Interlude (9): The old angler. (1)

This interlude has two parts. Due to my memory being like that of a slightly dumb goldfish, the end of the RWBY Arc in (P)(A)(T) ended up colliding with the posting of this chapter here, so the second part will be released in a few days. I apologize for that.

[WARNING! THE TEXT BELOW MAY CAUSE DISCOMFORT FOR SOME READERS DUE TO GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS!]

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POV: Third person.

'Drip… drop...'

The night was freezing, a cruel cold that wasn’t just suffocating but also dense. The atmosphere was oppressive, dark… The storm winds, which fell relentlessly, sounded more like the howls of beasts than simple gusts of air.

The light from the thunder, red, seemed to darken the surroundings more than actually illuminating them...

Simon glanced at the rain falling outside the window one last time before closing the curtains. He was no longer sure if what was falling from the sky was just water...

"I can feel it in my old bones. Something’s going to happen… Something very bad..." the man muttered before wetting his lips with his tongue and frowning as he heard fast, very light footsteps coming from the hallway. It was late at night, and Simon knew that for certain, even without the help of anything external.

Just like he knew he wasn’t expecting any visitors...

'Drip… drop...'

The old angler stood up, the chair that supported him making a small noise quickly drowned out by the rain. He walked to the door, but not before grabbing his lime-green fishing rod that rested on the table beside the chair. The tool, made for both fishing and combat.

… An old friend he’d had for years.

The footsteps continued for a few more seconds before stopping in front of the door. Simon waited in silence, muscles tense, for any sign of danger, before momentarily relaxing when he recognized the voice on the other side of the door.

“It’s cold, old man! Open this damn thing!”

He hesitated for a moment before touching his left ear to confirm. No tremors. With that certainty, the man didn’t hesitate to open the door. The temperature dropped instantly, a cold wind blowing into the room, and along with it, a short boy who, judging by his height, must have been around twelve, at most fourteen years old.

The boy didn’t hesitate to slip under Simon’s arm, his steps leaving wet footprints on the floor, darkening the wood.

He wore a yellow raincoat that covered his body and, on his head, a matching hat that partially hid his features. The boy glanced around the room for a moment, letting his gaze briefly wander over the aged white wooden walls and the furniture, before heading to the fireplace on the right side of the room.

He walked with slightly trembling steps, due to the cold, until he reached the fireplace, where he removed the yellow raincoat and hat to warm himself by the fire without saying a word. His clothes, even with the raincoat, were soaked.

'Drip… drop...'

Simon didn’t seem bothered by the boy’s actions, already accustomed to them. He ignored the cold wind and cast a glance down the dark hallway that led to other parts of the house, before briefly frowning and closing the door again.

“I knew you were an idiot, brat, but going out in this storm? Congratulations, you surprised me,” Simon teased, returning to the chair near the window. He placed the fishing rod on the table, and just as he was about to sit down, he paused. "Did you at least lock the front door?"

"Only one of us is old and having memory problems, Simon, and that’s not me," the boy replied, without turning or moving away from the fire. His voice was just as mocking as the angler's

Simon grumbled as he sat down.

"Little brat."

"Wrinkled fossil."

The reply was instant.

'Drip… drop...'

The two fell silent after that brief exchange of insults, and the room was once again filled only with the sound of the storm and the soft crackling of flames in the fireplace, whenever a log snapped.

"Aren’t you supposed to be with the others at the village chief’s house, Charles?" Simon resumed the conversation, scratching the tip of his nose, which ached slightly from the cold. "Did something happen?"

The boy didn’t respond at first, remaining silent before turning to Simon. His features and clothes, now illuminated by the fire, could be seen clearly without the yellow raincoat and hat that had covered him before.

Charles, as Simon had called the boy, had short, curly dark brown hair. His eyes were almost the same color, just one or two shades darker. He, like practically everyone in Blue Harbor, had tanned skin, bronzed by the sun.

Charles' clothes were almost identical to Simon’s: a green vest over a light blue shirt, fisherman’s pants, and finally, a pair of brown sandals. All his clothes were also faded by the sun and the sea breeze.

