CreamBurger/Blood1diamond

“Midway upon the journey of our life—I found myself within a forest dark,—For the straightforward pathway had been lost.”

—Inferno, Canto I

“How has your stay here been so far, Visitor?”

The distant sound of an analog clock and the steady patter of drops of water against the roof filled the silence that seemed to stretch infinitely after the question. It wasn't out of the ordinary to host a dinner to accommodate new guests in the crowded mansion that; paradoxically, always felt lifeless. But regardless of the mouth-watering food and cozy ambience, the poet's stomach churned like the deepest fire of the hell he had nightmares with.

A nervous tick overwhelmed his senses, using his calloused thumb of his left hand to pick away at the hangnail on his index and gripping the edge of the wooden table covered by a dark red tablecloth with his right. He hadn't taken a bite, as the painting that hung above the host pierced his soul with a pair of green eyes that unnerved him to no end. He only needed to say it, didn’t he? It wasn't difficult. But he had perfected the art of the quill, not the art of oratory. He rehearsed the words over and over, simulating the tone of his voice, the words used, but in the end he gave into whatever came to mind.

“I want to leave,” Matteo finally blurted out, just as the butler had finished asking. He kept pulling at the skin of his finger until he felt a sharp sting that made him flinch. It was most likely bleeding.

For a moment, the host said nothing. The hermit didn’t either. To wash down the unbearable knot that had formed on his throat, the dark-haired reached for the glass of wine to his right. The bitter taste made him squeeze his eyes, but it helped nonetheless. Behind his glasses, the butler’s eyes narrowed; Casimir could tell his guest's hands were shaking by the agitated shadow on the table. “While I hope you are fond of cold weather, don’t fret. The mansion is always kept warm, regardless of the conditions outside or inside.”

The casual dismissal followed by small talk only made a shiver shoot up Matteo’s spine, even with the warmth of the candles he stared at.

His fingers, now satisfied with making himself bleed, reached to the worn down rosary which was wrapped around his wrist. “I want to leave,” he repeated, with just a bit more conviction. “…So you’re serious?” The butler answered. The other, confused, just asked, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“What makes you think you have that right?” The unexpected question made the poet look up for the first time, only to encounter a glare framed by locks of hair of a sunset orange. Matteo’s eyebrows furrowed, clenching the rosary until his knuckles were white. “That right?” He echoed, voice wavy. “I…I came here for shelter. Now that I am…fine, I will leave.”

Casimir scoffed. “I believe…you misunderstood us. This isn’t an inn. This is a mansion. And this is your new home.”

“But you are not able to just…keep me in here.”

The shaking of his hands started to grow in intensity. He was lying. He had to be lying. He was being clearly taken for a fool—a joke with a horrible punchline; and denial was the only thing on his mind. Logically, it was impossible. What was really stopping him from getting up and walking out through the main door? The weather roared outside, but it wasn’t anything Matteo couldn’t handle. Even if, in a far-fetched possibility, there was a system that kept him inside, there could also be a way to break it. All machines can be broken. And if it was truly impossible to leave, what would explain everything inside the mansion? The food, warmth, clothes?

The subtle upwards curve of Casimir’s lips made his thoughts stop in its tracks. “...I disagree. You will try, and you will fail.

Without a word, Matteo stood up, not having eaten a single spoonful of food. Right now, anything that settled in his stomach would come back out due to the nausea. He turned to leave, picking up the staff he always carries to leave the dining room before he stopped. “Is it really worth the effort of trying to leave this place?” Casimir made no effort to stand. “I imagine returning to an empty house isn’t welcoming at all, now is it?”

That was the final straw. Not giving him the satisfaction of seeing his reaction, the poet fully stepped out of the room towards the hall. He may have guessed by pure luck, but it was clear that the host had hit the nail on the head. He even used the correct word. House, not home. Only a building to live in. A stinging pain overtook his temples, alongside the sensation of a rhythmic thumping on his body that let him know that blood was rushing everywhere all at once due to his rapid heartbeat. 

