Terror. A dimension mirroring the living one--but morphed to reflect the imagination of its Overseer. And the current Overseer... has refused to relinquish her power for centuries, tormenting her souls--"terrors"--into becoming... zombies.
Arielle f...
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Never in all her centuries had Penelope ever been so hot. So encircled by heat, trapped by her own precious fires, so afraid she'd lose control of them. The ceiling was fire; so was the floor, every wall, every baseboard and corner of crown molding. The window-frames were bright yellow flames, the glass a darker, orange-like shade. It was impossible to see out, to view the yard and the monsters slowly gathering there. Doors were barriers of fire that Penelope was able to walk through. But she hissed as the sparks splashed over her skin and winced as she traversed the corridors of her home.
It was impressive, to be sure. To have so much rage inside that it flew out and caught flame, that it transformed everything into fire. Only the furniture remained intact, but still every surface was hot to the touch and glowed as if fire flowed inside the wood of the tables, under the cushions of each chair, through the ornate framing of her mirror.
Everything glowed—and her eyes hurt so much she squeezed them shut, bartering with the tears about to spill, begging that they stay under her lash-line.
She wouldn't cry. Not from the fear of her own powers, not from the exhaustion of maintaining her strong facade, and not because she didn't know what to do next. No, her sadness was from embarrassment. She'd stormed off like a tantrum-throwing child, spitting in the Being's face as if he were a bully on the playground. Such actions would have disastrous consequences, and she knew it was a matter of time before she lost.
But she'd never meant to rouse such fury in her counterpart from the Soul Realm. If anything, she didn't want him aware of any of her actions at all. For him to be aware that she mounted an army to prepare for an invasion of his special souls would be a catastrophe.
"Is a catastrophe," she corrected, shaking her head as she glimpsed her reflection in her mirror. "He knows. And he disapproves. And I'm an idiot."
The creature looking back at her was haggard, a haze about her as if her flesh was steaming, a brewing fury boiling underneath. But her eyes lacked their usual fire, turned dull and gray from the Being's appearance. She'd reanimated her heat, but the ice still remained; it still spiraled down her spine and reminded her she hadn't succeeded yet. Until the Being left of his own volition, giving up on her, she had to stay cloistered in her fiery home for protection.
Would he give up, though? Or would he stand there, day in and day out, waiting for her to come to her senses?
What senses? I'm not mad, I have nothing to reproach myself for.
Would he float in front of her wall of fire, staring through it as if he could see her?
"Persevering moron."
She'd heard him whisper to her several times already, since she'd blown her fences up and prevented him from following her into her dwelling.
"Come, Penelope. Stop being foolish. Accept your fate, and stop dooming others because of your stubborn reluctance."
