Leira’s eyelids fluttered like a wounded butterfly. And her eyes opened. Without effort, even though the eyelids were heavy, heavy as stones.
Nothing looked natural. Her surroundings were not even blurred… but distorted, as in a sinister dream. The air seemed to pulse with blue and red. The furniture in her room looked as if it had melted, dripping onto the floor; a soup of wood and silver. She didn’t know why, but she could swear she could see warmth and hear the scream of colours around her.
“What…” her throat was dry; her mind was liquid. Unreal. She barely remembered the dreams she had… but she felt they were horrible.
A warm hand touched her lower lip… and then slid up her face, stopping on her cheek.
She looked in the direction where she expected to see its owner.
A shadowy creature looked at her with white, burning eyes. They glowed as if they were stars in the heart of pure night. The shadow was sharp as a blade, with protruding tentacles of mist, almost roots, almost branches… almost blades. And somehow… they seemed to go deeper into the walls, deep, merging with them in some wild, unexplained way. Connected to the room, just as the colourful air was connected to her melting vision.
She would scream… she really would. But she realised through the mist of her mind that she knew the shadow.
“Lorian…” she choked.
He didn’t answer. His fingers ran through her hair, still sweaty and dirty from last night’s efforts. He buried his hand in it and leaned over her. The kiss he planted on her lips was soft and hot, like a feather set on fire.
“Lorian, please… what happens…”
His eyes grew as sharp as his shadows and the white of their flame lit up with an even hotter inner fire. She sensed he was angry. His displeased aura was red and as thick as molasses. At her… no… not at her… because… what happened?
“I will not allow you to stay in this condition.”
He won’t allow… what condition? She felt broken, like a wooden doll without the nails that held its limbs together. Who… how… why? Lorian… please…
Was this torture? She felt her mind shattering, and only he could have caused that.
“I… I don’t know…”
The shadowed hand stroked her head. He never did that. It was alien to him. His always distant composure only loosened when they shared sensual pleasure. And even then… she thought she understood him. Wanted to, wanted to dig deep into his core and pull all the cruel strings…
Is she… dying?
Why does she hear him in her head like a giant iron bell, breaking her into a million bleeding shards?
“I had to rearrange you, Leira… and it was not a pleasant task.”
He had to… what? Rearrange her. Did she displease him? Did she angered him?
Was it all a lie? His attention, his care… his affection and passion?
No.
Maybe she didn’t know him completely. But that was not what she knew of him. He wouldn’t. He could be cold, cruel and merciless… but since she had given herself to him… she knew he would not hurt her. Not against her will, and not unless she craved her own blood.
“Who.”
Yes, who. Who hurt her. Who took away her senses. The sound of his shadows in her head was defeating. Like a strange and very sophisticated torture.
His quiet, beautiful laugh was bitter. And filled with certainty.
“We have enemies, Leira. We always had. And as much as I enjoy throwing them on their knees… I am still not a god. Not yet.”
Not yet.
Leira tried to sit down in her dug-up bed. The sheets were sticky with old sweat, but she didn’t mind. As long as her muscles could make an effort.
She did. The room turned vermilion. The colour sounded like a nightingale’s song and tasted like… grape juice. And felt like cat whiskers.
“We are indeed at war,” he went on, his white eyes combining the taste of the juice with the peculiar scent of bitter moss. “Not just with those who never die. But also with those… who don’t want to. The deeper I go into the heart of things, the more restless they become.”
“One of them… I remember pain… blood… and horror… Lorian… are they… dead?”
“Many are already dead,” Lorian chuckled darkly. “But the one who is truly responsible… I want to taste him down to the last drop. Now, I fight with my own power in your head. It will take many weeks… but I will remove it – remove myself – from your mind.”
Leira’s hand touched the bedstead. It tasted like raw flesh. She pushed her feet to the floor – it attacked her with a green colour and the smell of honey.
She was determined to fight it. Not in the way a human would. In a Fae way, even in a God way.
She was determined to prove to herself that it was only temporary… and if not… to learn to live with it.
Her legs gave out and she fell; right into Lorian’s arms.
” Curse it…” she hissed angrily. His touch was impeccable as always… with a hint of blood and a taste of vanilla.
The world lost its meaning. The world fell upon her, with all that he held in its clawed hands. She understood well what was happening as the first mists of her mind were scraped away and the bells of Lorian’s mind grew more cruel.
He entered her mind. And destroyed it. To keep her from dying.
Ironic…
“The vessel has arrived, Leira,” his deep voice felt like a black sunbeam. “And when I break him, when I shatter his being, he will offer me the godhood. And I will take you with me.”
Leira… hoped.
Hoped in his power, in his promises, in his strength. Also in his ruthlessness.
But something dark dripped into her mind, along with the cacophony of his cruel power.
What if…
What if… they all lose.
And the world drowned in blood.
Which would have the colour of emptiness.
“We always danced on the edge of the blade,” her smile pale. “And I loved every second of it.”
Lorian’s shadows danced around her, in well known manner. Tasting of snow. His always hungry smile – a scent of jasmine.
“We still adore it. Admire most dreadful parts of it. Bathe in its glory.”
Leira knew it was true. They still loved it. And she knew he won’t leave her like that. He won’t surrender.
He never did.