Chapter 71: 71
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Surprisingly, by the time we reach Dawn's cell, and my feet are burning under the harsh chill of the floor, there are no guards left around, only oil lamps which- judging by the dullness of the flame- no longer rich with the brilliant freshness of a newly lit fire, has been burning for many hours now. My mind is reeling, half insane from the hours of darkness, my feet feel heavier than the blocks of stone the smiths use in my forges at home, and I ponder quietly to myself whether the dungeons are designed to drive you half mad to begin with. Wear you down so much that by the time you get down here, the possibility of never leaving seems just as nice as making it back out. I rub my eyes wearily.
The cell itself is as icy as a winter on the highest peak of Illistrae- a winter which, despite all the layers you have put on inside, will chill you to the bone with a deathly cold just to spite you. Naturally, a vampire in these prisons- a creature whose heart is just as unfeeling as their other exterior senses, would have little to no problem surviving in these cells purely on their unrefined hatred for the world, a loathing which I have seen far to many times before. A loathing that fuels their actions, drives the fervid flames that rest in the back of their crimson gaze, and shines in the venom that laces the slick fangs of their teeth. Everyone has a hatred for something, the difference is, the vampires use that hatred to their advantage.
Lying in the corner of one barely lit cell, feet tucked in, her figure near skeletal, it is clear that unlike the vampires, Dawn herself is a mess. Whatever they have done to her in the past few days, or more precisely, what they haven't done for her, leaves her looking like a rag doll, hair scruffy, clothes hanging like oversized rags off her body. Her face is the picture of pain and distress, her lips tinged to a vivid blue from the cold, body trembling uncontrollable, and by the looks of it, she is barely breathing- perhaps in an effort to ward away the all consuming aroma of rot and decay that has been brewing in the dungeons for near centuries. Her efforts seem hardly worth it.
Steadily, I come closer to the bars, lifting up my hand as a flame curls into life, letting a dim light penetrate the misty shadows that swirl around us. In that moment Ithuriel and I recoil in dual horror.
I had it wrong, so wrong.
The smell of rot isn't only just lingering around us, its also coming from her.
A deep gash is carved in one swift gory line down her side, a gash that looks like it has been festering for days, untreated, the skin swollen and pussy, the edges of it red with infection. Worry settles in the bottom of my stomach along with the nausea. I w find myself wanting to scream at whatever bastard did this to her, left it untreated, let her rot. And while I can hardly expect anything less from most of the vampires in this palace, the thought of it alone is still enough to make my blood boil in unfettered rage.
In the dungeon of vampire's a cut like this could be fatal, and not just because of infection. Blood is an enemy in itself here, I would need to get her patched up as soon as I can.
Those bastard vampires.
Ithuriel and I share a nod, a moment of understanding passing between us- something which has become increasingly rare these past few days. He begins to prowl up and down the corridor of blank stone, the echo of his tiny paws passing through my head as I lean into the bars of the cell to where Dawn lies, asleep or passed out, at this point I cannot tell.
Carefully lifting up my hand, magic churning at the lips of my fingers, I blow a breath across my palm, fanning the flame from my hand and alighting a spark of fire into the cell, the light of which is an overwhelming relief against the darkness of my surroundings. The golden flame circles above the ceiling, spreading a warm light into the cracks of the stone bricks and alleviating the edge of cold that is beginning to sink into my veins from the long hours of exposure. A flex my fingers and take a brief moment to stare at my hand, and the power tingling beneath my skin- more power than I have ever felt before.
I didn't even need to utter a spell to draw it on- it just simply happened by sheer force of will.
I suppose a soul's power is greater than I first presumed.
My attention is snapped back to Dawn as she stirs, groaning, her eyes prizing open, as though she barely had enough strength to move at all. Her eyes move across me as she levers herself up with one hand, the pain in her face scarcely missable as her arms tremble beneath her, shaky and weak from fatigue and hunger and the bitter, bitter cold. Ithuriel pads past me for a second, allowing me to reach into his sachet to withdraw a hunk of bread, the warmth of which had long been sucked out of by the wintery surroundings of these decrepit dungeons. Leaning as far as I can through the bars, I throw it into her cell, and with the last of her strength she catches it, surveying it in her hands. The ways she looks at it almost makes me believe she hasn't seen food in weeks, yet she has only been here a matter of days.
