The Blade and the Beast
By ShadowFox97

	Long ago, there was a man cursed with the spirit of a beast. He kept the beast within him at bay in daylight working as a blacksmith, throwing its strength into into his hammer and pounding form into blades as strong as they are sharp. He kept the beast with him at bay, but by no means was he aiming to tame it. Each night the beast is free, the man stalking the avenues and alleyways until he found another willing to duel. With the talent and skill, the man earns his name with the the great sword he forged himself—Claymore. Each night he duels, his style becomes more refined and unique. Each day, working the forge strengthens his hand and gives him accuracy and control.
	Before long, the young sword smith is the most skilled in his village but is also the most disliked—his beastly 'territory claiming' with his nightly duels and boastful pride in his skill makes him obnoxious, he's overzealous in his duels and often injures his opposition in his hunt for greater challenge. He's allowed this reign for a time, the village enjoys and encourages the duels more than they hate Claymore and serves an example of strength a man should strive for. Often a well-fought duel is how a man earns his wife in the village. But one day Claymore goes too far. 
	One day, Claymore's beast gets the better of him.
	It comes when he 'courts' a nobleman's daughter after working in the forge, insulting her honor with untoward suggestions and favors. 
	Enraged, the villagers first try to make an example of Claymore, to shame him with a gauntlet. A challenge where Claymore faces one skilled duelist after another without end since they knew they couldn't beat him one on one. 
	It backfires. 
	Not only does Claymore enjoy this, he also proves too skilled and wins ALL his matches only slightly more than winded.
	The villagers, even more disgusted with him than before, banish him to the woods with no more than a loaf of bread, a flask of water, and the sword on his back. A month of aimless, starved wandering brings Claymore to the chasms and mountains that surround his village. He dangerously traces the edge, almost throwing himself over more than once until he sees a rope bridge reaching into the mist rising from the chasm before the mountains. Curious, he begins crossing the bridge and is quickly worried by how long and empty the trek is. 
	At one point he looks back and can't see where the bridge began through the fog. With nothing worth going back to, Claymore soldiers on to sate his curiosity. Finally, he reaches the end and finds a chateau jutting from the mountainside . Amazed by the strange, misty structure, Claymore pushes his way through it's oaken twin doors. He's greeted by the many ominous details within the first of the chateau's many rooms—the entrance hall, filled with armor bearing weapons rusted in suspicious places. In the next room, there's an empty chapel filled with burning candles and incense, the next, a vast library packed with more books than one could read in a single lifetime and finally, a dining hall—set with food! 
	Claymore descends on the nearest plate and gorges himself with all he can stomach. Full and groggy, he wanders again through the kitchen's still-burning oven and into a large bedroom. Here, Claymore collapses into the nearest bed and a dreamless sleep. Later, he wakes to the curious hum and pit-pat of something roaming the halls. He hears the sound moving back and forth through the kitchen and dining hall and then fading further. Worried it's the chateau's master and that they might cast him back out into the wilderness, he creeps to the door only to catch the shadow of something slinking back out into the halls. He can't quite see it, but it's far too large and far too strange to be the type of noble he's familiar with.
	Even more interested, he follows the shadow as it clanks it's way through an armory and across the courtyard into the clock tower nested into the mountainside. Claymore gets closer, between spinning gears and clacking mechanisms he sees a flash of armor,  the swish of flowing mane, the edges of a sword much, much larger than his own. The figure goes out to the roof, the clock face serving as backdrop with the spires and tops of the nestled chateau. Claymore peeks out of the doorway, feeling confused. He saw the clock tower from the courtyard, but here... the entire 'rooftop' covers that and it's surroundings like it was never there. He shakes his head, puts it out of his mind and just watches this heavily armored thing. 