Walking down the hall without a place in mind, Matteo fiddled with his staff while making sure the candle inside the lantern wouldn’t go out. His calloused fingers scratched the semi-polished wood, a habit that developed in his countless pilgrimages. Now what? He thought of every way out possible, immediately setting aside the main entrance. If one of the people in charge of his mansion had just told him he’d fail, Matteo would have to look for less obvious ways to leave.

Yet the frail string of ideas was abruptly cut by a sharp set of scissors—the presence of another member who Matteo hadn’t noticed until his forehead met the sudden pressure of someone’s back. Taking a step back, he turned to look and apologize to the apparent stranger, but a glint of recognition flashed in his eyes. “…It is…you…” the hermit muttered.

“It’s me!” The voice answered. Nothingness stared back into Matteo’s eyes, and he didn’t need more than a couple of seconds to know who it was. “Why, it looks like our dear protagonist of our evolving ‘Chanson de Geste’ is roaming around once more! Though, you aren’t particularly royalty or…a hero, are you?”

“Our wh—? I…I have seen you before. Who are you? How do you know me?”

“So eager!” The fool answered. Standing on his tiptoes, he stepped forwards to flick one of the leaves that composed Matteo’s laurel crown. Almost instinctively, he reached up and gently covered its sides, protecting it. “And responsive…but I’ll bless you with my generosity. I am your minstrel!”

Matteo’s eyes squinted in confusion. “…minstrel? A storyteller?” Crouzier nodded, seemingly excited yet there was no way to know for certain by the mask over his opaque face. “Why, yes! The epic story of a traveling poet, whose ’straightforward pathway had been lost’…but was that poet’s path? What was behind him…and what is going to appear forwards?”

With a deep sense of unease settled in his chest, Matteo held onto the staff with the lantern hanging in front as if it could protect him and walked past the fool—disregarding his nonsense. Once again, it felt like he was an open book everyone was reading but that he himself couldn’t read. What was behind him? Something appearing forwards? What did it mean? But a sudden tap on his left shoulder pulled him out of his doubts, eliciting a wince from him before he turned.

“…‘Jacob went on his way, and the angels of God met him’.”

Matteo’s breath hitched, his eyes opening in recognition and surprise both at the sudden sight of a golden snake near his face and the verse. “Aha! Now you pay attention, don’t you? Do those words sound familiar to you?” Crouzier titled his head, retreating his own staff and leaning into it. “You should take the words you are so infatuated with as advice, Poet. Not everything is in your head…and not everything is part of your reality.”

“Soon, you’ll have to face what you’re running from…and it might be closer than you think.”

“How frozen I became and powerless then,—Ask it not, Reader, for I write it not,—Because all language would be insufficient.”

—Inferno, Canto XXXIV

The rain continued with its downpour, and a similar storm was slowly taking over Matteo’s mind.

The only relaxing place he could first think of was the garden, yet the smell of petrichor and the cold air that brushed his shoulders served as a reminder of the weather that made it impossible to go outside, at least without an umbrella. He stood at the intersection of two hallways, a large space that made him uneasy. And after deciding to go in a random direction, he took the time to inhale deeply and take a look at his surroundings, brooding.

Back when he took the first ever step inside the mansion, he was soaked to the bone. Starving, dirty clothes, and shaky hands with an open cut on his left forearm, the moment Matteo felt the warm air hit his face and a roof over his head, he might as well have believed he was in an earthly paradise before passing out from exhaustion.

A kind gentleman of his age, with a perpetually sad look on his eyes was one of the first few normal people he spoke to, who Matteo would eventually learn to call Ellis after introductions. The former detective filled him in with the details after he lost consciousness that first night—that he had slept for a couple of days and that the main butler in charge wished to speak with him after he was fully recovered. Aside from that, they haven't exchanged more words, but there was a sense of gratitude from that occasion.

