Hell is Blue by ALBlacksmith99
The Professor --- Morella
Perched on the arm of her overstuffed, velvet sofa, Morella cradled a glass of 'not water' between fingers that had ink stains and smears of chalk, the sum of the evidence that she'd done anything today but nurse a bad temper on the rocks.
The moonshine was helping.
Staring at the ceiling, a ceiling she'd meticulously gotten the staff to paint with the intricate path of the heavens, solar systems and astrological star patterns made her office a downright delight to the scholar's plight, which is to say... thank god for the beautiful artwork above for distracting from grading piss-poor work.
The papers before her were, in all honesty, probably written forty minutes before they were due, all stacked on her coffee table before her. The sorry pile appeared more like a hill than the mountain it was supposed to resemble, and she knew it was simply foreshadowing the anemic theses of her dumb, first-year students.
She couldn't say she wished for more work, however.
She had marked one paper thus far, the scrolled parchment fouled by "extras" presumably from the night before and adorned with grammar that would make a sailor feel like an accomplished intellectual.
She snorted at the pukey page that lay before her, and she could feel her eyes pulsating.
She relished in the bright red "F" on the top of the page — artfully tucked between a stain that looked oddly like the supper from the night before and what was possibly sherry or balsamic vinegar (she couldn't decide) — and circled it to really drive home that fact that when a professor asks for an essay on the nature of astrology, you don't submit a haiku on why your "two-faced" boyfriend is a flighty asshole with his fingers in too many pies.
It could have satisfied her requirements if the student intended to tie it into the Pluto retrograde and determined the universe was telling her to evolve beyond her current circles, dump the douche, and be reborn, a phoenix in the ashes with renewed purpose, but no. The only thing vaguely astrological is "two-faced" which leads her to believe the boyfriend was a Gemini.
"Hmm," she said, observing the page again. "Is that... fucking corn?" Sneering at the page, she pushed it firmly away with a terse shake of her head.
For a moment, she felt pity for the student, but then she remembered... she didn't give a fuck. She wanted to do her own work, not be bothered with adhering to faculty necessities of educating the snotty shits of this pretentious town. Speaking of which...
"Well," she said to herself, putting her glass down and slapping her hands on her thighs as though she'd put in truly back-breaking work. "That was fun," she said dryly, moving to her window to observe the sky.
Squinting, attractively she knew, she tapped her chin and pondered things that were well worth pondering, such as 'what books should I ask the Library for today?' and 'I bet a cake would help me gain the courage to think about possibly maybe continuing to mark the papers'.
You know, the essential stuff.
Sliding into her leather, spinny chair, she used her foot against the desk for leverage to imitate the globe. She, personally, did not subscribe to the earth-is-a-ball theory, and, truth be told, she'd rather free fall off the side of the face of the earth than mark these papers.
She groaned and stopped spinning; the drink combined with the twirling business she'd just engaged in did wonders to awaken a feeling she decided she no longer wanted to participate in, but things had been put into motion that could not be stopped, and her stomach, weakened from no food and moonshine with ice as a mixer, heaved and whooped.
Perhaps the moonshine was not her most brilliant plan.
Cradling her head between her knees as she leaned forward, she allowed everything to settle and vowed to not do the spinny-spinny again. Lifting her head slowly, she peered out the window since she hadn't really been paying attention before.
A flash illuminated her face, and she froze, breath stolen as she waited for the boom of the thunder. Five seconds passed, and nothing. Relaxing, she sat back down in her spinny chair, sans spin, and dragged herself to the window with her high ball in hand to watch from the comfort of her chair.
Ice water trickled down her fingers, condensation, and as she brought the glass to her lips, the sky split in two with a crash of such proportions that her glass shot out of her hand and the remnants spilt, in equal parts, onto her lap and on the floor.
"Fuck!" She shouted, her lap sopping wet as the ice cubes traced the line of her inner thigh through her slacks, pretty much melting on contact. She avoided the broken glass and stood up. Peering around, she snatched her long, white lab coat and dabbed at her pants, trying to soak up the pungent scent of nearly pure alcohol.
The effort was futile.
Groaning, she hung her coat back up and moved to the window, stumbling only a little.
