Truth of Witch
So High To Fall So Far
Lysandra stood still in the middle of and bon her room. The bell kept on ringing. She could imagine the villagers scurrying to their safe rooms. It was likely Moro and her father were already hiding in the one under the stairs.
As quietly as she could Lysandra walked to her door and opened it. She peered out into the empty hallway. All she could see was darkness. It was whispered that the Witch could be one with the shadows. Was it possible that one of them was waiting for her in the hallway?
Opening the door just enough for her to slip through she scurried down the hallway before she thought too long on what lay in the dark. When she arrived at the stairs she hopped down them two at a time which she usually did when Moro wasn't watching. Quickly Lysandra turned and ran down the hallway to the side panels of the staircase.
Feeling around the ridges in the dark she found the one that had the crack in it. She pounded her fist against it once. Two panels pushed in and slid to the left creating a doorway that lead underneath the stairs.
She entered and went directly to the small table located in the corner that held a small candle. Lysandra lighted it by using the matches that were kept on hand. The candle lit up the room just enough for the occupant to see the majority of it.
It was empty besides her. Her eyebrows knit together slightly in confusion. Didn't they hear the bell tolling? Everyone knew that once he or she heard the bell it was imperative that he or she drop what they were doing and go directly to the hidden room. But why weren't Moro and Father already in here? What was keeping them?
Lysandra knew that she didn't have much time. Soon the Bell would stop and they would be here. She left the candle burning as she stepped back out into the hallway. The library doors were in front of her.
As she took the few steps that separated her and the double doors she laid her hand on the right doorknob and turned it. The glass knob saw creaked ominously. She pushed the door open and stood frozen from what she saw.
Moro Mrent, her Aunt Maya, stood over her father, Thwaite Attleigh, who was still sleeping in the chair from before. In Moro's hand was a small dagger, pointed down towards her father's neck. Before Lysandra truly knew what she was doing she had picked up a large brass candlestick from the table to her right.
Brandishing the candlestick in her right hand she flew at Moro without any warning. No one was going to harm her father was the only thought in her mind. It took only a second for Moro to realize that Lysandra was in the room and coming towards her. She swung her arm in the direction of Lysandra.
Lysandra could feel the dagger as it ripped through the material of her dress just between her arm and chest. Luckily it didn't pierce any skin. She swung the heavy candlestick in her right hand like a club at Moro's head but Moro was faster. She dodged and shoved the smaller girl to the floor.
As she landed, for the second time that night, on the carpet her body turned to where her left hand only partially broke her fall. Her right elbow smashed against the floor sending a strike of pain that traveled up to her hand forcing it to release the candlestick.
The candlestick, after being let go, made a heavy thud and rolled away to stop by one of the enormous bookcases. Lysandra stared hopelessly at it. There was no way that she was going to be able to get all the way over there without Moro getting to her first.
Lysandra looked over her shoulder quickly and saw that Moro was glaring at her murderously, still clutching the dagger in her hand. Moro's shoulders were heaving up and down from physical exertion of having to shove Lysandra off of her.
Even knowing that it was futile, Lysandra got to her hands and knees. She tried to crawl to the candlestick. The whole time she was unsuccessfully ignoring the pain that was still coming from her elbow.
She could hear Moro as she followed behind her, each step seemingly slower and louder than the last. Just as she reached out to grasp the candlestick Moro grabbed the back of her collar and yanked Lysandra up to her knees. Moro was standing right behind her with a good hold on the back of her dress collar. She transferred her hold from the clothing to Lysandra's long auburn hair, now messed up from the fighting.
"Such beautiful hair; so much like your mother's, though not any more," with the saying of the last word Moro took her dagger and drove it into the length of hair she had holding. Little wisps of hair fell as Lysandra gawked unbelieving at them as they landed gracefully on the wood floor.
Moro still had changed her hold to the base of her head where there was still hair to grab on to. She tightened her grip on Lysandra and wretched her head back so she had a good view of the look in Lysandra's eyes.
"Your precious daddy should have said yes when he had the chance. Now I've had to make the decision for him. Ewan would've had taken care of you while the old man was still alive but after he gets a hold of you I'm going to make sure that you get the treatment you deserve, brat," Moro spat in her face.
Lysandra knew that a second attempt for the candlestick wouldn't do her much good as suddenly an idea came to her. It would hurt her as much as it would hurt Moro but anything to get away from her.