Without noticing, the poet had once more wandered in sections of the mansion he didn't recognize. He'd never been in one, much less in one of this size that never seemed to end. He blinked a couple of times, trying to orientate himself and look around to find a clue as to where he was. Metallic chandeliers hung from above, the candles that gave them life occasionally flickering.

Shadows creeped between tall wooden pillars and mirrors, prompting Matteo to check behind his shoulder. Even though he was inside, if he was to take a deep breath and exhale, water vapor would pass through his nose and lips. And just as he was reaching to touch the wall to feel its temperature, the hermit’s eyes caught a figure by the end of the hall.

Serene-looking, there was no distinguishable face at first. Matteo approached slowly with measured steps, making sure the staff was in front of him in case he needed to brandish it—though realistically, if he was in danger he’d most likely run away. Locks of dark brown hair rested on the figure’s shoulders, all the while a white tunic that seemed worn by time and use was draped over its shape. Barely a whisper of a voice left Matteo’s throat as his head started to sting again. “Hello…?”

The figure didn’t move an inch, but the man noticed that something liquid-like was dripping near it. He squinted his eyes due to his bad sight, and realized that it wasn’t droplets from a nearby water leak on the ceiling. It had a dark, reddish tint to it; the color reminded him of the wine he had drank a couple of hours ago. Hours? Or minutes? It didn’t matter.

Lifting his gaze, Matteo saw the origin of said liquid; a perfectly formed puncture wound on the space between the shadow’s wrist and palm. Downwards near its bare feet were two more, one on each foot.

Matteo didn’t waste any time and turned back on his steps, his heart on the floor and an unbearable inch on his neck.

His main source of light, the lantern, was dimming. He swiftly made his way towards the other side, where he came back to the crossroads with labored breaths. Hallways branched to his every turn, and he didn’t remember having so many options to choose. One of his hands reached upwards to rub his eyes and then scratch the front of his throat, when he finally saw a different light down to his right.

He immediately followed it, almost certain it must be the downwards staircase that led to the large foyer of the mansion that connected the essential spaces: the kitchen, dining room, library, and more. After the meeting with the strange figure, not knowing if it was part of the brain he couldn’t trust or of his reality, the light brought him almost a sense of comfort.

Though the moment Matteo turned around the corner, the light he was looking forwards to hit his dark eyes and made him step backwards. He blinked once, twice, so that his eyes would adjust to the sudden glare that hit his pupils. He wondered why this time it took him off guard, when he’s been to the foyer many times and he’s never felt like the light was too bright. The poet just assumed it was because he had been wandering aimlessly for a long time, perhaps long enough that his eyes had become used to the dim lighting in the halls and abandoned rooms in this labyrinth of a mansion. But the sight of soft, chestnut colored feathers on the floor made him stop in his tracks. “A bird? How could a bird have gotten inside if it's raining?”

But it was much, much worse than he thought.

A shadow darkened his surroundings, even though the source of light was still there. Yet another humanoid figure stood before him, but this time it looked like there was a pair of wings behind it. A sea of pastel blue and gold fabric clothed it, as Matteo tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The person, figure, whatever you would like to call it, didn’t speak—just like what had happened with his previous encounter.

His body was warning him. His ears started to ring, a high pitched sound slowly growing in intensity alongside the beginning drops of cold sweat going down his face. And unlike the other figure, this one made his neck burn. As if someone was reaching out and pressing multiple candles to his skin. And for the first time he forced his gaze upwards, feeling his vision tunneling by the second. “…What are you?” Matteo asked, in a sore voice while his feet unconsciously tried to make him retreat backwards. But he didn’t need an answer. Perhaps a part of him didn’t want to believe it, or didn’t know if to believe it. He knew what he was staring at.

The most beautiful creature in God’s creation.

But it certainly wasn't happy about this meeting. It didn’t take long for the angel to know what type of man he was looking at. Invisible blood on his hands and a deep seated guilt that wouldn’t go away as much as he wanted to. And there was only one word he knew, and one word he hated, to describe him.

