5 — Highsun 20 / 1 — Ash Moon 12
The basement door shut with a soft thunk that echoed straight through my bones.
Darkness swallowed the cramped space of the cellar at once.
I blinked and widened my eyes uselessly, patting the stone wall for the carved steps leading upstairs like a fool. "All right," I whispered. "There's… a candle here somewhere." I groped for the candle I was sure I'd set on one of the indents on the wall somewhere, but instead found sleeves and the unfamiliar bulk of someone close enough to be dangerous. I squeaked, which was not my finest sound.
His voice was calm, distant. "Do not move too much. The ground is uneven; you'll hit against something."
Too late—my shin hit a box, then something tall and solid: him. I squeaked, stumbled back, and whispered, 'Sorry,' because apparently one apologizes when one sneaks into one's own cellar and accidentally manhandles an angel.
"I just—ow—oh, goodness—why is your arm made of stone?" I tried to sound annoyed by the pain in my elbow, instead of giving away that I was nervous by the close proximity to another person.
He didn't answer, but I heard a faint exhale that might've been amusement.
After the third time I bumped into him, I decided that the wall was safer. Except… somehow I still ended up wedged between the wall and him anyway. I could feel the steady weight of his presence next to me, the faint brush of his sleeve against my arm.
"This is fine. We're fine…" I whispered to myself. "Everything's fine. Just trapped underground in complete darkness with an angel. Perfectly normal."
Then—light from the corner of my eye. Not much, just the faintest shimmer. I blinked, my eyes opening wider as I looked up and realized it was coming from him.
His eyes were glowing.
It wasn't bright enough to see much else, but it was enough to make me forget that I was scared for at least three seconds. They were golden—not like coins, but like candlelight through honey, soft and alive. I found myself staring, distracted, the rest of the world momentarily forgotten. They were lovely… I found myself smiling softly as how odd yet sweet they seemed.
Until a floorboard creaked above.
My breath caught. We were definitely not alone anymore.
He didn't move, but every muscle in my body did as I trembled, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the next sound. There: boots against wood, slow, careful steps. A cupboard opening. Something being moved.
My throat tightened. No one outside my family—and now the Angel beside me—had ever been in this cottage before; it felt unnatural to be hiding while an intruder saw such personal things left to me by the women before me… And a hunter, no less. One who wouldn't doubt in capturing me and turning me over for my crime…
Then above us a floorboard creaked, sharp and dangerous. I knew that sound; I knew which board made it, and knew he was about a meter away. I pressed my back flat to the cold, damp wall.
My lungs burned for sound; my throat for a cry. I let out a half-breath that was almost a whimper.
Tears started to slip down, barely silent and hot.
A hand rose in the dark.
Cool fingers brushed down my cheek—gentle, careful—before sliding over my mouth, stilling the little gasp that had almost escaped me. It wasn't rough. Nor forced. Just there, reminding me to keep quiet.
I could barely breathe. His palm was warm and steady, and smelled of sunshine on freshly washed linens; his breath was quiet above me but I could feel it move the air between us with long deep breaths that invited me to mimic him.
And those eyes, so oddly close for some reason, moved as he blinked, as if in thought as he seemed to observe me well in the dark, with a gentleness or softness I couldn't name. Not pity. Not command. Definitely not badly. It was more like someone trying to remember a long-forgotten tune.
Nervous again, I shifted my lips against his hand to bite them tightly together.
I was sure he could feel how hot my face was.
I hoped desperately that he couldn't know the reasons why.
I jumped slightly when the footsteps returned to my attention as the hunter came from one of the rooms back towards the kitchen, close once more to us under trapdoor was right beneath the pantry rug.
There's no way he'll find us… No, the Angel wouldn't allow that…
I squeezed my eyes shut and more tears leak out quietly, wetting his hand and before spreading to my lips. Still, he stayed still, patient, until the steps moved away again and then receded down the space to the front door. He made us wait, listening to the silence refill.
After what felt like hours, the door creaked again. Then silence. Then—nothing.
He didn't speak at first, only listened, eyes unfocused as if hearing something beyond my range.
When he finally spoke it was soft and close enough that I jumped. "He's gone—for now," he murmured and his hand lowered slowly. "But he will return with others. You cannot remain here. They will widen their circle."
The faint glow from his eyes dimmed a little as he looked toward the far wall where the door leading to the underground escape route my great-grandmother had created when she built this home. Which could only mean he can definitely see in the dark and know things without being told… "We must leave."
"Wait—" I grabbed his sleeve. "My things. I can't just—the grimoires, my grandmother's notes, my mother's things—I forgot the little tin with her needles—" I swallowed. "They're all I have left."
"They will not matter if you are caught," he said simply.