The old angler's gaze blurred for a moment as he stared at the boy. Charles was identical to Simon in his youth, the only exceptions at the moment being the lack of a gray hat on his head and an earring in his left ear. Even his thoughtful and slightly mischievous expression was the same.

Although Simon was sure Charles wasn’t his son—after all, he had never betrayed his wife, who had died ten years ago, and the boy had just turned thirteen less than two months ago—sometimes he had his doubts.

Looking at Charles was like looking at a younger version of himself…

'Drip… drop...'

Simon frowned for a moment before shaking his head lightly and pushing those thoughts aside.

"Cat got your tongue, brat?" Simon grunted from his chair. The look on Charles’ face didn’t give him a good feeling. "Spit it out already, what happened? Why aren’t you at the village chief’s residence with the others?"

The boy hesitated for a moment, licking his lips before answering in a fearful tone.

"They’re acting strange. All the adults," the boy began. His voice trembled slightly, whether from the cold or fear, not even he could tell. "Paranoid about something. Some of the older teens tried to figure out what it was, but if they found out, they kept it secret… It didn’t feel right to stay there for some reason. I tried to get others to come with me, but no one wanted to leave with me…"

The look on Simon’s face grew sharper, and his expression turned into a serious scowl. The movement made his hat fall, partially covering his eyes. Something was wrong… the old angler knew it. Even with his left ear motionless, something about this whole situation smelled off…

'Drip… drop...'

As Simon lifted his hat and looked back at Charles, he realized the boy was hiding something by the way his gaze wandered from one wall to another.

"You heard something, didn’t you?" Before Charles could respond, Simon continued, "I know you, boy. You’re sneaky. What did you hear?"

Charles grumbled with a faint smile before replying in a low tone.

"I heard something about the community center not holding up. That it might collapse, that this is the biggest storm they’ve ever seen in their lives…"

A thunderclap, louder than usual, interrupted Charles’ words. He flinched momentarily, turning to the window, where a small crack in the curtain was open. The lightning’s light passed through that tiny gap, illuminating the room with a blood-red flash.

Simon’s scowl softened at Charles’ reaction. The old angler sighed before explaining in a mocking tone, not directed at the boy.

"So they’ve gone mad. This storm might be the biggest this old man has ever seen, I’ll admit, but it’s still far from enough to bring down that mansion." Simon grunted in his chair, reaching out to close the crack in the curtain, but not before taking another look outside.

The streets were dark, barely visible more than a few meters ahead, not only because of the lack of light but also due to the curtain of water falling, as if dozens of eyes were crying above the clouds…

'Drip… drop...'

Simon frowned at the thought before poking the inside of his left ear with his pinky finger.

"Strange..." the old angler murmured.

"What’s strange?"

"Nothing… Just thought I heard something..." He replied in a low voice before turning to Charles and saying, "Boy, do you know who rebuilt the village chief’s house?"

"… The village chief?"

"Is that a question or an answer?"

"Just tell me who it was, old man. Don’t try to act mysterious, it only makes you look even more senile than you already are!" Charles teased before moving away slightly from the fireplace. The flames were making his eyes itch and burn… Or was it the light?…

'Drip… drop...'

The boy frowned for a moment.

“Cheeky brat…” Simon muttered to himself, catching Charles’ attention. The old angler had a slight smile on his face as he scratched his beard and explained, "It was me, boy, me and an old friend. We rebuilt that house after the village chief died of old age."

"An old friend?… That bald old man who showed up a few days ago with those two fancy-looking noble guys in overcoats?" The boy remembered easily.

Simon burst into laughter before Charles could even finish speaking. The chair beneath him shook with the movement. His laughter lasted a few seconds before the man started coughing and stopped when his sides began to hurt.

"Do me a favor, boy. Next time you see Gilbert, call him that. If he complains, tell him I was the one who told you to do it." Simon’s laugh came out a bit wheezy from lack of breath, but the thought of seeing Gilbert called that made him laugh even more.

'Drip… drop...'

Simon wiped a tear from the corner of his eye before his laughter finally died down, as a cold breeze slipped under the door. He stared at the door for a moment before getting up and dragging the chair closer to the fireplace.

He sat back down only after throwing some chunks of coal and wood onto the flames. For some reason, it didn’t seem to help much with the cold.