	Mist gives way as to rain as The Beast wields it's massive sword. Beast is the only way to describe what Claymore is seeing—a seven foot tall thing is swinging a sword as long and wide as it is tall and spread—one handed! Every sweep and stroke of that steel pillar cuts visible gaps in the rain and kicks up wind that keeps it aloft. Mesmerized, Clay wanders out into the rain for a better look and sees the Beast's fur jutting from gaps in the armor. The helmet, instead of being domed for humans, is pointed and perforated for the creature's muzzle and has openings in the top for it's forward-pointing horns. All of these odd, off-putting details are forgotten in the surreal whoosh of the Beast's bastard sword.
	The ritualistic lunges, jumps and stabs mixed with the frighteningly nimble steps and forms it makes—wind and water are not simply pulled along, the Beast controls them in the rhythm of it's art. Clay steps closer, wanting to truly examine the beast's style only for it to stop... and slowly turn to him. It's large pointed ears flick up into view, twitching to and fro, it's eyes search his body, incredibly still, ready to pounce. The wrong instinct makes Clay draw his sword. The Beast rears its head to the sky, 
	“RaaaAOooh!”
	It charges at Claymore, crossing several yards in a breath. The same instinct that put him in trouble saves him, he rolls from the Beast's Initial Strike and is pulled along in it's drag of air. Clay struggles for footing on the rain slicked roof and hears the WHOOSH of the Beast's blade again. He turns—CLANG! His arm explodes in a paradox of pain and numbness, the steel bracer attached falls to pieces, useless. No time to recover, he pushes off the ground with his good arm and swings into the Beast's next strike—CLANG! Sparks, steel shards, and a tremendous gust of heat scatters the rain, drying him instantly and is soaked by more falling rain as the Beast draws for another strike. 
	Clay shores up—wide stance, both hands to the hilt, FOCUS! Force of will gets his numb hand moving again, fear of death keeps him at pace with the Beast's movements.
	CLANG! TING!
	CLANG! TANG!
	He takes a defensive rhythm as shadows flicker from the brief sparks of metal on metal. The air fills with the percussive clashing of Clay being pushed back and forth across the field. At no point does the Beast give an opening, give him leverage or let him breathe. 
	It persists.
	Between the shattered bracer on his hurting left arm and guarding against constant attacks, Clay's will dwindles in the face of rain, wind, fire and force bearing down on him with increasing strength. He's at his limit as the clock tower chimes. He dodges to the side, escaping a downward cut—a powerful gust follows the sword's motion and nearly pulls him to the ground. Planted and pinned by passing wind, Clay struggles to bend from the Beast's upswing. No sooner in his evasion of that mass of sharpened gold was he completely soaked by a concentrated downpour—flying upwards. 
	He nearly slips from being instantly waterlogged and windmills his free arm in a bid to  keep balance. Just as he gets his footing he sees the blade coming for another upswing, flagstones spark and split as it cuts through the footing. He narrowly evades splitting his head but is engulfed in flames, drying out the water keeping from being cooked. The plume pulls him up off his feet and drops him on his back where he sees the Beast's  sword raised for the final blow. 
	Clay raises his sword to guard, but hope bleeds out of him when he sees both powerful armored hands take the handle—a full strength swing. 
	This, he knows, is The End.
	Clay hears the final three tolls of the bell as The Beast's sword falls on him. His sword guarding him, shatters in an explosion of force and jagged metal. He keeps his eyes shut after that, not wanting to see the strike that kills him, waiting for the pain of death to take him away. 
	It never comes.
	Cautiously, he opens his yes and sees IT towering over him. Focused on the helmet, he sees a pair of black slits peer from gold plates sitting in blood. The Beast just stands there with it's golden bloody eyes, looking down on it's defeated invader as the high noon sun bears down from clear skies. The Beast stares for half a minute and turns, marching quickly to the clock tower. Not till IT vanishes into the tower does Clay realize, he had a date with death he wasn't looking forward to and Death stood him up. 