Looking at the large pane of glass once more, she stared hard into the sudden night sky; once more, her breath was seized. Rubbing her eyes, sure the sky was some delusion to which she owed to moonshine, she peered again, unbelieving.
A strange cloud formation was collecting above the forest by the cemetery.
Lenticular clouds are a fascinating adornment to a baby blue sky, poised like a white halo above the landscape as though all below were angels. However, they are a bit disconcerting when they are instead a scarlet ring suspended in a dark, foreboding sky.
It was too easy to imagine that if the white and blue were of Angels, the red and black were of demons. Morella could easily shrug off this sentiment. What she could not shrug off was the timing of it.
Chewing on her lip, she adjusted her telescope, opened the window, and peered through as the wind buffeted her robe around.
In the sky, peeking out from the centre of the cloud disc, every planet was aligned in more or less a straight line, and the moon was nowhere to be seen, though that was to be expected on a new moon.
What was worse—the planets perfectly aligned with the towering Library.
"Damnit."
Ripples of sensations burst over her flesh, though she knew it had little to do with the wind or the temperature, and she squirmed in response. She counted the planets across the sky.
The urge to smoke suddenly hit her and her fingers crawled into her pocket in search of a joint, a... herbal blend courtesy of her friend and former classmate, Percival. There were none to be found, though a matchbook sat glumly in the lining of her linen pocket.
She sighed, realizing she would not be sleeping well tonight.
Above her, the darkness of the sky seemed absolute, like it was sucking the life from everything that beheld it, draining even the stars of their radiance. In fact, she couldn't see a single star in the night sky, perceiving only a blanket of night at... (she looked at her pocket watch) three in the afternoon.
Snatching up the baggy from the false bottom drawer of her desk, she slips some rolling papers inside too and makes for the window. Praying her belly has relaxed enough, she perches on the window sill, bracing herself against the wind.
Stepping down onto the tapered section of the roof right below her window, she bent low and climbed up the side to reach the precipice. Once balanced on the peak of the roof, braced against the wall, she reached up to the next roof where it flattened out considerably.
Pulling herself up with some effort, she blew loose strands of her curly black hair out of her face and sat on the ledge. Rolling up a joint, she held it between her lips and struck the match. Technically, she wasn't allowed up here, but technically, she didn't care.
It ignited with a hiss, and she waved it like a coy, ornamental woman with a fan at a ball, giving hand signals for me to approach and back away. She'd always loved the scent of burnt matches. Dropping it into the eavestrough where her little collection had steadily grown over the semester, she shuffled up a little to sit on her ankles, arms wrapped around her shins in front of her.
Sighing, she breathed in the "herbal blend" that Percival had prepared for her. Being so young and a professor was an accomplishment, but it made for a strange transition among her peers.
She was still tight with Percival though, and since his major was "Botany" and he was the only one who really ventured into the greenhouse ('the garden of death' he called it) it had all sorts of weird and crazy shit in it.
Blowing out the smoke, she observed the swirling black disc above the old graveyard. It was nestled into a little wooded area, one of the only places on the island with any natural growth.
She couldn't be sure, but the longer she stared at the sky, the faster the cloud seemed to spin.
"Fuck, lay off the moonshine," she said to herself, watching with twisted fascination as the clouds whirled like a record and slowly descended into the tree line. Closing her eyes, she tried to determine if the world was spinning or if she was, but everything felt normal with her eyes closed.
Suddenly needing to determine if she was truly so drunk, she decided to go for a quick walk to get closer to the cloud. Carefully, she turns around to get on her knees and grips the edge of the roof to let her legs dangle. Slowly, she lowers herself and when her feet gain purchase on the roof below, she lets go, dropping into a crouch.
Wriggling back into her apartments, which doubled as her living area and office, she quickly donned a cloak and pulled the hood up.
She needed to go investigate.
The Cemetery --- Morella
Her office was a sanctuary in the perpetual gloom of the University, and leaving her nest was always a hassle for her. There was something cold and derelict about the hallways, particularly in this wing. It was where the professors of the University lived, but Morella never ran into them.
It was as though she lived among only ghosts.
Pulling her cloak tighter around her throat with a small, handheld telescope in her pocket, she hugged herself with the edges of the cloak pinched in her fingers to keep it shut. Truthfully, she wanted to bring her larger one, but it was cumbersome and too difficult to transport long distances by herself.