"But yes, boy, it was Gilbert and me who rebuilt that house..." The old angler resumed his explanation with his raspy voice. "The old village chief died without heirs, so he left the old house as a legacy for everyone in the village to use..."

Charles didn’t interrupt Simon while he spoke. The boy had always liked hearing his stories, even though he was sure many of them were exaggerated.

"The idea to renovate it came from Gilbert. He was the one who talked to the others in the village to raise the money and negotiate the materials. He was always good at that. No wonder he became a merchant..." Simon sighed sadly. His voice sounded nostalgic and, in a way, melancholic.

'Drip… drop...'

The old angler sighed one last time before getting to the main point of that story.

"I was the one who organized and supervised the renovation crew, Charles." He turned to the boy. "I saw how that house was rebuilt, step by step, and I can guarantee it won’t collapse because of this storm. Especially after my son hired some Symbol Masters to enchant the whole house. Don’t worry, boy."

Charles stared at Simon for a moment, studying the man’s face for any signs of a lie. When he found nothing, he sighed in relief and nodded.

Simon chose that moment to ruffle Charles’ hair and add:

"And let’s be honest, if you, with your amazing ninety-nine pounds and five feet, didn’t get blown away by the wind, that house isn’t going anywhere either." Simon laughed when the young man swatted his hand away and stood up with an annoyed look.

"I’m five foot three, old man."

"It’s amazing that even at my age, I can still learn something new. I didn’t know crap could be piled that high."

"Neither did I know it could be preserved for so long. You’re not even good for bait anymore, it’d be cruel to the poor fish."

"You didn’t deny that you weigh ninety-nine pounds," Simon pointed out.

"I don’t even know how much I weigh!" Charles shouted back. "Or do you think I have one of those fancy scales the nobles use?"

"Use the fish scale."

"And let you have that kind of ammo against me? Never! And I definitely weigh more than ninety-nine pounds!"

"Maybe… But you probably weigh about fifteen trouts... The small ones."

"Your ass!"

The conversation continued in a light tone for some time, the cold and the storm outside momentarily forgotten as the two exchanged insults back and forth, as they occasionally did whenever Charles visited Simon, whether at the pier, fishing, or at the old angler's house for lunch or dinner.

After a few minutes, Simon stood up, the joints in his back cracking with the movement, and looked at the fireplace. The fire was dying down, leaving only a few orange embers that didn’t warm the room much anymore...

'Drip… drop...'

Simon frowned for a moment, doing some mental calculations. He had been feeding the fire to mark the time and, if his calculations were right, it should be late at night by now.

It was hard to keep track of time without the sunlight.

"It’s late, boy, go to sleep." The old angler pointed to the bed in the corner of the room. "I’ll check all the windows to make sure they’re locked and be back in a second with another mattress."

"I’m not afraid to sleep alone." Charles narrowed his eyes. "Or are you? Aren’t you too old for that?"

The older of the two snorted.

"This is the only room in the house with some Mystic Symbols for heat insulation, boy." Simon grabbed his lime-green fishing rod and adjusted some mechanisms while explaining. "Like you said, I’m old. My bones ache just thinking about sleeping anywhere else but here."

"Heat insulation?..." Charles looked around the room for a moment. It was cold, even more so after the fire started dying. "Are you sure they didn’t rip you off?"

Simon looked at the small glass jar on the shelf, which was connected to the thermal insulation matrix between the wooden planks in the walls. There were still several Artificial Sapphires inside the glass… The matrix was working, or at least, it should’ve been...

'Drip… drop...'

"I’m starting to wonder that too, boy." Simon agreed with a slow nod and threw more wood onto the fire. "Go lie down. If the storm doesn’t pass overnight, I’ll talk to the others and we’ll organize a trip to the kingdom as soon as possible."

Simon knew no one would want to travel in this storm, but if things continued as they were, it was either that or starve when the food ran out. It was impossible to fish in this weather.

The old angler clicked his tongue, stressed. He was starting to regret not accepting Gilbert's offer to hitch a ride with him to the kingdom. Simon doubted the old merchant would have refused to let Charles come along if he asked.

The only reason he had declined earlier was because of everyone else in the village. Simon was the strongest contractor in the village, and the oldest too. Even though most of his childhood friends had either died or moved away from Blue Harbor long ago, he still felt he should stay to help if any problems arose.

