A House Filled With Night
Tears Have Fallen Here

The welcoming committee that received Runa and Torin at the House seemed slightly asleep upon their arrival. The brothers seemed to have collapsed together in the living room when they got there the day before, and they hadn’t moved since. Fiske and Niko had squeezed together on the couch, Casimir was curled up into an overstuffed chair, and Sylvain was spread out across the floor as if it were the most comfortable bed in the world.

The sight of it made Torin sigh and smile. Only one night away from his brothers had felt like a year. He turned to Runa with a finger to his lips.

The next second, he was diving toward Fiske and Niko. “Hey! I’m back—” he sang, tickling the unsuspecting pair, who were barely stirring and couldn’t pry their eyes open.

“Niko, get off—”

“I’m not on you, you’re on me!”

“I’m on both of you.”

“Torin?!”

After a mini wrestling match in which all three brothers ended up in a pile on the floor, they somehow ended up in a teary-eyed group hug.

“You’re not dead!” Fiske wailed. “I’m so happy! I had no idea who I was going to tease around here if you were dead.”

Torin scoffed. “Couldn’t let that happen, now could I?”

Sylvain roused and slid over to join in, but Casimir stayed where he was, mumbling something about too much noise at that hour. He turned away, but Runa caught a glimpse of the smile quirking at his lips from her vantage point.

“But Torin,” said Fiske, “Where’s Ru—RUNA!”

Fiske screamed when he caught sight of her, jumping up from the dogpile of brothers and running to wrap his arms around her. “For a second I thought you hadn’t made it home with him.” He nuzzled his forehead against her arm and just avoided Torin’s wrath as Niko wrapped them all in his unreasonably large, muscular arms.

Sylvain greeted Runa with a smile and a pat on the head. He greeted Torin with a hearty whack across the shoulders.

“We were worried sick.”

“Yeah,” said Casimir, finally starting to sit up. “Do you even know how much stress you two caused us?”

“Sorry,” said Runa and Torin simultaneously.

“It’s a good thing you showed up,” said Sylvain. “We were just about to go looking for you. What happened?”

For the next half hour, between the two of them, Torin and Runa related most of the story from the day before—omitting certain details here and there. Just as Runa began to wonder if it would be better to just keep totally quiet about Meriel, Torin interrupted with her thoughts.

“And…there was this woman who took us in.” His eyes darted over to Fiske. “She was blind. Maybe that’s why she didn’t suspect us?”

Fiske, who had continued to hang off of Runa’s arm, finally let go to get a better look at his brother’s face. Runa had never seen Fiske’s face drop from silly to solemn that fast.

“She actually reminded me of someone—”

“Torin,” Fiske interrupted, walking toward him. “I just remembered need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure.”

The two walked out together, leaving the others behind, confused.

“What’s up with them?” asked Casimir.

“I’m not…sure,” Runa said. And it was basically true.

—

Runa lied upon her bed that night, turning over all the recent events in her head. As she uncovered more of the brothers’ past, she found herself conflicted. She wanted to know them more. She wanted to understand their pain, why they were the way they were, what had happened to cause all this. But she was beginning to feel like they were the sort of memories no one would want brought up ever again.

She flinched at the sound of a door knock somewhere down the hallway. Casimir’s low voice was telling Torin “It’s time” once again. Torin’s shuffling footsteps followed soon afterward. Runa turned over, frustrated. She wanted to go with Torin. She wanted to help. But it was all no use.

What was it the Sons of Midnight had told her once? That Torin had been “born out of pain?” What did that mean, to be born of pain? It seemed like he had lived here his whole life, so was he born here as well? Did that mean their mother once lived here?

It was strange to imagine another woman living in the House, maybe not so different from herself. Had she loved their father? From what the brothers had told her, he was pure evil. But then there was Meriel’s story about the handsome man who had charmed her sister. Had she come with him willingly? Was it a trick? Was she even taken by force?

