10-16-2026, 09:06 PM
She does not look back. She swims desperately, frantically, her skin catching on the reef and bleeding, even still. But there is one surging rush of water and then stillness behind them. And still, she does not look back, as if doing so might beckon the creature, call it back to them. Her heart hammers out that same riotous beat, so loud in her ears that she barely hears what the Baltian says. The pieces are only just starting to slide into relief when, in the space of a breath, the whole world shrinks to black. And, as she slides into the abyss, the sound of the stallion’s laughter echoes.
Echoes, echoes, echoes.
Echoes when, feverish, she claws her way back from the depths of her dreamless sleep. (Could it be called sleep? Or was it some dark magic that kept her swimming just beneath the surface of consciousness?) Echoes as she slips back into it, head reeling, aware only of some tremendous pain, the source of which she cannot identify. There is no time to take stock of the limbs, the tail, the bones underneath. This strange underwater world is distant, blurry, someplace far removed from her. In this state, she is not even aware that she’s moving. Or, rather, being moved.
Glimpses of those creatures who’d sunk their teeth into her flesh, easy enough to mistake for nightmares. Though the pain is real. The blood that darkens the water on the rare occasions she manages to open her eyes is real. Occasionally she whimpers, the skin so easily torn, even in this new body.
(It would be no wonder at all if there was nothing left of her by the time they made it to their destination, parts of her left strewn on the reef, the rocks.)
It is the heat that rouses her, if only just barely. It is the closest she has come to awake, the way she turns her face wearily toward the source. The sun, she thinks. The sun pulled down out of the sky. What a strange thing that the depths of the water have not doused its flame. She almost smiles at the warmth of it cast across her face. Peace, she thinks, and hopes that, finally, she has died.
But still, in the darkest corners of her mind, that laughter echoes, an eerie, humorless sound. Until it is replaced by a different sound. A frantic, desperate, pleading. And she opens her eyes then, though she does not want to. She opens her eyes because it is the only option she has. Opens her eyes and turns her focus toward the sound. Fear surges through her before recognition does. Absolute terror grips her before she can even register what it is she’s looking at.
It is the creatures that take shape in the haze of her mind first. Not nightmares, then. Real. It had been them who’d dragged her through the reef, across the rocks. No, she thinks, no, it is a nightmare. This is all some terrible dream brought on by the fever that has ravaged her. She is sleeping someplace warm and dry, someplace far from here. She will wake soon enough and she will laugh, bewildered, at how real it had all felt.
But the pain pulsing through her is not a thing of dreams, she understands that. The horrific sound of flesh tearing, of blood gurgling, of bone separating, these are not some terrifying product of her own imagination. She chokes out some panicked sound, shrinking, like she might try to flee. But there is no place at all to go. She cannot move, immobilized by the sight of all that blood, the way it flows uniformly to the orb. The way the orb demands more.
“No,” she whimpers when those creatures set their sights on her again. Teeth dripping red, even in the water. There is no place to go. Again, she screams, a sound that comes clawing its way up from the very depths of her soul. Agonized, a bone-rattling sound. Again, they come for her. Again, the skin tears where they sink their teeth. And she bleeds and the pain of it is blinding. They push and they pull in some manic tug-of-war and she can feel the muscles straining, the tendons. She has never been so aware of her biology, her anatomy, the fibers beneath the surface of her skin. All of the things that hold her together. She screams until, again, her voice is taken from her. This time it is because her vocal chords tear beneath the pressure of their pulling.
And then. And then.
Everything goes absolutely still. The Baltians, the creatures, the orb. The pulling stops but she finds no relief in it. Her heart continues its thunderous chorus in her ears when the demon who had commanded the creatures steps out of the shadow. It, too, chuckles. And it, too, is a terrible, haunting sound. It reaches out a hand. It gently touches her cheek. It speaks but she cannot make out the words, not now. Because, suddenly, she is falling. Falling as she had down into the earth, dragged under by that great hand. Falling, falling, falling.
Idiot girl, she has time to hope again for death at the end of all of this.
She falls, not into water now, but into air. And what a strange sensation it is to fall up. Until she realizes she’s not falling at all, but flying, buoyed by great, feathered wings. Wings she had always longed for, as she had always thought it silly that she’d been born feathered but wingless. She had been foolish enough to hope for death as she’d fallen, but she is not stupid enough to think that she has survived.
Around her, a cacophony of voices shouting warnings of some great danger and she has no time at all to gain her bearings before that hot stream of fire comes blazing past her. She turns sharply in time to watch the pegasi descend, each of them armed with some magnificent magic, raining hellfire down onto the beast.
She is distantly aware of the barked command. Help! Help, you fool! But how could she possibly be of any help at all? She, who bleeds so freely. She, who has never been anything but a liability! She looks around for water, which further illustrates her foolishness. The water is long behind her now, somewhere down below. (Or up above? She has no way of knowing.) She is stupid, certainly, simple, but even she knows that water is fire’s greatest adversary.
“We need water!” she yells to no one in particular. And then, from someplace behind her, there emerges a stream. Weak at first and then stronger, faster. She turns to look for the source, certain she will find some pegasus behind her, summoning the water from some invisible source.