Her wings droop behind her as she turns it over, face contorted in a profound mix of suspicion, fear and gratefulness. Ithuriel nudges his head into my leg, and I peer down at him, watching the tips of his fur gleam blue with worry. His commanding voice plays out almost monotonously in my head:
She does not trust you, her aura is mixed, tread carefully.
I raise my eyebrow, but don't say anything in response, leaving only the silence of the cell and the inconsistent dripping of far off water as my answer.
I move my gaze back into the cell, to where Dawn has since decided the bread is safe to eat, and carefully tears away at small chunks, chewing and savouring the softness of it. I lean in, gripping the bars in my hands.
"Dawn," I start, "we are here to help, Ithuriel and I. Will you let me heal you? Your wound looks infected, if you let it spread, you could die." For a split second, she raises her head, assessing me through her strands of white hair, her eyes dull and as unseeing as the dead, before going back to chewing on her bread, only with a bit more fevor this time- as if she is anxious to get it all down. Tapping my fingers uneasily against the bars, I try again.
"Dawn, it's me, Serena, you can trust me."
That seems to catch her attention. At last she stops chewing, and swallows hard, her throat working with the effort of each gulp.
"That's what you said last time. The other you," she sniffs, raising herself up onto her knees, and then, gingerly, lifts herself to her feet. A faint groan resides around the cell as the skin around her infected gash stretches, and as she drags her body closer, her wings sag behind her, as though the proud effort to keep them upright has long since gone from her mind. I press my mouth into a hard line.
"The 'other' me?"
"Yes, the other you." she repeats more firmly now, dragging herself over with a series of grunts to reach out across the bars and feel my skin, her brows narrowing in confusion, and then, finally, relief.
"I almost believed them the first time, they said they would let me out in exchange for me telling them what I remember about you. Except, when I went to hold them through the bars, their hands were cold. Cold as a vampire's." Dawn rips off another piece of bread and begins chewing again in a cycle of endless hunger.
I daren't admit my relief when a small amount of colour returns to her cheeks, barely visible in the warm glow that dances around the room at the courtesy of my fires, weaving their way in continuous loops and circles above our heads. It is too much of a stretch to even think as much, to feel any relief at all, not when the palace is as changeable as the tides under a merfolk's rule, and especially not with the information she has just announced:
The 'other' me.
Then, ignoring the look of confusion plastered on my face, Dawn sits herself down at the edge of the bars and sighs a little, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
"Cold as a vampire's," I murmur to myself absently, fingernails tapping on the iron bars, pinging hollow metal sounds around the room, a small comfort against the deathly silence of the cell. Ithuriel, whose pacing has yet to cease, raises his head to watch me as he passes.
My mouth bitters as the information passes through me, the notion that there is someone in this Palace posing as my look alike does not rest easy on my conscience in the least bit. There is someone who wishes, for whatever reason, to know about me- and I hardly doubt their intentions are good. Not in a palace full of malicious, bloodsucking vampires. I need to get to the bottom of this, and fast, else my life, Ithuriel's, and maybe even my entire clan's is at a terrible risk.
Just who is this 'other' me?
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Surprisingly, by the time we reach Dawn's cell, and my feet are burning under the harsh chill of the floor, there are no guards left around, only oil lamps which- judging by the dullness of the flame- no longer rich with the brilliant freshness of a newly lit fire, has been burning for many hours now. My mind is reeling, half insane from the hours of darkness, my feet feel heavier than the blocks of stone the smiths use in my forges at home, and I ponder quietly to myself whether the dungeons are designed to drive you half mad to begin with. Wear you down so much that by the time you get down here, the possibility of never leaving seems just as nice as making it back out. I rub my eyes wearily.
The cell itself is as icy as a winter on the highest peak of Illistrae- a winter which, despite all the layers you have put on inside, will chill you to the bone with a deathly cold just to spite you. Naturally, a vampire in these prisons- a creature whose heart is just as unfeeling as their other exterior senses, would have little to no problem surviving in these cells purely on their unrefined hatred for the world, a loathing which I have seen far to many times before. A loathing that fuels their actions, drives the fervid flames that rest in the back of their crimson gaze, and shines in the venom that laces the slick fangs of their teeth. Everyone has a hatred for something, the difference is, the vampires use that hatred to their advantage.
