10-27-2015, 10:02 AM
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
The crystalline liquid cools the fire in his throat and soothes the raging hunger inside his belly far better than he had ever hoped it might. It does not soothe his guilt so well. No, with the hunger gone and his mind clear, the only thing left to him is the terrible guilt that has settled like lead inside his chest, causing his eyes to sting and his stomach to clench.
But he is not left to ponder it for long, for she is not done with him. As he raises his head from the basin, black curls plastered to his forehead and sins washed from his mouth, she is there. Missy – with that mischievous smile and those garishly bright garments that look too much like the blood he had so recently spilled. She is speaking, making it plain that he is not yet done. His face etches into dread as the light flashes before his eyes.
And then he is not in the maze anymore, but back in the mansion. It is not the same room, but rather a corridor. One that seems to stretch interminably before him, with no doors to break the blank expanse of the wall. Those very walls are papered elegantly in a soft floral pattern, with sconces that light the way, causing the polished wooden floor beneath his feet to gleam. He worries for a moment that he might ruin the finish, what with all the various fluids dripping from him.
What a foolish notion. Why is he even remotely worried about this awful house?
Of course, if he’d had a medical background, he might recognize that he is in shock. But unfortunately he does not. He is only a horse after all. A horse in a human’s body.
Glancing quickly behind him, he sees another wall. It seems he has been placed at a dead end. How odd that there should be a hall that leads to nowhere in this house. But he has seen too many strange things today to linger on such an insignificant peculiarity. So, with no other options available to him, he moves forward.
As he walks, stumbling occasionally, he realizes how tired he is. He feels rather… drained. All that great and terrible strength from only minutes ago (was it really only minutes? It now seems an eternity) has abandoned him, leaving him fatigued and shaking with cold. A cold so deeply pervasive he wonders if he will ever be warm again. Wet clothes, unfortunately, are not ideal for conserving heat.
After what feels like hours (though in reality it has only been a matter of minutes), he reaches the end of the hall. He exits the long corridor into a wide open space with sunshine streaming down and grass swaying languidly at the toes of his shoes. Only feet away, quietly snatching up long tufts of grass, stands his mother. She is there, in all her hairless, tattooed glory, with her fiery eyes and authoritative demeanor. He stares, dumbfounded. For a long moment, he is entirely unable to comprehend the scene that has unfolded before him.
It must be a dream, he thinks. His mother cannot be here. She is dead. Could Missy truly have been so kind?
Ma?
The word is expelled on a shaky breath, disbelieving and hopeful at the same time. She raises her large head as she turns her gaze upon him, eyes turning deathly cold as she does so. He had begun to stumble forward, wanting only to enfold her in a crushing embrace, but the look in her eyes stops him dead in his tracks. He blinks, staring at her in bewilderment.
“Shahrizai.” Her tones are clipped as she speaks to him, as icy as her eyes. But no, that cannot be right. She has always been fire, not just her tattooed skin but her temper as well. He has been on the receiving end of it too many times not to know (though lord knows he had probably deserved it). “Leave. Now.”
He gapes at her open-mouthed for a moment before he snaps his jaw shut, realizing how idiotic he must look with it hanging open (never once does it occur to him to wonder how she recognizes him, given his current form).
Ma?
This time the word is filled with confusion, with silent questions. In response, she bares razor teeth at him, ears pinning against her skull. That is more like the woman he remembers.
“You have failed me,” she spits at him as her eyes begin to glow with fury. “You are no son of mine.”
What? The word rushes out on a stunned exhale. I… I ha… what do you mean?
He stutters over the question, his eyes widening as his hand reaches towards her with human fingers. She is having none of this, instead offering only a wicked snap of her sharp teeth. Teeth that come close enough to graze his skin and draw a slight trickle of blood. He jerks his hand back to him, cradling the appendage against his chest in shocked hurt.
And then his father is there, behind his mother. Ever her most staunch supporter and ally. His eyes are wintry and distant, staring at Shahrizai with icy disapproval.
Pa?
The question is only a faint whisper, though a million doubts rest in that single syllable. It could not possibly be his father too – not the red titan who had guided him and protected him throughout his youth. Who had been known for his patience, his calming influence on Scorch. He could not possibly think so ill of him.
“You have failed.” Those three simple words spoken by his father are his undoing. And he knows them to be true. His siblings, scattered all across Beqanna. Siblings whose welfare he had been tasked with. Siblings who he has not sought out, so caught up in his own grief that he has not spared the time. He falls slowly to his knees, brown eyes staring blindly at the pair.