Sconces with lit candles cause the hallways to flicker, illuminating the familiar path with movement. Following the threadbare carpets set on the stone floors, she navigated the twists and turns of the faculty building. Her footsteps were silent, not that she was sneaking around.
As a staff member, there was no curfew in place for her. Of course, it was only the afternoon, but according to the sky, it was the dead of night.
She could more or less roam as she pleased, and it was relatively well known that Morella would leave the premises to inspect the sky. Nonetheless, she felt on edge in a way that made her wonder if it was because of a transit—or if it was a result of something far more sinister.
Fidgety, Morella makes it to the courtyard where abandoned benches mope and lampposts stand guard as sad companions. Heart racing and dots of sweat beading on her brow, she frowned at the sky again. She couldn't be sure what to attribute her nervous anticipation: the grand planetary alignment or something else.
Walking with purpose, she cut around the small gazebo and behind the greenhouse. Usually, Percival would be inside at this time, but when Morella peaked around through the slightly foggy glass, she couldn't see his towering form.
Shrugging, realizing he was probably off having a late lunch with Dorian, she continued on the path towards the cemetery where only the most powerful and influential of residents had plots.
The night sky was far more visible in the company of trees than in the company of man-made buildings. By now, she was sure she was not drunk, and the sky still seemed to spin, so she could say with near certainty that it was not just the booze.
The path through the forest is not lit, and so she slows to ensure she keeps on the path. The wrought-iron fence is tall and intimidating, but Morella lets go of the cloak, freeing her hands to climb.
Easily scaling the fence using the designs and swirls as handholds and footholds, she throws one leg over the top and then the other before leaping off and landing casually, not breaking her stride as she continues into the gloomy resting place for the dead.
Walking around, observing the surroundings to make sure she's alone, she tilts her head way back to observe the roiling sky.
Another thunderous crack erupts from the epicentre of the cloud and a sharp beam of light skewers the ground just feet in front of Morella.
Cursing, she jerked back and watched in stunned amazement as a woman materialized before her.
The woman was stunning, if not oddly dressed. Her hair was ice, her skin was porcelain, and her eyes seemed to be made of precious metal – like liquid silver.
The expression she held suggested that she knew more than Morella —suggested that she knew more in that moment than Morella would ever glean from living the fullest life that had ever been lived.
The woman was sprawled on the ground, curls splayed behind her. Her eyes seemed far away, but when they met hers, she felt strangely vulnerable like the mystery woman could truly see her soul, like she knew everything that was, is, and will be – like she was someone who had seen too much.
Yes, seen too much... or mayhaps I have indulged too much, she thought, suddenly aware of how high she was. She felt like giggling because everything seemed mildly funny to her, especially her own existence.
"Ellhe ise ueble," the woman whispered.
"Pardon?" she asked, not sure if she'd heard her correctly. She brought another spliff to her lips and struck a match to relight it, as though the solution to her problem was to get more fucked up. Attempting to blow a smoke ring, she broke out into a violent fit of coughing.
"What have I done?" the woman says, aghast.
The woman seemed to be struggling to breathe—Morella could relate as her eyes began to water from the force with which she coughed. The task of drawing in breath proved to be too great for the woman as her eyes slid back to gaze inwardly and closed.
Morella stared at her once she'd gotten her breathing under control in a way the woman clearly could not. The more she inspected her, the more she noticed until it got to the point where she was convinced she had not seen her at all the first go around.
Her body had bends, unnatural bends, as though her body had been broken and reanimated. Black streaks framed her eyes as though she had been sobbing, and a veil of black, like smoke, enveloped her entire body. It parted from her slowly in the wind and billowed away.
"Maybe I should take a nap too," she said. Morella considered what she should do... should she help the woman? Was she even real?
"Are you real?" Morella asked, only half expecting a reply, one which she did not get. She supposed it would have been an altogether different type of horror if the woman had replied given that she was unconscious.
She persevered.
Sighing, her fingertips trailed a path beneath her bloodshot eyes as she considered her options. She resisted the urge to poke the woman, deciding that would be a rude way to go about determining her existence.
