#augustine parkhurst

"If Max was the scalpel-sharp reason... ...Then, Augustine was the spark of inspiration."

[Photo Credit: “Through the Keyhole”  Rick Harrison]

In this house he was nothing more than a specter.

         A mere shadow clinging to the walls…

                     Watching…

                                 Waiting…

                                             Craving more…

Moonlight through the port window cast a thin silver glow across the room. The same room he spent many a night lying awake in. Staring up at the ceiling, wading through waves of melancholy. A room within a house that never quite felt like home. Not when every trace of his existence was wiped clean. Banished to the attic. Left to gather dust along with the other knick-knacks. Even his shadow wasn’t allowed amongst the guests. Too dark to match the drapes. Too ugly for her taste.

He stood backlit before the room. A smear of a silhouette dancing across the walls as he gathered anything of worth to him. It wasn’t much. An extra pair of clothes, a few select books, and a dilapidated plush fox were all stuffed into a worn satchel. Nothing they’d miss.

Barely a whisper, he stole from the room on light feet. Crept down from the attic and onto the second-floor hall. A warm glow crawled across the floorboards. Light from the parlor peeked through the banister posts in winding strips. Laughter drifted up from the party. Carried with it a thick, salty tang of overcooked roast; it turned his stomach cold. The party sounded as if it were in full revelry. Glasses clinked and ladies chirped. An occasional grunt from a drunkard rolled in every now and again. He swallowed hard and ducked into a fold of shadows. Only his eyes were visible beneath his shroud, shining bright as he peered at the hall’s end.

The door stood slightly ajar. Inside laid vague shapes: a bed post and maybe two nightstands. Everything draped in a veil of moonlight spilling from an open window. A cool, crisp breeze slipped through. Came and caressed his cheek, eddying him on. He canted his head and listened for another uproar of laughter. When it rolled like thunder, he scurried across the hall and slithered into the room. He muffled the hinge as he closed the door behind him. The pictures on the walls watched as he drew towards the vanity with absent smiles. He threw them a rueful glance. Let them judge. 

On the vanity’s edge rested an ornate jewelry box that glistened without the aid of any light. His hands twitched over the lock. Desire and foreboding churned in his stomach; tumbling over one another in the endless expanse. His gaze crept up to the vanity’s mirror. 

The boy laid in the awkward in-between of child and man, hovering precariously over its precipice. Eyes too big and glossy to be handsome, but too sunken and guilt riddled to be cute. This boy rarely smiled. And when he did, they were forced and fake. He used those smiles to spit out lies and convoluted truths. Each time tearing a tiny piece of innocence from his chest; each time ripping a shred of himself. Eventually, he tore a hole in his heart. One in the shape of the Shadow which peered into the mirror. 

He hardly recognized the reflection; and neither did reflection recognize him. Nothing to each other but a stranger in the way. 

An acrid taste pooled behind his tongue the longer he stared the reflection. How he hated those sad, pathetic eyes. How he wished to dismiss the boy in the mirror. Throw something at him so he’d scurry back to the attic. But just as his hand curled around a brush’s handle, he heard the subtlest of sounds. 

The door creaked open.

Panicked chills danced up his spine. Tongue thick and dry in his mouth, he scavenged the room for a place to hide... 

Light pooled around the crown-molding as a beast of a man stumbled in. The floorboards protested his heavy-trodden steps towards the bed. Bleary-eyed and rosy cheeked, the man peeled off his shirt and threw it aside. Scratched under a fold of back fat. Cleared his throat of snot and spat into a washbowl left on the nightstand. A tired sigh rumbled from his chest as the man pitched forward and collapsed into the sheets. Nothing but silence to fill the air.

And hidden in a cove of shadows, He waited. He whose face was not pictured in any frame lining the wall. He who was little more than a shadow. Augustine waited until he forgot he was waiting. Until he forgot there was anything outside of himself but the dark and the quiet. For that was all he was… Small, Dark, and Quiet.

As he should be… 

             As it is written.

The quiet was short lived as a snore cut through the still air. Relieve warmed his chilled fingers. He gave silent thanks to the Tide before easing himself off his haunches. A final glance was given towards the mirror. The reflection had gone off and hid. Frightened by the man slumbering in his bed. A sly grin tugged at the edge of His lips. As all things should be, he supposed. 

He stole from the shadows and approached the silver box, licking his lips. Open the box....

His palms itched.

           Close the box...

His heart skipped.

            Open...

Augustine Parkhurst by: @minoruru

Auggie art! Auggie art! Auggie art! 

