Light and Shadow Who: Rhiannon and Elfleda What: An Arrangement When: Night, Present Where: Outside Searchlight
Rhiannon awoke in the middle of the night. The hunter wasn’t sure what caused it, at first, but soon she felt a pinprick sensation on her arms, legs, and the back of her neck. The air in the quiet trailer had a vibration to it, the frequency of the otherworldly, dangerous but familiar. When she ventured to the kitchen and found the butcher knife on its tip, Rhiannon was grateful Cian had spent the night at home.
A few moments later, she sat alone at her kitchen table, pencil scratching across the pad in sure strokes. Over time, the lines coalesced into a picture of a young woman in a flowing dress and hood, her arms bare, a ‘V’ in the neckline of her dress, her skin faintly lined in veins. Rhiannon shaded the iris and pupil of her eyes the same color, the shadows deeper than the rest of the sketch, suggestive of an inner world a human mind couldn’t imagine. The posture was of a dancer, a dark fairy, a wraith in the desert on the edge of Searchlight, just as Rhiannon had first seen her. Above it, the hunter wrote a woman’s name in her looping handwriting:
Elfleda
When she was finished, Rhiannon set her pencil on the table and went to get ready. She pulled on a dark sweater and leather jacket, jeans, and boots, and tied her hair back. The bathroom mirror reflected a hunter who had gone from tired to wide awake in short order. Rhiannon stopped to brush her teeth and carefully apply eyeliner and lipstick, blotting the latter on a piece of tissue. The ring from Cian shone on her finger. She fiddled with the cross on its chain, debating whether to take it off, and decided against it. Then she returned to the living room.
From her trunk, she took the dagger she had inherited from her mother, a cherished Corrigan legacy. Its handle was bone-white, its blade inlaid with silver. Rhiannon tucked a wallet, keys, cigarette case, and phone in her pockets, then slipped the notepad under her arm and left the trailer. A few moments later, she veered off the paved road on the outskirts of town in roughly the same place where she’d met Elfleda, using the light on her phone to guide the way.
Rhiannon knelt in the dirt. She tore the page out of her notebook and set it on the hard-packed ground, loading the corners with loose sediment to keep it from blowing away in the light breeze. Inside her silver cigarette case, she found a half-empty book of matches, the words on the packet reading ‘Restaurant August - Contemporary Creole - New Orleans.’ She struck one, shielded it, and set the burning match in the center of the paper. Slowly, the fire ate a charred hole in the paper, the ritual not so different from the charging of a sigil. When the hole was a few inches wide, Rhiannon withdrew her dagger from its sheath and stabbed it into the dirt.
“How’s now work for you?” She stood up and backed away from the spot.
Some people tried to destroy ouija boards by fire, after playing with them like children and remembering they had forgotten to learn how to close the same door it had opened upon request. Such tales were often accompanied by an astonishment of finding the supposedly destroyed item back in their home, completely intact, not understanding that the act was indicative of a symbolic sacrifice through the element of flame.
Rhiannon had just done something similar, except with very deliberate and knowing intent.
Elfleda had been busy, that night. Busy and watchful. She had aimed to provoke and, true to form, Rhiannon had not disappointed. Had, in fact, been the first to heed her call and had done done so with sacrificial tribute. Something into which had been poured an investment of emotion and thoughts focused upon memories of her visitations. Throughout it, Rhiannon had been pulling upon threads of Elfleda to complete that mental image and now it was being engulfed, as surely as if the figure in black was being burned at a stake in times of old. Even the thrust of blade had played into it, activating the improvised ceremony like a key turning its lock.
The sound of insects was the first thing to dissipate. Deadening as the pictures of those eyes darkened and burned away. Ambient noise, itself, seeming to zone out as one world began to overlap and soak into another. The flames ate through the last reserves of fuel, flickering into embers, dying and Rhiannon was rewarded by a sensation not too dissimilar from the one she had awoken to. Soot began moved by an ethereal wind and jet black smoke raised through grains of sand, silently opening a circle through which the image of the hunter's artistry smoothly ascended in flesh and bone.