The smoke around the woman was perverse; the smell was unpleasant and wholly unidentifiable and it made Morella's skin crawl. The colour was darker than she could describe. She half believed that if she touched it, her hand would disappear entirely. It smelled both foul and lovely at once.
The dissonance of the warring opposites caused her to feel at odds with her own existence. She felt funny. Glancing at her fingertips, she wondered if she'd smoked a tad too much.
It occurred to Morella that the woman had said something in a language she'd never heard before. Now, Morella did not consider herself a linguist by any means, but she felt confident enough to at least identify other languages having both an elite education and a friend, Dorian, who was a linguist of sorts. He could not recall anything similar. What had she said?
"Ell ees oobly."
She tried the words on her tongue and though she had no idea what it meant, she enjoyed the sound of it despite knowing she'd slaughtered it. It sounded melodic and archaic. Was it Latin? She wasn't sure, but she did not think so.
Morella disliked change, but she detested uncertainty. She sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of her nose, vexed, and she squashed the remnants of her spliff below her old leather shoes and bent over to observe the unconscious woman.
Again, Morella felt the urge to poke her, and nearly did so but was thoroughly deterred when the woman's eyes flew open revealing eyes that swirled with the same smoke that surrounded her. Morella let out a high-pitched squeal as she crashed to her bottom, landing on the pile of ash she'd created only minutes earlier, further dirtying her moonshine-smelling pants.
With clenched teeth and determination that came from out of nowhere, she stood up, unwavering in her quest to figure out if this woman was real or not. Her neck prickled and as she observed the broken woman, she began to rise from the ground, still unconscious.
"What in tarnation?"
Gravity seemed to work differently around the woman; her wild, white curls framed her delicate features while her dress slowly billowed like a flag in a slight summer breeze. She'd never known humans to be able to float, bobbing in the air like a cork in water, nor did she think hair could just... drift. She spun slowly as though suspended by an invisible puppeteer.
The black dress was fashionable... not here, but definitely somewhere. She was a splendid creature. And Morella had cottonmouth.
The woman trembled, and the black, tar-like liquid trickled from her nose, the inner corners of her eyes, and even from her ears. She went rigid and her mouth opened in an inaudible scream. Shadows poured out and shot high into the sky eager for their escape and with the goal of wreaking havoc.
It was like she was vomiting evil.
Coming into the cemetery had been a grave error.
No sooner had they escaped from the possibly dead woman, they pursued Morella, desperately reaching like hands hunting for a saviour when drowning. Morella realized that what she'd been calling smoke was actually shadow.
Animated shadow.
"Nope! Fuck that."
Clouds overhead were rolling and collecting above, furious and imposing, and the air caught her breath, freezing it. The crisp September morning turned savage as it sliced through her, and she shook her head. Her fingers shook as they raked through dark curls. She shook her head again.
The shadows hunted her, and with each step she took back, they matched in slinking forward, silent, weightless, and persistent. Morella could not seem to get away, and her heart seemed to think escaping was the thing to do, so she swallowed and trapped her heart in her throat.
Turning on her heel, she sprinted, but the shadows picked up the pace as she did, and despite her best efforts, she collapsed. The shadows were cold, wet, and slippery; they embraced her and she breathed them in. Morella shivered and beads of sweat decorated her hairline like a dainty diadem.
She saw flashes of images: a figure darting between trees, a river of blood, a palace below the sea made of inky black stone, a dripping silver substance in a puddle onto snow.
Waves poured over her both physically and mentally. Her temperature rose and fell like the swells of ocean breath. Her eyes played tricks on her, and she shuddered from the sensation. She felt shrouded as the woman had been, and she felt hands, hundreds of hands, hovering over her in an unsolicited aura.
Sensing something nefarious about the shadow, she retreated into the depths of her mind. She felt suspended above herself and she watched as her eyes fell shut and everything turned to nothing.
The Wasted --- The Creature
Her sweet flesh parted for its talons as The Wasted clutched her arms tight. Tattered wings fluttering with excitement, it launched itself into the air with hard flaps as it lifted both itself and its prey into the eye of the storm.
Launching up into the cloud of its master, a blessing and method of transportation, it screeched, alerting its brethren that it had the final piece. The others were already there, but the one in its grip was different.
