Bereft: Foretold

41 | A Dark Dream

The void was not what I'd always imagined it to be. I'd crossed it a million times, hopping from Terrestria to the Realm of Sin and back again, so I'd given it considerable thought, but I'd never truly stepped foot here, as no living creature physically could. I'd thought to find nothing—but there was something, I simply lacked the words to name it. I couldn't describe it, for it lacked true form or shape, and yet I knew it was there just as one recognizes the presence of air, or the lack thereof.

I was submerged in the cold, unmoving waters of a sea without shores, an ocean without a moon to stir its tide or to illuminate its bleak abyss. I didn't breathe, and my heart didn't beat. A sublime silence enveloped me in its stillness and stole through my thoughts, suppressing my awareness and all sense of time. 

Shoving the influence free of my mind, I knew I'd already lingered too long, and if it weren't for the ghostly silver chain encircling my neck, I wouldn't have been able to shake the void's embrace. The threads of my being would've been stolen by unseen fingers and unraveled before I could think to resist, as the chain provided the only source of sensation available in this haunting, ineffable place. 

I looped a finger through one of the chain's links, tugging. It resisted and snapped back into place. 

Saule's spell worked, but will it hold? And for how long?

Gathering myself, I ran my fingers over my body, testing what form the void had deemed my spirit worthy of. I was surprised to find I was the same as I remembered, then considered if that was the point. Perhaps my spiritual form was a reflection of what I thought it should be, and it could—in theory—take any shape I wanted, if I could envision it. The void was malleable, as I'd learned from the Baal in one of his more loquacious moods. The existential wasn't definite here, as it responded to intent and will, the substance of a soul, more so than to action. 

However, the stillness of this place could strip a spirit's will to nothing in minutes. It was a strange, savage dimension—once the domain of the Wild King, when his Children had been alive and he'd actually deemed to walk among them. I'd seen the King, just once. He'd been a man of advanced height with a head full of spun gold falling to his waist, the strands loosely bound with ribbons tied by starry-eyed Dreaming maidens. Young Children had threaded flowers through the ribbons, giggling all the while, and the Wild King had done nothing to stop them. He'd sat in repose within his forest while his worshipers Sang his praises and doted upon him, receiving boons delivered by gentle words or soft, open-hand touches. 

He'd been kind to his followers—but there was no mistaking the predatory grace in his lissome body, the unforgiving nature of his aquamarine eyes when they'd flashed in my direction. Wild wolves had chased me for days.

I could smell the scent of the lilies the women had been gathering, the aroma of broken clovers underfoot.

Shaking myself, I tore the image from my thoughts and banished the smell. I'm rambling. The void destroys all sense of urgency and steeps my mind in old memories, trying to delay my journey. 

I walked—or drifted, I couldn't say which. I could have been flying or swimming, running or crawling. I moved with intent and ignored the persistent tug of something trying to draw me somewhere that was not my goal. My goal was a glimmer ahead, a lustrous spot on a black horizon beckoning me forth. I knew it was my destination, just as I knew the other direction was not. 

As I went, my motions became more predictable, and soon I realized I was walking, and my footsteps were resonating upon unyielding stone. Molded columns of jet black rock appeared around my walkways and spiraled endlessly into the untouchable dark above. Flickering blue light emanated from ancient windows surrounded by obsidian casements and inset with smoke-colored glass. Inky caverns yawned on either side of the path, bidding me to step off and fall to my death.

Ah...I hate this place. 

I was in the Palace of Netherina, in the Province of Netherina, the City of Rapture. By general definition, I was in the Pit.

The Baal's palace was a sprawling mess of jagged angles and stone pathways wrought from the natural rock bridges created by the now dormant volcano the palace sat astride. The open pits and trenches provided optimal passage for the winged Fractus—and the Baal himself—to move between floors. There was a grim, nontraditional baroque style to the place, a parody of the grandiose intricacies inherent to the style and the untouchable nature of flame, smoke, and steel. In many ways, the palace was much like its master: beautiful yet brutal, and full of secrets and confusion. 

I thought I'd see a vision of the Baal himself, and I braced myself for his appearance—but he never showed. Instead, I strolled and turned to see myself, two separate versions of the man who is—was—Darius. The first was Absolian, proud and blue-eyed with black wings outspread behind him. The second was a Sin, red-eyed and bitter, lip curled above sharp, clenched teeth.

They both had a hold on one of my wrists and were dragging me backward.

"You once soared among the heavens," the first sneered. "You once served the will of a true King, and were exalted for it. You, first in your name, leader among gods. You've become a ruin."

"They once trembled at the mere mention of Pride's coming," the second snarled. "You, first among the Fallen's Sons, the Brood of Shadow, the Sins of Man. Now they laugh behind your back. You've become a ruin." 

I wrenched at their grasps, and hated how real it felt. It was not real. This place wasn't real. It was a trick that spoke to my vulnerabilities, a ploy siphoning strength from the insults I'd fed myself for millennia. These apparitions said nothing I hadn't already heard and thus had no power over me. 

"You failed at everything you ever did and refused to recognize your own folly," I told the Sin, escaping his clutches as the bitter creature reeled. "Your shortcomings are your own. There is no one to blame for the beast you have become but yourself."

The Sin vanished. 

"You followed a wretch and paid for your hubris," I spat at the Absolian, tearing its hand free. Talons tore at my wrist, freeing crimson droplets. "Absolian or Sin, angel or demon, it matters not. You drank too deep from the chalice of your own legend and drowned in the lies. I may be a ruin, but you are a story no one remembers. The ruin remains: the story has not been told in thousands of years."

The Absolian stepped aside as the Sin had, wings folding behind his broad shoulders as his head tilted. "Did I follow him? Did I really?" the creature asked before disappearing as well.

What an odd question to pose to myself. Did I follow him? What was my own memory implying? That I hadn't? That somewhere in my hazy recollection was the truth of what I'd done and who I'd really served? 

This place weaves truths and untruths with the same thread. There is no difference. I cannot trust it.

The Palace of Netherina was fading, the somber glow of the Pit fading to black. Something neared in the uncharted waters, something that had long been watching me and was now curious enough to approach. I sensed malice in its intent and ran from it, willing my spirit to escape the hound that'd caught my scent before it was too late.

I knew now what Cage had meant by them. I'd forgotten what resided here in the spaces in-between, those beings of pure energy finding sustenance in the utter stillness of the void's quiet sphere. Cuxiel and Balthazar had both snared one of these creatures before, and consuming their essence had given them incredible power.

But...I recalled Cuxiel's muted horror when retelling the encounter.

Loa. I was being hunted by a loa, and it was about to catch up.