"You should have taken up the arts... You're a natural."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Like the planet's crust had split and something from within was sighing words forth. Elfleda's ghostly visage might have been cloaked in surrounding darkness, but something about her pallor complexion managed to shine through, regardless. Her head lifted and so did those eyes; taking her time simply because she could. When next she spoke, Elfleda's vocal clarity would be more centred, as if her energies had now coalesced into a single focal point.
"Am I here because you've made your choice, Rhiannon Lee? Are you content or do you hunger?"
“I’d never claim to be content.” The cigarette case snapped in her palm, its metal closure securing the contents. Rhiannon’s fingers flipped the smooth object, the rhythmic turning of it from short side to long becoming a soothing gesture. “I could fight, create, feel every all-consuming thing in my heart, every day for the rest of my life and it’d never be enough.” The brunette did not think of it as a void wanting to be filled, but an endless chain of goals claimed and new ones made, one part of her journey linking to the next, and the next. It was the component of a hunter’s blood that kept them going.
“So, no, I’m not hungry,” Rhiannon said. “I’m starving. It was just a matter of whether I wanted to keep going on my own or with you.”
She slipped the case into the warmth of her pocket and found herself staring at the dirt. At her mother’s weapon sticking out of the ground, much like the butcher knife jutting up from her kitchen counter. “Should we review the terms?”
There was a feeling like that of a new page being opened in a ledger and quill being dipped into ink. Her name was, doubtless, already written in many books, along with those who had come before her. Would Rhiannon get to remain in the black or descend over the line, into the red?
"I should thank you for the portrait," Elfleda spoke, smoothly moving forward. She flipped out a hand ahead of her, seeming to catch something hidden in the air. It was the drawing, looking as unharmed as when it had first been made. Elfleda's head turned to one side, shifting her attention back to the artist. "You have a gift for seeing the unseen. Admirable traits in a hunter. You'll need them."
Tiny beings of shadow fluttered like dragonflies, retrieving the picture from Elfleda's hand and zipped towards Rhiannon, seeming to offer it to her. It left hell's diplomat free to bend down and take the heirloom which had penetrated clean through it, even though no mark was now visible. Whispering to it, Elfleda smiled as it danced between her pale fingers, like a fish through reeds. Knives were no strangers to her grasp.
"Very well," she added and, having closed the distance, reached out to grant the dagger back to its owner. "I provide the prey... And the tools by which to end them. Threats to both our worlds. What further do you seek to clarify?"
The paper was plucked from the air, in part so Rhiannon could get a better sense of what delivered it to her; dark, nearly-there insects, not physically detectable but rather like an absence within the ether. Rhiannon eyed the weapon, uncertain of what strange love language passed between the Emissary and an implement of death, albeit a pretty one. That weapon had done its fair share of carving and gutting in its lifetime of use. It passed from one hunter’s hand to the next, like others of its kind in her family, but this one had always been held by a woman.
She took it and put it in its proper place, with her. The drawing was folded and stashed in a pocket. The terms, then. She looked at Elfleda. “If I want to stop, I can, free and clear. I don’t kill humans, not unless I have an extraordinary reason why it must be done and it has to be me. I kill our shared enemies. But if I step on your turf, even by accident, I want to know what you’ll do. It’s fair to understand the consequences.” This was not spoken as a threat but with reason; their worlds intertwined.
Though they were in cold, empty terrain, Rhiannon had a feeling that the fire she lit was still burning, that they were watched by players unknown to her, perhaps some even unknown to the hooded lady. A light breeze sent sand skittering past her shoes, the noise evoking the idea of a rattling tail.