Perhaps he could not find respite in the shadows of their shared hearth, the second chair now occupied by someone else,  but he could still find it  within dust-filmed tomes. The bell’s chime welcomed Augustine into Stacks. It was  an old, decrepit bookstore. Haphazardly wedged between two towering buildings, as if it’s been an afterthought.  Even late in the evening, as Augustine had left the house at nine bells, the door to the shop remained unlocked. Ever confident was the Archivist in her security measures. The runes of her ingenuitive mind were etched into the doorframe, their lament light barely visible. He blinked up at them, flashed a smile, and stepped inside. Immediately the young man was met by the dower countenance of the Archivist. A gnome, who showed the first signs of grey as testament to her age, by the name of Tinkara, perched behind an adjacent counter. The ledger sprawled across her desk marked by a quill as she peered over horn-rimmed glasses.

“Hello again, Augustine.” She spared no time for pleasantries. Any kind word to be offered by him promptly silenced by an upheld hand. She licked a fingertip and flipped a few pages in her ledger. The crow’s feet at her eyes deepened as she strained to read. Her lips puckered in an indignant pout, nail tracing along a line of text. “Here we go.  Alchemical Principles and Runic Associations,” -she quirked a thin brow- “Just got it in, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

He forced his smile to grow beyond its limits, revealing a sliver of teeth, while he stuffed any misgivings down his throat. The passenger in his bag squirmed. “Oh,” he chittered, clutching his satchel’s strap in a  white-knuckled grip. “Um...Not tonight, actually. I was just looking to browse.”

“Hmph.” Tinkara squinted. Milky gaze traipsed up and along his length until it lingered on his face. Another chuff. She flipped the ledger closed with a satisfying smack. “Look to your heart’s content, I suppose.”

“Thank you.”

Just as he turned to leave, Tinkara beckoned him back. “One moment, Augustine.”

He froze in the aisle, gaze fixed on some distant point. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You don’t have that cat with you, do you?”

His laugh was effortless. Light and airy, he expelled it like any other breath as he shook his head- extra sure to jostle his curls just so. “Of course not.” He looked over his shoulder to the Archivist, canting his head. “Wouldn’t dream of bringing her inside. Not after what happened last time.”

“Uh. Huh.” Tinkara pushed the spectacles further up her nose. She gave Augustine another once over.  “I should hope so.” She waved him on.

Augustine dipped his head in gratitude and scurried down the seemingly endless aisle of books. That was the magic of Stacks.  It’s exterior belied little of it’s interior. A street view would lead by-passers believing the shop to be little more than an insubstantial accrual of second-hand books. Only those who ventured inside knew the truth-- that the shop was bigger on the inside. Augustine ventured down the aisle, hand trailing along the spines of leather-bound books, and veered right when the path forked. And continued to choose right whenever the opportunity presented itself.  Further and further, he dove into the labyrinth. His shadow growing into itself by glow of alchemical lanterns. The tension in his shoulders began to unwound as the thick shelves swallowed any idle sounds made by the Archivist. Sure that he had placed enough distance between himself and her, Augustine paused. Knelt down and opened his satchel. From its fold, a black coil spilled onto the floor. A pleasant purr rolled from the feline shade as she nudged his hand.

“Yes, hello.” Augustine ran his hand down Calcifer’s back, and smiled when she rewarded him with the languid swish of her tail. He rose onto his haunches, arm extended down. “Come on then.” A devious smile curled at his lips as he added in a haughty tone, “As it please you, my Shadow.”

Green gaze wrinkled beneath the weight of the cat’s smug grin. She plodded up his arm and curled herself around his neck- tail coiled just under his chin.  

The two continued their journey- always right, never left- until they reached the emporium’s heart. The endless line of books opened into a central chamber lit by alchemical lanterns and furnished with a handful of weathered tables and accompanying chairs. A few ink pots and quills dotted the separate work spaces for anyone who chose to use them, stacks of parchment kept at the head of each table. Everything always kept in order, no matter the occasion, by an unseen force which enacted on the Archivist’s demand for organization.

Augustine expected the space to be vacant, as it normally was at this time of evening, and found himself a bit miffed when a mysterious man occupied his favored spot. A Kaldorei reclined back in the chair closest to the trolley of books. One hand supported the back of his head while the other held a weathered-novel folded back on its spine. He read with an impassive countenance. Skimmed through the pages as if they were little more than filler.

Retorts churned in Augustine’s stomach. Unsure if he could muster them beyond a shy whisper, he continued to swallow them down. His fingers flexing as they worked the icy-pricks of annoyance from his hands. Resolving to leave the man alone and choose another spot, he turned on his heel-

-and froze when the gentleman cleared his throat.

“Master Parkhurst?”

“...He found no solace in the home of the Light. Those cold, empty pews sent shivers down his spine. To believe in fate written by a sole force was to revoke one’s own agency in the coming of destiny. No. He grew more at ease the further he traveled from the Light’s touch. Felt at home in the warm embrace of the shadows. For it was in the small and the dark that his craft was recognized for all its worth. Augustine was a man of science. Equal parts philosopher to chemist. He was an Alchemist.“