Chapter 181 - 161: Returning to Sleep

With a gentle wave of her right hand, a fissure tore open across the "ground" of the hall.

Richard could feel the shadow beneath his feet begin to fall into the crack.

As his shadow fell, so did he.

The others were in a similar predicament.

"Lend a hand!" Mrs. MacNeil shouted urgently.

In the nick of time, the old woman within the Bone Bracelet extended an arm.

The arm emerged from the Bone Bracelet, reached through the widening fissure beneath their feet, and forced its two sides back together.

Mr. Hutton continued to read his Judgment.

"Na. Return."

"You are the flowing shadow, the Mother who must Return to Sleep."

"This, you told us yourself just moments ago."

"You said, ’You’ve come.’"

"You have waited for thousands of years, waiting for someone who could call you back."

The last remnants of Mother began to destabilize, her silhouette trembling.

Mr. Hutton looked up at Mrs. MacNeil. "It is your turn."

’My work is done.’

’He couldn’t do what came next.’

A Scholar could read an entity through and through, but forcing it back into its original place after doing so—that was the work of a Secretive One.

Mrs. MacNeil nodded. At that moment, her seven Hosted Spirits all stood at attention.

The wolf in the Silver Ring rose;

The bird in the Jade Brooch spread its wings;

The woman in the Black Ebony Comb set aside her work;

The figure in the Moonstone Pendant raised its hands;

The two throats in the Coral Earrings adjusted their pitch;

The second hand of the Silver Pocket Watch stopped at the twelve.

The entire arm of the old woman in the Bone Bracelet was still extended outside.

Including Mrs. MacNeil herself, eight voices layered together.

"Stollithirenna (Shadow-Devourer)"

She was chanting what the Church had failed to finish several hundred years ago.

"in Christo te ligo (I bind you in the name of Christ)"

The Church had crudely called her a Demon. Tonight, Mrs. MacNeil recited the words anew, so that she would no longer be called one.

"in sanguine Cuthberti te ligo (I bind you in the blood of Saint Cuthbert)"

She was the Mother of the Highland; it was fitting for a Saint of the North to see her home.

"in pacem Eirenes ad somnum revertere (In the peace of Alina, return to sleep)."

Alina was the Goddess of Peace. This was a lullaby to send a weary Mother on her way.

The eight-layered voices faded.

Each layer of her being had been named, each layer invited back to its original place.

Above the hall, the well—formed by countless other halls nested one inside the other—snapped shut.

The last vestige of Mother was sucked into the deepest depths.

That was the highland where she had first awoken, beneath the Pre-Roman hills, at the roots of twelve standing stones.

As she sank away, she glanced at the youngest among those who had sent her off.

The gate closed. The Seal was complete.

One by one, the seven Hosted Spirits returned to the artifacts Mrs. MacNeil wore.

The two throats in the Coral Earrings sang one last refrain.

It was a concluding hymn.

The old woman in the Bone Bracelet hesitated for a moment before withdrawing her arm.

"Please, return," Mrs. MacNeil said softly.

The old woman nodded, and the Bone Bracelet clasped shut again.

"We should return as well." Mr. Hutton extracted the long thread woven from the Judgment from the Rubbing Copy and coiled it into a bundle.

Together, he and Mrs. MacNeil carefully peeled everyone up, returning them all as one back to the Material Realm.

Richard blinked.

The gray of the stone walls, the black of the sarcophagus, the bronze of the nine-branched candelabra’s base... the colors of the underground chamber flooded back into his vision.

All the candles were out, their wicks still smoldering.

Before his eyes, the entire sarcophagus was enveloped inch by inch in silver foil, and the iron chains around it tightened once more.

A muffled thud sounded from nearby.

Theodore slid down the stone wall and slumped to the floor.

"We’re still alive."

Maggie squatted next to him, one hand on her knee, the other pressing her temple.

"Don’t talk." She couldn’t even open her eyes.

Edmund stood in the northeast corner, his hands pressed together, his lips moving.

He was praying. Richard didn’t disturb him.

The situation in the outer circle was even worse.

Captain Field was kneeling on the ground, and Sarah was tending to his left leg.

The skin on the Captain’s left leg had turned an unnatural, grayish-white.

Sarah wrapped the section with a bandage soaked in Holy Water.

"How is he?" Mrs. MacNeil walked over.

"I’m fine. Not dead yet," Captain Field answered through gritted teeth.

His forehead was covered in sweat. Beads of it trickled down his brow and dripped onto the stone floor of the crypt.

"How much Burning Blood did you use?" Mrs. MacNeil’s brow furrowed.

Captain Field lowered his head.

"Two years."

The crypt fell silent for a moment.

Two years of his life. The price of the Path of Burning Blood was never just an abstract number.

Every drop of blood burned was a day snipped from the end of one’s life.

Captain Field might have lived to sixty-five, but now he would only live to sixty-three.

Or even less, if he had used it many times before.

"Worth it," the Captain said.

He patted his thigh with his right hand. The grayish-white area under the bandage was no longer trembling.

"Better than not making it back tonight."

The Female Hunter then covered the indentation with a dark brown ointment.

