The Next Step

Silence is usually something rare, something to be treasured. But today, in Barghest’s cabin, it was deafening. He sat at his table, his brow furrowed as he stared at the package sitting in front of him. It sat atop its paper wrapping, the opening at the top staring at him like a black, lifeless eye. He calmly stroked his beard, stuck in an ouroboros of thoughts on what to do about it. He shook his head, trying to break himself from the trance. A pot of coffee had been brewing at his stove, and as he waited by it, his eyes wandered to a framed picture hanging on the wall above his hearth. Though the frame was clouded, he had looked at the photo enough to remember everyone in it. His eyes focused on a young boy, smiling with all his teeth and his arms open wide. Standing beside him was a much younger version of himself, his smile and pose more muted and dignified. The old man chuckled, pouring himself a cup of coffee as he fondly remembered that time. His gaze then shifted down to the double-barreled shotgun mounted to the stone wall. He sighed, moving towards it. He ran his calloused fingers over its engravings, a series of etched silver chains wrapped around the blackened steel of the barrels, giving it the appearance of being shackled. He stared at it, empathizing with the feeling. He paced his home, looking at the box on his table occasionally, a small part of him hoping it would disappear upon another glance. It never did, instead it just sat there, reminding him of what needed to be done, and who needed to do it.

His intense gaze was broken by the door to his home opening, a young woman stepping across the threshold.

“Morning Papa,” she said, smiling cheerfully. “The chickens were lively this morning. I’ll have to go out again later and look around for fox tracks.” She was quick to notice the heaviness in the air. “Are you all right?”

He said nothing, only turning to face her. His eyes were dark, and his face was twisted as though he was about to break down in tears. She approached him, noticing the little brown box in front of him. Her expression changed from loving concern to shock, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“No. No…” she stammered, her legs shaking. “They can’t be serious.”

“They are.” He said, lifting a golden medallion from the box. It was polished as if brand new, and carved into it was an image depicting a tree, half of it covered with leaves and the other half barren and dead. “She is.”

The woman stared at it with a mixture of rage and hopelessness. “She… she doesn’t need you. There are plenty of younger Slayers out there that could do her bidding.”

He took her hands in his, exhaling gruffly. “Morana is wise, she wouldn’t ask this of me if there was anyone else who could do it. Plus…” He removed from the box a leather glove, stained in blood. “I think Churchgrim is the one in danger.”

“Your old friend from training?” She looked surprised. “You haven’t spoken of him in a long time.”

“I know. But he was more than a friend. He was...” Barghest stopped, knowing that every word only pushed him farther toward the door. “He wouldn’t even hesitate to come to my aid if I were in trouble. I need to go to him.”

His daughter winced, trying to hold back her tears. Despite this, she eventually relaxed her clenched fist, knowing that her father was right. She had heard the stories of Churchgrim, and how he had saved her father’s life on more than one occasion. She hated to admit it, but at the end of it all, they owed both their lives to him. “If you’re going to go, at least go prepared.” She got up and began frantically gathering supplies from around the house: provisions, rope, knives and anything else he might need.

He chuckled, putting on his coat and gripping his shotgun tightly. After almost half an hour of his daughter fussing over him, making sure he had everything he needed and then some, they shared a long hug before she saw him off. He looked into the woods that surrounded his humble home, then down at the medallion in his hand.

“All right boss. Show me the way.”