It was good that the truths of life were kept from the young as they were starting out;
otherwise they'd have no heart to start at all.
otherwise they'd have no heart to start at all.
71 Spring 512 AV
The Kay Residence
Around the 10th Bell
The Kay Residence
Around the 10th Bell
Marion woke like a corpse rising from the depths of a lake -- slowly at first, with a final violent rush to the surface -- and was greeted by the sensation of something being very wrong. Pale eyes slid across the corners of her room, her worn wood walls, her closed door. (Closed? That was strange). Light streamed through the single window, warm and full of the promise of a new day, but there was a painful silence. Where was her mother's airy humming? Where was her father's raucous chuckling?
Scenes she had conjured while asleep slid across her mind's eye.
Limestone, flickering lamps, grassy alleys, hushed voices.
Something clung to her head, and there was an ache in her arms as she reached up to touch it. Cloth. Some kind of bandage? Her fingers trailed the edge of it across her forehead, pushing tangled curls out of the way. Then, at her temple --
"Ah." Marion's hand jerked away at the sharp throb her probing had elicited.
Clattering stones, full moon, callous laughter.
Then she bolted upright, clutching her blanket.
She had been dressed in an over-sized white shirt, presumably by her mother. She'd come in late last night, hadn't she? She could remember stumbling into the house, her parent's strained faces, their hands petting her hair, her shoulders, her sore back. She had practically passed out then, collapsing onto the divan in a heap of tears, exhaustion, and blood. But she'd had a smile on her face then, which would have stood in sharp contrast to the frown that now etched its way across her features. It was a familiar expression for her these days and she settled into naturally. Or, she would have, if she weren't being plagued by the notion that there was absolutely no reason to be upset right now. But that couldn't be right. There was always a reason to be upset.
But that was beside the point, and there were more important things to ponder in this moment.
Nightmare shapes. Screams.
Her grip tightened on the blanket until some part of her wondered whether or not it would rip. Her eyes fell, very slowly, to her hands. And she knew that the echos she heard and the shadows she saw in her mind were not fragments of a dream, but fragments of reality.
Gods, what have I done?
She knew the answer. There was a sudden flurry of movement as she tugged frantically at her shirt. White linen fluttered to the floor as she nearly tore the fabric from her body. Marion caught a glimpse of what she sought as she stared at the discarded cloth. She knew it would be there, but now that its presence was confirmed, she imagined she could feel it ebb and flow, pulsating sickly against her skin. She turned her gaze. There, on her shoulder, sat something that hadn't been there when she'd woken the previous morning.
It appeared to be some kind of tattoo, but Marion innately understood that it was far more dangerous than simple ink. Gingerly, she touched a delicate index finger to it, half expecting it move with a life of its own. Of course, no such thing happened and she was free to trace its ominous spiraling shape as she pleased. Odd symbols were stretched across her skin, the likes of which she had never seen and was certain she would never see anywhere else but here, on her own flesh.
"Ssena," she breathed almost reverently. It was the name that the woman last night had provided, though Marion did distinctly feel that the being hadn't been a woman at all, and was instead some creature of unknown (but immense) power. And she had been, what, blessed by it? No. She had been claimed by it. But by what?
By Fear, of course.
Marion wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but she could sense the undeniable truth of it. After all, wasn't that also what the woman-creature had referred to herself as, while Marion had tumbled into darkness? 'I am fear, I am Ssena,' and all that?
And then it struck Marion that that was exactly what felt so amiss. It wasn't necessarily a feeling of wrongness she was experiencing, but a feeling of lacking something whose constant presence she had become so accustomed to over her young lifetime: Fear. Or, more accurately, that perpetual sense of anxiety and worry. It was gone, leaving only a sense of unnatural quietness in her mind. For once, unfettered by the static noise of impending something, Marion could hear herself think.
Scenes she had conjured while asleep slid across her mind's eye.
Limestone, flickering lamps, grassy alleys, hushed voices.
Something clung to her head, and there was an ache in her arms as she reached up to touch it. Cloth. Some kind of bandage? Her fingers trailed the edge of it across her forehead, pushing tangled curls out of the way. Then, at her temple --
"Ah." Marion's hand jerked away at the sharp throb her probing had elicited.
Clattering stones, full moon, callous laughter.
Then she bolted upright, clutching her blanket.
She had been dressed in an over-sized white shirt, presumably by her mother. She'd come in late last night, hadn't she? She could remember stumbling into the house, her parent's strained faces, their hands petting her hair, her shoulders, her sore back. She had practically passed out then, collapsing onto the divan in a heap of tears, exhaustion, and blood. But she'd had a smile on her face then, which would have stood in sharp contrast to the frown that now etched its way across her features. It was a familiar expression for her these days and she settled into naturally. Or, she would have, if she weren't being plagued by the notion that there was absolutely no reason to be upset right now. But that couldn't be right. There was always a reason to be upset.
But that was beside the point, and there were more important things to ponder in this moment.
Nightmare shapes. Screams.
Her grip tightened on the blanket until some part of her wondered whether or not it would rip. Her eyes fell, very slowly, to her hands. And she knew that the echos she heard and the shadows she saw in her mind were not fragments of a dream, but fragments of reality.
Gods, what have I done?
She knew the answer. There was a sudden flurry of movement as she tugged frantically at her shirt. White linen fluttered to the floor as she nearly tore the fabric from her body. Marion caught a glimpse of what she sought as she stared at the discarded cloth. She knew it would be there, but now that its presence was confirmed, she imagined she could feel it ebb and flow, pulsating sickly against her skin. She turned her gaze. There, on her shoulder, sat something that hadn't been there when she'd woken the previous morning.
It appeared to be some kind of tattoo, but Marion innately understood that it was far more dangerous than simple ink. Gingerly, she touched a delicate index finger to it, half expecting it move with a life of its own. Of course, no such thing happened and she was free to trace its ominous spiraling shape as she pleased. Odd symbols were stretched across her skin, the likes of which she had never seen and was certain she would never see anywhere else but here, on her own flesh.
"Ssena," she breathed almost reverently. It was the name that the woman last night had provided, though Marion did distinctly feel that the being hadn't been a woman at all, and was instead some creature of unknown (but immense) power. And she had been, what, blessed by it? No. She had been claimed by it. But by what?
By Fear, of course.
Marion wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but she could sense the undeniable truth of it. After all, wasn't that also what the woman-creature had referred to herself as, while Marion had tumbled into darkness? 'I am fear, I am Ssena,' and all that?
And then it struck Marion that that was exactly what felt so amiss. It wasn't necessarily a feeling of wrongness she was experiencing, but a feeling of lacking something whose constant presence she had become so accustomed to over her young lifetime: Fear. Or, more accurately, that perpetual sense of anxiety and worry. It was gone, leaving only a sense of unnatural quietness in her mind. For once, unfettered by the static noise of impending something, Marion could hear herself think.