Elfleda listened with impassive countenance. Hollywood liked to paint her kind as chaotic, impatient beings, prone to violent fits, but that was the opposite of what she presented. As befitted her status of diplomacy, Elfleda might nudge, but was certainly patient. Once the conditions were relayed, she softly blinked, looking off into the town. Consideration had ensued, silently gauging likelihoods and probabilities. Perhaps listening to mental whispers from those with vested interests, whether good or bad.
“As you wish,” she finally spoke, flickering that ebony gaze back to the hunter, before moving a hand before her and gesturing with an upwards point of finger. “For the time being… But my resources have limitations. Should you need more than I can give, our arrangement will require alterations. You would need to provide greater… Collateral.”
A smile cut upwards, as the verbal clarification was driven home.
“Sacrifice.”
So, there it was. A stepping stone and a significant one, at that. Access to knowledge and tools Rhiannon likely otherwise could not gain, with one tiny qualification: If Rhiannon wanted more, then her benefactor would ask for the same in return. For now, this could still easily play out in the hunter’s overall favour.
Instead of a conventional handshake, Elfleda glided forth with both hands offered in expectation of the hunter taking each into her own. Somehow, it felt as if any shadow she was casting may have grown bigger.
“Do I have your agreement, Rhiannon Lee? Will you fight for light and shadow?”
Light and shadow. When put that way, it was easy. Rhiannon had always felt, deep in her heart where secrets dwelled, that she stood astride the line.
The Hunter opened her hands to the Emissary of the Black Light. Their fingers touched. It was the first such physical contact. She stepped closer without hesitation, having promised she wouldn’t agree until she could be trusted. No thought of lying or scheming would be detected, if Elfleda was attuned to such things, only a desire for strength and purpose. A bridge forged.
“Yes.” The ends of Rhiannon’s hair whipped at her cheeks and neck as the wind picked up around the circle of their union, chasing bits of sediment, dead leaves and stems in a miniature dust devil at their ankles. “I will.” Whatever storm lay ahead, it wouldn’t be said that the hunter languished on the sidelines, paying no mind to warnings. She flashed back to being a girl and accepting a weapon from her uncle, pledging she would carry on the legacy of her family’s hunters. She made that promise without reservation, too, but this felt more loyal to her blood than anything. Like evolving.
Either Elfleda’s grip was surprisingly strong or the words caused a magnetic form of binding to be felt between them. The visitor slid palms up to forearms and they locked into an older manner of entwining agreement, like two trees growing branches into one another.
“By these words, I abide,” Rhiannon’s ghostly advisor spoke and the clear-cut nature of her accent made it sound like Elfleda was slicing that dagger across a throat in offering. Perhaps, in ancient times, that would have been precisely what would seal their pact. “It is done.”
Those same hands moved back and there was a more playful, devilish smile subtly shining upon her new companion’s lips. Reaching to them, Elfleda encircled fingers into the air like a mime artist and extended black tongue, swiping up an invisible blade. One which smoothly materialised there, in place of a would-be trail of saliva. The rest of the weapon gradually formed before her, like seeing a plant blessed with accelerated growth. “Become,” she said, half-way between command and encouragement for a small child. A blade was growing, though remained ethereal. Below it, the hilt became a handle of the purest pitch black. Not of typical design, but of segmented cables starting to move, until finding one another and wrapping intimately around, to create a singular whole. Like black snakes or dragons coming together and united in purpose.
It wasn’t metal. More like black glass or perhaps incredibly smooth stone. The blade, above, burned in green, yet created only an imprint of solidity. For a moment, it brightened, until rescinding into the handle. Like a spiritual totem animal retreating into a burrow. Only the handle remained.
“No longer will you have to consider disposal. With this, you will ignite your foes. Even those not of the material realm. If not held, few will realise its purpose.” The new weapon was placed into Rhiannon’s waiting hand and, upon doing so, once more that ghostly green blade suddenly appeared, reacting to its new owner’s touch. “Think upon me with this in your grasp... I will consider it an invitation.”