No. I…
But he has no words. No rebuttal. There is little he wants more in the world than his parent’s love, than their approval. And he can only blame himself that it is no longer his.
He doesn’t even notice at first that the vast, grassy expanse has faded, that he is left back in that never ending hallway. He isn’t sure how long he remains kneeling there, lost in despair, even as the mixture of red and yellow blood dries on his clothes. When finally he comes back to reality, blinking rapidly to moisten dry eyes, it feels as though hours have passed (although he cannot be certain, there is no way to tell time in this place).
Lurching forward, he rises jerkily from aching knees, mind still whirling with terrible thoughts. But, as much as he does not wish to, he knows he must face this terrible house, if only to find a way out.
He has not made it far before her nearly stumbles into her. His eyes widen as he comes to a jolting halt. Valkerine. His heart wrenches inside his chest, his lungs constricting at the sight of her. He has been searching for her for ages it seems. And here she is, standing right before him. As achingly lovely and familiar as ever.
Val.
He croaks the word, throat thick with tears. But she only stares at him, brown gaze accusing.
Oh god…
A single sob escapes, carrying the words with it. Because suddenly he knows. It is his parents all over again. But Val. Bold and disarmingly candid Val. How could it be?
“I’m lost, Zai,” she says finally. The words are as damning as her gaze. “Why haven’t you found me yet? You’ve had years.”
She is the same as ever. He can almost see her sticking out her tongue at him in that childish way she used to. His heart stills, shatters. And as she too fades away, leaving him with the pall of guilt and anguish hanging over his head, he feels himself growing numb. Terribly, hollowly numb.
It is almost a relief, to have reached such a state of emotional overload that he simply cannot feel it anymore. To be able to stumble down that hall with his head blessedly empty. He barely notes that he has reached a staircase, that he has begun to descend it. He doesn’t know where he is going. He only knows that he must go forward. Always forward. Backwards is not an option for him. Not anymore.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he pauses, glancing around him. For the first time he takes in his surroundings. Truly takes them in. He is in a dank basement with cold stone surrounding him and a high, nearly invisible ceiling. The stairs curve away behind him and a vast space stands before him. He sees three arched openings, leading down several different paths. He vacillates, wondering which direction he should choose.
Starting forward, he shuffles towards the first arch to his left. His footsteps echo as he walks. He hasn’t quite reached the arch when he sees a familiar figure standing beneath it. He nearly sighs in relief as he recognizes her. Camrynn. If there is anyone who could help him, it would be she.
A small smile is playing at her lips, and before he can come fully before her, she begins to speak. “I’m afraid, Shahrizai, that I will have to ask you to leave the Deserts.”
He jerks backwards, stumbling several steps before he catches himself, utterly flabbergasted by her statement. He stares at her, rendered mute by shock.
“You’re just not worthy, you see.” She pauses, eyeing him somewhat disdainfully. “Only those who are worthy may stay.”
He opens and closes his mouth several times, still unable to come up with any words with which to respond. No. Impossible. First his mother and father, then Val. He cannot have the Deserts taken from him too.
“I’m sorry, Shah. I do hope you understand.” That small smile edges into a full grin before she simply vanishes, disappearing without a trace. He is too stunned to move, staring at the space where she had just been.
Finally, after several long minutes, he turns woodenly, starting towards the opposite arch. He has made it several feet down the tunnel before he notices it. The body.
No. No no no no no no.
But yes. It is him, Killian. He is just as he had left him: pale as a sheet with wide, staring eyes that have begun to turn a milky white. Those pale eyes shift, turning to stare damningly at him just as Killian's chapped white lips curve into a slight smile as he snorts in sudden amusement. “I always knew Mick would get me killed. Always picking up strays, he was.”
Suddenly a scream rips from Shahrizai’s throat. It is not a scream of fear, but rather one of terrible anguish. One that has been long in coming. He falls into the cold stone of the wall as he roars, throat going raw, though he pays it little mind. His strong fingers ball into a fist and he lets it fly into the stone near his head. He continues, punching the unforgiving masonry repeatedly. Slamming fist into rock over and over, until his knuckles are shredded and raw, until the wall is coated in blood spatter. His blood for once. Not the blood of others.
He finally stops when he is too tired to continue, when the pain is too great. He collapses to the floor, drained and exhausted. He does not even have the energy to cry, though his eyes burn and his chest aches fiercely with a hard knot of failure.