... But he was starting to think there wasn’t much he could help with in the first place.

'Drip… drop...'

"My bleeding heart..." He muttered to himself before heading to the door and opening it. The temperature dropped almost instantly. The cold wind made Simon’s nose wrinkle, and the sound of the rain, now louder, made his ears take a moment to adjust. The darkness made his eyes narrow momentarily.

Simon touched his right ear for a moment. No tremors. He stepped into the hallway.

Even with the darkness in the house, he didn’t hesitate in his steps. Simon had lived here for nearly ten years, having moved in shortly after his wife passed away. He could walk through this house with his eyes closed and not bump into a single piece of furniture or wall.

The first room Simon checked was the living room, where the planks in front of the door, locked as Charles had said, were wet. He ignored the soaked floor and went to the windows. After confirming they weren’t about to be ripped out by the wind, he moved on to the next room.

Simon checked each room quickly, moving from the living room to the guest bedroom, from the guest bedroom to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen, where the window was partially open. The entire sink was soaked, as well as much of the wooden floor.

When Simon got closer to the window, he realized it wasn’t his mistake that the window was like that; he hadn’t forgotten to close or lock it. The latch was partially broken, as if something had struck the glass.

… He hadn’t heard any sound at all.

'Drip… drop...'

"What the hell hit it?..." The man muttered to himself, taking a few steps toward the window before stopping. The glass was cracked in a circular shape, as if a small stone or hard ball had been thrown at it.

Before Simon could get any closer to the window, a flash illuminated the room, coming from a thunderclap larger than usual, or perhaps closer. For a fleeting moment, the water shimmered in a dense red hue.

To Simon, it was as if the kitchen was completely covered in blood… As if half a dozen people had been slaughtered right there...

The cracked glass, especially, seemed for a second to be stained with some kind of darker, crimson blood. It was as if, somehow, not even all the rain from the storm could wash it away.

Then the flash disappeared, and everything went dark again.

Simon’s nose wrinkled, a shiver ran down his spine. For a second, to him, the water had really turned into blood. Not just from the sight, but from the smell, which had filled his nostrils like a disease. He touched his left ear. No tremors.

Simon frowned and hesitated before deciding to turn around, heading toward the kitchen door with uncomfortable steps. The liquid under his feet felt thicker than usual, thicker than water. It was dense and seemed to stick to his sandals...

The sensation lasted only a second. As he left the kitchen and locked the door behind him, it stopped, but it was enough to make the old angler long for a good, long, hot bath. He felt dirty, sticky, and cold.

The lightning flashes were also starting to hurt his vision. The back of his eyes ached...

'Drip… drop...'

The last room Simon went to was the storage room. Not the one where he kept the fish—that was in an external part of the house—but the one he used to store his gear, tools, and some other items. His target was an old single mattress that he’d still be using if it weren’t for his son insisting he buy a new one, and some dusty blankets.

Not even thirty seconds later, the man was back in the main room of the house, where Charles was waiting for him, looking at the door. Simon tossed the mattress and blankets onto the floor, beside the bed where the boy lay, before closing the door behind him.

The warmth from the fireplace didn’t seem to help with the cold...

"Go to sleep, we’ve got a busy day tomorrow." The old angler nodded and lay down under the blankets, his lime-green fishing rod beside the mattress. Charles nodded silently and also covered himself to sleep.

Even if the storm had stopped, Simon knew he’d drag as many people as he could out of Blue Harbor at dawn. Something was wrong, he just didn’t know what... Very, very wrong.

It took some time for Charles to fall asleep, Simon noticed from the boy’s breathing, and even more time for himself. His thoughts were restless, coming and going, as were his memories. It was an effort to relax enough to fall asleep.

It was as if his mind was trying to remember something, he just didn’t know what… or why.

Shortly before he fell asleep, a vague memory of a conversation with Gallius surfaced in Simon’s mind, almost like a soft thread of light in the middle of a cold darkness...

Something about a farm and footprints leading into a silent forest, but before he could grasp that memory, it faded away, as his thoughts blurred into the unconsciousness of a ̷t̷r̷o̷u̷b̷l̷e̷d̷ ̷a̷n̷d̷ ̷r̷e̷s̷t̷l̷e̷s̷s̷ peaceful and gentle sleep...

