Tenebris

      The darkness smells of roses.       This seems like an axiom to Maxwell when he once again looks into the impenetrable darkness and takes a deep breath of the suffocating air.       The flame of the fire gradually fades. But the man is in no hurry to throw in more firewood and continues to sit in place, silently looking at one point. Like a marble statue. The silence is broken only by the faint crackle of burning logs and a familiar, but completely unintelligible whisper from behind.       The darkness reaches out to him with her clawed hands.       He realizes that he has no more than ten minutes left. A bitter smile touches his lips, and his hand strokes the leather cover of a familiar book. He wants to throw it into the fire, blaming it for all his troubles, but Maxwell doesn't find enough strength in himself.       The guilt is still strangling him, and no matter how Maxwell tried to isolate himself from it, blaming the damned shadows, the codex, nightmares for everything, it still doesn't leave him. He still hurts, and it seems he will never get rid of this feeling.       The fire quickly burned out, the flame melted before his eyes. Then the darkness struck first.       Maxwell felt all too well how her claws was digging into his back, the fabric was torn and stained with blood. Through a ragged breath, dry words escaped from his lips: “I’m sorry, Charlie.” Dry, because he doesn’t want to give free rein to his emotions. Magic, shadows, nightmares, the throne, guilt, regrets, survival, hunger. He will never admit that it broke him, although it is all too obvious now.       The blood is flowing down in thin streams, and new marks of claws and teeth are appearing on his skinny body. Maxwell accepts them, knowing he deserved all of this. Unnecessary apologies pour out of his mouth even as consciousness is beginning to slip away.       He knows that the darkness heard him. He knows that the darkness will never forgive him.