And he does not see it, that small opening in the wall only a few feet away from him. Even if he did, he would not recognize it as salvation.
But he is not left to ponder it for long, for she is not done with him. As he raises his head from the basin, black curls plastered to his forehead and sins washed from his mouth, she is there. Missy – with that mischievous smile and those garishly bright garments that look too much like the blood he had so recently spilled. She is speaking, making it plain that he is not yet done. His face etches into dread as the light flashes before his eyes.
And then he is not in the maze anymore, but back in the mansion. It is not the same room, but rather a corridor. One that seems to stretch interminably before him, with no doors to break the blank expanse of the wall. Those very walls are papered elegantly in a soft floral pattern, with sconces that light the way, causing the polished wooden floor beneath his feet to gleam. He worries for a moment that he might ruin the finish, what with all the various fluids dripping from him.
What a foolish notion. Why is he even remotely worried about this awful house?
Of course, if he’d had a medical background, he might recognize that he is in shock. But unfortunately he does not. He is only a horse after all. A horse in a human’s body.
Glancing quickly behind him, he sees another wall. It seems he has been placed at a dead end. How odd that there should be a hall that leads to nowhere in this house. But he has seen too many strange things today to linger on such an insignificant peculiarity. So, with no other options available to him, he moves forward.
As he walks, stumbling occasionally, he realizes how tired he is. He feels rather… drained. All that great and terrible strength from only minutes ago (was it really only minutes? It now seems an eternity) has abandoned him, leaving him fatigued and shaking with cold. A cold so deeply pervasive he wonders if he will ever be warm again. Wet clothes, unfortunately, are not ideal for conserving heat.
After what feels like hours (though in reality it has only been a matter of minutes), he reaches the end of the hall. He exits the long corridor into a wide open space with sunshine streaming down and grass swaying languidly at the toes of his shoes. Only feet away, quietly snatching up long tufts of grass, stands his mother. She is there, in all her hairless, tattooed glory, with her fiery eyes and authoritative demeanor. He stares, dumbfounded. For a long moment, he is entirely unable to comprehend the scene that has unfolded before him.
It must be a dream, he thinks. His mother cannot be here. She is dead. Could Missy truly have been so kind?
Ma?
The word is expelled on a shaky breath, disbelieving and hopeful at the same time. She raises her large head as she turns her gaze upon him, eyes turning deathly cold as she does so. He had begun to stumble forward, wanting only to enfold her in a crushing embrace, but the look in her eyes stops him dead in his tracks. He blinks, staring at her in bewilderment.
“Shahrizai.” Her tones are clipped as she speaks to him, as icy as her eyes. But no, that cannot be right. She has always been fire, not just her tattooed skin but her temper as well. He has been on the receiving end of it too many times not to know (though lord knows he had probably deserved it). “Leave. Now.”
He gapes at her open-mouthed for a moment before he snaps his jaw shut, realizing how idiotic he must look with it hanging open (never once does it occur to him to wonder how she recognizes him, given his current form).
Ma?
This time the word is filled with confusion, with silent questions. In response, she bares razor teeth at him, ears pinning against her skull. That is more like the woman he remembers.
“You have failed me,” she spits at him as her eyes begin to glow with fury. “You are no son of mine.”
What? The word rushes out on a stunned exhale. I… I ha… what do you mean?
He stutters over the question, his eyes widening as his hand reaches towards her with human fingers. She is having none of this, instead offering only a wicked snap of her sharp teeth. Teeth that come close enough to graze his skin and draw a slight trickle of blood. He jerks his hand back to him, cradling the appendage against his chest in shocked hurt.
And then his father is there, behind his mother. Ever her most staunch supporter and ally. His eyes are wintry and distant, staring at Shahrizai with icy disapproval.
Pa?
The question is only a faint whisper, though a million doubts rest in that single syllable. It could not possibly be his father too – not the red titan who had guided him and protected him throughout his youth. Who had been known for his patience, his calming influence on Scorch. He could not possibly think so ill of him.
“You have failed.” Those three simple words spoken by his father are his undoing. And he knows them to be true. His siblings, scattered all across Beqanna. Siblings whose welfare he had been tasked with. Siblings who he has not sought out, so caught up in his own grief that he has not spared the time. He falls slowly to his knees, brown eyes staring blindly at the pair.
No. I…
But he has no words. No rebuttal. There is little he wants more in the world than his parent’s love, than their approval. And he can only blame himself that it is no longer his.
