Something Wicked Ch. 16

John’s gaze flicked warily from one floating orb of light to the next. The air crackled with frozen fury, a tangible pressure building, and the chorus of howling wind seemed to take on words of its own.

He flexed his fingers, the weight of the Ebony Blade growing more prominent against his spine, heating him from the shoulder blades down. For a moment, his mind danced between two impulses: draw the weapon, or keep it sheathed. But that decision was made the instant he saw the spectral woman’s grin grow and saw that glimmer of sadistic intent in her hollow eyes.

He swung his pack off one arm, letting it tumble to the snow with a muffled thud. A little lighter, a little freer. The orbs moved in a restless orbit around their mistress, bright as miniature moons, each one humming with a dread that set John’s nerves on edge.

A slow, measured breath. No fear, only focus. That’s how he survived everything else. That’s how he’d survive this.

His hand slipped up to the hilt strapped behind his shoulder, found the cruel curve of the Daedric artifact. The Ebony Blade seemed to stir, as if it had been waiting for an invitation.

In one fluid motion, he pulled it free, the metal singing softly in the chill air.

The specter glided closer, her torn-silk body undulating. Another swirl of snowy wind battered John’s exposed face, cutting like razors. The creature emitted an eerie keening from a mouth too wide, too sharp.

“Such a fool.” She - it? - hissed, voice resonating in half a dozen registers at once. “Why cling to hope, to love, when all that awaits you is the eternal hush of oblivion?”

John ground his teeth, resisting the flicker of memory that threatened to freeze him in place. He let his stance settle, knees slightly bent, blade angled low. No wasted motion. Every breath was deliberate, a reminder that he was still alive.

“Cut the theatrics.” He rasped, voice gruff like gravel underfoot, “Let’s finish this.”

Her eyes flashed. One of those pale orbs darted out, sizzling as it tore through the frosty air toward him. He pivoted to the side, the orb streaking past with a crackle, leaving a trail of cold sparks fluttering like dying fireflies. At once, a second orb launched, then a third, their paths unpredictable and swift.

John pivoted, twisted, the Ebony Blade humming at the edges of his senses. He slashed at the first sphere within reach, bracing for a collision. The sword bit into the shimmering light, and for an instant, it felt as though the orb resisted. Then it burst, scattering shards of freezing mist that momentarily numbed his hand.

In that same instant, vitality itself seemed to coalesce in the Blade, feeding into John’s bones. He could feel his lost vigor, all from the encroaching winds, come back in an instant. Not all of it, but enough to know that the Blade had something to do with it.

Nevermind the sheer glee he could feel from the Artifact.

Nevertheless, there was a moment of pause as the apparition seemed to take into account just what John had in his hands. The former assassin took that moment to get into a stance, the curved Blade held above his head, feet spread in preparation.

Odachi were not his preferred weapons, obviously, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to use one.

There. An opening. John lunged forward, closing the distance between himself and the floating menace. The specter hissed, flinging her will behind another barrage of orbs. They spun around him in frenzied arcs, seeking his blind spots. He ducked, weaving beneath an orb’s lethal pass, then struck at a second, feeling a sharp jolt up his forearm when it shattered against his blade.

The creature shrieked, her voice layered in malice. Tendrils of ghostly vapor gathered at her fingertips. She flung them like ribbons of ice, and John felt the temperature plummet as they coiled around him, brushing his shoulders, scraping across his neck. It was like being pressed against a glacier, his breath stuttered, limbs momentarily stiff.

The Ebony Blade roared in defiance.

Pulsing energy ran from the hilt into his arm, a cold wave followed by a searing throb, and he felt a distant anger. A feral creature let off the leash.

No, not even that. He could feel it. Had that creature been let out, nothing would have stopped it. All he was feeling was the echoes of what it could but didn’t do.

He summoned every bit of resolve, ignoring the gnaw of icy wind, and hurled himself into a forward slash. The Ebony Blade cut through her swirling form, passing through as though slicing thick fog. She reared back, screeching, her spectral visage warping in grotesque fury. The impact wasn’t as clean as it would have been on flesh and bone, yet the reaction was immediate: the wisp-like body flickered, losing shape for a moment.

“Die.” The apparition spat, voice roiling with wrath. She unleashed a fresh storm of orbs, faster now, streaks of pale light that crackled like miniature lightning strikes.

John’s heart hammered. He inhaled once and pushed off his back foot. The swirling barrage zeroed in. One orb clipped his shoulder, so cold it burned. His vision blurred for a heartbeat. He staggered, but stayed upright. Another came at him from the side, and he spun, Ebony Blade raised. The orb met its edge and detonated in a flash of silver sparks.

She was on him before the light had even faded, those elongated fingers lancing forward raking across his cloak's sleeve. He felt the tear of pelt, the scratch of cold just shy of breaking skin.

He countered, thrusting the Ebony Blade upward. The point of the sword found a purchase, lodging inside the apparition in a way that made his head hurt. She writhed, limbs stretching in directions that made no sense, edges of her body blurring. For a heartbeat, she looked almost human again - Helen’s hair flickering back into place, that sideways tilt of her head - but the illusion flashed and died. Only the wraith remained, howling under the Blade's edge.

John pressed harder, pushing the Ebony Blade deeper. He could feel the crackling energy coursing through him: the artifact seemed to feed on her essence, devouring her presence like a starved beast. The wispy arms flailed, trying to cling to him, but he jerked free, wrenching the sword sideways in a savage motion meant to end the threat.