“A sinner,” Cassiel growled, a scowl forming on his face as his eyes pierced through the poet’s. Matteo said nothing, and the angel continued after the silence. He knew the rules of this place. His pale blue hand twitched at his side, almost as if it was trying to control itself from doing something impulsive or reaching for an object to his right side. “Your time has not come just yet, but when it does, you won’t be spared easily. No soul like yours will.”

They didn’t exchange anything else, as Matteo’s feet carried him away as fast as they could.

It made sense. “Jacob went on his way, and the angels of God met him.” Crouzier knew. He knew about his eventual encounter with an angel, and to mock him further he even cited a verse to warn him. A real angel. But was it actually real? How did he know? It must have been a coincidence.

But nothing about this mansion was ever a coincidence.

He suppressed the urge to vomit. Trying to find balance with steps that turned eventually into a sprint, he knocked over objects in his wake with shaky hands; palms tracing the walls for support. Decorative paintings, candleholders, even a couple of porcelain plates. Every sound fell silent on his ears. What now? Where to go? He didn’t have a clue. But once again, he can’t seem to have a second to breathe before he stumbles into another member.

“Do you know where the quiet boy is?”

A soft voice slightly took him out of his impending meltdown. Matteo’s chest heaved with harsh pants, and leaned into his staff which he almost dropped after he was caught by another figure—this time thankfully more human looking. A woman with mellow eyes; a strange aura around her. Her pastel blue curls with a slight hint of purple framed her pale face, that almost seemed translucent. He didn’t think anything of it, otherwise he’d go insane. Or maybe he already has.

“N…No, ma’am,” the hermit politely answered. The last thing he wanted was trouble and being disrespectful towards anyone wouldn’t do, even in this hellish place. Truth be told, he had no idea who she was talking about or her name, but he wasn’t in the best shape to make small talk. “My, you’re so shaken…it looks like you’ve seen a ghost!” Winola laughed, far from mean yet, at the same time, not friendly either.

The furthest depths of Matteo’s mind told him that she was a ghost and that he should keep running for his life, but for the sake of his safety he buried that thought.

“Still, thank you. I’ll find him…oh, I know I’ll find him.”

The hushed end of her sentence and a weird, obsessive glint in her eyes was his cue to leave, and fast.

Matteo went back where he came from, but this time the crossroads had even more hallways. This, surely, is a part of his imagination. There was no way it couldn’t be. He glanced side to side, feeling the sinking sensation on his gut that Cassiel could return at any time. He was about to go down the hall behind him, but remembered his first encounter. The man with the puncture wounds that resembled someone familiar. Was that a member too? Or was this place just peeling away at his rational side?

He took a turn to the left, and seemingly encountered no one. A moment of respite.

The sweat was getting unbearable, so the poet reached upwards to take off his hat to then place it on top of the staff, balancing it as he went along. The laurel crown wrapped around his dark wavy hair, all the while he took deep breaths that left in shaky exhales. More candleholders, pictures with framed people he didn’t know and doors that wouldn’t open greeted him from both sides, until he finally reached a different place than the suffocating hallway.

It seemed to be a dead end, judging by the structure of it. There were three walls surrounding a bigger space, in which were multiple doors that had hanging signs with names. ‘Luck’, ‘Cherith’, ‘Dandelion Ivy’, ‘Aurora’, ‘Hayden’, ‘Cato’, and a lot more. How many people reside in this place? Matteo thought. By the right corner of the room, there was a small lit fireplace alongside a couch and a wool carpet beneath it. It seemed it was a space to rest—and the poet might have relaxed if it weren't for the presence of yet another person.

A blue haired child; no, man? Person? Was lying on his stomach on the wooden floor, infatuated with a piece of paper he was doodling and painting in while his legs dangled upwards in the air. He wore a button up with a cardigan, comfortable clothes for someone who looked comfortable. Finally, a normal human that didn’t seem out of the ordinary. But if this mansion had taught Matteo anything, it is not to underestimate appearances.

