Theurgy: The Journey's Dawn (Book One)

Chapter 55 Preparations

Whispering, Celia could hear whispering. Soothing clear vocalizations that came from Massia and did not. The voice was off, older and deeper. Maybe even ancient. And although Massia's lips move, they somehow did not fit. They were rapid words, spoken in a language foreign to their ears, but the Makhai were actually speaking them as well. They were frozen in their movements, one still looked her dead in the eyes with a vicious focus, yet they repeated those words flawlessly. Then, Massia dropped that head and lounged at her mother. Celia could not believe her eyes as she suddenly saw Massia's foot alight with aura before colliding with the torso of the one atop her. It burst like a bag full of fresh blood split in two. Scattered against the ground next to them. The next, Makhai backed away, raising the blade he carried. But Massia leaped with a punch. It didn't even connect, for he was a bit too far out of reach for her short slender arms. Yet, once that fist stopped inches away from his head, it too exploded. Raw avra ejected from her arm at that moment, and it was enough to shatter a skull. Avra seeped from her, a chillingly calm flow. Massia's eyes were now stark white, like those of other Makhai, and that blackness was still there. Two makhai now died, the last hovering over Elena, who was back against a tree staring in utter awe. It looked to Massia with a curious gaze, then to Celia for a long time. Then finally to Elena. Celia feared it might take her hostage, but instead, it turned on a heel and ran. Into the night, it melted away like that of a mere dream. But this, what this was, was not anything that Celia could conjure in her mind.

"Mom," a small voice leaped out. Massia has still turned away towards a stunned Elena. Her arm and leg were covered in the blood of those who lay dead. She turned slowly, and Celia flinched, expecting the cold eyes to regard her as new prey. But instead, they were filled with tears. "Mother. . ."

"Massia," Celia said with bated breath. "What . . . what is this . . .?"

The aura left her as Massia suddenly realized what she had been doing. And now, she examined her surroundings. "Mother. What's happening? What's. . . where is Lyse and . . ."

"Calm yourself, please," Celia quickly crawled to her feet and walked over to Massia to examine her. She looked well and normal, healthy, in fact. No longer pale, and her eyes were back to what they were. She looked as good as she has ever seen it. But why did she feel so cold around here? "Are you well, Massia? How do you feel."

"I . . . don't know? Mom, I don't know . . ." she whimpered, tears streaming down her face as uncontrollable rivers of emotions. She suddenly embraced Celia, balling and crying as if a child, muttering something under her breath. Celia could feel the relief, the sudden release of fear and worry and panic, and dread dispersed from Massia in those moments. This girl, who knows what she may have witnessed, what the hell she has endured. But she was still here; she still had the mind and reason to cry. She had her mother back. And she, she had her child. Her Massia back truly. Celia could not contain herself, and a few tears came down her cheeks, and she embraced Massia even harder.

"Forgive me . . . Massia, please forgive me," she said in her daughter's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there. Please forgive me."

Massia did not respond. She just held tightly and sobbed to the heavens all her pains. And Celia took them in.

But through this display, Elena could not appreciate the reunion before her, for something far more apparent ran through her man and turned it rapid with emotions. Celia only a faint trail of aura as she launched herself towards where the Makhai and they had run from. The night seemed so long now, the last day an eternity. It took no time before she returned to the scene of these incidents. The lake was refilling from water displaced by Gray. Several bodies that had resulted from the very short conflict that had occurred laid sprawled, mangled, and broken. Not a stir among their doused decrepit bodies. Neither could she sense their aura. But in the center, and the first place she ran to. His blade was kicked away from him, and he lay motionless face down in the wet grass. Her breath caught in her throat as it pained from the sight, but she did not have the mind to think. She ran to him as quickly as possible, turning him over. He had a massive gut wound, most likely from one of their swords, several smaller minor cuts, and bruises through his lengthy struggle. He looked pale, and she feared the worst. Desperately, she picked him up and felt for a pulse any pulse. And then . . .