Do not sleep, the girl kept ordering herself silently as she lay onto the cold floor of the cave, clinging as much as she could onto the altar, so to remain near the Oathbinder. If you sleep, the cold will have you. If you sleep, you are going to die.
After the futile battles, verbal and physical, along with the realisation that all struggle was futile, there was silence in the chamber, occasionally broken by the tugging of a chain, which Celysiel chose to attribute to Thaelen's valorous struggle. She could not tell if it was true, for her eyes were shut, so not to look at how the fiends had chained Alviada onto the stone. How those she admired had fallen to silence so deafening, the herald of defeat. How Moonsaei was slowly withering away, bleeding her life away. How Noraiel was gone, a dark fate expecting him.
They were all like ghosts, corpses to which she could not set her eyes on, lest she broke. Every now and then, she only raised her head to look towards the entrance, as if she expected the Oathbinder's promise to be made true and Summoner Ashbourne to walk inside, perhaps with an army of fel imps, in order to rescue them. But that never happened and, deep inside, Celysiel very well knew that it was foolish to believe it could.
And so she lay, shivering, trying to let go of the Kingdom's golden light, those she would never see again. It was killing her, the desire to admit that all was over, but no complaint had ever escaped her lips. Nor would it ever.
The futility of it all, so exhausting... Her form lay immobilized and drained, the shackled burning the concealed skin with their frozen touch. And yet, something beyond the veil called, the sweetness of slumber, the chance to quit it all and rest. It would perhaps not hurt to close her eyes for a few seconds? Just a little, she thought, placing her head onto her arms, as her black eyelashes came to caress her cheek. Only for a bit.
No, no, do not sleep! Do not sleep!
An unworldy echo, incoherent and marred, like a cry, caressed her ears. Her eyes opened widely, exhausted, but persistent, though the apprentice stopped for a moment, her features portraying confusion. Someone was crying.
Her first thought was Moonsaei, for more than all, she had the best reason to, yet the elf could not bring herself to look towards the huntress' prison. She could not bear seeing her wounded. Her eyes sought Athaelnera, beyond Irtheas and Vedrian, Alviada, who was by her side, but just as she met the spectacle of the chained Oathbinder, the echo reached her for once more. Like an alert cat, Celysiel straightened her neck, her ears twitching. She kept looking around, but no one appeared to be reacting to the sound. As if their thoughts were louder. As if it was unreal. As if it was in Celysiel's head.
The third time that the echo came, it was somewhat louder, but hollow, easily attributed to a female voice. Yet as it persisted, a deeper, certainly manly voice came to join it, laced in the heartbreak of grief. They were mourning for the elves, for a lifetime lost, for the torture and unrest to which they were damned after death. Celysiel held her breath. It was uncertain to what pushed her, but she led her gloved hand over the cave floor, removing the snow, in order to reach the clear glass of ice.
Light illuminated her features, as snowy as herself, though touched by deep purple. Under the frozen surface, into the azure environment lay spheres of shadow, dancing in peace together. Their lamenting voices were hollow and thin, colourless and unnerving. Celysiel had never seen shadow manifest in such a way. And then, she realised.
Souls. she corrected herself. Not shadow, souls.
They were not demonic, as they were spared of the miasma that the Burning Legion carried. The tongue to which they attempted to speak eluded her; their words, if they were indeed trying to speak, were an incoherent, painful whisper. They had been deprived of the end they deserved, tasting the prison of others in their frigid prison, their grave of ice.
Just for a moment, Celysiel felt the temptation to raise her fist and, even though she did not possess Thaelen's physical might, break the glass of frost seperating the dead from the living, setting the souls free. However, the promise she had made to Alviada not to provoke the demons lingering among the elves and toying with them kept her bound. She lowered her hand, filling more powerless than she had ever before.
"Forgive me." she whispered, bringing her lips near the ice. It did not matter if the chained Oathbinder near her heard her. She rarely, if ever, cried and now, tears were welling up on her eyes, though her pride did not allow them to fall. "Forgive me." she repeated, but the meaning was deeper. Concealing the truth of her intentions.
Her left hand reached for the egg-shaped locket hanging from her neck in a silent promise, while her wide eyes sought the entrance for once more. This time, however, she was not anticipating Peronian, or the return of Noraiel, but her captors. Eventually, they would come close enough, release them from these chains. And the apprentice had found the fuel that would aid her.
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