Lying in the corner of one barely lit cell, feet tucked in, her figure near skeletal, it is clear that unlike the vampires, Dawn herself is a mess. Whatever they have done to her in the past few days, or more precisely, what they haven't done for her, leaves her looking like a rag doll, hair scruffy, clothes hanging like oversized rags off her body. Her face is the picture of pain and distress, her lips tinged to a vivid blue from the cold, body trembling uncontrollable, and by the looks of it, she is barely breathing- perhaps in an effort to ward away the all consuming aroma of rot and decay that has been brewing in the dungeons for near centuries. Her efforts seem hardly worth it.
Steadily, I come closer to the bars, lifting up my hand as a flame curls into life, letting a dim light penetrate the misty shadows that swirl around us. In that moment Ithuriel and I recoil in dual horror.
I had it wrong, so wrong.
The smell of rot isn't only just lingering around us, its also coming from her.
A deep gash is carved in one swift gory line down her side, a gash that looks like it has been festering for days, untreated, the skin swollen and pussy, the edges of it red with infection. Worry settles in the bottom of my stomach along with the nausea. I w find myself wanting to scream at whatever bastard did this to her, left it untreated, let her rot. And while I can hardly expect anything less from most of the vampires in this palace, the thought of it alone is still enough to make my blood boil in unfettered rage.
In the dungeon of vampire's a cut like this could be fatal, and not just because of infection. Blood is an enemy in itself here, I would need to get her patched up as soon as I can.
Those bastard vampires.
Ithuriel and I share a nod, a moment of understanding passing between us- something which has become increasingly rare these past few days. He begins to prowl up and down the corridor of blank stone, the echo of his tiny paws passing through my head as I lean into the bars of the cell to where Dawn lies, asleep or passed out, at this point I cannot tell.
Carefully lifting up my hand, magic churning at the lips of my fingers, I blow a breath across my palm, fanning the flame from my hand and alighting a spark of fire into the cell, the light of which is an overwhelming relief against the darkness of my surroundings. The golden flame circles above the ceiling, spreading a warm light into the cracks of the stone bricks and alleviating the edge of cold that is beginning to sink into my veins from the long hours of exposure. A flex my fingers and take a brief moment to stare at my hand, and the power tingling beneath my skin- more power than I have ever felt before.
I didn't even need to utter a spell to draw it on- it just simply happened by sheer force of will.
I suppose a soul's power is greater than I first presumed.
My attention is snapped back to Dawn as she stirs, groaning, her eyes prizing open, as though she barely had enough strength to move at all. Her eyes move across me as she levers herself up with one hand, the pain in her face scarcely missable as her arms tremble beneath her, shaky and weak from fatigue and hunger and the bitter, bitter cold. Ithuriel pads past me for a second, allowing me to reach into his sachet to withdraw a hunk of bread, the warmth of which had long been sucked out of by the wintery surroundings of these decrepit dungeons. Leaning as far as I can through the bars, I throw it into her cell, and with the last of her strength she catches it, surveying it in her hands. The ways she looks at it almost makes me believe she hasn't seen food in weeks, yet she has only been here a matter of days.
Her wings droop behind her as she turns it over, face contorted in a profound mix of suspicion, fear and gratefulness. Ithuriel nudges his head into my leg, and I peer down at him, watching the tips of his fur gleam blue with worry. His commanding voice plays out almost monotonously in my head:
She does not trust you, her aura is mixed, tread carefully.
I raise my eyebrow, but don't say anything in response, leaving only the silence of the cell and the inconsistent dripping of far off water as my answer.
I move my gaze back into the cell, to where Dawn has since decided the bread is safe to eat, and carefully tears away at small chunks, chewing and savouring the softness of it. I lean in, gripping the bars in my hands.
"Dawn," I start, "we are here to help, Ithuriel and I. Will you let me heal you? Your wound looks infected, if you let it spread, you could die." For a split second, she raises her head, assessing me through her strands of white hair, her eyes dull and as unseeing as the dead, before going back to chewing on her bread, only with a bit more fevor this time- as if she is anxious to get it all down. Tapping my fingers uneasily against the bars, I try again.
"Dawn, it's me, Serena, you can trust me."
That seems to catch her attention. At last she stops chewing, and swallows hard, her throat working with the effort of each gulp.
"That's what you said last time. The other you," she sniffs, raising herself up onto her knees, and then, gingerly, lifts herself to her feet. A faint groan resides around the cell as the skin around her infected gash stretches, and as she drags her body closer, her wings sag behind her, as though the proud effort to keep them upright has long since gone from her mind. I press my mouth into a hard line.
"The 'other' me?"