	Unsure of why he even does, he chases after The Beast. Something makes him lose his sense, drives him on. Something about The Beast, something about it's Art makes him give chase. After tracking it's shadow down corridors and around corners he stops, breathless and sweaty in front of a great gateway The Beast vanished behind. With the last of his strength and the scorn of his shattered ego, he kicks it open. He witness The Beast changed out of it's armor and into noble's evening wear. Startled by the clatter of the chamber door, The Beast turns to Clay with it's claws drawn. The lips of it's wolfish muzzle curl off it's fangs while the space between it's eyes knit into fierce glare. 
	Altogether, the look on The Beast's face makes for a repulsed expression—a far cry from the murderous thousand-yard stare from moments ago. The Beast's stance together with it's disgusted look, scream, 'Get out! Unclean! Unwelcome!' it seems unable to speak. In answer, Claymore falls to his knees with arms spread in surrender and begs, “Teach Me!”
\\\II///
	Bewildered by the sudden proposal of an apprentice, The Beast reluctantly accepts and, speaking through a handheld chalk tablet, leads him to his room on the other side of the Chateau in the servant quarters. Once there, The Beast explains their arrangement with the tablet in short phrases. “Sleep here. Work for lessons. Work for food. No talkback. No snooping. No stealing. NO QUESTIONS.” Clay agrees to each phrase with a nod save for last one, “Um... just one?” The Beast gives him a one-eyed glare paired with a room-shaking snarl. 
	“When does training start?”
	The Beast viciously scribbles on it's tablet and shoves the plate of rushed, cramped script in his face, “12 NOON AFTER CHORES”

	True to form, the Beast wakes him at dawn the next morning by snapping a riding crop against a chalkboard filled with chores and the times the beast's wants each started and finished—all of it grunt work. For the first few hours of the day, clay mines for ore, dredges water from the deep well, grinds olives into oil, polish and reorganizes the sets of armor and FINALLY hammers new weapons in the forge—the one thing that was less chore and more of a hobby to him.
	Clay smiles at the workbench and tools, a familiar sight, but feels the massive hand of the beast tug at his collar and point him to the smelting furnace across from it. Stocked with the ore he mined, the oil he ground up and the water he collected, he realizes he has to smelt the ore into bars before he can start shaping them with the forge—a much longer, tedious process for an apprentice just learning the work. He turns to protest this injustice to his craft, this insult to his skill...and is met by the fierce, thousand-yard glare of The Beast. He remembers their agreement and grudgingly gets to work. 
	He uses the forge under The Beast's instruction, a much slower meticulous, complicated process. Clay's muscles  and fingers strain from the work and though his patience is worn thin by the drudgery, he stays with it. And, using all the ingots he's made, forges two black great swords who's dark metal gleam even in the dim light of the furnace. Clay stares at these blades in awe whispering, “What have I made?”
	The Beast simply takes one and scoffs—the new weapon is obviously not up to it's standards. It turns to leave, waving for Claymore to follow. They Duel. The results are the same as the first time, save for one thing. Clay's sword takes longer to shatter, but in the sword's shattering Claymore grasps a measure of The Beasts's skill and learns where he must improve and what habits he must break.
	Every day of the month, Clay does his chores. Every third day he works the forge and duels with the beast. Every duel with the Beast shows him more of it's moves, move a little faster, strike a liter harder and handles his sword less like a heavy piece of metal and more like a limb. On the second month, Clay has a new set of chores. Scrubbing floors, polishing the armors, cooking food—the work is easier than before and makes him appreciate the state he found the castle on his arrival. 
	His host must have done these chores on its own and so much more. Though the Beast never explicitly 'says' it, the work of a full a full waitstaff to keep the chateau clean was done by the beast alone. The forge and daily duels are still part of the routine. The fruits of this change are apparent by months end. He weaves between sword, wind and fire with ease and artfully deflects water with faster swordplay. He reserves half the movement to his wrists and ankles, subtle maneuvers undoing the worst of  the assault. 
