“Maybe you have lice?” He suggested, half joking.

“Ew,” was the only appropriate response I could muster up. Something was whispering in my ear, speaking in large fancy words Bernard sometimes used. “What was that?” I asked, significantly spooked by now. He raised an eyebrow at me, looking confused.

“What was what?”

“Somebody was talking,” I stood up and looked around. The whispers returned, and as I wandered through the room they were loudest near the pedestal. I held the back of my sore- and probably very red- neck with one hand. Straining my ears to make out what was being said.

“There’s nobody else here, Othala.” Bernard seemed more frustrated with me than concerned or confused at this point. “Sit back down, I’m not finished talking.”

“But it’s-” I had begun.

“Othala,” He commanded in the voice. The one that said “listen here you little shit,” without ever actually speaking those words. I dropped my hand, and looked down as I shuffled back over and sat. Bernard sighed.

“Now, as I was saying,” he began. “People like us, with these markings are born for a very specific job.” He glanced in my direction to make sure I was paying attention. He caught me rubbing the back of my neck again, so I dropped my hand and did the best any four-year-old could do to ignore the constant itch. After giving him the most concentrated and focused look I had, he continued again.

“We can’t avoid this job, okay?”

“Okay.” I accepted.

There was silence for a moment.

“Othala, do you know what death is?” He asked, both eyes focused on the raised skull.

“Nope.”

Bernard nodded to himself.

“One day you’re going to have to know. But that can wait for later.”

He stood, knee’s popping as he did so. After extending one of his giant hands down to help me stand, we put out the braziers- or rather, I watched Bernard do it- and we began ascending the stairs. But just as my foot touched the first step, the whispering came back. It seemed to curl around my ears as it said one word I remember to this day:

“Vengeance,” it was nothing but a soft murmur, something barely audible. Though I was young, and my vocabulary was not very broad, the word stuck with me for years until I finally learnt its meaning. And it continued to haunt me every morning we visited the shrine.

I remember turning to see if I could spot the source of the whispers before we left. But there was nothing except for the darkness of the cave. Bernard put his hand on my shoulder.

“Again, there’s nothin’ there,” he said confidently. “You’re probably just tired. C’mon, let’s go get some breakfast, I’ll carry you on the way back.”

All thoughts of mysterious cave whispers, and itchy necks disappeared instantly.

“Yay!” I exclaimed, running up the stairs as fast as my little legs could carry me.

Every morning, by the time we’d left the cave, the sun would’ve already risen. The sky would begin to light up and the birds would start singing. Listening to their song was always a good way to dust off any lingering thoughts of the shrine and it’s dark shadows. But it hadn’t struck me as odd that I’d never experienced a sunrise until I was much older. It was one of those things you didn’t think much of until it happened.