"Yes, the other you." she repeats more firmly now, dragging herself over with a series of grunts to reach out across the bars and feel my skin, her brows narrowing in confusion, and then, finally, relief.
"I almost believed them the first time, they said they would let me out in exchange for me telling them what I remember about you. Except, when I went to hold them through the bars, their hands were cold. Cold as a vampire's." Dawn rips off another piece of bread and begins chewing again in a cycle of endless hunger.
I daren't admit my relief when a small amount of colour returns to her cheeks, barely visible in the warm glow that dances around the room at the courtesy of my fires, weaving their way in continuous loops and circles above our heads. It is too much of a stretch to even think as much, to feel any relief at all, not when the palace is as changeable as the tides under a merfolk's rule, and especially not with the information she has just announced:
The 'other' me.
Then, ignoring the look of confusion plastered on my face, Dawn sits herself down at the edge of the bars and sighs a little, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
"Cold as a vampire's," I murmur to myself absently, fingernails tapping on the iron bars, pinging hollow metal sounds around the room, a small comfort against the deathly silence of the cell. Ithuriel, whose pacing has yet to cease, raises his head to watch me as he passes.
My mouth bitters as the information passes through me, the notion that there is someone in this Palace posing as my look alike does not rest easy on my conscience in the least bit. There is someone who wishes, for whatever reason, to know about me- and I hardly doubt their intentions are good. Not in a palace full of malicious, bloodsucking vampires. I need to get to the bottom of this, and fast, else my life, Ithuriel's, and maybe even my entire clan's is at a terrible risk.
Just who is this 'other' me?
Surprisingly, by the time we reach Dawn's cell, and my feet are burning under the harsh chill of the floor, there are no guards left around, only oil lamps which- judging by the dullness of the flame- no longer rich with the brilliant freshness of a newly lit fire, has been burning for many hours now. My mind is reeling, half insane from the hours of darkness, my feet feel heavier than the blocks of stone the smiths use in my forges at home, and I ponder quietly to myself whether the dungeons are designed to drive you half mad to begin with. Wear you down so much that by the time you get down here, the possibility of never leaving seems just as nice as making it back out. I rub my eyes wearily.The cell itself is as icy as a winter on the highest peak of Illistrae- a winter which, despite all the layers you have put on inside, will chill you to the bone with a deathly cold just to spite you. Naturally, a vampire in these prisons- a creature whose heart is just as unfeeling as their other exterior senses, would have little to no problem surviving in these cells purely on their unrefined hatred for the world, a loathing which I have seen far to many times before. A loathing that fuels their actions, drives the fervid flames that rest in the back of their crimson gaze, and shines in the venom that laces the slick fangs of their teeth. Everyone has a hatred for something, the difference is, the vampires use that hatred to their advantage. Lying in the corner of one barely lit cell, feet tucked in, her figure near skeletal, it is clear that unlike the vampires, Dawn herself is a mess. Whatever they have done to her in the past few days, or more precisely, what they haven't done for her, leaves her looking like a rag doll, hair scruffy, clothes hanging like oversized rags off her body. Her face is the picture of pain and distress, her lips tinged to a vivid blue from the cold, body trembling uncontrollable, and by the looks of it, she is barely breathing- perhaps in an effort to ward away the all consuming aroma of rot and decay that has been brewing in the dungeons for near centuries. Her efforts seem hardly worth it.Steadily, I come closer to the bars, lifting up my hand as a flame curls into life, letting a dim light penetrate the misty shadows that swirl around us. In that moment Ithuriel and I recoil in dual horror.I had it wrong, so wrong.The smell of rot isn't only just lingering around us, its also coming from her.A deep gash is carved in one swift gory line down her side, a gash that looks like it has been festering for days, untreated, the skin swollen and pussy, the edges of it red with infection. Worry settles in the bottom of my stomach along with the nausea. I w find myself wanting to scream at whatever bastard did this to her, left it untreated, let her rot. And while I can hardly expect anything less from most of the vampires in this palace, the thought of it alone is still enough to make my blood boil in unfettered rage.In the dungeon of vampire's a cut like this could be fatal, and not just because of infection. Blood is an enemy in itself here, I would need to get her patched up as soon as I can. Those bastard vampires.Ithuriel and I share a nod, a moment of understanding passing between us- something which has become increasingly rare these past few days. He begins to prowl up and down the corridor of blank stone, the echo of his tiny paws passing through my head as I