The constant pain at her chest could not be ignored. It seemed to be coming directly from between her lungs, as if the flesh had been ripped apart by an invisible hand. A hand treacherous and vile, a hand under the waters. It brought agony, punishment for the renouncement, as if two months apart, two months worth of pain and suffering, had not been enough.
For in the dream, Celysiel's chest was bleeding. Steaming, the crimson liquid of life was fleeing from her form, reaching the frozen skin.
Darkness lingered around her, though it was not as thick enough ti deprive one from sight. A dim ray was reaching out from above, onto the grey floor of the hardened sand. The touch of the sun had no place in the depths, thus colour was being filtered out, fading into weak white. Shades of turquise and cadet blue painted the shivering surroundings, as illuminating threads, weaved together as if in a web, were trembling on the ashen, stone walls. It was as if the girl was under the water, but the liquid element was absent.
The silence was not absolute. It was but an illusion, something only those who were not attentive enough and lacked imagination would fail to notice. A faint humming sound, whispered so far from the surface, uttered by no mouth or slumbering soggoth, even if several were surely to be found in the abyss. This was the call of the ocean. The invader had no place in such area, though it was where she stood, without a desire of questioning it. She could not recall how, or why. The fact that she was dreaming was not known to the apprentice.
A nebulous mass was the final touch that came to finish the picture, casting its misty haze into the cavern open to the aquatic sky. Gliding in a ring around the bleeding girl, it never touched the floor that would soon be painted with her blood. As protective as its hold around her could be, it was also a prison, taking away the chance of promised clarity. Where she was never meant to tresspass she somehow had, but the price had to be paid.
Even if the details of the chamber were not completely a mystery, to see with clarity at the other side was impossible. As it happened, Celysiel's care for the moment was little. Her greatest concern was to see to the wound on her chest, for she could feel the warmth of blood embrace the cloth it stained, its metallic scent tease her nostrils. For some reason though, one that could not be listed as unnatural, for such is the world of dreams, there was no weakness as the essence of life was fleeing her body. Her lips remained rosey and her skin, snow-white, her eyes wide and curious, her body standing.
In her hands was of course the locket. Bloodied was the silver prison of the stone within, absent its whispers. Only a faint glow hinted onwards, reaching out towards the ring of fog surrounding the apprentice. Beyond.
It was the first form of action coming from the girl within this game of her own mind as she finally stepped forward, with the locket, the one item she so cherished, held tightly within her grasp. The blood had somehow managed to reach down to the rim of her dress, sparing no crimson, or onyx fabric. A trail was being painted at the every tentative step of the youth as she followed the tendril of the locket's glow. It almost made the silver mists alluring, their beckoning lost somewhere into the howls of the ocean, but certainly there for a heart to understand.
Until one single sound came to cast it away.
Its origins were from the other side of the dancing cloud, behind the veil. Even if sight was not a privilege of the one trying to hopelessly peek, sound could not lie. The laughter was cold and thin, mocking. There was nothing charming about it, no great beauty, or even allure. It was a laughter telling the tale of all things dark and wrong. Or these pestering thoughts that whisper to one's mind at night, keeping them from rest. That little voice pushing one to the most nefarious of sins.
Celysiel's eyes widened, her body suddenly becoming ridig, as if she would not dare take another step. She knew that laughter.
It was her.
As if realisation had been the key to dispel the mist all along, its amorphous texture began to disperse and fade, parting to the right and the left, as if to open the way. The reveal of what stood on the other side was slow, preparing the young elf for all her eyes would see. At first, it was nothing more than a dark shape, a slender silhouette covered by smoke, seated in a comfortable manner. Legs crossed and hands spread to the side, as if she was occupying a throne. Her head was tilted to the side, in a way which almost seemed abnormal.
