FLYNN CLAYMORE

He dreamt a dream of the past, of when he was a boy of seven. 

In the dream, on a rainy night he wished to forget but lingered still in his mind, he stood in a pitch-black hallway at the hour of the moon, peeking through the narrow slit of the door of a room, echoing with the voices of two shadows—mists of black which seemed like they were fading with every passing moment, but remained evident. On a bed-like silhouette smothered with darkness, lay one of the mistified shadows, while the other sat beside the bed, grasping the hand of the lying mist of black. 

“Please, do not let him know,” the one that lay said, its voice mingled with both harrowing and daunting pain. It was the soft crying voice of a woman—the soft crying voice of his mother, Fiora. “He will bear hate towards them. I do not want him to live like that… I do not want him to live like me. Please, do not let him know, I beg of you. Promise me you’ll keep it a secret,” she pleaded with the other shadow, her voice slowly succumbing to the pain she felt. 

He watched, not moving a step from the door. This was the last he would see her, she was dying—his mother was dying, but he could not bring himself to go into the room and be in her arms one last time. If he did that, he would never find out what they wanted to keep a secret from him. So he stood, making a decision to wait and watch and listen.

“I promise,” the seated shadow replied. The voice filled with misery was that of his father, Reginald Claymore. “I should send for him, he needs to be with you.”

“No!” Fiora coughed out. “Not now, Reg, not now. I do not wish to see him now. You know, he reminds me of…” Their grips tightened on each other, and at the same time, Flynn’s young chest as well. Her words had driven a pike through his heart, and sent warm tears running down his cheeks slowly and silently, but he did not move a step from the door—not yet, he still wanted to listen. She had treated him with love and care all his life, so why did she not want to see him when she was so close to death? He wanted to know her reason. He did not mind if it would hurt or break him, he was already hurt enough as is. He wanted to know what he reminded her of, and why she would reject his presence because of it…

Tears of thick red streamed down the cheeks of the shadow that was Fiora, as both faces of black in the room, gave a sharp turn towards the door. “...He reminds me of…”

Flynn jerked up from his slumber, his breathing in a race as sweat plundered the fields of his face. “Again,” he muttered bitterly, his fingers firmly gripping the thick linen blanket half his body was swept underneath. He raised his eyes from the blanket, and gave the candle of flickering light, which illuminated the room with a sense of melancholy from the table across his bed, a long, hard look, as though the flame called out to him. He watched it and it watched him, while he took a moment to consider before he chose to accept its supposed call. 

He flipped the blanket away from his body, dropping his feet to the cold hardness of the floor, and walked to take a seat at the table where the flickering flame beseeched him. He wore nothing but a loose pant of black, leaving his upper half uncovered, while his auburn hair fell freely over his shoulders.

He pondered his dream as he continued his watch of the flame. It burned brightly and intensely now that he was close, and with every moment his mind crossed paths with the imagery of the sharp gaze the shadows in his dream had given him, the fire grew and grew and grew relentlessly, and as it was about to inundate Flynn and his room in a rage of flame, a voice sounded, reversing it to the flicker it was before. 

“My Lord,” the voice had called. It was the calm but rich voice of his steward: Ewart Haystack, a person he had grown accustomed to, ever since he was brought as a serving boy two years younger than him, on his tenth name day. “The ghost to see you.”

Flynn frowned slightly at that, his eyes narrowing to an angry slit as he stared at the door. “Send her in,” he answered, returning his gaze to the flame. 

She sauntered in to the shutting sound of the door behind her, Ewart had left them to be. The lady was covered from head to foot-ankle in a linen cloak of black, the only thing that could be made out, until she drew back the hood of her cloak, were her flat sandals, its base daubed with scant dirt.

“Were you the one?” Flynn asked the dark haired and skinned lady, his voice fallen in a pit of growing rage, while the candle flame resonated with him. “Was it you, Melisandre?”

Melisandre answered with a smile—a short, furtive and wry smile, ignorant of his seething countenance. She slowly approached him where he was seated at the table, almost beginning to boast a reply, but Flynn’s rage burst forth before she could manage the feat. He stood up in a fit of pique, sending the chair he sat on crashing to the floor—it would have cursed him if it could—he then grabbed Melisandre by the chin, his fingers biting into her cheeks, with a swirl of fury as he pushed her onto a lifted sit on the table, his body almost merging with hers, if not for the wooden frame of the table restricting his lower half from feeling her own.