	With the forge, the swords he makes have greater luster, looking silver instead of simply black. They nick and notch but almost never break under his host's pressure. Clay has only had to forge three of these. Having completed another month of of hard work, the beast gives Clay his latest and most domestic chores yet—everything he's done before had him at varying degrees of distance from the beast. The newest set puts him right at its side or, at the very least, within each other's eye line. Most of his moments with the host have been in heated sparring, and for these new moments the intense colors of it's eyes have become surprisingly soft.
	The days working on these chores are the slowest but Clay doesn't mind. He learns the most about the Beast through them all. He learns the beast keeps the most beautiful garden, that the flowers in it are used to make potions, medicines, and fragrant bath oils. He learns the beasts  keeps a small, yet densely packed library that it sits and reads in for most of the day after a morning of vigorous swordplay. And, somewhat uncomfortably, he learns the Beast expresses a need to be assisted with its bathing. 
	Every afternoon following their duels, the Beast calls him to it's chambers to help scrub it's back, arms and legs. Every time its stares at him, its eyes boring into his soul like the first afternoon they met. Clay stares back, terrified he may touch something or reach too far. 
	It forbids him to wash it's mane.
	
	On the day of the full moon, he struggles like he had with the previous moons—the Beast is stronger, faster and more unpredictable when dueling. It doesn't hold back. But now he sees more, it's movements are exaggerated, it fans itself as if overheated and chills race through him whenever those eyes lock on his—the look of a deep, ravenous hunger. 
	Approaching the Beasts' chamber, some deep instinct wakes up and makes Clay balk. The Beast opens the doors just as he tries to run, yanks him bodily into the washroom and snarls loud as it points to the collection of oils and soaps. He hears a splash when his back is turned, collecting the Beast's favorite mixture. Closer now, he sees beads of sweat gliding in the shadow under it's horns, the audible HRRF-Hrrf-hrrf of his master dealing with some secret burden. 
	The washroom is always warm when the Beast bathes but it always seems much warmer now.
	With the water's froth and foam he delicately rakes through the fur on the Beast's body, feeling along tight muscle and gingerly navigating each of it's clawed hands. Moving to it's legs, he can feel it's eyes boring into him, the loud, heavy HRRF-HRRF-HRRF adding to the squealing 'hungry predator warning' instinct in the back of his mind. He fights the urge to run screaming and whittles his way between toes and pads of its feet, trailing carefully to avoid going too deeply into the water. The Beast reacts by breathing faster, it's claws digging into the sides of the tub. 
	Clay draws back, guarding his chest as the Beast's right leg dips back beneath the water and raises it's closer left leg looking (glaring?) expectantly at Clay. He approaches slowly, starting with it's clawed toes and pads with gentle brushes.  He goes up it's ankle and thigh, careful not to breach the water nearest to his host's waist when he looks up. He hears the hungry, open-mouthed breathing, sees the pink hanging tongue nesting in rows of white fangs before feeling the paw that drags him into the tub.
	At first he thinks he's dead, his soul still clinging to his body while he listens to—Hinng-Hiinng-Hiinng—of the still-hungry beast looming over him. He takes a breath, realizes his arm is still attached (thank the stars!) and looks into the bathwater for the soft, hot thing wrapped around his hand. He sees, rears back and bolts out of the Beast's chamber in a panic. 
	He touched the Beast, He touched her.

	She struggles to ba—knock as lightly as she can and it STILL sounds like trees being beaten from the trunk. Frustrated, the Beast knocks once more and finally barges in, yanking the door from it's hinges. She thinks to herself, “100 years. 100 YEARS and I lose my self control! How!?” she turns into the nearest bedroom and spots him huddled into a corner, his right arm the only limb not curled in with the rest of him. He stares at his hand as if disbelieving it's still there. She tilts her head at him. The fear she can understand, but the focus on his hand is a little out of her depth. Why would he focus on the hand she 'used'?