"Don’t lift anything heavy with your left hand for the next three days." Sarah twisted the cap back on the ointment jar.

"Got it."

Captain Field nodded. He pushed himself up slowly, bracing his right hand on his knee.

He tried shifting his left leg forward half a step. His knee bent, and his brow furrowed for a second, but he made no sound.

He was relieved that the leg could bend.

Captain Field turned around.

"Richard."

"Captain." Richard pushed himself up from the wall. He had also been so exhausted he’d collapsed onto the floor.

The Captain gestured for him to sit back down.

"I first held a blade at eleven, and went on my first field mission with my father at fifteen."

"I’m thirty-eight now, with a hundred and seventeen field missions under my belt."

"I’ve had my flesh corroded by non-corporeal Evil Beings like this twice before."

"Twice... and you were fine both times?" Sarah chimed in, still tidying her medical kit.

"The first time, my partner was a veteran Secretive One. He forced the thing out with a Copper Mirror."

"And the second time?"

"The second time, my partner didn’t make it in time."

The crypt fell silent for a moment.

"That leg, since then, hasn’t been mine."

The Captain reached out and knocked on his right thigh.

It made a dull, wooden sound, not the sound of flesh.

Richard was shocked to realize that the Captain had been missing a thigh all along.

In other words, if he’d lost his other thigh tonight, he would have truly become a Halfling.

’What a grim joke.’

Theodore raised his head from the corner.

He had been dozing, but now he was wide awake. He was smart enough to keep quiet, though.

"The bone is still there. The muscle was filled in later."

The Captain wasn’t squeamish about the topic. "I was laid up for six months after that incident."

He turned his gaze back to Richard.

"If it weren’t for your quick thinking tonight, this leg would have gone to join the other."

Richard didn’t know how to respond for a moment.

’Saying "it was my duty" would sound flippant, while saying "I’m not worthy of such praise" would seem disingenuous.’

After a moment’s thought, he answered honestly, "I wasn’t sure about that Technique myself. I improvised it."

"Improvised it, huh." The Captain chuckled, the old scar on his brow twitching.

"That’s even more impressive."

He didn’t dwell on it. Reaching into a cloth pouch at his waist, he took something out.

It was a small whistle carved from maple wood.

It was no longer than half a forefinger, wrapped in a thin sheet of copper, with two owl tail feathers tied to the cord.

Richard glanced at the whistle with his Spiritual Vision. A faint wisp of Ether fluctuated within it, carrying the scent of a Hunter’s blood and fire.

This was not a Marvel, just a token.

The Captain explained:

"Before my dad passed away, he left one of these whistles for each of us four brothers, so we could look out for each other in the future."

"I’m giving it to you. If you’re ever in trouble, my brothers and I will help you."

Hearing him speak so earnestly, Richard didn’t refuse and reached out to take the whistle.

"In that case, I accept."

The Captain gave him an address:

"Our family has a tavern in Sheffield, called the ’Rusted Plow’,"

"It’s on the third street outside the east gate of the steel mill. All the workers nearby know it."

"My sister-in-law runs the place."

"If you go, show this whistle to my sister-in-law, and everyone in my family who can swing a blade will come to help you."

"...I’ll remember." Richard nodded seriously.

On the other side, Sarah’s injuries were less severe.

There was a diagonal gash on her right cheek, extending from her cheekbone to the corner of her jaw.

Blood slowly seeped from the wound, dripping down along her jawline.

"That needs stitches." Edmund walked over, having finished his prayer.

The young man took a small cloth roll from his backpack and unfurled it.

"I’ll do it."

The Female Hunter’s expression didn’t change.

She turned her face to the side, allowing Edmund to see the full extent of the wound.

"How many stitches?"

"Three to four." Edmund was already threading the needle.

"Get on with it."

Edmund’s hands were steady.

The suture needle pierced one side of the wound, passed through the subcutaneous tissue, and emerged from the other side.

Sarah didn’t move or make a sound the entire time.

Watching from the side, Richard noticed the Female Hunter’s right hand was clenched tightly around her gun sling.

’She wasn’t made of iron. Of course it hurt, she just wouldn’t cry out.’

After the four stitches were done, Edmund cut the thread with scissors and wiped the wound with disinfectant.

"Done."

"Thanks." Sarah turned her face back.

Her expression hadn’t changed from beginning to end.

Mr. Hutton looked the most exhausted of them all.

He was almost sixty years old.

Every line of the Judgment he had recited during the ritual had been forcibly squeezed from his body’s reserves of Ether.

He had emptied a Senior Practitioner’s entire reserve in one fell swoop tonight.

The backlash was written on his face: his eye sockets were sunken, his cheekbones prominent, his lips cracked. He looked like a piece of old tree bark, completely drained of moisture.

But he didn’t seem to mind.

He collected the Rubbing Copies from the low table one by one and put them in his leather bag.

"Sir, are you..." Richard began.

"I’m fine." Mr. Hutton waved his hand.

He fastened the clasp on his leather bag.

"When I get back, I have to collate today’s findings."

"Tonight?"

"While the memory is still fresh." The old man walked slowly toward the crypt’s exit.

"The next time someone encounters a similar entity, they won’t have to go through all this trouble."