The Bane of Light

Wandering of Spirits

"How slow life is. How violent hope is"- Guillaume Apollinaire, Mirabeau Bridge

∞

I was out. I was out.

That was all I could process as I floated between space and time. I raised my hands and was shocked to find them transparent, a shadowy outline of my hands barely perceptible to even myself. I was weightless. Air flowed through me, and after a moment, I realized it was not air; it was mana. I was floating in raw mana. The shadow realm would simply house me before, but I was now apart of it, an extension of the magic that it held.

The thought scared me. Mana was not supposed to be unleashed in such a manner to the physical world. When witches astral projected, they remained in the realm of mana. They never stepped into the real world and got to observe it while in spirit form. There was balance. Their magic was contained in such a manner. But I could. Which meant something was not working as it should. I realized why this Skill was forgotten; it was dangerous and did not work upon the laws of magic. The wielder of this Skill...their possibilities were endless. It was dangerous.

I shifted, floating through walls in a trance-like state. The action took no physical effort on my part, with my mind simply willing it to happen. I floated through the walls and out the tunnel, until I was free and above the surface. I observed a golden boy at one end, peering in and shouting into the entrance of the tunnel.  Paris Arobynn, I realized with a jolt. I was looking at Paris Arobynn, his image distorted and practically unrecognizable to me, as if through a dream, where all logic evaded me. Paris was waiting at the other end, his sword drawn as peered into the tunnel. He was shouting, the sound bouncing off the walls in a muffled echo, as if I were hearing it underwater. I observed him curiously, tilting my head. What was he doing?

And then, with the shout of a strange sound, I was snapped back into awareness. Paris Arobynn was screaming my name. And I then remembered why he was shouting for me in such a desperate, panicked state, staring into the darkness with fear clouding around him. Paris Arobynn was calling for me. I was trapped in the tunnel.

The realization startled me as I felt my body be sucked back into the darkness. I clawed and tried to drag some of the dark mana with me, desperate to keep myself from being locked in my body again. This was my natural state. I knew it. My natural form was to be a shadow, not something as bulky and landlocked as a human corpse. Despite my protests, I was ejected back into my prison of flesh and blood. In the state of shadow, where I recognized so little of my mortal life, I faintly remembered the emotion fear. I couldn't remember why, but I remembered fear that accompanied my physical body. And fear was what I felt when I was imprisoned back into my body. I was scared.

I had blacked out, unaware for how long I had been crawling. I had been numb and detached from my rhythmic movements, but I had been moving nonetheless. The fear was back and all engulfing. The feeling of being free of it, and getting hit with the panic all over again, was debilitating. A heavy weight pressed against my chest, trying to push me down, trying to keep me from breathing.

My stomach felt hollow, if not for the greasy feel of anxiety that made me sick with trepidation. A cold sweat broke out against my skin as my lips set into a thin line. So this was what fear tasted like? Salt water dotted above dry lips, cold, numb hands, and the knowledge of your impending doom. The knowledge that something was wrong, and you could do nothing to stop. The feeling of being physically sick, ready to retch upon slightest provocation. I remembered why I detested the emotion so. Panic tickled my chest, like a fire under my skewered lungs, slowly burning them till the smoke and panic suffocated me, swallowing me whole.