	Realizing the state he's in, she creeps instead of stomps like she's used to and covers herself—only now does it seem like chasing after him  in the buff was a bad idea. She takes one step. 
	And then another. 
	And then the floor creaks when she shifts her weight.
	Clay looks up at the Beast, not with fear and disgust, but with confusion and a hint of shame on his face. This bothersome, charmless, average-looking gnat has her feeling guit and this frustrating heat blooming all over. She hasn't felt like this in DECADES. She's better than that, she knows she's batter than that. If the Beast is going to start 'feeling' again it's going to be on HER terms and no one elses, even this would be interloper.

	Clay doesn't know what to think. The Beast made him touch her and yet he felt violated. Every thought of her brings him back to the moment he enraged the whole town with his entitlement and arrogance, the moment he made light of the Lady's reputation. The encounter sends him spiraling into his past, examining and questioning all the things he'd done to be exiled. Did she commit his crime? Is THAT the punishment for exiles? He first thought of the Beast as a hard driving taskmaster and a vicious duelist. 
	Now? It... SHE is that and a deft teacher, a dedicated blacksmith and practiced herbalist...with the same needs as anyone. Pelt and muscle hide everything—what could she do to him? Was she planning to—
	“My name is Scylla,” Her voice is like the lowest notes on a harp~ But a tremor runs through him. He remembers her name from myths and ghost stories in the village. The legend is speaking to him. A legend has trained him, so far as he knows. So he asks, “Are the stories true? Are you the same Scylla that was exiled long ago? Are you the woman that turned into a Beast at night? The same Beast who fights so hard you shatter swords and survivors fall dead of exhaustion by morning?”
	She sits on the floor with him, her legs crossed and paws on her knees. “Obviously, you know only one of those things is true. Shattering is my specialty, everything else must be just the rumors attached over the years. Listen and let me tell you how I found the Chateau.” 
	So she tells him everything. She how she'd been banished for fighting like Clay, found the Chateau like Clay, and drawn to the clocktower like Clay. But instead of stopping at the roof, she stops at the belfry. There, she heard a voice offer her a home and survival in exchange for her humanity and stewardship of the Chateau—  “...I balked at the idea of housework. At the time, I'd been so used to fighting and humiliating the other 'proud duelists' into doing my chores that the concept of becoming a 'traditional woman' was insulting,” she leans forward with a deep breath, “...But upkeep and my new appearance in exchange for shelter were and ARE terms I can live with. No one else was here to tell me to work. When I neglected it nothing really happened, I only got restless at all the decay. Instead, when I did the work, new parts of the house opened up to me and, so long as I managed them, I was given as many luxuries as I could handle. It's been like that for little over a century and I've never had the urge to leave... And then you came.”
	Clay, looking like he's recovered, stares at her, curious. “You've been alone all this time? Don't you miss the village?”
	“The village has remained the same ever since I left. If I'm not mistaken, the main reason you were kicked out is because your talent?”
	Clay shakes his head, “That's only part of it. The real reason is because...”, he whispers and sees Scylla's ears prick and fold, “...They only dueled me to try and shame  me.”
	“Hmph, At least there was one change. I started dueling because of guys like you—if they kicked you out, I must have left some impression on them. And I kept at it because I like it and made me what I am.”
	“What are you then?”
	“Free!”
	Clay sees Scylla smile. The first actual smile since he started living in the Chateau with her—at least, the closest smile she could have with a muzzle and fangs.
	“Besides... I-I'm not alone anymore”
	Scylla takes Clay's hands into her huge paws and scoots herself closer. 
	“Would you please stay with me here in the mansion? I don't need an answer today or tomorrow, but I would like one soon.”