A weapon, in-built disguise, body disposal and spiritual hotline to hell, all in one. Some clubs offered free toasters and alarm clocks. Elfleda’s was clearly more exclusive.
Anyone like Phanuel, on the other hand, might well detect its presence. Detect it and warn against further association… Infernal devices had a way of taking root. But for every price, there were also benefits. This could do things other tools could not.
“In time, it may even tell you its name. Does it please you…?”
Did it please her? Rhiannon wasn’t sure what to say.
The weight and balance of it, the texture of the intertwined snakes and dragon’s tails of the hilt, fit perfectly in her hand, which she knew could not be an accident. This was a weapon that wanted to be used by its hunter, a weapon that Rhiannon predicted might hum to her when she put it away, pleading to be drawn again. What remained to be seen was how it felt to stab with a ghostly blade. Normal people who murdered often said that they weren’t prepared for how it felt to cut tissue and strike a bone… It disturbed them. That squelch and crunch became satisfying to a hunter after a while. How would it feel to kill with spiritual fire?
“It’s beautiful,” she said, eyes on the dance of jade-colored flame. Rhiannon gave a practiced flick of her wrist. The weapon was as quiet as the fire she had lit on the paper, the soft rustle of her leather jacket louder than it as she worked the weapon in the air.
“Where do they go when they burn?” She looked to Elfleda for whatever answer she was willing to give a hunter that was now half hers.
Scholars of reincarnation spoke of life on Earth as a form of school. Repeatedly planning out life lessons and experiencing a journey, in an effort to learn. How this chapter in Rhiannon’s life might be regarded, only time would tell. A hunter’s life was rarely normal, if only for the urges that path would bring, if not somehow satisfied. This newest fork in the road now presented opportunities she might otherwise not have encountered.
And it was starting with the bequeathing of a gift.
“They are claimed,” answered Elfleda, having contemplated a response. Not necessarily a deceptive one. Some concepts demanded mental translation to best convey their meaning. “Transference,” she added. “To somewhere better suited for… Containment. But do not think this lessens your victories. True destruction is not possible for many things you face. Only exile. Think of yourself as not only a warrior, but gate-keeper. A wolf at the door, helping to bring balance.”
For a moment, consideration was given as to whether to inform Fern, but there were advantages in compartmentalised cells of operatives. Instead, Elfleda regarded the emerald fire like watching a family pet getting to know the owner of its new home. Most likely perceiving an interplay of energies Rhiannon’s mortal eyes could not.
“Do try to resist using it for the lighting of narcotics, won’t you? It may find that… Disrespectful.”
Rhiannon’s eyes darted to the corruptive entity alongside her. “I don’t play with my weapons,” she said, a touch defensively. She’d known hunters who took bets and threw daggers that still had blood crusted on them, dulling their best tools and making drunken asses out of themselves. Games had their place, but instruments of killing weren’t meant to be toys or entertainment. She rotated the handle in her palm and it seemed to understand her intentions. The light retreated. It was nothing more than a sculpture in her hand now, disturbing in its imagery but giving away none of its capabilities. The end wasn’t even warm.
“Try to come up with a better comparison for me than a wolf,” she countered. “I’ve hunted those.” Sensing the end of the conversation was near, Rhiannon didn’t bother to ask how she’d know who her first target would be. Either Elfleda would tell her outright or she’d find a way to communicate it, like she had with the knife in Rhiannon’s kitchen. Her open notebook’s pages flapped at her feet. Rhiannon retrieved it and shook sand out of the spine.
“If I’d mentioned cats, you may have taken offence.”
Before Rhiannon had time to counter, the figure in black had vanished. Only a mild scent of burnt sugar remained hanging in the air from where the Black Light’s disciple must have been engulfed. It took a little time, but the familiar sounds of the Nevada desert gently reasserted themselves, surrounding Rhiannon like a personal audience late to the party.
Her and the strange, alien gift now making a home with its new owner.