Its master wanted her audience separately.
With no eyes, it relied on its skin to navigate; even the slightest vibration alerted the Wasted to any movement or pattern shifts. It screeched again, this time to ensure it wouldn't fly head-first into a cavern wall.
It flew up, up, up, fighting through pelts of rain until it was high above the elements. The Wasted could feel the writhing shadow, the shroud on the human woman, on its leathery black skin. The shadow would keep the woman alive as the Wasted took her beyond.
The woman was kept in sleep for the journey, for if she awoke between worlds...
The Wasted flew higher until the next realm was breached, the sensation causing its aged skin to ripple and its tail to quiver.
It screeched one last time as it entered the stone chamber, its shriek echoing back to him quickly. Wings flaring, it halted in the air and gently flapped its wings until its clawed feet met cold stone.
"Leave her there," its Master said, and The Wasted bowed its head as it carefully laid the woman to rest, prone, on the stone altar at its feet.
A low, keening sound escaped its throat, and it flew off into the Land of Dream to rejoin its brethren depositing the others back to where they'd been snatched from.
The Imposter --- Morella
Sharp pains erupted in her skin, but she could not open her eyes. It was as though a line of glue had sealed her eyes shut, and she whimpered as the brokenness of her body became apparent. Her limbs and lungs alike screamed, but Morella could do little to quell the sensations assaulting her body.
Her body bobbed, weightless as though she was being carried through the air, but she could not move; she was paralyzed. Until she wasn't.
Jerking upright, she peeled her eyes open and rubbed them hard to dislodge whatever had held her eyes closed, but there was nothing there. She whirled, sensing eyes on her, and cringed back when she was met... by her own face.
Twisting to her knees she backed away quickly, and the being wearing her face smirked cruelly.
"And where do you think you're going?" the imposter asked with Morella's voice, her lips curling and lifting at the corners in dark amusement.
"Anywhere but here?" Morella said, and the imposter snorted. It was odd, watching herself in this fashion.
"Good luck with that," the imposter said, inspecting her nails, which to Morella's horror, were blackened. Each ended in a sharp point like sharpened metal claws. Morella backed up some more but stopped when the stone she perched on ended abruptly.
"If you're quite finished," the imposter continued as though nothing was the matter, "I have some urgent business to discuss with you."
"Urgent business?" Morella says with a scoff. "Why are you wearing my face?"
"I'm not – at least not any more than you are wearing my face."
"Who are you?"
"That does not matter. What does is that you have a choice before you. Your friends have made theirs."
Morella jerked to feet without thinking it through. "What have you done with my friends?" she shouted, getting closer to the imposter.
"What was necessary," the imposter responded feigning an expression of grief. Morella clapped a hand over her mouth as she staggered back. "I know how you feel," the imposter continued, and Morella laughed without humour.
"How could you possibly?" Morella snarled, her anger rising even though she had no idea what would happen to her.
"Because I was you once," the imposter said softly, her gaze growing distant. "A very long time ago. Your friends are fine... for now. They accepted the task before them."
"And what is this task?" Morella asked, tilting her head to the side.
"Yours is different. You must find the Cavern of Flame. If you do not accept, you will die here."
"Wow," Morella said, clapping sardonically. "What an offer."
"I know you already accept. So, I will tell you this. Don't get caught. The Library is not your friend."
"How do you know I'll accept?" Morella challenged, leaning forward. "And what do you mean the Library is not my friend?"
"I know you'll accept because the University of Eidolon does not hire morons. Unless you're the first?" the imposter said, her grin provocative. "And as for the Library not being your friend, just trust me."
Morella stewed in hatred and anger, but slowly, her shoulders dropped in defeat. "Fine. How do I find the... stupid fireplace?"
The imposter snorted. "It's pronounced 'Cavern of Flame', genius. You will find it here, in Dream. You must learn how to walk in Dream. The Library must not find out what you're learning. They likely will, but you must keep it hidden as long as possible. I cannot explain to you what will occur if they do."
"I have a question. Who was the Silver Woman?"
"She is a puzzle. Her name," the Imposter says, pausing for dramatic effect, "is Talvi." The imposter steps back, folding her hands together. "Now sleep."
Morella's world was dark and weightless.