Eraskur snorted ungracefully before adding, “As well I know. Just my bad luck that the first one here in what seems like forever should be one just for you.”
Volmaetria wiped her mouth, frosting smearing her fingers, “We should have stayed together, we work better as a team,” she said.
“Times change, sister. Besides, you know what it was like before, too much competition,” Eraskur said, getting up and walking towards the small entrance tunnel.
“Well, if your fortune should need changing, why not ask him for help?” taunted Volmaetria.
Eraskur stood, slightly fuming, before answering, “Stop pretending to be helpful, or to care. We’ve got enough debt to that one as it is. And what good has it done us? Look at us, still at odds, but at least I can get away for a bit while you gloat.”
Volmaetria giggled, enjoying her victory. “Of course you’re right, sister. Don’t worry, I’ll turn him over to you when I’m done.” She stroked Lucius’s face, tracing an idle pattern of frosting on his cheek. Eraskur walked away to sulk, leaving Volmaetria with her quarry.
* * *
Pim woke up. She realized that she was still in the same cold prison with its iron bars. “No,” she whimpered. Tears spilled down her cheek as she lay huddled in a corner. That’s what it was to her, her corner, the one that was comparatively dry; it did not have the water seeping across the stone from the crack in the wall. Light funneled into her prison from around the corner of the passage. It was a cruel reminder, bringing no joy, showing her how close the outside must be, of how close freedom might be. She was not free, however, for the cold stone and the cold iron bars promised only containment, promised only that she would remain here forever. Pim could not remember how she had ended up here. Her memory used to tell her that she had walked away from the smoky cave in the opposite direction. Why then she was here, in a cave, she could not figure out. Something must have happened, but what? Not knowing used to torment her, but not anymore. A sullen listlessness had taken over all other emotion. She was sick, deathly sick; she knew it from the fever that burned, from the pain inside that never stopped. She felt that ache even in her dreams. Sulfurous air made her lungs burn and the haze that never dissipated clouded her vision.
Just when she might pass out, a voice would rouse her, echoing down the hallway with its jeering call, “Don’t rest yet, you’ll miss the sunset.” The unseen tormentor was rewarded by the great sobs of frustration from Pim when reality swam back into focus. How long had she been here? She did not know. Was it a day, a year?
“It doesn’t matter,” the voice taunted, which at times seemed able to read her mind. “Forever has no meaning, only the pinch of the hourglass.” The taunting voice became cruel and thin, a biting voice of strangling breath. Sometimes it sounded wheedling and mewling, others hard and cold, but its words were never kind. Communication was useless. If she tried calling for help the mists would wrap around her, the smoky air burning her lungs and choking her till she vomited. Pleading or addressing the taunting voice in any manner also met with the same consequences. All she could do was weep. She tried not to though, because it felt even worse. Even then, sometimes she simply had to. It seemed to enjoy the sound, for it would laugh a soft and horrible chuckle. Misery and hopelessness pressed down upon her with their dreadful weight. Pim sank back onto the cold floor, overcome by the horror of her fate.
Old patterns of thought stirred again at the twist of the cruel voice’s will. Pim thought of her arrival here, she must have turned back out of curiosity. It was the only explanation she could think of, even though it did not make any sense. Pim hated herself for not going forward, ridiculed herself for turning back. What had come over her, why had she been so stupid? She struggled up onto her elbows from her prone position, painfully dragging herself to the little rivulet that ran over stone on one side of her cell. The water was wretched in taste, bitter and did not quench her thirst, but it was the only option. She had to drink until her stomach was painfully swollen before the sense of desiccation that had come over her relented.
The smoky wisps waxed and waned in here, masking all light at times. Always, the smoke dimmed the outside world, now it was choking the light into the merest glow, shuttering it completely. She almost preferred the inky blackness that fell around her. It took away memory of fresh air, open horizons, freedom in a world that she would never see again. It was easier here, in the hateful dark, which accepted her misery as tribute to its glory.