'Drip… drop...'

... Then he woke up with a startled gasp. A scream of terror trapped in his throat.

It was like a quick, fleeting blink of an eye. One moment, he was lying down, trying to remember memories that refused to be recalled, and the next, he was sitting up, his back completely drenched in cold sweat, eyes wide open.

His eyes hurt; they felt dry and swollen, as if he had been crying in his sleep, though that seemed paradoxical...

Simon blinked in fright and looked around for any enemy or danger, taking a while to realize he already had his fishing rod in hand. He gripped the lime-green handle tightly, his knuckles turning practically... crimson?...

His hands were wet... His body was soaked... Something that didn’t seem to be water covered him entirely...

Simon jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain in his old back, and glanced around. It was only then that he noticed the cold in the room, drenched by the rain quickly pouring through the window, sometimes water, sometimes blood...

Always blood…

'Drip... drop...'

Red-colored water! Not blood! He screamed mentally, alarmed, unsure why. It wasn’t blood, the color was due to the lightning! It’s not blood!…

It wasn’t blood... Maybe...

He hadn’t been certain of that for a long time now...

Simon looked at the window. The glass was shattered, as was the frame that held it, torn from the walls. Whatever had hit it, had hit hard and probably made a loud noise... Yet, he hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t woken up...

Simon touched his forehead. His head hurt for some reason... It didn’t take long for him to find out why: a bump, swelling quickly.

Before he could check what had actually happened, either by examining his injury or searching for whatever had hit the window, his eyes widened in alarm.

"Charles!"

Simon quickly turned to the bed where the boy had fallen asleep, expecting to find him gone... He sighed in relief when he saw him there.

The boy was still in bed, sleeping under the covers, now soaked by the water – he reinforced mentally, the rain – but still asleep. His chest rose and fell slowly, gently, in a rhythmic motion...

'Drip... drop...'

... His eyes moved uncontrollably beneath his eyelids, uncoordinated and darting in all directions, erratically. They seemed bulging... Tears of blood trickled from the corners...

The relief Simon had felt at seeing the boy safe vanished in an instant. Even more alarmed than before, he grabbed Charles' shoulders with his free hand and shook him, shouting his name repeatedly to wake him up. No success... No matter how many times he yelled or called, Charles wouldn’t wake...

"Tap!"

Out of options, at least for his frantic and frightened mind, Simon slapped the boy across the face.

The impact was strong enough to leave a mark and send his head to the side. Charles woke with a startled gasp, his muscles locking up momentarily. He stayed with his mouth open for a moment, as if a scream was trying to escape his throat, but to no avail.

... The less terrified part of Simon noticed that these actions mirrored his own when he had woken up.

He raised his hand to his head, to the bump. Was that what had woken him?... Would he still be asleep if it weren’t for whatever had hit his head?...

'Drip... drop...'

A shiver ran down the old angler's spine. The water soaking his body no longer felt like water. Thick and viscous, blood. The rain wasn’t rain, it was tears. He looked toward the window...

Look at the moon...

"Simon!" Charles' shout caught his attention. His neck hurt with the jolt. "What happened?! Why did you hit me?!"

The boy looked around, scared and trembling, noticing the torrential rain rapidly pouring in through the window along with the cold wind, soaking the room in a blood-red hue. The fireplace had long been extinguished...

"You wouldn’t wake up! I yelled, but you didn’t wake!" Simon shouted, gripping Charles' shoulder tightly. Something was wrong... "We need to leave, now—"

He stopped himself when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. Without hesitation, his right arm, holding the fishing rod, moved in a practiced motion. The line, along with the hook and lead weight, flew toward whatever had moved.

The two objects collided: the first, the lead weight, struck the second, which was thrown against the wall with a fleshy, wet sound. The circular, red mark on the wall was definitely blood, not water. A flash of lightning illuminated the room.

Simon’s eyes widened in shock, and Charles' questions were swallowed as both realized what had hit the wall. An eye. A huge, swollen eye, with crimson, bloodied veins pulsing throughout the sclera and around the iris. The color of the iris had once been light green, but now it was a rotten, sickly brown.