He doesn’t even notice at first that the vast, grassy expanse has faded, that he is left back in that never ending hallway. He isn’t sure how long he remains kneeling there, lost in despair, even as the mixture of red and yellow blood dries on his clothes. When finally he comes back to reality, blinking rapidly to moisten dry eyes, it feels as though hours have passed (although he cannot be certain, there is no way to tell time in this place).
Lurching forward, he rises jerkily from aching knees, mind still whirling with terrible thoughts. But, as much as he does not wish to, he knows he must face this terrible house, if only to find a way out.
He has not made it far before her nearly stumbles into her. His eyes widen as he comes to a jolting halt. Valkerine. His heart wrenches inside his chest, his lungs constricting at the sight of her. He has been searching for her for ages it seems. And here she is, standing right before him. As achingly lovely and familiar as ever.
Val.
He croaks the word, throat thick with tears. But she only stares at him, brown gaze accusing.
Oh god…
A single sob escapes, carrying the words with it. Because suddenly he knows. It is his parents all over again. But Val. Bold and disarmingly candid Val. How could it be?
“I’m lost, Zai,” she says finally. The words are as damning as her gaze. “Why haven’t you found me yet? You’ve had years.”
She is the same as ever. He can almost see her sticking out her tongue at him in that childish way she used to. His heart stills, shatters. And as she too fades away, leaving him with the pall of guilt and anguish hanging over his head, he feels himself growing numb. Terribly, hollowly numb.
It is almost a relief, to have reached such a state of emotional overload that he simply cannot feel it anymore. To be able to stumble down that hall with his head blessedly empty. He barely notes that he has reached a staircase, that he has begun to descend it. He doesn’t know where he is going. He only knows that he must go forward. Always forward. Backwards is not an option for him. Not anymore.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he pauses, glancing around him. For the first time he takes in his surroundings. Truly takes them in. He is in a dank basement with cold stone surrounding him and a high, nearly invisible ceiling. The stairs curve away behind him and a vast space stands before him. He sees three arched openings, leading down several different paths. He vacillates, wondering which direction he should choose.
Starting forward, he shuffles towards the first arch to his left. His footsteps echo as he walks. He hasn’t quite reached the arch when he sees a familiar figure standing beneath it. He nearly sighs in relief as he recognizes her. Camrynn. If there is anyone who could help him, it would be she.
A small smile is playing at her lips, and before he can come fully before her, she begins to speak. “I’m afraid, Shahrizai, that I will have to ask you to leave the Deserts.”
He jerks backwards, stumbling several steps before he catches himself, utterly flabbergasted by her statement. He stares at her, rendered mute by shock.
“You’re just not worthy, you see.” She pauses, eyeing him somewhat disdainfully. “Only those who are worthy may stay.”
He opens and closes his mouth several times, still unable to come up with any words with which to respond. No. Impossible. First his mother and father, then Val. He cannot have the Deserts taken from him too.
“I’m sorry, Shah. I do hope you understand.” That small smile edges into a full grin before she simply vanishes, disappearing without a trace. He is too stunned to move, staring at the space where she had just been.
Finally, after several long minutes, he turns woodenly, starting towards the opposite arch. He has made it several feet down the tunnel before he notices it. The body.
No. No no no no no no.
But yes. It is him, Killian. He is just as he had left him: pale as a sheet with wide, staring eyes that have begun to turn a milky white. Those pale eyes shift, turning to stare damningly at him just as Killian's chapped white lips curve into a slight smile as he snorts in sudden amusement. “I always knew Mick would get me killed. Always picking up strays, he was.”
Suddenly a scream rips from Shahrizai’s throat. It is not a scream of fear, but rather one of terrible anguish. One that has been long in coming. He falls into the cold stone of the wall as he roars, throat going raw, though he pays it little mind. His strong fingers ball into a fist and he lets it fly into the stone near his head. He continues, punching the unforgiving masonry repeatedly. Slamming fist into rock over and over, until his knuckles are shredded and raw, until the wall is coated in blood spatter. His blood for once. Not the blood of others.
He finally stops when he is too tired to continue, when the pain is too great. He collapses to the floor, drained and exhausted. He does not even have the energy to cry, though his eyes burn and his chest aches fiercely with a hard knot of failure.
And he does not see it, that small opening in the wall only a few feet away from him. Even if he did, he would not recognize it as salvation.
shahrizai
hestoni x scorch