But there is no one behind her. There is only a cloud, its vapor being tugged from its heavy belly and turned into liquid before her eyes. Blinking, it occurs to her that she is the one commanding it. She understands that this is a terrifically bad sign and she turns her focus back to the melee just as the dragon wheels around in the sky, opens its great mouth, and flies right for her.
Echoes, echoes, echoes.
Echoes when, feverish, she claws her way back from the depths of her dreamless sleep. (Could it be called sleep? Or was it some dark magic that kept her swimming just beneath the surface of consciousness?) Echoes as she slips back into it, head reeling, aware only of some tremendous pain, the source of which she cannot identify. There is no time to take stock of the limbs, the tail, the bones underneath. This strange underwater world is distant, blurry, someplace far removed from her. In this state, she is not even aware that she’s moving. Or, rather, being moved.
Glimpses of those creatures who’d sunk their teeth into her flesh, easy enough to mistake for nightmares. Though the pain is real. The blood that darkens the water on the rare occasions she manages to open her eyes is real. Occasionally she whimpers, the skin so easily torn, even in this new body.
(It would be no wonder at all if there was nothing left of her by the time they made it to their destination, parts of her left strewn on the reef, the rocks.)
It is the heat that rouses her, if only just barely. It is the closest she has come to awake, the way she turns her face wearily toward the source. The sun, she thinks. The sun pulled down out of the sky. What a strange thing that the depths of the water have not doused its flame. She almost smiles at the warmth of it cast across her face. Peace, she thinks, and hopes that, finally, she has died.
But still, in the darkest corners of her mind, that laughter echoes, an eerie, humorless sound. Until it is replaced by a different sound. A frantic, desperate, pleading. And she opens her eyes then, though she does not want to. She opens her eyes because it is the only option she has. Opens her eyes and turns her focus toward the sound. Fear surges through her before recognition does. Absolute terror grips her before she can even register what it is she’s looking at.
It is the creatures that take shape in the haze of her mind first. Not nightmares, then. Real. It had been them who’d dragged her through the reef, across the rocks. No, she thinks, no, it is a nightmare. This is all some terrible dream brought on by the fever that has ravaged her. She is sleeping someplace warm and dry, someplace far from here. She will wake soon enough and she will laugh, bewildered, at how real it had all felt.
But the pain pulsing through her is not a thing of dreams, she understands that. The horrific sound of flesh tearing, of blood gurgling, of bone separating, these are not some terrifying product of her own imagination. She chokes out some panicked sound, shrinking, like she might try to flee. But there is no place at all to go. She cannot move, immobilized by the sight of all that blood, the way it flows uniformly to the orb. The way the orb demands more.
“No,” she whimpers when those creatures set their sights on her again. Teeth dripping red, even in the water. There is no place to go. Again, she screams, a sound that comes clawing its way up from the very depths of her soul. Agonized, a bone-rattling sound. Again, they come for her. Again, the skin tears where they sink their teeth. And she bleeds and the pain of it is blinding. They push and they pull in some manic tug-of-war and she can feel the muscles straining, the tendons. She has never been so aware of her biology, her anatomy, the fibers beneath the surface of her skin. All of the things that hold her together. She screams until, again, her voice is taken from her. This time it is because her vocal chords tear beneath the pressure of their pulling.
And then. And then.
Everything goes absolutely still. The Baltians, the creatures, the orb. The pulling stops but she finds no relief in it. Her heart continues its thunderous chorus in her ears when the demon who had commanded the creatures steps out of the shadow. It, too, chuckles. And it, too, is a terrible, haunting sound. It reaches out a hand. It gently touches her cheek. It speaks but she cannot make out the words, not now. Because, suddenly, she is falling. Falling as she had down into the earth, dragged under by that great hand. Falling, falling, falling.
Idiot girl, she has time to hope again for death at the end of all of this.
She falls, not into water now, but into air. And what a strange sensation it is to fall up. Until she realizes she’s not falling at all, but flying, buoyed by great, feathered wings. Wings she had always longed for, as she had always thought it silly that she’d been born feathered but wingless. She had been foolish enough to hope for death as she’d fallen, but she is not stupid enough to think that she has survived.
Around her, a cacophony of voices shouting warnings of some great danger and she has no time at all to gain her bearings before that hot stream of fire comes blazing past her. She turns sharply in time to watch the pegasi descend, each of them armed with some magnificent magic, raining hellfire down onto the beast.
She is distantly aware of the barked command. Help! Help, you fool! But how could she possibly be of any help at all? She, who bleeds so freely. She, who has never been anything but a liability! She looks around for water, which further illustrates her foolishness. The water is long behind her now, somewhere down below. (Or up above? She has no way of knowing.) She is stupid, certainly, simple, but even she knows that water is fire’s greatest adversary.
“We need water!” she yells to no one in particular. And then, from someplace behind her, there emerges a stream. Weak at first and then stronger, faster. She turns to look for the source, certain she will find some pegasus behind her, summoning the water from some invisible source.
But there is no one behind her. There is only a cloud, its vapor being tugged from its heavy belly and turned into liquid before her eyes. Blinking, it occurs to her that she is the one commanding it. She understands that this is a terrifically bad sign and she turns her focus back to the melee just as the dragon wheels around in the sky, opens its great mouth, and flies right for her.