"You've caused me so much trouble and you've gone and made Ewan mad at me. I don't like it when I'm not in his favor but I know with the horrible death of your father will bring me back into his grace.
You know what's the best part? Is that I'm not going to be the one to kill your father. You will. The villagers will find Thwaite's corpse in the morning and I'll be there to tell the story of how the poor traumatized Lysandra Elise Attleigh couldn't bear the thought of leaving her father alone as her mother had done. And that afterwards Lysandra promised to follow her father in death but just in time I stopped her from killing herself,"
Moro whispered into her ear.
"The villagers would give you to Ewan for that was Thwaite's dying wish; for his only daughter to have a husband suitable for caring for his little girl."
No way was Lysandra going to let herself be prisoner of Ewan Meetle for the rest of her life. Her father wasn't dead yet. She mentally readied herself for the pain. Pulling her head as forward as she could with Moro still hanging on, she wrenched it backwards and when she felt the pain she knew that she had hit her target. Moro's grip was loosened and Lysandra scrambled onto her feet while tenderly holding the back of her head.
She turned around and found Moro hunched over. Moro was cradling her forehead in both hands and moaning. She staggered back a few steps. The dagger lay forgotten on the floor. Lysandra herself was in pain; the very back of her head was throbbing. She could almost feel her blood pumping through her brain.
"You little wretch!" Moro managed to get out brokenly through the pain. She raised her head up. Her eyes spoke volumes of how much pain Lysandra was in for if Moro got her hands on her again. Just as Moro was about to lunge was her back went straight as a board. She stared unbelieving at the ceiling. Her fingers, spread out, twitched. Little noises of agony emitted from her mouth. A slip of blood slid out the left side of her mouth.
Then suddenly she collapsed. Her body made a heavy thud as it landed. The dagger, that Moro had been holding, was imbedded into her back. Heavy breathing drew Lysandra's attention back to the place that Moro had been standing but now Thwaite Attleigh was there instead.
His whole body was heaving. The blankets that had been covering him were pooled around the bottom of his chair. He was wearing an old black waist coat that seemed to be missing a few gold buttons and pants that matched. Lysandra realized that had been the outfit that he had worn to Esmee's funeral.
Though he was standing right before her and Moro was unmoving on the floor she almost couldn't believe her eyes. Her father had stabbed Moro Mrent in the back. She shook her head to clear it. A violent cough made her aware that Thwaite needed help. Quickly she rushed to her father and his arm over her shoulder and helped him hobble back over to his chair.
Setting him down gently, she gathered up the blankets and settled them back over him. While she was doing this Thwaite suddenly grabbed her wrist, stopping her. He looked her straight in the eyes. "I'm sorry, daughter," he murmured.
"For what, Father?"
He laid his head back against the chair and closed his eyes as if in pain. Small tears seeped out from the corners of his closed eyes. All of a sudden he opened them, staring at the ceiling, and he gasped in sorrow. "For not being able to protect you. I had promised her I would," somehow she knew he was speaking of her mother.
"Oh Father, you've always protected me," she said as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and placed her head next to his. He moved the blankets down and returned her hug, laying his head on her shoulder. Feeling her shoulder become wet she knew he was silently crying.
Lysandra knew that he wasn't crying for her for this seemed to be sadness kept inside for years. He was weeping for her mother. At long last he was finally grieving for his dead wife. Lysandra tightened her grip on her father and a tear found its way down her cheek.
So then, at that moment, father and daughter grieved together for the first time in years for the woman who they had both lost; his wife and her mother. Tears that are shed with others are evermore precious than when shed alone.
After several moments he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away. "You must get away, Lysandra. I have no doubts now that Moro was working with Meetle in order to get you. If Moro was going as far as to kill me then Meetle will likely come after you now," he said seriously.
Lysandra thought over it for a bit. It would be likely that Ewan would come as soon as he heard that Moro had been killed. If she stayed until tomorrow there was a higher risk of being caught by him but if she left tonight...When it came to choosing between Ewan and the Witch, Lysandra knew that she would much rather face them then ever step foot in the same room as Meetle again. So she would be leaving tonight even if the Witch were here.
AN - I felt that this chapter didn't want to go any farther. So I ended it here. I hope you enjoyed and please review.