lean into the bars of the cell to where Dawn lies, asleep or passed out, at this point I cannot tell. Carefully lifting up my hand, magic churning at the lips of my fingers, I blow a breath across my palm, fanning the flame from my hand and alighting a spark of fire into the cell, the light of which is an overwhelming relief against the darkness of my surroundings. The golden flame circles above the ceiling, spreading a warm light into the cracks of the stone bricks and alleviating the edge of cold that is beginning to sink into my veins from the long hours of exposure. A flex my fingers and take a brief moment to stare at my hand, and the power tingling beneath my skin- more power than I have ever felt before. I didn't even need to utter a spell to draw it on- it just simply happened by sheer force of will. I suppose a soul's power is greater than I first presumed.My attention is snapped back to Dawn as she stirs, groaning, her eyes prizing open, as though she barely had enough strength to move at all. Her eyes move across me as she levers herself up with one hand, the pain in her face scarcely missable as her arms tremble beneath her, shaky and weak from fatigue and hunger and the bitter, bitter cold. Ithuriel pads past me for a second, allowing me to reach into his sachet to withdraw a hunk of bread, the warmth of which had long been sucked out of by the wintery surroundings of these decrepit dungeons. Leaning as far as I can through the bars, I throw it into her cell, and with the last of her strength she catches it, surveying it in her hands. The ways she looks at it almost makes me believe she hasn't seen food in weeks, yet she has only been here a matter of days.Her wings droop behind her as she turns it over, face contorted in a profound mix of suspicion, fear and gratefulness. Ithuriel nudges his head into my leg, and I peer down at him, watching the tips of his fur gleam blue with worry. His commanding voice plays out almost monotonously in my head:She does not trust you, her aura is mixed, tread carefully.I raise my eyebrow, but don't say anything in response, leaving only the silence of the cell and the inconsistent dripping of far off water as my answer.I move my gaze back into the cell, to where Dawn has since decided the bread is safe to eat, and carefully tears away at small chunks, chewing and savouring the softness of it. I lean in, gripping the bars in my hands."Dawn," I start, "we are here to help, Ithuriel and I. Will you let me heal you? Your wound looks infected, if you let it spread, you could die." For a split second, she raises her head, assessing me through her strands of white hair, her eyes dull and as unseeing as the dead, before going back to chewing on her bread, only with a bit more fevor this time- as if she is anxious to get it all down. Tapping my fingers uneasily against the bars, I try again."Dawn, it's me, Serena, you can trust me."That seems to catch her attention. At last she stops chewing, and swallows hard, her throat working with the effort of each gulp."That's what you said last time. The other you," she sniffs, raising herself up onto her knees, and then, gingerly, lifts herself to her feet. A faint groan resides around the cell as the skin around her infected gash stretches, and as she drags her body closer, her wings sag behind her, as though the proud effort to keep them upright has long since gone from her mind. I press my mouth into a hard line."The 'other' me?""Yes, the other you." she repeats more firmly now, dragging herself over with a series of grunts to reach out across the bars and feel my skin, her brows narrowing in confusion, and then, finally, relief. "I almost believed them the first time, they said they would let me out in exchange for me telling them what I remember about you. Except, when I went to hold them through the bars, their hands were cold. Cold as a vampire's." Dawn rips off another piece of bread and begins chewing again in a cycle of endless hunger. I daren't admit my relief when a small amount of colour returns to her cheeks, barely visible in the warm glow that dances around the room at the courtesy of my fires, weaving their way in continuous loops and circles above our heads. It is too much of a stretch to even think as much, to feel any relief at all, not when the palace is as changeable as the tides under a merfolk's rule, and especially not with the information she has just announced:The 'other' me. Then, ignoring the look of confusion plastered on my face, Dawn sits herself down at the edge of the bars and sighs a little, her nose wrinkling in disgust."Cold as a vampire's," I murmur to myself absently, fingernails tapping on the iron bars, pinging hollow metal sounds around the room, a small comfort against the deathly silence of the cell. Ithuriel, whose pacing has yet to cease, raises his head to watch me as he passes.My mouth bitters as the information passes through me, the notion that there is someone in this Palace posing as my look alike does not rest easy on my conscience in the least bit. There is someone who wishes, for whatever reason, to know about me- and I hardly doubt their intentions are good. Not in a palace full of malicious, bloodsucking vampires. I need to get to the bottom of this, and fast, else my life, Ithuriel's, and maybe even my entire clan's is at a terrible risk.Just who is this 'other' me?
