Standing at the station after getting off the train, he stood with two cloaked figures beside him, holding a walking stick in his left hand. Departing from the station, opening the wooden doors with glass views, he stepped into the rain, in which the taller of the two figures to his right opened up a dark umbrella, intent to shield him from the rain.
An ivory-decorated coach drawn by five horses rode to a stop before them. The man who sat next to the coachman got off and opened the doors into the coach, bowing his head slightly as he stepped into the coach before looking up to face the cloaked figures that were at his side, only to find them gone.
The man, confused, looked around to find them before being waved back by the person who had entered the coach; to return to the coachman's side so they could depart. Confusion remained on his face, lined with skepticism, as he closed the door quietly before sitting next to the coachman, who loosened his hold on the reins, causing the horses to begin movement.
The Coach pulled slowly from the train station's compound. Within it sat a tall young man with long dark hair and eyes that carried a purple hue. Across from him, a girl of small stature, pale skin, dark hair, which she paired with her lips in color, a fluffy dress, a pair of black striped socks on her feet, which she kicked back and forth gently, and a pleased look on her face.
The young man leaned back, with his fingers interlocked on his left hand, which was adorned with silver rings laced with gold. On his right were two gold rings adorning his middle and pinky finger. Strands of his hair fell to cover parts of his eyes. They rode for a while in silence as the girl looked up at him.
"I never fancied you the type to like monocles, my lord. It makes you look rather old," she spoke, chuckling a bit to herself.
"Oh? Does it not fit the rest of my attire, Margaret?" the young man spoke in a puzzled tone.
Reaching up to his face, she adjusted the single lens that covered the young man's right eye; a long silver chain ran down from his face. After fixing it, she leaned back to her seat, smiling.
"No, it suits you very well, my lord," she said with a slight bow.
He never really got used to the level of courtesy and care she always demonstrated around him. There was far too much formality between them for someone he had grown to know over the last five years.
Margaret always listened intently when spoken to, but she always kept to herself. Granted, the very moment they met, she had appointed him as the Patriarch of the Whitlock Noble family, and to not let her down, Nox had invested time and energy to ensure it didn't crumble in his hands. Close moments or near failures, she never once blinked, leaving the state of her legacy in his hands.
Looking at her once again, it registered to him that she was the one, most important person to him in this world. He wasn't sure if she knew that; however, compared to 794 years of age, it most likely did not matter to her.
"My lord, when you look outside the window," she gestured to orphans who huddled together by the side of a building, shivering from the cold rain. "Do you think there's salvation for them?" she asked, with an intent Nox detected as a plea.
"I'm not sure, but when the time comes, should the time come, I'll let them lay to rest within me," he responded. Placing his hand on his chest, he could feel his heart beating, and beneath his skin, hundreds of thousands of vengeful spirits clawed at him, begging to be unleashed upon the world. A trace of abyssal energy oozed from his body, spooking the horses as they jumped, stopping the Coach in a panic.
Outside, the coachman could be heard yelling at the man next to him to help calm them down. Moments passed before the horses calmed. The man who sat next to the coachman approached the door, knocking a few times before asking if everything was alright inside the coach.
Nox, opening the door slightly, nodded as the man bowed and returned to his position. A moment passed, and Nox could feel the Coach moving once more at a steady pace.
"Can one truly look at all the pain and suffering of man and take it on with them?" Nox spoke, "At a different time, I was a true coward, one who watched the misfortune of others and took their pain and wrote them into words, pen to paper. I can promise you this, at least, I believe myself to be the same coward I've always been."
Margaret smiled and spoke, "If my tragedy becomes the tales you tell after you've met me, then I would be proud to say I remained in the mind of such a great being."
She often spoke with intelligence and eloquence, fueled by a noble arrogance. Regardless of the way she portrayed herself, she was called the ageless witch for a reason. Margaret had more of a darker side to her than she let on, and to be honest, Nox couldn't blame her for it. She had seen just how dark and broken the world was, and once anyone saw and experienced it, the heart-shattering darkness would seep in and dwell within them.
In his mind, even as he sat there in his heart, he felt nothing. Perhaps this was the monster everyone avoided on earth, and yet, looking across from him at Margaret, she had given almost everything to such a monster.
"Wouldn't you rather rest in the embrace of the known gods of this world? After suffering for this long, surely you deserve it." Nox spoke lightly.
"Placing a finger to my lips is stopping myself from telling the lies and secrets I see all around me. Placing a finger on yours stops me from hearing the words that will come to save me in the future." Margaret spoke favorably.
Nox looked away. He opened a page in a book as he looked out the window. Margaret gave him her full attention with eyes that asked, "What does it say?"
"By the gods, I pray may these words not bind us, mortal men, to that written from pen to paper, the whims of the divine sparked from thought, nor enlightenment weaving chaos and disaster into the existence of life, hopelessness into the embracement of death, despair into the souls of man."
Nox read it out loud, to which even the coachman and the man who sat next to him heard. Dread spread across both their faces. Surely this was an omen, one that spread a grim reality of life. As for the two men, death already held a long blade to their necks.
A long pause was felt around them as they came to a corner where a man lay bowed, his hands above his neck. The coach, led by the horses, came to a halt as the door opened, and a long dark cane struck the cobblestone street. At the top of the cane was a small, dark raven, held by dark gloves, and a line of silver rings. Nox stood above the man, the purple moon looming over him, his eyes reflecting the same color.
"My lord," the man spoke, "Please help save my sons, they've been lost to the demons that roam the winter woods."
Nox narrowed his eyes. The Coachman and the man beside him watched silently.
The man prostrated himself in subservience, yet, with his face to the floor, held a disgustingly sadistic look in his eye and a smile tainted with darkness on his lips. Nox, who held pity in his expression, knelt down to give the man his word, placing his right hand on the man's head.
The Coachman smiled at the mercy the patriarch offered the poor man, and his smile changed to a look of horror and fear as mere moments had passed before the man began to scream and kick uncontrollably, begging for forgiveness as their lord held him down, a look of pity still in his eyes. Margaret was picking up the monocle he had given her in their previous encounter.
She observed a pillar of dark flames that burned the man, yet, his skin remained intact as the flames burned deep within his very soul; and beside Nox, were the two cloaked figures, their hoodies now off, and their hatred engraved in their expression as the man desperately gripped both their legs, begging them for forgiveness, hoping for a moment of redemption. She looked on calmly at the face of Nox, who had lost the mask of pity, and was looking down at the man with a bone-chilling coldness in his eyes as the man slowly lay flat, lifeless at his feet, before letting go.
Calmly making his way back into the coach before sitting across from her, he returned to his book as though nothing had happened. From Margaret's view, the two hooded figures vanished seemingly into thin air. She had met Nox five years before, and everything about him felt otherworldly, not just his abilities, but also the very composition of his mind and body, who now only looked on coldly at pages he read to himself. Anything could be said about him, and it wouldn't matter; his humility and kindness, care, and appreciation, even the hard work he demonstrated, none of this mattered to her.
It wasn't a human that sat across from her; she couldn't call him a god either; however, the price that was paid for his descent, she knew, must have been a very heavy one. What sat across from her wasn't the young man named Nox Aurelius Whitlock, but "The Holder of the Abyssal Gaze."