“Neither are we.” It was a deathly voice. A voice filled with malice and amusement, not a deep voice, but not a high voice; the sort of voice which screams power, but is old rather than strong. The voice was gravelly, and spoke as though it had seen the birth of the stars and would one day cause the cessation of their luminescence. “But we assume that you already knew that,” the voice continued, “Regarding your conversation. Yes, we are not human anymore. We are the unmen, the force whose chorus is darkness, the embodiment of impurity whose form and being rends the very Heart of the Creator.”
“You have mutated His creation. It is only logical.” Sprocket replied.
“Such a brave boy.” The voice said. As it neared, it began to sound more full. “The entrance of our coven is a feat undertaken by few. Unfortunately for you, young children, the exodus of our coven is completely and entirely unheard of.”
“Is it though?” Sprocket asked. “Was there not one who went out from this place?”
“He cheated!” The witches shouted. “He was false! He was deceitful.”
“Oh but that’s it, my dear unwomen!” Sprocket called out. “He was absolutely truthful! Not an ounce of illusion held foot within him! It was your own deceit which made his actions seem so facadical to you.”
“Lies! Lies and trickery! You are just like him, you are his image in the mirror! You spout falsehoods just as he does!” The voice was now three half-distinct voices. “You would offer your forgiveness as well, would you not?”
“I would not.” Sprocket replied. “My forgiveness would do you no good. But the forgiveness within me could be extended, even to you.”
“Even to us?” The witches replied sarcastically. “Oh high and mighty benefactor, would you stoop even to our level? You would offer the Creator’s forgiveness to us, low and base beings that we are? Oh how kind and generous of you, child. But perhaps it has not occurred to you that we have already contemplated this offer? We have pushed this filthy forgiveness away from us along with the Infiltrator’s poisonous words! We desire not your charity...but your souls!” At that moment a dark form leaped from the darkness of the cottage. It was a tumorous being, covered with unbecoming lumps. Its hair was mostly gone, apparently by the long and gnarled fingers of the Witch itself. The height of this being exceeded by far that of the average man, perhaps up to three times. Its skin was black and flaking, as if it were a burnt corpse. It was naked, but had nothing to cover. Its torso was merely a lump of scars and dead skin. Its feet looked like the roots of a tree, sinking deep into the floor with each step. The wood of the cottage floor rotted as the witch passed it, but recovered as it left. Its taloned hand reached for Sprocket, attempting to swipe him aside.
“Sprocket!” Burglar cried, fearful and frozen to her place. But the hand went through Sprocket. His clothes did not rot as the wood had, nor did his stance waver. The witch arched her back in fear, her form suddenly somehow tenuous.
“No!” She cried in seeming agony. “You have brought the Infiltrator with you! His power swarms about you! You are an Illusionist, a practitioner in the Fiery Arts! You lie! You lie!”
Burglar reached out her hand and touched Sprocket’s shoulder. He was solid. He turned his eyes to her and smiled sadly.
“I suppose, in the end, that this was inevitable.” He said, and turned to face the witch once more. “By the Power which I have received, I command you to leave them.”
“NO!” The entity cried, its voice throaty and hoarse. The Witch was thinner yet, shrinking upon the utterance of Sprocket’s words. “They are mine!”
“You shall not prevail.”
“Liar!”
“In the foolishness of your heart you have denied that which is true and called it a lie. Your self-deception can protect you no longer.”
“Word-twister! False prophet!”
“You cannot look at me because you know that the truth lies in my eyes.”
“We do not look at you because you are of the Fire which bites and devours!”
“I do not destroy. I make new.”
“You revert all that is alive to ash and dead coals!”
“I bring that which is ash to life.”
“What do you know of life? You have not lived our sorrows, you have not heard the whispers, you have not been hurt as we have!”
“I have felt sorrow.” Sprocket said. As Burglar watched him, he looked older. His eyes seemed older than the witch’s voice, and his meek power greater than their boastful intimidation. “I have felt death. I have heard the whispers. But I have defeated them.”
“Not our whispers.”
“You whisper them to yourself. You are your own deceiver, your own pain.”
“You desire our demise.”
“Though your lies are so great that they seem to be part of your being, they are not. I offer you peace.”
“You offer subjugation.”
“I offer freedom to do what you were made to do.”
“We do what we wish to do.”
“You do what your lies wish you to do.”
“Leave us!”
“Come out.”
“Leave us!”
“I command you to leave them in the name of Elkhaim!”
The witch contorted into an awful position, bending back and forward and sideways in rapid succession. Her black skin seemed to become darker and drier. She let out a low growl of a scream, using only her throat. Black blood began to spew out of her mouth like spit when one yells. It began to tear at its own body, scratching at the back of the neck, its nails sinking deep and tearing violently at the dead flesh.
“Stop!” Sprocket called out. “You may not harm them!”
The witch spontaneously jerked her head toward Sprocket and stopped all movement, her bloody nails perched like the claws of a bird, her legs crouched, her spine bend beyond possibility. It was the first time Burglar had truly seen the witches face since the encounter had begun. Its mouth was contorted into a snarl, and black blood dripped steadily from its chops. What was left of its hair was matted with dried fluids. Its ears had been stopped up with dead bugs and its own hair. Scars decorated the skin around the eyes from the Witch trying to stop the things it had seen. But the eyes, the eyes themselves, was what caused Burglar pause. They looked genuinely sad. They looked so sorrowful that she could barely stand to look at them. She turned away and wept silently. Sprocket’s lip quivered as he spoke:
“I will stay with you until the end.”
The Witch did not speak, but did not move as Sprocket approached her. The boy crouched down beside her and stared into her eyes. He looked fixedly upon the Witch, and slowly raised his hand to caress her scarred face. As he stroked her cheek, the skin began to rejuvenate. She looked upon him, waiting to see what he would do. Sprocket licked his lips, and spoke.
“Your immorality is forgiven. Sin no more.”
The Witch breathed in deeply, gasping loudly, and brought her head back. She breathed out thick smoke, and as she did her skin became a natural colour. She fell over onto her side, and her body began to separate into three distinct parts, which reverted to human bodies. Three nuns. But these bodies quickly disintegrated into three glowing, beautiful, gold lights. These rose, and though one could not bear to look upon their brilliance, one knew that they were smiling. Beaming, as it were, with joy.
Burglar slowly approached Sprocket, and crouched down beside him. She leaned on him, fatigued.
“It’s gone?” She asked quietly. Even whispers seemed like shouts in the silence which had ensued.
“It was never truly there.” Sprocket replied, wiping his bloodshot eyes. “The Witch was an embodiment of deceit feeding on the bodies of the nuns, birthed by the words of a demon.”
“Is that why it couldn’t strike you?”
“No.” Sprocket replied. He did not expand on his answer. The quiet resumed. Sprocket rose, as slow as an old man, and turned to offer Burglar his hand.
“Let’s leave.” He said.
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