He approached quietly, but the thumping of his staff made the stranger look up from his drawing. As their eyes met, the blue haired flashed a toothed smile. “I haven’t seen you around before…what’s your name?” He asked.

The poet has never been so relieved to hear a mundane question. “My…I am…Matteo,” he answered, not giving a last name. Even though it was the easiest thing to answer, he still took a couple of seconds due to his dry throat and still being shaken by what had happened.

“Well, I’m Cato! Have you seen a girl around? Her name is Thyme! Have you? She’s sweet! And she has very lovely eyes!”

The only thing Matteo wondered was if many people went missing inside the mansion or if members had the worst luck ever. “Uh…no…I have yet to meet or see anyone named that. Or…have ‘lovely’ eyes. I…apologize.” Was the only thing he could answer. Once again, appearances had fooled him. So, before anything supernatural took him by surprise, he decided to retreat.

He dipped his head softly, nodding at Cato as a way of an unspoken goodbye. He turned around, trying to get a steady breathing back into his lungs and to figure a way out. That is what he wanted to do from the beginning, didn't he? Find an exit. By all means necessary.

Now dragging his feet, the hermit had no clue where to go. He was back at a crossroads, both physically and mentally while Casimir’s words still bothered him in his mind. This is your new home. How could a place like this ever be his new home? It didn’t make sense. Nothing about his situation did. But he did the only thing he knew it would ground him back to reality, just after spotting a different path—an upwards staircase.

With shaky, heavy steps and an even heavier heart, he started to climb the flight of stairs. And while doing so, hushed, trembling words fell from his lips between huffs alongside the soft clicking of wooden beads.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

“And thus my mind in deep abstraction held,—Gazed fixedly, immovable, absorbed,—And ever gazing more enraptured grew.” —Paradiso, Canto XXXIII

A cough shook Matteo, just as he was getting used to the sensation of the cold air piercing his lungs like sharp needles.

He had reached what seemed like a vast hallway, though unlike the previous ones, this one was wider and there was more space to breathe. Nevertheless, it didn’t help. The cold sweat that his body persisted on producing as a defense mechanism was making his hands slippery and weakening his grip on his staff. He glanced upwards at the lantern; he had to change the tiny candle inside soon that was fighting not to go out. There was still a persisting ring on his ears, but it was nothing compared to what he had experienced before.

His mind still hadn’t properly processed what happened. But then again, he wasn’t even sure if what he saw was a product of his brain or not. He’s seen visions like those before; angels that looked like they were taken from the greatest sculptors’ works and were given life, saints that moved like puppets made out of mosaics on strings, otherworldly mothers that shielded the wounded under her veil. But all of them had one thing in common. They always glared at him from afar, almost  as a mirage on the poet’s mind.

Yet the encounter with the angel, whose name Matteo didn’t know, was different. He acknowledged him. Cassiel saw his worth and imparted immediate judgement, even though he hadn’t done anything physical to him. But had the hermit met them outside this place, he would already be wailing between fields of fire in his eternal punishment—a place that he now realizes could actually be real and not a concept he’s prayed to avoid.

Matteo swallowed, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead to feel an unusual warmth—similar to touching a porcelain cup with lukewarm tea. The last time he felt this way was when he first arrived, limbs that barely obeyed and tremors on his shoulders that’d startle him occasionally. Still, with enough patience, he would eventually stumble across his own room. He wouldn’t be able to find an exit in this state, much less confront Casimir again or anyone else in this limbo.

The sound of something, someone, shuffling made him stop once more. Matteo had already met and ran from so many things that night, what else could come by to torment him? But these steps were not only firm, but somehow light. They imposed a clear presence where even a blind man could notice, yet they didn’t feel exactly threatening. That, or his senses were failing him once more, which wasn’t an option he couldn’t rule out. 

With a tight grip onto a nearby mahogany table, Matteo didn’t dare look up. He had seen so much, both real and fake, what could his mind or this place come up with this time? The poet could feel the sweat accumulating on the back of his neck, even with the hat off. He must have caught a cold, or his body was trying to make him flee again.