As she stared at the wall, the sense of dread deepened. The room was not just itself a dark place, she felt it was pouring within her as well. Differing emotions, gratitude for the end of suffering and panic at the sense of being overwhelmed, greeted the icy embrace of misery. Panic at being overwhelmed, relief that it would bring an end to her conscious suffering. Pim’s eyesight grew dim and she could not even hear the drip of water on stone nearby anymore. She felt herself sinking down into a deep pool, no longer having the strength to fight what was a losing battle. It would be her destiny to perish here, far from home, family, of anything or anyone that had ever cared for her or that she had cared about. Her face bore blank witness at what was happening, there was not enough strength left even to let loose a final sigh of regret.
Pim closed her eyes, flashes from her past went before her fevered mind as her memory stirred. She recalled, unbidden, the time she had spent as a young child on the streets of Entigria. Her parents had taken her to the fairground, a once a year festival. Work ceased on that day, her father was back from his shop, her mother was there too, a rarity after she had started working with the new administrator of finance. The colors and lights of the parade had made her smile as she was held on to her father’s shoulders, watching silly, costumed people dancing down the causeway. This was the high holy day when every part of life was celebrated, when everyone stopped for a moment to cheer themselves, to congratulate their own hard work, and praise the gods that had led them to prosper. Entigria had always been blessed, always the best, highest and first among the nation states. Amid the smiling faces of the dancers were the actors who played their benefactors. The antlered Zuetal, a comical sight to her city eyes, the astute and keen gaze of Jirnjil, god of craftsmanship, the voluptuous looking Volmaetria, and the rest. Her own family had not been particularly religious, though her father kept the small shrine for Arneph, for luck was always a boon to the aspiring merchant.
She shut out the memory, she did not want to remember better times. She had followed after luck herself, ever since her parents had passed. It was a freak accident, she had been told. It did not matter though, what the reason was, or how it had happened. She was alone and had to trust her own wits to keep her fed, keep her safe. Another flash of memory from the parade, a fleeting image formed in her mind. There had been one person, a green-robed man with a blue fringe, that she had not known much about. This one looked brighter somehow, in her memory. She was confused, even in her current state, the memory did not seem correct. She was standing on the ground, not held aloft by her father. Her recollection of the dancers had not even included the god of mercy, but there he was, striding along the rest as the band played on and the dancers feet hit the cobbles. What’s more, he had stopped, was looking at her. “Don’t give up, Pim,” said the apparition.
With a start, Pim opened her eyes again. The hard floor and damp atmosphere overcame her confusion, leaving its certainty of hopelessness behind. “Please,” she murmured, trying to breath a whisper of a prayer.
Her unseen captor, the disembodied voice, laughed its hideous, thin laugh. Pim almost could feel the hatred as a physical blow. Soft, in her ear as if breathed by someone right next to her came the tormenting words, “Relinquish your light, drift into the abyss prepared for you.”
“No, please no,” she gasped, huddling into a ball, shivering, desperate. The smoke drifted through her cell’s bars, filling the room with its suffocating vapor. Pim coughed, but she could not move the smoke away. Hunkering down would be n
o use, the strong black threads were filling the room fast. Pim struck out at them, coughing and sputtering, too panicked to mind the chilling effect they had on her anymore.
Random scraps of prayer spilled out her mouth, anything she could remember from long ago, “Beseech thee our…” Sputtering, she tried to stand up, lifting her hands up.
“Help us in our time of need…” The smoke was so thick now, all light was obscured. Her eyes stinging and lungs on fire, Pim was forced back to her knees with great pain.
“Forget not our humble station…” she managed to say. The vapors were squeezing all life out of her. She fought on anyway, she had always been a fighter; if this was to be her last moment, she’d at least face it with whatever last defiance she could muster.
She was delirious, her stumbling words no longer comprehensible, but she made each jumble full of meaning. At the last, with a final push against the terror of this place, “Bless us and we shall lift up your names in praise.”