I frowned, shaking my head stubbornly. "They matter to me. And the upstairs is not protected from fires as the cellar here is—in case the men come back and…" I couldn't finish my sentence. The thought of my home going up in flames was too much to even imagine.
I lifted my hands and pushed at the trapdoor. It was heavy, though it seemed that now with the Angel's magic from when he shut it, it was heavier than it should be… The wood wouldn't budge. His hand rested on my shoulder then, gentle but firm, stopping my efforts.
A hand settled firmly on my shoulder. His voice was low, close enough that I felt it vibrate against the back of my head. "Do not."
I froze. He was too near—his breath brushed against my ear, his hand steady but not rough. My brain promptly stopped working for two seconds. "You can't just keep me down here like—like a buried carrot!"
A faint, frustrated sound escaped him—half-sigh, half-laugh. "Your metaphors," he murmured, "grow stranger with your anxiety."
"I just need a few things," I said, still pushing weakly at the door. "I'll be quick, I promise."
He sighed. "Stubbornness is not a virtue, witchlet."
"And being a hindrance isn't either," I shot back. "Now, unless you plan to stand there all day—"
He squared his shoulders and smoothed the fabric of my resolve with a single, practical suggestion. "Be quick; do not linger."
He reached past me, and with a single motion, his hand slid up against the door. For a second I expected some great celestial force to tear it off; instead the latch on the other side clicked as it moved like butter. The door swung upward as if the hinges had been waiting for an order.
I blinked up at him. "You could've done that the whole time?"
"You could have asked politely," he said simply.
I blinked as the air from above came down to us. Though it seemed there was still not enough light of day yet to come through the windows, and I remembered my search for the candle. I was barely able to see it in one of the steps in the wall, but once I did, I snatched it up and muttered a charm under my breath, not locating the wick well, so general sparks flickered from my fingers—which made him tense instantly.
"Do not use magic so carelessly," he said sharply.
"It's a fire-lighting spell," I protested. "The simplest thing in existence…"
"Even a few simple sparks can burn when surrounded by old parchment and oil," he said. "And you are standing in both. Ridiculous—especially when just a few moments ago you were fearing your things going up in flames."
I bit back a retort, grudgingly lighting the wick with the smallest ember possible. The glow filled the tiny cellar, flickering across shelves and boxes, glinting faintly on the silver threads of his hair.
When I finally looked up at him, I couldn't help but laugh softly. "Speaking of ridiculous…" I said before I could stop myself.
One of his brows arched.
"You're too tall," I explained, grinning despite everything. "Did you bonk your head against a beam at some point already?"
He gave me a look that might've been disapproval if it weren't for the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I was not designed for hiding in cellars."
"Clearly."
I handed him the candle, set my basket aside, and began climbing up the steps set into the wall.
The house looked and smelled wrong somehow. My heart squeezed as I moved quickly from shelf to shelf, gathering the few things I couldn't bear to lose: three spellbooks, a bundle of herbs, my mother's pins and pendant, and the rest of the food I had been saving.
Everything else —all the clothes, boxes of jars, and books— I shoved down through the open trapdoor to him. "Catch!"
He didn't. The objects simply floated midair for a moment before neatly stacking themselves along the wall.
I bent my face to each shelf and whispered stupid, quick goodbyes: to a chipped teacup, to a crooked mortar my grandmother used to thump. I closed the shutters to the room to keep the summer sun out during the day while I'm away…
When I finally climbed back down, breathless and trembling, everything was arranged in perfect order.
I blinked. "That's… convenient."
He inclined his head slightly.
"Thank you," I said, quieter now.
He didn't respond immediately, but his gaze softened. "They will be safe here," he said at last. "I've sealed the place. No one will find them unless you will it."
I hesitated. "Is that… allowed? For you to use magic like that?"
He looked away. "You ask too many questions."
"I do that when I'm nervous."
"You must be terrified, then."
"I am," I said honestly.
That seemed to catch him off guard. He didn't look at me again, but his tone gentled. "Then we should move before fear becomes regret."
I nodded, pressing my travel basket to my side. He closed the trapdoor again, the lid settling into its place. He placed a hand—firm and unescapable—on my back to guide me in the dark and we stepped towards the tunnel.
The candlelight wavered as he motioned toward the back wall, where the shadows rippled faintly, revealing a narrow passage that slanted downward. The air that came from it was cool and damp, smelling of stone and earth.
He stepped forward first, ducking still. I followed, pausing once to glance back at the closed trapdoor.
"Goodbye," I whispered for the last time before leaving.
And though fear and sadness still fluttered in my chest, I lifted a hand to grab cloth in the semi-dark, and smiled softly as I realized I wasn't alone anymore.