Closed Until It's Gone (Phobius)

[Aislyn Leavold]

85th of Winter, 515 AV
Approaching Midnight

It had been a long season.
Longer than any season Aislyn had in memory.
The past five days alone had felt like an eternity. Like she couldn’t remember what life had been like before. When she had slept on the ground surrounded by the entirety of Alvadas, she couldn’t remember what it felt like to sleep in a bed. When she had joined the fray in the battle for all they had known, it hadn’t felt like bells, it had felt like days.
When Syna had risen on the second day, Aislyn hadn’t finished living and reliving the first. When war had come to Alvadas, none of them had been prepared.
When she had come face to face with death time and time again, she hadn’t been prepared.

None of them ever really were.

But, out of the experience, the woman had gained quite a few things.
For one, she had gained the knowledge that her paranoia served her well, and that being on edge every waking bell of the day was not always a hindrance to survival. She had also learned that insomnia was a lot less fun when it morphed from the ability to extend her days into the night without the thought of sleep into a constant state of just tired. All day and all night, tired.
When she did sleep, it was fitful and often interrupted by a nightmare of the amalgamate creatures the apocalypse had spawned. Not just of the undead, though, but of people- people she knew. Those she didn't particularly care for, and occasionally, the few people she did. There had a monstrous vision of Phobius, one of those nights.
That had been the most recent night, actually. The eighty... Fourth. Fifth...?
She hadn't begun a calendar in her new journal yet, which made timekeeping rather difficult. With the last one filled, she had switched to the newer, and relatively untouched book that the artist had used to track supplies in the Bastion. Within it, she had drawn what she had seen. Projected from her mind to the page, a sort of coping method she often used to help remember her dreams. And nightmares. On the parchment had emerged the grotesque deformity of the one person in Alvadas she would dare call a friend.

After that, she had taken a walk.

A walk to nowhere in particular, though she knew exactly where she was going. The vision- nightmare- whatever it had been- was what prompted her now, in the late hours of the night, to seek the boy out. Perhaps he would be asleep. If she were lucky, he would be plagued by the same sleeplessness. If she wasn't, well, that was unfortunate for him, as Aislyn planned on visiting anyways.
The artist had roamed the streets, not quite admiring the night with her usual appreciation, but still at peace with the silence. There was, of course, the occasional disturbance, especially the rare series of shouts and screams that reminded her that not all of the undead monsters from the end of the world had actually been eliminated yet.
That was one of many reasons sleep was not coming easy to Aislyn.

What was also a constant reminder of what had happened was the door. Every time, when something happened, it was a door. A bad omen, this time with a triangle of black. Said door had also appeared to have a very strange purpose, especially given the circumstances. The circular door in the center of Alvadas- the one that was impossible to step through but apparently open if one reached in by hand- had been gradually depositing yarn and string all over the city for about a day. It had spread fast, covering the plaza around it within the bell, then the buildings around that by high noon. Soon, woolen murals were quickly spreading, almost without input from those actually sewing if. Aislyn had heard that anything depicted was returned to the city, and it was not exactly an impossibly-hard-to-believe rumor. After all, she had been walking just that afternoon past a crudely sewn Cubacious Inn, only to find the real thing in its place the next time she passed.

With that logic in mind, Aislyn had tried something rather desperate. With her lack of sewing, embroidery, or really any related skill, she had attempted to draw just one thing onto a blank portion of the Weaving: her mother.

Unfortunately, that hadn't made the elder woman reappear out of nowhere. Nor did it make Aislyn’s house reappear, which was another factor in her aimless, insomnia-powered walk around the city during the nighttime hours. With nowhere to sleep, why sleep at all? And now she had a goal. A vague one, yes, but a goal.
Since she knew the Cubacious Inn to have reappeared, she would find it. And with it, Phobius.

If Aislyn were unable to enjoy the rising and setting of Syna’s light, perhaps another sort of light would provide some kind of comfort. Phobius, after all, was just about the brightest shade of sunlight ‘Miss Maya’ had ever known.

When the woman eventually came across the rather woolier-than-usual cube inn, she made the cross to the particular cube she knew Phobius to (probably) be lodged within. Each room, after all, was unique both inside and out. Even covered in wool, they were recognizable.
And spinning.
But that was a technicality.
Attempting to move with the problematic cube’s momentum, Aislyn managed to reach the window, and, clumsily, bring a fist to lightly rap the glass. All she had to back up this plan was the hope that the Inn didn't spin any faster, and a prayer to Ionu that she actually had the right room.

”Phobius? Phobius, are you awake?”