But the sight of a hand reaching for him almost…comforted him. If he encountered Cato back then, why couldn’t he come across more regular humans like him? Like the rest of the people in charge of the mansion? Though the moment he actually realized what he was staring at, he froze while looking at the floor.

The ends of said hand were topped with long, dark nails. The skin of it was a pale white, almost blue in its appearance. And the wrist that connected it to the arm was obscured by, yet again, chestnut colored feathers. Matteo was as still as a statue; he didn’t want to look up and find yet another pair of narrowed eyes that reminded him of what his soul was made of. Once he found the minute courage he had left in him, the hermit glanced upwards—having to even tilt his head to take a good look at what was before him.

Before he knew it, his vision had fully tunneled and his knees gave away.

—— ☆ ——

Whether it had been a couple of minutes or hours, Matteo felt the transition of time in a blink. His head rested on a pillow and felt heavy to lift. The warmth in his body and the coldness of his hands were still present. It took him several beats of silence to realize he wasn’t in his room, but was resting on a padded windowsill with the curtains open; the clear crystal giving him a view of the outside. A dark forest with leafless trees surrounded the mansion, as far as the eye could see. No sign of where he came from, no other structure that indicated other life.

“...Are you feeling any better?” A steady but not unkind voice rippled through the silence that was only filled with the storm outside. Matteo whipped his head towards the origin of the sound, only to try backing up against the window in terror.

It stood at about a head taller, perhaps even more. Because the poet had no way of seeing its face due to the mask it wore, he couldn’t discern any type of emotion or judgement; a double edged sword that brought him both discomfort and maybe even a sense of relief. The colors of the dull cloak over its body was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. He hadn’t noticed the crown and cross. Or maybe he did, and that is what was causing his stomach to hurt.

Having gotten no answer, the stranger lowered himself to the ground, sitting on top of a carpet and raised his fluffy arms in sign of surrender. “I mean no harm,” he said softly, although Matteo acted before he could process his words. Not allowing his body to fully recover, he stood up with a newfound urgency and held his staff—which had been placed near the windowsill—towards the figure. “Who are you?” He urged. “What are you?”

“My name is Jeremiah, I reside here. What about you?” Something inside the raven-haired’s mind screamed at him to run at the sight of the large wings and bird-like feet, but he couldn’t move. “I…I am Matteo,” He replied with a shaky voice. “I am…visiting this place.” 

The reply seemingly satisfied Jeremiah, who shuffled to stand up and made the almost-panicking hermit retreat a couple of steps. “Before you lost consciousness, I heard you pray; the ‘Our Father’.” Matteo didn’t say a word, but the slight furrow of his brows and scrunch of his nose was enough confirmation to let the owl know it was indeed him.

Silence made its presence known for a moment, yet it was broken when the owl took a step forward and the poet a step back. But it wasn’t long before they were both in front of each other in less than an arm’s reach. Matteo wanted to move back, but he wasn’t able to. His feet rebelled against his mind again.

“Praying with such devotion…is not common.” Jeremiah started. “What troubles you has haunted you for long…too long.” The tall figure before Matteo was getting blurry. Whether it was from his sight or his tears, he didn’t know. And even if that same hand that had terrified him at first was inching closer to him, he couldn’t move. “It might not mean anything coming from me, but regardless…”

“Truly…your faith is beautiful.”

Nothing could’ve prepared Matteo for such words. 

And because he knew nothing else, he turned and fled the room as quickly as he could.

A myriad of thoughts crossed his mind, but there was only one coherent thing he concluded. This mansion was going to drive him insane, sooner or later. He was so absorbed that when he no longer felt a solid surface beneath his feet, it took him longer than usual to realize he was falling down the staircase he had climbed.

Sharp waves of pain hit his sides, legs and even head, which only made orienting himself even harder. The wooden staff fell alongside him and the lantern, which by that point had already gone out. The poet was lucky enough to not have landed on top of it, but he knew that fresh bruises would form later. For now, he needed to get somewhere, anywhere else. He was even willing to go out in the rain.

