Returning Home - C.L

The road felt very familiar. The trees which caressed her sides and the long grass that rubbed at her legs and knees. The wind that rustled light in the canopy and even the birdsong were familiar. They had an highly unusual cheerful melody for belonging to the shadowy estate.
Cher Ami stroked her muzzle against the leaves as she passed, and drew in deep breaths of the living vegetation.
"I can not remember the last time I smelled life," she said quietly, her voice filled with awe as if she had never seen anything living before. "It was so dark."
C.L. walked beside her, slightly limpering. He was tired, and despite having Cher Ami beside him, he refused to ride her. She deserved more respect than that. She was not a simple pack donkey you wear out until it succumbed. She was special and had just returned from the dead. So she deserved to have her back free from burden and weight.
He stroked her gently over her black mane to comfort her. She had been through more than she deserved. He had betrayed his promise to her, that he would be faithful to her, and had given her love for another, and because of that, Cher Ami lost her life and was taken away from him. He would never betray her again. She had always stood by his side through thick and thin. Now he would return the favor.
They forced their way carefully past the last bend of the forest which opened up to the overgrown gloomy garden. C.L had lost his mask when Cher Ami died, the mask had been her life sorce. His face had been revealed to the world, a face that no one had seen for a very long time, except for one person. He lowered his eyes when he thought of the woman.
"It suits you." Cher Ami looked back at him.
He had acquired a new mask, similar to the one he had, it would bee a new oath of allegiance to his mare. The new mask was a promise, which would remind him that he would never betray her again. "A promise," he replied, and pulled his leather-clad fingers through her mane while they turned around one of the manor's corner to reach the main entrance. Cher Ami sighed heavily when they reached the big door and allowed her head to dangle.
"I have not moved in ages. My body is not what it once were." Once she was the most magnificent creature on four legs. She could travel for days with C.L on her back without showing signs of fatigue. She could gallop across the mountain range without dripping a single drop of sweat and she could cross rivers without a signle sigh. Her body was broken and not in condition for great deeds. She needed time to build up her former muscles again. They were still inexperienced in her mind.
C.L felt bad about the thought that his beloved friend would have to spend the night alone in the old stables as she used to. She had always seen the place as a sanctuary where she could relax and listen to the owl talk when it was night.
"I don't want you to be sleeping alone," he said with a glance at the stables.
"Don't be silly," she began walking toward the stables. "Unless my memory deceives me, I remember that we left the door open last time we were here."
C.L. looked after her. He could offer her his company in the stable, but he knew Cher Ami and she would just say "Horses live in the stable. People live in the castle. Or was it the opposite?" She said it often when he offered her his company in the stable. He could only assume that even though she loved him dearly, the stable was a place where she could separate herself from him and to have time for herself. They both needed time apart, even if it hurt sometimes.
With tired legs, C.L walked up the stairs and pushed the door inward to open it. The house was unlocked, as always. It was in such a bad condition no one even cared about it and there were not many people knowing that there was a small mansion in the woods. The door closed with a heavy thud and C.L took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds before he breathed out long and heavy. The room was dark and gloomy, but behind all the dust and cobwebs, you could imagine the house's former glory. It was just deep beneath all the dirt. Hidden from curious eyes and hidden from the world.

The kitchen was messy, as always. Everything was in a rubble. C.L. was not the one who cleaned. He did not think the house would feel better of it. If he dropped something, spilled something, he would let it be. He simply did not care. He opened one of the doors that led down to the old basement where the house's old wines were stored. The staircase was old, and it creaked and whined when C.L went down into the darkness. He took a minute to himself to get used to the darkness before he began to look for something to drink. He felt his fingers along the walls, looking for a target. He stroked a bottleneck in the dark, took a grip of it and went back up to the kitchen. He threw a glance at the label of the bottle. A bottle of wine from 1921. He did not care about the year. As long as he could drink it, so he did not care much about it. With a careless habit he screwed the bottle and pulled the cork out of the bottle's neck. There was something special about wine and the sound it makes when the cork is removed. As if the wine has been struggling for breath for several years, and finally can breathe again.
He took a big gulp of the wine and growled badly by the taste. He wiped around his mouth and the corners of his mouth with his black glove. 1921. A bad year, he guessed, and took another swallow as he walked down the long hall to reach the upper floor. The whole house was in a poor condition. Somehow, it suited him. It reminded him of a fine exterior, but the inside was left in chaos. That was how he saw himself a little. On the outside, he was like a wall, but on the inside there was a hole in the wall. A hole which caved under the right pressure. Brick by brick.

He found his way to one of the bedrooms, the master bedroom in which he slept in the most. He had no room, he just slept in whatever room he ended up in. He was standing in the door, taking a glance around the room. It looked as if there had been a intrution, but it had always been like this. There was always the newspaper clippings on the floor, books thrown everywhere, clothes scattered and the curtains that looked as if  a big cat had clawed it's way through them. The bed was made, however. It was always made and had always been so, for two decades.
C.L. scampered across the floor. He gave a small box a light kick to pave the way for himself, when it was in the way for his own determined way.
The bed screamed faintly under his weight as he sat down. He could not help but to caress the bedspread a little, wondering if the pillow still had her scent. She had slept here a few times, the times she had spent time with him here. It was now distant memories, and not like something he wanted to think about right now. He did not know where she was or how she was, and maybe he should leave it that way. She was surely better off without him, wherever she was.
The pillow was lumpy and somewhat against his own will, he took in a breath to smell the scent the pillow offered him. Feathers. Nothing but dust and feathers.

C.L felt better the next morning. A little stiff in his body but felt more rested than he had hoped for. He was not the one who slept per se. He could go for days without sleep, if a doctor would have examined him, they would have said that he suffers from insomnia, but such terms could not be put on C.L.
He sauntered down the stairs while he rubbed his sore neck with deep strokes and growled a little bit when it creaked. He was just going through the hall when he stopped and became quiet for a second. He threw slowly a glance behind him. Towards the stairs. What. Was. That?
He looked at it with his head slightly tilted. What was there on the banisters. With silent steps he walked back toward the stairs without dropping the object with their eyes. There was something not quite right here ...
He looked and angled his head like an owl studying something. There. On the hadle of the banister, there was something that should not be there. The smooth membrane of dust was ruined and he could easily discern a handprint. He was not alone in the house.