	Clay is stunned, dealing with more than he thinks he can process. Scylla, seeing the struggle in his eyes, leads him back to her chambers and brews tea for them both. She tells him the choice again, emphasizing she doesn't need an immediate answer. He answers, “I don't think I can—I want to—I need some time to think about this. Will you allow me to return to the village?”
	The Beast, Scylla, is hurt by Clay's indecision but lets him go regardless. Before he leaves, Clay forges the last most well-crafted sword he can muster and engraves Scylla's name into the core. He shows this masterpiece to her, “I promise to return with an answer, you deserve that much. I just need one more look at the world I know.” As he sheaths and wraps it in tarp, she grabs his arm, “Only fight if you need to. The skills you've learned have more than swords and armor they can break.”
	He nods, understanding and crosses the bridge again. A great wind blows in every direction away from Clay, and an unfamiliar calm takes it's place.

III

	Clay crosses the bridge back into the wilderness surrounding the village and easily finds it's way back to its walls. He calls to the guard who reminds him of his exile, and in answer, Claymore swears to atone for his crimes. He strides through the gates knowing what he must do now that he's returned. He apologizes to every one he's had a duel with. He returns to the noble who meant to shame him in battle and his daughter and apologizes to both of them. The noble accepts but his daughter demands more.
	She demands he work off the shame he's caused in the form of a debt as her attendant. Clay accepts her terms, swearing off duels to do so and allowing all forms of public humiliation to come to him for atonement. In a fortnight, he wins her favor with the diligence he's earned in Scylla's chateau. Ladies turn their eyes to him, but none advance knowing his reputation. His Lady's neighbor moves on him—the lord of the house offers one of his daughters to Clay, only for him to turn down the proposition. 
	When her father isn't present, he asks the daughter herself and ask if she wanted to go through with her father's offer, “I was thankful you declined. I mean no disrespect, but I have no interest in you,” Clay shakes his head, “None taken”.  The exchange spreads through whispers and evening gossip and earns Clay a new reputation, the words admirable and stoic are thrown about repeatedly. 
	Unfortunately, Clay's former duelists are vindictive and unforgiving. They hear he's returned and turned a new leaf. They hear he's sworn off duels and works as a steward now but can't let go of one thing—his sparring record. “This shiny new 'status' of his has to come at a price. He must be rusty,” they challenge him but he refuses. Enraged, they storm his Lady's manor one night, ordering her father to duel in his place.
	His lady frees him from their agreement, that she may save her father. Clay leaps to the fray, He takes them on with his blade still sheathed and wrapped. His strikes are no more than solid knocks on the head with the hilt, guard or cushioned blows from the scabbard. Before his exile, despite being particularly skilled, he used a flurry of attacks—far too many he realizes now. The challengers stop fighting fair and rush him when they realize he has them outmatched. 
	Again. 
	Clay unsheathes his sword, revealing the brilliance of it's golden edge and the elaborate etchings surrounding Scylla's name. It's seen only once, leaving behind a halo-like after image in its wake before being returned to the sheath. The ring of fighters stay near but are stunned by Clay's quick movements. 
	“What—“
	The closest of them flinch back as their swords shatter, The rest of them are stunned until someone shouts, “Shatter-sword Scylla!” Clay turns to the source of the shout and sees a man with eyes full of hate. “I saw it! It was only for a second but I saw it! I saw that demon's name etched into the blade!” The horde clamors, scores of them flying into a rage. “he's made a pact with the beast! It's sent him to rot the village from the inside!”
	“Kill the beast's knight!”
	“KILL THE BEAST!”
	Clay tries to keep his restraint, he only shatters blades when he's sure not to harm anyone and makes shallow stabs when he's not so sure. He cuts his way through the crowd and breaks for the forest beyond the front gates. He wanders the forest through the night; more than a little shaken from his first duel in all the time since he left Scylla. He approaches the bridge back to the Chateau and sighs—a strange feeling fills him at the thought of her, a warm and airy nostalgia. A moment of calm reflection comes to him, exploring those feelings, trying to understand—why her, why at that moment. He can feel it, a revelation is upon him, there need be only one thing he needs to finally feel the relief on the other side...