“You brought him back and killed his guards. What are you, mad?!” Flynn spat like a flame roasting a big boar on a stake. 

“I could ask you the same, my lord. What were you thinking?” Melisandre managed a mutter, as her speech was heavily curbed by Flynn’s tightened fingers around her cheeks. 

Flynn, angered further, strengthened his grip, his heart racing in accordance with his enlivened temper. The pain began to get to Melisandre, forcing her to grab his arm with both her hands—her mouth had worsened her situation, she noticed. His hold on her cheeks grew firm and strong by the moment, and she knew her tender hands had not the strength to wrench his grip from her face, so she did the only thing she could—she pleaded.

A sharp grimace of pain soured her face. “You’re…hurting…me. Stop it. I killed…the guards for you…my lord,” she begged, but he did not listen, his grip was hurting more now. “Please…I-I have…a plan. Let me…speak…”

He watched and watched and watched, his hand stiffening with every hard breath he poured out, until he unwillingly released his fingers, chasing away his stubbornness with an heavy gasp, as he turned away from Melisandre who was now stuck in a coughing loop, and walked to take a seat on his bed. 

“I’d love to hear this plan of yours,” he said, while he probed her intensely with the brown of his eyes, making sure she knew his anger still lingered, and what she planned to say was what would decide if it would erupt once more or slump into stillness. “But before that, how did you know of his death?”

She coughed a last, then turned her narrow eyes reddened with pain to him, her fingers softly massaging her cheeks. “He had requested the Almond Milk for his nerves, my lord; it was only coincidence that I was the one sent to deliver it, and found him poisoned,” she answered. “Before I speak of my plan, may I be allowed a question? Why did you kill him? It was not yet time. Leaving him dead would have ruined everything. Did you forget of the other Ravenswoods?” 

Flynn answered softly, after he had driven his gaze to the space of black, escaping to the edges of his chamber’s door, from the candle light’s illuminance, “He knew,” he said. 

“He knew?”

“Somehow, he had figured out something was wrong, and as well getting close to finding out what it was… and you brought him back.” He eyed her again, as hard as nails. “Foolish is all that comes to mind when I look at you, we’re only so lucky he doesn’t seem to recall anything.”

“What do you mean, my lord? Why doesn’t he recall anything?” Melisandre asked, confused.

“You’re the witch, you should be the one to answer that question. I know nothing of your sickening powers.” 

Melisandre jumped down from the table and paced towards Flynn, her cloak flailing after her. “Souls retain their memories, there’s no way he should be missing them. Have I done the spell wrong?” Her eyes, her body, her whole being darted about the room chaotically, before she finally took a sudden stop facing Flynn. “Tell me, my lord. How am I to feel about this? Happy that he does not have his memories or sad that I might have done the spell wrong?” 

Flynn grit his teeth and rose to his feet in a flash, then grabbed her by the collar of her cloak, her heart riding faster than ever as her face turned up to see his. “I do not care how you feel about your spells. What’s done is done. He does not have his memories any longer, and I have chosen to see it as nothing but an advantage to us, so you had best speak your plan already, before I get a lot more angry than I already am.” He let free of her cloak by pushing her a few steps backward, while he fell back to sit on the bed.

Melisandre breathed a deep exhale, calming herself as much as she could. “I plan to use him,” she began after a short moment.

Flynn’s brows arched as he listened. 

“I stole Prince Damon’s coins to pay for the red wine, that boy prince trusts me a bit too much, and I used some of the moon’s bane we kept to kill the guards, making sure the suspects would stay limited to only people of nobility. I had also left a note in the king’s palm, with the word poisoned, after I casted the spell of life on him. I plan to use it as a medium to build trust between us, as I try to convince him that the ones who poisoned him were his brothers. That way, we can destroy the House of Ravenswood at once.” Her wry smile returned, this time with a glint of confidence in her plans.

“And how would you get to talk to the king? Remember you have not the position for that. You are only so close to Damon because he wanted what’s beneath your legs, and such a method will not work on the king.” Flynn was sceptical of the plan. He wore cautiousness like an armour, a little too much, and right now, he was not so confident she could exercise such a plan without strife. 

Melisandre answered, “The witch who casts the spell of life is bound to the one she casts it on. So my mother once told me.” Her heart skipped a beat with that one, and spite slightly took over. “I have proven it right; I am bound with the king, I can speak to his mind if I am close enough, and if there’s anything I am sure of, my lord, is that he will answer me when I call.”