08-21-2018, 08:24 AM
She'd never feared death. But obliteration was something different. The flame of the creature's will pulled her apart as she fought it, not just body but soul -- racing furiously down her very thread in the pattern. By now coherence was lost; she was barely aware of who she was; nor of who she had been, or might yet grow to be.
"You were always weak, Eris."
Blood choked her nose. It pattered on the red sand in heavy thuds before her swimming eyes. Threads of black hair swirled on a tortuous breeze, curling it against chapped lips; the tease of a relief he would not give her. Her fists clenched in the sand until her fingers burned and blistered with the heat.
Outcast exile freak.
Towering tall above, he suddenly leaned close. His finger lifted her chin until her gaze rose, but the sun crowned behind him, robbing her of sight. His face was shadows, infinite as the universe. Her teeth bared bloody at the cruel touch.
"You were always weak," he repeated, standing up now he courted her attention. Lifted his foot until it pressed against her chest, a scalding brand. And pushed. "Here."
She fell back. It burned. More than hot sand should burn, as if her very marrow was molten and her skin flaked like ash, seared away. The sun was so bright; white as the sky, like the power slipped its fleshy chains and consumed the world in her absence. She stared up until her retinas burned.
"Am I dying?"
"Hallucinations are rarely a good sign, Eris. Yield."
She gurgled a laugh, the blood thick in her throat. Agony tried to leak tears from her eyes, but even that part of her was parched and broken. The man she had loved so fiercely that the cavity in her chest was spent pressed his foot to her throat.
This is how it ends. This is how it ALWAYS ends.
No one ever loves you. No one ever comes to save you.
So save yourself.
YIELD.
The Wheel spun, crushing her against the spine of the world, chased by a howl of mad laughter.
To yield or to die; Oriena chose death.
But sudden loss punctured the pain, like something torn from the very soul; once, twice, thrice. Words disintegrated before they made sense. This feeling was a new kind of torment. Alone in the universe. Ori fell again, not crushed this time, but swept along on a bigger current. Of dark skirts brushing across stiff, cold bodies. Of swollen grey skies and an empty battlefield; empty but for her and her dark vigil. They called you the Lady of Sorrow. She clawed her way free from those drowning waters, and as she finally stopped fighting she comprehended.
Regus? This is Atharim doing? She screamed it into the abyss, unsure if the creature could or would hear the tiny thread of her words. Fury rippled through her, flexing against the bonds of her prison; unsure now whether she meant her own, or the creature's. Memories of the Baccarat fire burned her up, like scouring a nest of vermin, and her bristling, vicious anger redirected. I will help you find the key. I will help you destroy it! But you cannot die here!
It did not appear to listen.
Her body screamed again, ripping apart the final seams stitching her whole. It drew deeper than Ori could sustain, suddenly desperate; willing to spend every last drop of her. Light burst bright in her head, like staring too long at the sun. Everything flashed blinding white; beautiful agony.
Until something slammed down hard, sending them both reeling into terrible darkness.
It finally fled.
But not before probing into the ugliness of her soul and plucking free a truth.
Oriena pitched forward, slamming shards of mirror deep into the palms of her hands as she landed, shuddering pain up her arms. But the wrench of the power, snuffed out like a candle, was the bigger blow. Vitality fled her limbs, faint from the blood pouring from nose and ears. Beyond Jaxen's bloody back, Ascendancy loomed. She saw him strangely dual, for the brief moment before the creature's manipulations whispered away with its departure. She had been a daughter of the night, born on the wrong side of the war. But he had never offered her succour.
Outcast exile freak.
Hurt flashed deep betrayal across her expression before it was lost to the bowels of the past, leaving only the familiar residue of prejudice. Every muscle screamed torn, but it paled into insignificance beside the bigger loss. Blood spattered from her nose, a constellation against her knuckles. Her vision was awash with dizziness, her tense limbs lacking even the force to claw her way to her feet, but she stared defiant. Horror tightened her expression, chest panting. An accusation of theft.
"You were always weak, Eris."
Blood choked her nose. It pattered on the red sand in heavy thuds before her swimming eyes. Threads of black hair swirled on a tortuous breeze, curling it against chapped lips; the tease of a relief he would not give her. Her fists clenched in the sand until her fingers burned and blistered with the heat.
Outcast exile freak.
Towering tall above, he suddenly leaned close. His finger lifted her chin until her gaze rose, but the sun crowned behind him, robbing her of sight. His face was shadows, infinite as the universe. Her teeth bared bloody at the cruel touch.
"You were always weak," he repeated, standing up now he courted her attention. Lifted his foot until it pressed against her chest, a scalding brand. And pushed. "Here."
She fell back. It burned. More than hot sand should burn, as if her very marrow was molten and her skin flaked like ash, seared away. The sun was so bright; white as the sky, like the power slipped its fleshy chains and consumed the world in her absence. She stared up until her retinas burned.
"Am I dying?"
"Hallucinations are rarely a good sign, Eris. Yield."
She gurgled a laugh, the blood thick in her throat. Agony tried to leak tears from her eyes, but even that part of her was parched and broken. The man she had loved so fiercely that the cavity in her chest was spent pressed his foot to her throat.
This is how it ends. This is how it ALWAYS ends.
No one ever loves you. No one ever comes to save you.
So save yourself.
YIELD.
The Wheel spun, crushing her against the spine of the world, chased by a howl of mad laughter.
To yield or to die; Oriena chose death.
But sudden loss punctured the pain, like something torn from the very soul; once, twice, thrice. Words disintegrated before they made sense. This feeling was a new kind of torment. Alone in the universe. Ori fell again, not crushed this time, but swept along on a bigger current. Of dark skirts brushing across stiff, cold bodies. Of swollen grey skies and an empty battlefield; empty but for her and her dark vigil. They called you the Lady of Sorrow. She clawed her way free from those drowning waters, and as she finally stopped fighting she comprehended.
Regus? This is Atharim doing? She screamed it into the abyss, unsure if the creature could or would hear the tiny thread of her words. Fury rippled through her, flexing against the bonds of her prison; unsure now whether she meant her own, or the creature's. Memories of the Baccarat fire burned her up, like scouring a nest of vermin, and her bristling, vicious anger redirected. I will help you find the key. I will help you destroy it! But you cannot die here!
It did not appear to listen.
Her body screamed again, ripping apart the final seams stitching her whole. It drew deeper than Ori could sustain, suddenly desperate; willing to spend every last drop of her. Light burst bright in her head, like staring too long at the sun. Everything flashed blinding white; beautiful agony.
Until something slammed down hard, sending them both reeling into terrible darkness.
It finally fled.
But not before probing into the ugliness of her soul and plucking free a truth.
Oriena pitched forward, slamming shards of mirror deep into the palms of her hands as she landed, shuddering pain up her arms. But the wrench of the power, snuffed out like a candle, was the bigger blow. Vitality fled her limbs, faint from the blood pouring from nose and ears. Beyond Jaxen's bloody back, Ascendancy loomed. She saw him strangely dual, for the brief moment before the creature's manipulations whispered away with its departure. She had been a daughter of the night, born on the wrong side of the war. But he had never offered her succour.
Outcast exile freak.
Hurt flashed deep betrayal across her expression before it was lost to the bowels of the past, leaving only the familiar residue of prejudice. Every muscle screamed torn, but it paled into insignificance beside the bigger loss. Blood spattered from her nose, a constellation against her knuckles. Her vision was awash with dizziness, her tense limbs lacking even the force to claw her way to her feet, but she stared defiant. Horror tightened her expression, chest panting. An accusation of theft.