The more the fog would dissolve however, the more would be offered for the eyes to feast on. Her seat was a throne of metal, clinging onto the stone. Bars of silver and iron, brass and gold, they were all surrounding the main body, attached to it, as if they served as frames to the throne. For frames was what they were; one could after a while note the broken glass that was peeking from the edges. What remained of those stolen mirrors carried stains of old, dark blood at the edges, while the rest of the reflective surface was clean and polished. Sometimes it showed the dark cavern, others the mistress of the throne.
Striking was the likeness between her and the apprentice, even if they were so different at the same time. They both possessed the same lithe figure and sharp characteristics of the elven race, both white like snow. Even if they represented the same person though, one could say that they were nothing alike. Where Celysiel stood clad in black and red, hiding in the embrace of her cloak and hood alike, the other's dress was white and faded; it was the white of death. Torn to the sides, revealing long legs wearing black leather around the thigh, all the way to below the ankle, like a bandage. Her skin was as pale as the dead, her hair untamed and rich, like silken webs. Black were her lips and thin her alabaster eyes, devoid of magic. Unlike the unsmiling Celysiel, the other wore a constant smirk, but it was nothing charming. It spoke of malice and cruelty, that personification of all things heinous.
There was no doubt that the other's beauty was greater than that of the apprentice, though it was peculiar, a kind that few would see and even fewer choose. That did not mean that her skin was unblemished. Small cuts were scattered at her arms and legs, where the sharp glass of the myriads of mirrors had touched. The most eye-catching of these marks though was the one on her chest. It began right where Celysiel could feel her own pain, though hers went deeper under the dress, extending to her heart. No, that crack the apprentice could not remember seeing before on that twisted reflection. The residue oozing from the cracks on the porcelain skin had the colour of amethyst, though motes of black where waltzing in the purple colour. The sight made the young girl look down at her locket, at the similar glow which reached forward, the one followed to the throne of the other. It should have surprised her. It failed to.
Those black lips moved. Celysiel was left to see as the smirk grew wider. She could taste the evil emitted from the twisted reflection, a name well earned, even if there was no true mirror to separate them anymore. Just the frames of several.
"You gave in quite easily when you took his life." the woman resembling a ghost uttered, laughing under her breath. To describe her voice was impossible. It was etched into memory, but at the same time quite quickly faded. It was like asking someone to describe the true nature of fear.
"That was not you." the apprentice replied in return. Unbothered by the blood flowing from her torn chest still. What the twisted reflection was talking about, in the dream, was no mystery. The peon turned into a rat. The rat consumed. "I did not know. The pain had to go away."
The smile on the tilted head of the other almost showed understanding. She wafted her hand before burying the delicate digits with the long, dark nails into her mane. "So, so long..." mumbled the woman. "Sleeping. Hungering. Suffering. We called. We called..." Words coated with conviction, blame.
Did she think that the young elf had not wanted to answer? That such parting was her choice? Faces took form onto the fragments of the mirrors on the throne, as if reflecting to Celysiel's thoughts. Eraevin, Whitestep, Tal'enthiel, Maridren. They were all there, the reason of her loss. The images would change in flashes, as if light was momentarily cast against the glass. The Sunwell, as the girl imagined it, Rommath, as descriptions had shaped him in her mind, several hooded beings wrapped by an aura of shadow, for Celysiel had never seen Void Elves before. All those reasons and individuals, beyond her control, had seen her to months of pain. Months away from the Heart.
"I wanted to." she explained frantically, though every word brought sharpness from her chest. "I wanted to, I tried, I wanted to!"
"Lies." hissed the other, wafting a hand yet again in order to dismiss Celysiel's words. "You denied us. Gave us away. You betrayed us."
"I did not!" Celysiel protected, though the burning ache returned. Excessive this time, it managed to bring her to her knees. Only now would it start to become clear how the blood loss was affecting her. It nearly felt as if all of the liquid of life had been shed, forming that thick pool around her. Skin, clothes and hair alike were painted by the ruby substance. And the locket that she was holding? It remained still, a beating heart within its prison.
