Once, the darkness had spoken to Faine.
A language lost in secret whispers long forgotten, clinging to the memories of all passing. Every breath exchanged between the living. Each moment sacrificed by the dead. The shadows weaving in and out of life itself.
Only silence answered now as her fingers brushed against the flames.
Her shackles were no more imprisoning than the iron beams weighing her shoulders and waist. Flakes of rust grinding into her bare skin as the fire lapped away her clothing.
Faine knew, as the crackling erupted and the walls moaned, it was over.
When the screaming left her with gritted teeth and waves of rippling numbness, chills came rushing in until there was nothing.
It hurt.
Until it didn't.
Until the silhouette slamming on the door drove their shoulder through the entrance, skidding to a halt. Her eyes blurred at the sight of him, at the embodiment of his distress. Emotion tried and failed to well in her chest, gnawing at the final strands of her consciousness.
She cried.
Until tears failed her.
His screams at the sight of her were a song she never wanted to hear again.
Faine knew she was coughing even though the emptiness was traveling up her throat, reaching through her lungs. The chills filled her wholly, branching inward from her limbs and circling her organs like vultures. Waiting.
The silhouette yelled profane curses, gasping and growling at the burning beams as he pulled and yanked them fruitlessly. As if the Gods might bestow him with great strength, as if they might aid him.
But there was nothing.
There was no one to hear Faine take one more shaky breath as the last of her senses flickered. Feeling abandoned her first as the fire enveloped her skin.
Her sight heated with smoke as the whole world turned gray, waning.
Until all that was left were those faint whispers beckoning from the dark, telling her it was time.
The language of the void spoken again.