Chapter 2 – The Weight of Copper and Rust

The cold is a living entity down here. It has fangs. It gnaws at the tips of my fingers, chews through the thin soles of my slippers, and burrows deep into the marrow of my bones. I am a shivering, violently shaking mass curled into a tight ball on the wet stone. Every breath exhales as a trembling plume I can feel brushing against my lips but cannot see.

Blindness forces my other senses to overcompensate in the void. I hear the microscopic scuttle of something unseen in the corner. I smell the heavy rot of stagnant water and ancient soil. I drag myself forward, my bruised knees scraping against the uneven floor. I need movement to generate heat, to keep my blood from turning to ice. My numb fingers grope wildly over the jagged granite until they brush against something hard and metallic. A chain. I trace the rusted, freezing links of a heavy iron rosary discarded near the wall. The beads are sharp, unforgiving geometric shapes of forged iron. I grip it tight, the rusted metal biting into my trembling palm. It is a weapon. It is a tether. It is something tactile and real in this suffocating nothingness. I quietly slip it into the deep pocket of my ruined dress.

The heavy scrape of the deadbolt suddenly shatters the silence.

I flinch, scrambling backward as the door swings open. The amber light of a solitary candle spills in, agonizingly bright against my dilated pupils. Silas steps over the threshold. He does not carry food this time. He carries only the light, and a suffocating aura of absolute, serene authority. I push myself backward until my spine hits the wall, my teeth chattering so violently my jaw aches.

He crosses the distance in three long strides, the heavy wool of his ash-grey robes whispering against the wet stone. He kneels before me. Without a word, he reaches out. I try to shrink away, to press myself right through the solid wall, but I am trapped. His large, bare hand cups my jaw.

The shock of his body heat against my freezing skin is a physical blow.

A pathetic, treacherous whimper catches in my throat. My body, starved of warmth and touch, uncontrollably leans into his palm even as my mind screams in revulsion. The contrast is agonizing. His thumb strokes the high curve of my cheekbone, his skin radiating a furnace-like heat that makes my eyes burn with unshed tears. The urge to press my freezing face against his neck, to absorb every ounce of his warmth, is a terrifying, primal instinct I have to choke down.

"Your flesh rebels against your pride, Elara," Silas whispers, his dark eyes cataloging my involuntary shiver and my dilated pupils. "It knows what it requires to survive."

He shifts closer, trapping my legs with his knees. With his free hand, he reaches for the tangled, matted mess of my hair. His long, scarred fingers comb roughly through the knots near my scalp, a gesture of possessive grooming that snaps the last fraying thread of my restraint.

I lunge.

I snap my jaw forward, sinking my teeth deep into the meaty part of the hand holding my face. I bite down with all the feral, desperate strength of a cornered, starving animal, tasting dirt and the sharp, hot copper of his blood filling my mouth. I expect a scream. I expect him to strike me, to hurl me against the unforgiving stone until my skull cracks.

He does neither. Silas does not even flinch.

He remains perfectly, unnervingly still, allowing my teeth to tear into his flesh. My jaw trembles, the fight slowly bleeding out of me in the face of his terrifying composure. I slowly release his hand, gasping for air, a smear of his hot blood painting my cracked lips.

Silas draws his hand back, raising it toward the candlelight. Thick, dark crimson wells from the deep puncture wounds, dripping slowly onto the grey stone floor. He watches the blood fall with a look of rapturous awe, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. He looks at his torn flesh as if witnessing a divine miracle rather than a violent assault.

"A stigmata," he murmurs, his smooth baritone thick with a twisted reverence. He looks down at me, his eyes shining with a dark, terrifying adoration. "You mark me with your suffering, little bird. You draw the poison out of both of us."

He slowly wipes his bleeding hand across his grey robes, leaving a dark, wet smear over his heart. He rises to his feet, his towering frame casting a massive, suffocating shadow that swallows me whole. From the deep pocket of his robe, he produces a heavy, crude iron key. He holds it up, letting the candlelight glint off its jagged teeth.

Then, he drops it.

It lands on the freezing, wet stone floor between us with a heavy, mocking clink, resting exactly out of my arm’s reach.

"The door to the upper sanctuary is locked," Silas says, his voice devoid of anger, sounding only like a disappointed teacher. "That key will open it. Beyond it lies a hearth fire, warm blankets, and sustenance. But to take it, you must crawl to my feet. You must pick it up, place it in my bleeding hand, and ask for my guidance."

He turns toward the door, taking the candle, taking the heat, taking the only light in the universe.

"Freeze in your pride, Elara, or kneel and be warm. The choice is yours."