"I suffered..." she continued, even if the agony continued. "I too called." It was as if claws had been pushed deep inside, turning in the wound. Celysiel wanted to scream, but could not comprehend why she would not. "I did not want this! I did not-"
But the laughter cut her words short as the other rose from her seat. "Weak." was all she uttered, the taste of that last word in her mouth before diving. It was with great speed, as if she was a speed ethereal, Krator on his hint for souls. Slender digits were wrapped around Celysiel's long neck, squeezing mercilessly. The features of the twisted reflection were so close to hers, a scene dating back to their first encounter. The essence emitted from the cracks of the other's skin were illuminating her face, murderous intent burning in her colourless eyes.
"You escaped once. The Void will have your soul."
Water rushed into the carver from everywhere. It was pouring from the walls and the ceiling, the floor of sand. Had it not been a dream, where only certain senses are not dulled, Celysiel would have been able to taste the salt in the water, she would have been able to feel the pressure burn her lungs as the liquid invaded her system violently. All that however paled before the hook at her throat, the oozing wound from her chest. When the apprentice turned to look down though, it was not just crimson escaping her flesh, but something thicker, purer, trapped in tentacles of shadow sprouting from the other's form. The Void would have her soul. And her hands could no longer push her attacker away, snuff the life out of the twisted reflection. There was no one to save her this time. No hand to pull her out of the waters.
Laughter followed again. The twisted reflection shifted with a last cruel smirk on her lips, before her body became nothing more than an amorphous mass. Nothing was left behind, nothing but its shadow, a dance of energy that twirled and swayed before Celysiel's eyes. There was nothing that could be done in order to prevent that cloud of energy from seeping into the wound. The apprentice could feel it. A foreign being into her body, its cold grasp around her neck still. She was floating under the waters, but she would not die.
I found clarity... whispered a voice of the past into the cavern. To find it was Celysiel's desire, but she could not move. She could not do anything but wither.
Cut the tethers... uttered another. Not demanding, but tempting. And for a moment, to do so crossed the apprentice's mind. Had another not told her what the consequences would be...
Something shivered in the depths, as if the strings of light weaved together on the rocks were somehow able to fool, alter the image. The remnants of the mirror throne still shined as they were drowning with the apprentice, offering a thousand reflections, a thousand promises, a thousand eyes... Where the seat once stood now coiled the tongue escaping a horrific maw, jaws open wide.
Do not come here. thought the youth with all the power remaining within her. Do not come here. she willed, as the cavern shook, the spawn of darkness breaking free from its prison of stone. It was a shape seen and defeated once more in something as harmless as a dream. First, it had manifested for Surveyor Bloodthorn as a promise of power. And by the united power of the Oathsworn, it had perished, leaving but one thing behind...
It wanted its Heart back. Now the owner stood still, soon to pay for the insolence.
Do not come here. cried Celysiel in her own mind, as that cold grasp kept her trapped under the water, in a red mist formed by her very own blood. A path of silver light rained down on her as the darkness was becoming thicker around her, though the ray was dim, threatening to consume her whole. That she was not afraid of the dark she had once told Eraevin before he offered his hand to guide her in the sea. But now, her very existence begged against it.
This was not how all was meant to be. If the Heart was hers and the being defeated, it could not return. Without its core, it would never return. But it was not known to the apprentice that this dream was a nightmare, the torment of her mind. There was nothing she could do as the creature of the Void charged forward to consume that lone ray and the poor girl standing beneath it. She could not be comforted by the thought that all was a night's torment as the dark took her whole.
That she was dreaming, Celysiel did not know as that last whisper, long ago heard into the depths, echoed in her mind, like a song. A morbid melody her lips had one dared utter to receive but one single response.
In the land of Ny'alotha there is only sleep.
In the sleeping city of Ny'alotha walk only mad things.
The towers of sacrifice in Ny'alotha dwarf your pathetic Spires.
Where all roads end.
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