A high-pitched wail erupted from the phantom woman. In that moment, her body collapsed into swirling ribbons of light. Each ribbon unraveled further, scattering into the cold wind like thistledown in winter. One final orb pulsed above the broken ruin, shivering on the edge of existence, before it, too, imploded in a quiet pop of energy.

The silence afterward was stunning. No moan of the spirit, no hiss of unholy cold. John’s breath came in ragged gasps, the night air an ice-pick against his lungs. He stood there, sword held low, chest heaving, as the final glimmers of her presence faded into the gloom.

John stayed still for a heartbeat, letting his senses fill the absence of that shrieking spirit. Every puff of his breath hung in the air, each vapor-cloud rising then vanishing, as if frightened away by the darkness itself. In the hush, the Ebony Blade pulsed against his hand, and he felt a subtle wave coursing through him.

His muscles ceased trembling. The numbness in his fingers receded. Strangely, he sensed a prickling energy snaking up his spine, into his shoulders, draining the weight of fatigue from his limbs. He recognized the sensation: the Blade was feeding him strength, siphoning vitality from the kill it had claimed. A twisted reward.

“Enough.” John muttered, though it was unclear if he was speaking to the Blade or to himself. His voice sounded rough, too loud in the empty ruin.

He wiped his brow with the back of his gloved hand, half expecting to see frost clinging there. But the Ebony Blade’s unnatural heat had already chased away the worst of the chill.

“Acceptable, if an unconventional sacrifice, I suppose.”

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. The cold stopped. His blood froze in his veins. No howling wind. Just the voice. One that John couldn’t even tell was male or female. The only certainty was that it was wrong.

The voice purred again, impossibly close.

“Yes, you have done quite well, I think.”

“Who’s there?” He called out into the wind, only half sure he wanted an answer. His breath fogged before him, drifting in the hush.

A soft laugh fluttered from nowhere. The laugh unfurled and coalesced, gradually taking shape inside his head.

“Oh, you do amuse me. But I do enjoy a good question.”

John exhaled slowly, focusing on keeping his balance. He lifted the Ebony Blade just a fraction. “Show yourself.”

“I am shown in every betrayal, my champion, and in every whispered secret.”

A faint ripple of dark amusement crawled through his veins, twining with his pulse. The temperature seemed to waver, as though the frigid air had shifted to a sweltering heat for the span of a heartbeat.

“I am Mephala. And you… you are my instrument.”

It wasn’t from everywhere, the voice, John realized. It was echoing right out from the Ebony Blade itself. In that instant, John tried to let go of the Blade, only to find his hand stuck as if dipped in glue. 

“To think, you would try to let me go so easily? Have we not bonded in the heat of battle?”

Had he been more gullible, he might’ve been taken by the almost-hurt in the bodiless voice. However, he’d known men and women who’d lied for a living. Seeing through the falsities in the Daedric Prince’s words was almost too easy.

And he was certain this was the very same Mephala that Balgruuf had warned him about.

He felt a trickle of sweat slide down his temple, a misplaced warmth in the frigid air. In spite of himself, he forced his shoulders to uncoil, adopting a posture of controlled calm. For years, he’d learned how to talk to dangerous people while keeping his heart from climbing up his throat. This might’ve been another sort of monster altogether, but the principle was the same.

“What do you want?” He bit out. Mephala’s laugh poured into his consciousness, as if flowing through the very marrow of his bones.

“I want to witness your unraveling, dear champion.”

A shudder rippled down John’s spine. He glanced around, as though searching for an exit that wasn’t there. “I’m not your champion.”

A languid sigh threaded directly into his mind.

“Yet you embrace the Blade. You take what it offers. Strength, sustenance, then claim it is not yours. Such pretty deceptions.”

John felt his jaw tighten. The cold pressed in again, sharpening the edges of the shattered pillars around him. The ruins stood, silent and patient, like ancient judges waiting to see what verdict he would deliver. “I didn’t choose you.” He growled. “I just needed a weapon.”

An amused purr coiled along the base of his skull.

“A mere weapon you say, yet you wear my power like a second skin. How ungrateful.”

“Nothing about you demands gratitude.” he said, voice low and cold. A soft chuckle slithered through his mind.

“Ah, mortal indignation. Such a familiar taste.”

John’s jaw tightened as he remained silent.

There came a patient murmur, an undercurrent of silk-laced amusement.

"Once again with the silence? Nevertheless, you have wielded my Blade, my Will given form. From now on, every breath you take, every life you claim, every day you survive…you further my Will."

“I refuse.”

“Whether you accept or not matters little to me. Know that I shall watch you, dear champion. I have all eternity, and you have become quite the interesting puzzle. I shall enjoy seeing that puzzle break.”

The voice faded, but the feeling of being watched did not leave in the slightest. If anything, it increased tenfold. As soon as John found he could move again, he dropped the Ebony Blade onto the snow. It sank as if melting the snow around it. 

As much as he wanted to leave it there, now that he knew what would happen if someone else picked it up, he knew that he would not be able to live with himself if he did so. Nobody deserved to be the pawn of a literal demon.

He needed to get to the Vigilants as fast as possible.

With a grimace, John fished out the Blade from the ground. It had already sunk several inches, but the moment his hand came close to the handle, it seemed to magnetize towards it.

John could only hope that the Vigilants had some way to exorcise a damn demon once he got there.

…

Commissioned by: brutalcrab

Mephala's lines should have been center aligned, but Patreon's formatting doesn't allow that. It's very minor, but annoying. I've attached the same chapter below, no actual content is different, just the formatting of Mephala to center.