Oddly enough, after he gathered the bare minimum of strength to stand, Matteo realized he had ended up in a large staircase landing of a dim yellow color, similar to the one of aged paper and not the usual wooden structure. His heart felt like a small bird trapped inside a cage, beating wildly as if it could get out if it tried hard enough.

The rapid heartbeat made his breaths leave faster than normal, and every time he tried to take a deep breath his sternum would ache like a puncture wound would. A puncture wound. Like the ones that man also had. Was he a resident too? Was this seemingly endless staircase downwards evidence of his perturbed mind or more cruel taunts of this place?

Once again, bile started to rise up and burn his throat as he went down the spiral staircase that made him dizzy. He reached to his left side, looking inside his bag for a thick book that wasn’t there. The sudden memory flash hit him; he had left it back in his room after a couple of intimidating looking twins had knocked on his door to say that the butler wished to have a conversation and dinner with him. Without a journal or ink to write down on, what could he use to later know what was true and what wasn’t? Suddenly, he remembered what he had done before. In a place that looked just like this. Back in the tower. 

The whole world is a canvas. And he, the ink.

Holding the reed pen with his right hand until his knuckles went white, Matteo realized he had made the deep cut in the gap between his left forearm and upper arm when he saw the vivid red liquid drop down to the stair he was standing on. But the pen wasn’t large enough. No, it wasn’t. How could it be when he was such a large space to use?

Using his trembling pointer and middle finger, he gathered enough blood to write on the first surface he saw—the cramped walls of the staircase. With lagged vision, heavy lidded eyes and a sense of a fog slowly taking over his mind, he wrote anything he could think of. Where he was. What he felt. Prayers, pleads, plans. Everything.

Down, downwards, and even downwards, Matteo kept descending. He could feel the vital fluid gush out of his arm, but strangely enough no stinging pain after the initial cut. The sound of fluttering wings, coins falling to the floor and a rhythmic hammering noise crowded his already full head. Laughter. Glass clinking. A rope creaking. It was almost sensory overload.

Almost losing his balance again, Matteo leaned into the staff with his uninjured arm while going down the stairs that never seemed to end. He passed a hand over his forehead, smudging dry blood on it right before his now bloodshot eyes caught something different. A door. Or rather, a makeshift door.

Three long lines of dark blue tape stuck to the wall. Two parallel to each other, and the other above them united both to form a doorframe. Nobody rational would ever think of going through, but the poet leaned his back against the wall behind him to gather strength and walked into it as the ringing in his ears was becoming unbearable.

Darkness consumed his consciousness.

—— ☆ ——

The smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils first, before he even opened his eyes. Muffled steps, noises and voices echoed in his ears; he was able to count at least three different voices of various pitches. A small deer girl, a retired detective and a kind nurse sat near the bed he laid on. “I…I found him outside his room…I really thought he was dead, or something…”

“It’s okay, little Cherith. You’re fine.” Ellis ruffled the girl’s hair with a half smile, trying to comfort her like the child he always wanted. “Willow’s an excellent healer, he’ll be alright.” Cherith only nodded, leaning in to check on the semi-unconscious poet once more with innocent care before sitting just beside Matteo—the mattress barely dipping due to her light weight. Her fluffy ears were droopy and pointed forwards, still concerned.

Willow shifted, placing a strand of soft pink of her own hair behind her ear after setting down a roll of bandages on a sterilized steel tray behind her. “Yes, he’ll most likely recover in a few days. He had a really bad fever and a wound on his left arm that… appeared to be self-inflicted. Ellis, you mentioned something about his room. What…happened?”

The man sighed, crossing his arms. “I’m…not really sure myself. After running into Cherith and telling her to get you, I did go inside.” His brows furrowed, recalling the memory of an hour ago. “It was a mess. Someone’s probably taking care of that now, but…it looked like the storm outside had come into his room.”

