Three times it was that Celysiel left her bed that night, but only two returned. The attempts were made with utmost silence that would wane progressively as emotions shook the control she could only hope to have. Her aim not to awaken the one by her side of course, though after some point, she was not even certain such aim needed to be preserved. She was not even sure if he was - no, not real. Everything was real. The stone said so. So, she was not sure if he was part of her world. The last time was just two hours before dawn. Distaste for sleep was only meant to return in Silvermoon, it seems, though the reasons were now different.
What was it even that these three times of rising that she did not do? The very first action was naturally to reach to her gloves, only to see that dust there remained; perhaps even a hint of residue too. What was she hoping to tell through that? The apprentice did not know, nor did it offer any proof that any of it was - no, not real. Everything was real. So, she was not sure if it was part of her world. The stone said so. It simply remained there, one with the fabric. Bu even though it tainted the dark perfection, the girl could not bring herself to remove it.
It only seemed right to then turn to her journal. Frantic were her attempts to note all seen and said earlier that night, all she sensed then and all she did now. If a part of her wished to pass on paper her current thoughts, she did not allow it, for the young elf was well aware of that suspicion being nothing but her own madness -and madness had to be denied- which had nothing to do with her personal research. What she needed to focus on was the icon, the scrblings on the wall, but even them, even as they remained in her journal, she could not remain certain that they were - no, not real. Everything was real. So, she was not sure if they were part of her world. Yet here they were and they still demanded research. Perhaps the foolish apprentices in Dalaran could help? But it was of course not them to whom she wished to turn first.
Steps took her to her old bedroom, just to look at the window which would always remain open there. How long was it that she looked outside? Wanting, needing to see dark ravens fly, to reach her with summons. What for? Anything, anything at all, even for a statement of banishment towards the girl from their master's side, as long as it gave her a chance to see him and pass to him knowledge of all that had been done, for no one else would be trusted with such knowledge. But the ravens would come the very moment of her desire if this world was not - no, not real. Everything was real. So, she was not sure if this world was hers. Or what if it was all a dream, but the ravens were not coming in order to mimic the world she knew? What if the dream master was playing with her? Surely, that was his plan! To make her fall to despair, to wither and wonder, rely on her thoughts too heavily, while the truth was simple and easy to see. But in which of the two worlds? Which?
Perhaps a shower would be refreshing, she thought, and would also allow her to deny the further findings, trapped in her satchel, those crystals of fel and arcane, the dagger, as well as that lock of hair. For them she could do so little after all, just only hope for the help of a seer and diviner. Thus water started running warm into the tub, enhanced with aromatic oils and fragrant clouds. Upon undressing, the girl tried not to think that the eyes of horror could be on her. Only she was there. But the thoughts of insanity would not abandon her and perhaps... Perhaps fears were worth facing if it would mean an escape from a world that was not - no, not real. Everything was real. So, she was not sure if this world was hers. Celysiel did not hesitate to pull herself below the water, remaining there for several seconds. But no voices from beyond came. No calling to the the land of Ny'alotha, where there was only sleep. In which sleeping city of Ny'alotha walk only mad things. In which city of Ny'alotha the towers of sacrifice in Ny'alotha dwarf their pathetic Spires. And her lungs burned, calling for oxygen in distress. In the same way she did not have the courage to take a knife and twist it in her gut, she could not drown. Not again. Gasping for air, her form emerged from the waters. In the tub she remained for long minutes, wondering. Fearing.
To her sleeping gown the apprentice turned, clinging on her wet body as the breeze of the old bedroom to which she was welcomed for once more forced her body to tremble. She was pacing for once more, the door open, for she did not dare close it and seek true isolation. And mockery came, she could feel it. From the other side of the white sheet covering the large mirror in the corner, as the other knew, the other laughter... Oh, how she wished to tear the sheet down and confront that twisted reflection, to blast that cursed mirror! For she would not be but an image, she would be - but of course, of course she would be real and not only because everything was real until it wasn't. Not only because he, he had said so, even again that very night, her tormentor, the master of the dream - though it was a world which she could not tell if it was it in which she lingered, or if this world was hers. Wherever she would go, dream or not, that mad thing in the mirror would always be real. Even without her locket. Ever present, ever mocking, that one thing to which she could cling in order to find sanity.
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