The eye was much larger than that of any normal Terrarian or any animal that could exist in Terraria, even some of the beasts or monsters. It was nearly the size of a melon and seemed to have a life of its own, trembling uncontrollably as it slowly turned on the floor, facing them. Mostly Simon. It seemed to focus mainly on him.

In a completely unnatural way, it was possible to tell that the eye seemed hungry, angry. It exuded a disturbing aura. Even though it was just an eye, the emotions surrounding it were easily distinguishable. None of them were positive, let alone good. The eye rolled on the ground, staining the already wet floor with thick, crimson blood that seemed to eat away at the wood like a festering disease.

The eye was repulsive to look at. The smell of rotting flesh it emitted was unbearable. The sound it made as the tendons on its back moved and writhed like small tentacles, lifting it unnaturally into the air, was horrible to hear. There was nothing natural about that... thing...

Everything about it made Simon want to vomit, and the same for Charles, who couldn’t hold it back, emptying his stomach and soiling the sheets beside him. That thing was disgusting in a way Simon couldn’t put into words... except for one particular part.

Among all the horrendous emotions emanating from that gaze, Simon somehow managed to distinguish one that, although negative, was not malicious. Panic. Alarm. A warning. Run! the eye almost seemed to scream at him.

Something inside that eye, in some way, almost seemed to want to help him... Almost...

Then Simon struck again. Without waiting for any movement from the eye, he flicked his wrist, making the line of the lime-green fishing rod wrap around the eyeball. The hook pierced the thin membrane that covered the entire eye.

The creature writhed—whether from pain or in an attempt to free itself, Simon didn’t know. And, truthfully, he didn’t care. He twisted his wrist again, jerking the fishing rod sharply toward the floor. The line followed the movement, as did the eye, which collided violently, spraying even more crimson blood.

With a step forward and a swift thrust, using the unnaturally sharp tip of the fishing rod, Simon finished the creature. The eye trembled and writhed, even impaled, gushing crimson blood from its wounds, and stared at Simon with what seemed to be pure hatred, almost like an attack... Then the thing fell still, still leaking blood that, strangely, didn’t seem to corrode anything but the wooden floor.

Simon looked at the thing for a second, checking if it was really dead. The finger marks on the eye caught his attention for a moment, but he ignored them and focused. After three seconds of watching, when the eye didn’t move, Simon did.

“Questions later, kid.” Simon pulled Charles out of bed before he could speak. He barked an order: “We need to get out of here. Now!”

The man dragged the boy for a few steps before Charles managed to steady himself. The boy took the opportunity to grab his raincoat and yellow hat. Seeing that he could now walk, Simon took the lead and opened the hallway door. Even before turning the knob, he knew everything would be soaked—blood was flowing from under the door.

Water! It’s not blood, it’s water! He mentally screamed, repeating the phrase like a prayer. A plea to himself.

As expected, the hallway floor was flooded. Simon ignored the darkness and, with quick and urgent steps, headed toward the back of the house, aiming for the rear exit. Something inside him screamed that leaving was a terrible idea, but another voice—probably his instincts—said that staying would be even worse.

If they ran, it would be dangerous, but there’d be a chance. Staying was suicide. He was certain of that. If they stayed, the only thing awaiting them would be death.

Simon touched his left ear. It trembled slightly, just a little, but the tremor seemed to grow stronger with each passing second. Something was coming, and he didn’t want to be there to find out what it was.

Before leaving the house, Simon stopped in the internal storeroom and grabbed a few items. A bluish dagger with strange markings, two pairs of curious-looking goggles, and a small brown bag filled with various vials. He handed almost everything to Charles, keeping only one pair of goggles for himself.

“Put the goggles on, they’ll help a bit with the rain. I use them when I fish on rainy days,” Simon said, not stopping as he walked. “Put them on and fasten them tight. The dagger is magical, use it as a last resort, if something gets past me. The bag has some herbs, the name of each is written on the lids. I hope you remember what I taught you.”

Charles nodded and put on the goggles. They were a bit too big for his face, but they would work to keep the rain out of his eyes. Simon did the same, and then took two reddish leaves from his back pocket and chewed them quickly.

Without hesitation, he opened the back door of the house…