Blighted Anchors

The morning of the third day was quite as alluring as the previous too, leaving a bitter taste in the apprentice's mouth. She had awoken later than what was expected, near noon, after having finally collapsed from exhaustion. Sleep had always been evasive since she had become the doommaiden's puppet. Each dream was an awful memory, repeatedly played during slumber. But now, there was a certain vulnerability in sleep. Her guard would slip and that could not happen. It had to be risen for the moment they would catch her on the street and take her away for the dreaded interrogation.

What had brought her out of sleep was not the sunlight, invasive and burning, slipping through the windows that had to remain open, lest suspicion would arise. Perhaps the happy chatter coming from the streets of the city, as elves were returning from the Bazaar with their shopping, their minds filled with trivial things, such as cooking and the festivities that were taking place that time of the year. Lying on her bed, Celysiel could almost remember the time when she too only had such things in her mind. Sweet oblivion for the world's greater troubles and the matters of the Spire would never cross her silly, young mind.

But that was the case no more, for such matters had shaken her, as of late, perfect, little world. In spite of everyone's assurance back in Silithus, dread had reaches even the Sanguine Eye and the one for whom Celysiel mostly cared had been taken away. It was a hellish day, one which had began so innocently.

With Thaelen. Him whom she would never speak to again.

She brought the covers all the way up to her cheeks, but that did not make her feel any less exposed. Her eyes fell on her father's old sheath, discarded in a corner of the small chamber that served as the girl's resting area. The sword to which it belonged, though, had been lost and it was perhaps better this way. To forget the foolish idea about any form of melee combat and its practice. To forget so many people along with it and raise walls, so harm could find no one but herself.

It had nearly found Thaelen, whose eyes saw the truth, but he did not choose to run and instead followed her when the consequences could have been dire, consequences that should only have been her own. It had already found Orinn. It was so difficult to believe that Vealynn had been right about her servant all along. To turn against the poor woman in the ruins and choose the other apprentice's side was only repeating Celysiel's worst fears, just like when Sherazel had forced Noraiel to attack her. And then, there was the voice from the tome, made from the stuff of nightmares...

Only the memory made her shiver, in spite of the room's warmth. A whimper escaped her lips, but for once more, tears were forced to be held back. All who knew Celysiel Ashfury could guarantee that she did not smile and she did not cry. Yet the girl had been so certain that Surveyor Blackwood would know. He would have all the answers regarding Orinn. He could perhaps already be aware of the voice within. He always had all the answers.

But the only news she would receive the worst day of them all was that they had taken her away. Just like she feared.

Upon your path, you shall find strife and trial, in the shape of frustration, emotional turmoil and disatisfaction. A feeiling of loss, of direction, an anchor lost.

Caerestra's words were the only ones to keep being repeated in her mind, like a chant, ever since then. Lieutenant Adhemar could scorn and claim that the woman was a charlatan, but never had her readings been wrong. Yet this time, Celysiel could not know. She could not imagine. It was not simply an anchor that had been lost. Everything was falling apart. Eraevin's detainment, Leyloriel's true words shoving a knife in her heart, Orinn, the disappointment of so many... The locket...

The locket...

The mirror at the other side of the room was the only thing she had taken with her leaving Magister Bloodthorn's estate. It remained concealed, though the apprentice had given her most dear friend of shadow, the Void's gift, that they would look at the other side, together. But how could she? How could she survive without the Heart's whispers? What did that mean for Krator, for her very soul?

It was no longer in her hands, but those of the Overseer. The memory of him, however, warmed her heart, just like that of fatherly Farstrider. No, not all had been lost, not yet. Two anchors remained.

There was finally hope in the horizon, only just enough to force the young elf out of her bed, in order to move towards the window. In that time of the day, the street was not empty. A tall tree stood at the other side and just next to it, a bench. With her imagination, Celysiel could almost see the ghost of her hopeless and the most unlikely, twisted hand reaching out for help, while the threat of a Magister most fearful and Ameth'sin were hanging heavy above her head, her fate to be not different than that of Eraevin if Serethia were to sing, as she had hinted.

But what if she was not the only one? Certainly, the Warden had hinted towards something, a chance, a weapon...

Something sparked in the girl's heart. A flame. An idea. Just for the sake of it, she tried to push away the pain of the previous and coming days, of all that had been lost, of all that would be lost. Only for a moment, so the granted clarity could rule over the plan devised in her head.

There was still hope.