	And then the villagers attacked.
	They come screaming from brush and bushes, even more pour in from the road, some alone, some pulling wooden baggage cars full of extra swords with the brands from the village's other smiths. Facing off a legion loaded for bear, clay uses sword and sheath like before, even less restraint guiding his hand, shattering bones more easily than he shatters swords. They learn, they get defensive, they allow blade after blade be broken as baggage brings more. They take his life in cuts, the pain of each slash slipping past his defense weighing him down as the sun rises at his back. But that feeling he had when he neared the bridge gets stronger every time he succeeds against the attackers, it gives him hope and fills him with strength right up until he nears his limit.
	He's about to fall on his knees when he hears something from behind. The bridge rattles until a louder noise echoes through the mist—taktakTakTakTAKTAKTAK! The townsmen scream in fear as a great shadow sails over him and lands with a powerful gust, blowing them ALL down. Just seeing Scylla come to his rescue makes him rise with his second wind. They stand back to back, repelling the attack with nearly all she taught him while Scylla herself keeps them at bay with elements invoked with her skill. 
	She calls a wall of flame, buying them a moment to breathe, turns to clay and asks, “Why did you come back? I mean I'm... glad you're here but I thought you wanted to say in the village, to go home.” He looks at her in her royal lavender lounge wear and knows the name of the feeling that woke during the fight in town, the feeling that grew as he blocked the way to the bridge and now overflows in anticipation—”Scylla, I AM home.”
	With those words, he feels hot as they leave his lips. 
	So hot, he's on fire. 
	But it's a good burn, the kind that sears away what doesn't matter. The kind gives him the strength to go on and go beyond. And then he notices the wide-eyed look on Scylla's face. There's a scream beyond the wall of flame, “Agh! There's TWO of them now! Push them on to the bridge! We'll dump them into the gorge!” Momentarily puzzled, Clay sheathes his sword for a quick-draw and, instead of a lingering sword-glow, there's a blinding flash of lightning and a roar of thunder that stuns everyone in sight. 
	He looks at his hands and sees they're paws now, just like Scylla's. With his newfound ability having opened the way to tempting opportunity, Clay marches forward bearing his sword—but Scylla stops him, “I have learned long ago what duels are worth fighting and what duels are worth walking away from. We should walk away from this.” The Beast, Scylla and The Blade, Claymore return to the Chateau across the bridge while their attackers are still struck blind and deaf by Clay's lightning and cut their end loose from it's mooring.
	They return to the courtyard in the shadow of the clocktower and look up at the owlish mechanism. Carefully, Clay ducks his muzzle into Scylla's ribs—though he'd gained two feet in height, she still towers over him—and says, “This isn't so bad. We have all we need here, right?” She shakes her head. “I've been here for ages and never felt it tremble as it had when you came back. Even now, I can feel it crumbling all around us”
	“Is that my fault?”
	She shakes her head again
	“It feels... Like spring. It's good but... We cannot stay.”
	She cradles his head for a time and watches as the life drains from the buildings around them, while the garden vines steadily creep out and chokes everything in reach. Marble darkens. Tapestries fade and fall to pieces. Food rots in minutes and every hint of steel rusts into curled nuggets. They take nothing with them. Scylla already knows the way out and leads on through the water way under the clock tower. After a while, the waterway just turns into a cavern and river with little shores on each side. 
	It seems like days as they wander in the dark but they come to the end. The light at the end of the cavern opens to midday, endless fields of green and more color than they ever knew existed. Still holding each other's hands after wandering  so long in the dark, they turn to look at the massive tree growing in the distance and then each other. They look at the beasts they had become and feel strangely comfortable, even intimately content with each other's company. They embrace and run towards the tree, it's fruit and the vastness beyond, leaving their old world behind.