Blinding light burst around her. Flames of gold shielding her, driving back the chill smoke. Dizzy, Pim felt she had not the smallest ounce of strength left to flee. There was heat, but it was not scorching. The dancing lights poured forth a warmth that surrounded her, filled her failing form with fresh vigor. Pim closed her eyes, feeling her ill and battered body drifting into a peaceful slumber. Pim had the sensation of being lifted off of the ground, then of immeasurable speed. It mattered not to her though, in the drifting clouds of relief.
* * *
Pim woke up; she was on a sandy beach, the dense, green jungle only a few paces away. She knew, with certainty, that the cave was in there somewhere, waiting for her to return. Hot sun scorched her back, and she sat up quickly, spitting out gritty sand from her dry mouth. In her confusion, she did not immediately see the green robed figure sitting nearby, blending in with the background. As Ibdal moved towards her, she backed away quickly, hands and feet kicking up small puffs of sand as she scurried like an animal.
“Hold there, Pim, I am here to help.” The voice was low and gentle. Pim found herself slowing down, but she did not come near the stranger either. Images were swirling in her mind of the journey to this land of terrors and unknown forces. No longer could she be sure of what was real. Her only thought was of escape, if that were possible, back to a world that she understood. She trembled, barely feeling the breeze that came off the water, the warmth of the sun, or the firmness of the sand beneath her. She kept a wary eye on Ibdal, who was making no movement towards her, but instead moved to the water’s edge, staring out over the waves with a contemplative expression on his face.
“I have something that may sooth you, if you will trust me,” Ibdal said, not turning to Pim at all. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small pouch, which he lightly tossed at a point in the sand midway between the two. As gently as he had intended it, it made Pim afraid. Panic and fear flooded her system at the words and motion of the pouch. She backed away further. Something inside of her was telling her to go for cover. The beach was too exposed, she was too exposed. There, a voice inside of her said, go into the jungle. There the leaves and ferns can hide you, you would be safe then. You could find shelter, a cave perhaps. She backed further, almost into the outskirts of the greenery. Then she stopped. The man on the beach had made no other move. He was still staring out over the water. The voice inside her warned her of him, that he was simply waiting for her to come forward, then he would strike. She would be bound, she would be trapped. Pim’s vision swam in eyes filled with tears. She remembered a cave. She could not go back to that place, whether it were real or not. She would scream forever. She could not take the chance. She needed to be safe, to be free, again.
Breaking through her rising panic, “You are in control here, Pim,” said Ibdal. “Please do not leave.”
The words entered into her mind, taking away some of the anxiety and leaving calm. She could not understand why, but part of her wanted to go with this person. He did not seem unfriendly, but was that the danger? Her inner voice was confused, a mixture of thoughts and feelings that did not seem be her own. Who could she trust if not herself? That was how it had always been. She had survived by following her instincts, yet now she was not sure of them anymore. Timidly, she took one step toward the man on the beach, ready at a moment to hurl herself into the thick brush behind her. Then another step. Now she was upright, without noticing, and pacing towards the pouch on the ground. She had to stoop low to pick it up, not bothering to watch Ibdal from the corner of her eyes. The pouch was made of leather, with a small string holding it closed. She undid the threads, and upended the pouch; nothing fell out. Pim said, “I thought there was something in here to help me.”
As she stood there, Ibdal spoke, “The gift was in the chance to trust again. To have hope.” He turned to smile at her, “Well done.”
* * *
Lucius’s hand picked up the next morsel of food without a conscious thought. It was automatic now, all-encompassing, there was only the insatiable hunger within. He was not even tasting the food anymore. At first, each bite had been a burst of flavor, nearly overwhelming; now, every bite was dull, as well as his will. All there seemed left to do was plunge onward in the search to find that flavor again. The food was as ash in his mouth, dry and desiccating. No matter which ale, wine, or other beverage he consumed, he could not dispel the earthy taste. His mind was slow, and every thought moved with glacial speed. A vague thought stirred, he was likely sipping on the very best wine ever pressed, yet even its ruby drops provided no joy. As the food grew dim the urge to experience again the wonder of that first bite grew steadily into an uncontrollable desire. His body speed up, frantic now, he could not move quickly enough.