Whatever the case, she couldn’t have felt very safe in the House, not alone in such a strange place, with a cruel man like their father. Whatever her feelings had been at first, she couldn’t have remained ignorant to his true nature for long. And if she had died, alone in the forest, the way Meriel described…well, that couldn’t have meant anything good.

Runa could almost picture her: lying alone in her bedroom, perhaps much like the one where she was now…everything elegant, everything terrifying, strange, new, cold, and dark…and she was crying…crying…crying…

Where were her wails coming from? They were growing louder. Runa stood and followed them. Hallway after hallway, the wails persisted, though they seemed to grow neither nearer nor farther. The walls were so dark. Dark, but red; angry. Hallway opened into more hallway, revealing nothing. Where was she? How could she be so close, and yet never arrive?

Suddenly, a dark purple door appeared before her. There was a feeble, white lily painted upon it. But it was so worn and faded, Runa could barely make out the flower’s shape. She reached up and brushed her fingers along its shape, feeling sad.

She placed an ear to the door. The woman’s weeping, now a gentle sob, drifted through from other side. Runa turned the knob, but it wouldn’t move. She pushed against the door, but it wouldn’t budge. She beat her fist against it, pounding over, and over, and over, and over. At last, it gave way, and Runa fell into the room.

No one was there. It was full of old, brown pages, and frail, inky words. The paper crumbled into dust. Then there was no room, no woman, no House, no Runa. Only dust.

Runa woke up, but not because it was morning. She could hear her breath coming in and out too quickly. She sat up. It was pitch black. Her hands came, trembling, to her face, and she tried to slow her breathing. It wouldn’t. She clutched at her heart. The sound of that woman’s crying still lingered in her ears.

There would be no more sleep that night. Pacing around the room became the next best alternative after sleeping failed. When that wasn’t enough to calm the restlessness, she left the bedroom and for the hallway.

She walked long minutes without thinking about anything, eyes trained upon the floor, mulling through the same thoughts over and over.

When she finally looked up, her breath caught.

Nothing looked familiar. These halls were sallow, worn, abandoned. The rooms behind her weren’t the same. Nowhere to be seen was her own pale-yellow door, or Torin’s blue one, or Fiske’s forest-green one. In fact, she was pretty sure she had never seen any of these doors before. The House was shifting again, and she had the oddest feeling that this time, it intended to lead her somewhere.

Around the next been, she came upon the darkest hall she’d ever seen. It was dusty, which was unusual for a magical house which seemed to do all the upkeep for itself. More than just dirty, though, it was ruined. There were scratches along its walls, broken lamps, and peeling wallpaper.

Then, all of a sudden, she saw it.

She gasped. There it was. At the very end of the hallway, just as she had seen it moments before: the purple door, a faded white lily gracing its face. She reached up to brush her fingers against it, chilling at the memory of her dream. She grasped the knob. It was locked in her dream. Would it open in reality?

The knob twisted. The door creaked open.

She stared at the room in silence, taking in everything. It was a bedroom—dusty with lavender walls; sweet-smelling and shadowy. It couldn’t have been inhabited in years, but it appeared mostly unchanged. It felt like stepping into a warm, empty sepulcher.

She felt the light sheet on the bed—still soft and pliable. She opened the wardrobe and brushed her fingers against dresses hanging inside. She looked into the desk and peered at the hanging mirror. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she had a strong feeling that there was something there to replace. The House had brought her here.

Eventually, she found it. It was under the bed: a small, wooden box. The most unimpressive thing in the entire room, and yet, she felt, exactly what she had been looking for. Inside was a stack of browning papers covered in wispy handwriting.

April 9th, —

I have decided to write, because I know I will go mad if I don’t. It is already several months since I have known I am carrying his child. I am afraid for my life. But I am even more afraid for his. My child and I, we are both prisoners in this House.

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~ A/N ~

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