Ellis looked past the beds of the infirmary, where now Cherith was looking through the window at the falling rain. It was like she almost knew that they were having a serious conversation. He scratched the side of his jaw before continuing in a lower tone. “The walls were covered with it. With his blood, I mean. I have no clue why or…what even was written. It was just…total gibberish. I’ve seen my share of things…but never anything like that. I’m only glad little Cherith didn’t see that.”

Willow said nothing for a while, looking back at Matteo. Everyone looked younger when they were asleep or knocked out cold, but in the hermit’s case it wasn't just that. He almost looked…relieved. Like instead of resting his body on a bed in a small infirmary, he was lying on a warm cloud that took all his worries away. And knowing it was nothing but a temporary state, made the nurse’s chest twinge with compassion.

“We have to explain to Rosemary and Casimir that…whatever happened inside his room; he didn’t do anything in a rational state.” She sighed, her blue eyes flashing a bit of fear. “They won’t be happy about the material damage…or at least, I know Casimir won’t be. Both might even tell Trickster about this…”

“I don’t know about those two, but I’m pretty sure Trickster won’t be as…worried. Or mad. She’s almost never here, ain't she? Besides, she always finds things amusing. Or something of the sort. I don’t know…” he trailed off. Willow slightly but quickly tilted her head to the side in quiet agreement. 

Matteo’s throat was as dry as a desert and his whole body ached, but somehow…he felt safe. Slightly unsettled, but safe. Just like when he had spoken with Jeremiah. Even if he wanted to, the poet wasn’t be able to think properly. He had heard bits and pieces of the conversation, but not enough to know that they were talking about him and what had happened. The blurriness of memories and the fading fine line that separated reality and imagination confused him to no end.

His vision was unfocused while he slowly opened his eyes, as if he were doing so underwater. He had to squint to get a better look at whoever was in front of him, and he saw her. Raven hair like his, dark green eyes with a kind smile that matched a saint’s. He turned his head and reached out with a hand alongside a hoarse, weak voice. “Beatrice…?”

Both Ellis and Willow looked up to Matteo. “Oh, he’s waking up,” she pointed out while standing straight—ready to get back to work. He, on the other side, looked at his watch. “I’ll go see what’s happening. Maybe ask around if someone else knows anything too.” She nodded. 

The former detective left the infirmary, and it was just the deer, the nurse, and the poet. She looked in a cabinet for an IV bag and a butterfly needle. He most likely would fully regain consciousness in the following hours, and so would the pain. “Cherith, dear…won’t you help me out?” The girl turned at the mention of her name, and nodded enthusiastically.

Matteo closed his eyes once more, slowly remembering where he was. Of course, the mansion. A place where apparently, no matter which path he took, would return to the beginning. An ouroboric cycle, a pattern that repeated itself throughout its halls and rooms. Almost like his past purgatory—just that this time, the visions of comfort and hope might actually be part of his reality.

For now, the only thing he could hope for was to get used to the taste of copper and the sight of mahogany furniture.

Mentioned/Alluded Charaters Credits;

Luck → @lucytsukii

Dandelion Ivy → @diamondburger1

Aurora → @anaguel-bianca-34x

Hayden, Rosemary & Trickster → @boiling-potato

﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒Taglist! → @dankgrass @chubbky @diamondburger1 @anaguel-bianca-34x @coolgalaxybutter-somewhere @googlyeyes-blogs

In order!

Calathea ivy belongs to @diamondburger1 (I wanted to draw her for such a long time! 🫪)

Echo belongs to @gachaclubideas (I told you I love their female form so much! 💕💕)

Amaya belongs to @amayalee-sweetheart (I love her so much bro, she's such an icon 🥹)

Dove belongs to @myluckymoon (bro, I told you I need to draw this cinnamon roll! 😭)

Lila vrown belongs to @fangedbelladonna (My innocent goober that did no wrong 😔)

Lady Seraphina belongs to @k3nnyb4by (because uhh people are still asking about him in my inbox 🫪🫪)

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