fire to fade, consigning the apparition to merciful darkness once more.

"I KNOW YOU NOW, BITCH! YOU CAVORT WITH THAT THING THAT LIVES INSIDE OF MY LOVE! YOU BROUGHT THAT WRETCHED VIOLIN AND IT MADE ME SIT AND WAIT IN THIS EXACT ROOM AND LISTEN TO IT PLAY! **WATCH** AS YOU BROKE MY LOVE'S HEART!"

"I broke your love's heart?! I thought that thing I was *cavorting* with was just a demon living in her skin. She played you Cyril. Its what she does. But Im willing to bet drachma to donuts she never once forced your hand, did she?"

"I... NO... that's not..."

This was, in every sense of the word, repugnant. Cyril had, what? **Stalked Nethis?** *Murdered* everyone she gave the time of day to, to boot from the sound of it. It filled Marna with a black rage. Blacker still to know that **even now** after possibly *centuries* of torment he still, SOMEHOW didn't see where he'd gone wrong. Still couldn't see that the woman he proported to "love" was a projection of his own vapid self-obsession. An idea he'd stapled on top of a mass of teeth and horror in the shape of a woman. The feelings this absolute **worm** stirred in her heart made the killing of Collin feel like a fucking day at the fair.

"*Sigh.* I understand the jealousy, Cyril. I really, really do."

Just like that, the mask returned. The chill in the air receded and she could imagine once more the warm voice she heard belonged to a dashing and gifted gentleman who could have had any lover he desired. Well... any save one.

"Marna, was it? I remember now. I... have waited SO LONG for that. To have someone say *they understood!* Gods! Just to have someone to **talk** to again!"

"Do you want me to kill you Cyril? Once and for all? I'm pretty sure I could do it."

"What.... no. No, I can still make her see-"

"It'd feel good I think. For me, I mean. Obviously. She'd likely be upset with me but not *too* much, I think. Some terse words. Maybe some restrictions on where I can wander. But ultimately nothing worse than if I knocked over an especially fancy vase."

Oh, he was *afraid* now. Good.

"Im sensing that you don't want me to. And that's because you're not in your right mind. Do you have any idea what **eternal** torment means, Cyril? Imagine, if you will, we assigned a value to every person you killed. What seems right to you, boss? A hundred? A thousand? Let's not be shy! Call it a million. Murder is preeeeeetty serious after all..."

She nods in mock solemnity and then continues before he can interrupt.

"Nowhere near the eternal damnation you've gotten yourself into though, Cyril. You should *want* this. Understand? I might fucking **loathe** you, but I *am* capable of pity. Of being glad our little talk here earned you a break. Of hating that someone I care about would do something so awful, even to a *maggot* like you."

Cyril whimpered, then hesitated, then, weeping in the dark, she sensed him nod.

"Good. I'm glad you undersand."

And yet... she did not draw her blade, even as he cringed there, eyes closed, anticipating the blow.

"Cyril? You're a bard, right? You know stories. Ever heard of Tantalus?"

He lowered shifted uncomfortably in the dark, confused, then nodded, sniffling.

"A man bound to the underworld," he croaked. "Forever withered by thirst before a river that shrinks away from him."

"Yep! That's the one." Marna smirked. "There's a lot of versions to it, like all old stories, but let me tell you my *favorite* one. That ok Cyril?"

She didn't wait for him to nod.

"See, one day, a few hundred years into Tantalus's punishment, a woman walks along the river Styx and sees him lying there, forever dying of thirst. She doesn't know what he did. Doesn't know how he got there. Hells, Tantalus himself probably forgot by that point. But she pitties him. So she reaches down into the river, yeah? Scoops up water *for* him and let's him drink. It works! Loophole, good Samaritan, all that! Nice, right?"

Cyril nodded, considering. "I... really am grateful if that's what y-"

"But after? The woman walks on. And Tantalus is still stuck there by the river. Unable to drink. Except now he has hope. Now he remembers what the water he can never touch *tastes* like."

There it was. The horror *finally* dawned on what remained of Cyril's face.

"Ya see, creep, I *do* feel bad for you! Really! I can be glad I gave you a little break here. And I can do the million year math and all that other stuff but... eh."

She shrugged.

"You'd be a lot better off if I couldn't feel that same jealousy you do. Because that was what made it personal. You'd also be better off if I *didn't* know how to be kind, too. Because Nethis sure as shit doesn't and she'd never have thought of something this fucked up in a million years."

She pretended to consider, tapping her chin in thought.

"Maybe year two million. She's making progress. My point is, Cyril? You fucked up **so bad** that I can know all that? KNOW that the right and moral thing to do is to put you out of your misery and just. Not. *Care*."

Marna grinned toothily.

"I hope you enjoyed our little chat. It'll be the last one we ever have. And I get the feeling the next few hundred years are going to be a *doozy.*"

Cyril didn't sob faintly as the door shut behind Marna. He **screamed**. She considered changing her mind. Going back and putting that slime out of his misery. But this was Kelvecta. A place for monsters. Here, the ugliest, most baleful parts of herself were not judged or shunned.

Here, at long last, she was allowed to put aside her responsibilities and be cruel. 

**IMAGE SOURCE:** https://www.fotocommunity.com/photo/meander-georgedigalakis/47620131

The Cruelty in Kindness