Two witnesses observed Lucius. Both knew his internal experience, though from the outside looking in, the reality was a vacant man sitting at a table, mechanically and methodically gorging on food. The first was Volmaetria, sitting nearby on the pile of cushions, a bored look on her face. Her visitor, Ibdal, stood nearby and tried again, “This is not how you used to reward those that choose to follow you.”
Volmaetria was staring at the ceiling of the cave, one hand idly tapping the cushions. Almost as listless as Lucius, she responded, “He made his choice, it’s not my problem if he’s not happy with it.”
“No. There is always another chance, with me,” responded Ibdal. He watched her carefully as he spoke.
The statement stung Volmaetria, who quickly sprang up, eyes blazing pride and hatred, “He’ll never be rid of me, not now, I promise you that.”
Ibdal shrugged, holding his hands up defensively, he had finally gotten her interest aroused, “I doubt it not, but fate and mercy go hand in hand.”
Volmaetria snorted derisively, “He’s more powerful, he’ll win in the end. That’s his nature.” She did not attempt to hid the smirk of self-satisfaction that had spread around her face.
Calm as a still pond, Ibdal countered, “He has his role to play, and so do I. You’ve had your fun. Now, by the same token, you must allow my role.”
Volmaetria stamped the ground like a petulant child, “What if I don’t? I have my own power too, you know.” As she spoke, Ibdal saw in his mind his own desires, the secret thoughts of his heart that only another god might see. He had been expecting the attempt and he shook his head.
“That won’t work on me anymore,” he said. “And if you deny me, you deny the same power that holds him. Power you borrowed, and that will not be happy to see you not keep up your end.”
With a scowl, Volmaetria waved a hand towards the entranced Lucius. “Fine. Do your part, disgusting as it is,” she said with bad grace. Lucius had not heard any of the conversation, he was not aware of anything but the rhythm of his working jaws and the labored reach for the next platter.
Ibdal bowed with solemn acknowledgment, then walked over to Lucius. Ibdal stared steadily into Lucius’s vacant eyes and with a gentle but firm hand, he stopped Lucius’s arm as it traveled to his
mouth. Lucius resisted, sweat beading his forehead and his face flushing crimson. The frustration of his activity caused a wave of panic to rise in a tide of bile within, he was being prevented from his desire. Gasping, he struggled to wrest his arm away from whatever was halting him. For a moment, his sight was dimmed, and he could no longer see. Gone were the table and its food, the casks and the drink contained within. The moment was empty and void, and he felt as if he were drowning into black waters.
Lucius became aware that he was standing in the same cave, but it was empty now. His stomach lurched at the appearance of a man in his vision, standing before him. He wore a green robe with a blue fringe, a concerned look on his face. “Who… who are you?” asked Lucius, fearfully.
The green robed man smiled at him, “I am Ibdal. Be not afraid.” His tone was full of purpose, but not commanding as he spoke. “My time with you is short. I come to you to offer you a choice.”
Lucius looked with suspicion at him, “What are you talking about?”
Ibdal nodded, like someone expecting the question. He responded, “You are no longer free, except for this moment that I have granted you. I can give you the opportunity to take the reigns of your passions once more.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Lucius, a whine entering his voice. He did not like this place, nor this person. He could remember, faintly, feasting and relaxation. As his memory stirred, he also felt a leaden feeling in him, a dulling of senses, a weight that was just on the edge of falling upon him.
“I know you cannot yet believe. Will you trust me this much?” Ibdal said, reaching forward with an outstretched hand, “Let me show you.”
Lucius hesitated, the man seemed friendly, but he could sense that there was hidden power there, power that could help or hurt him. He did not believe that he was in complete control of himself, for something seemed wrong with his recent memory. Not being sure what had been happening to him was disconcerting. “Well… all right, but no funny business,” he said.
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