~

The line between ILLUSION and REALITY
is one I am willing to cross

[Phobius]

It was snowing. Which didn't make much sense to Phobius, who was on his knees, staring up at the falling crystals as though it was the first time that he was seeing them. They looked and felt as real as could be, seeming to melt as soon as they touched the smooth, pale skin of his face...but it never snowed in Alvadas; at least not during the winter, when it was supposed to. And this seemed a little too real to be another one of Ionu's tricks, so maybe he wasn't even in Alvadas, anymore. But if he wasn't...

"Aren't you cold?"

The boy flinched, a bit startled by the voice. It sounded like it had come from somewhere behind him...and it was familiar, in a way that gnawed at the back of his mind with tiny, harmless teeth, seeming to urge him to remember something that was important. But despite how hard he tried, he couldn't, so he looked over his shoulder, only to gape at the figure that stood not too far behind him, his eyes widening until they were as big and as round as amber moons, practically bulging from their sockets.

For a while, he couldn't bring himself to speak; it was as though his tongue had turned to stone inside of his mouth, and his thoughts were no help, having become a tumultuous, nonsensical storm inside of his head. Then his lips were moving, and he found himself murmuring a name without really meaning to; a name that he hadn't said in so long that it felt almost foreign to him.

"Pryzavard...?"

The man merely smiled, as though that in of itself was enough of an answer, and Phobius' heart swelled with a sudden happiness, so much so that he was sure it would burst at any moment. It was him. He could barely believe it, but it was really him, standing there with the broadest of smiles on his pale, handsome face, the tips of his ears poking out from beneath locks of ashen hair that had tried (but failed) to cover his eyes, which were a brilliant shade of purple; more brilliant than he remembered them ever being. Draped over his shoulders was a cloak that was as white as the snow that fell around them, and he held a glass in one of his hands, casually moving his wrist as he swirled whatever liquid was inside of it. It seemed like blood, at first, but when the boy looked a bit harder he recognized the bitter drink that he had tried, that night at the Rose. The man had loved those kinds of drinks, hadn't he?

Now there were plenty of things that he wanted to say--questions, mainly, that he'd been dying to ask--but the boy held his tongue as he turned to fully face the man, not knowing where he should start. "P-Pryzavard, you..." he began after a moment, not seeming to notice that it was Nari that was tumbling out of his mouth. "Where...where did you go? How come I don't ever see you, anymore...?"

"I've gone away, Pryzabius," the Symenstra replied, and though he was still smiling there was a hint of sadness in those purple eyes. "Alas, it seems as though I wasn't meant for a life in the City of Illusions."

"Away? For how long...?"

"Forever, I'm afraid."

Forever? Phobius mused, his chest tightening with dismay. How could the man leave forever? Hadn't he liked Alvadas? Hadn't he liked the food and the people and the bitter, blood-red drinks...?

"But..b-but..." he stammered, staring helplessly up at his friend. But why? Why? Why would he leave without telling anyone? Without even saying goodbye, first? Phobius' eyes began to well up with tears, and his lower lip trembled; the man probably thought that he looked like a big baby, but he didn't care, too upset and hurt to bother trying to stop himself.

Pryzavard's smile faltered a bit. "Don't cry, Pryzabius."

"But I won't get to see you," the boy whimpered. "Not now, not later, not ever again...and it isn't...it isn't..."

"...isn't fair?"

Phobius shook his head, suddenly unable to speak with the lump that had formed in his throat, and what was left of the Symenstra's smile hardened.

"Sometimes life isn't fair, Pryzabius," he said, and it was the truth. An awful truth, but a truth nonetheless. "Sometimes we have to do things that we don't want to do. Do you detest me for leaving you...?"

Again he shook his head, assuming that "detest" was about the same as "hate," and of course he didn't hate the man. He didn't hate anyone. He just felt hurt and, oddly enough, a bit angry; angry with how horribly unfair it all was.

"Good," Pryzavard said, and then he changed, becoming a strong-looking woman with blue eyes and thick, black hair. Phobius recognized her right away, but it wasn't until she spoke that his memories of her--as few of them as there were--resurfaced.

She had left, too, without saying so much as a word to him.

“I never wanted to hurt your feelings,” Nana went on, her voice soft despite the accent that thickened her words. “But telling you would’ve done just that. In the end, it was better this way and...well, we had some fun, didn’t we?”

"Yeah, I...I guess," the boy muttered, sniffling a little. Chasing shadows with her and Doggy had been pretty fun...but he had never apologized for running away from her, and now he couldn’t. What if he’d made her feel bad? What if—

“Then remember that. Remember all of the fun things we did together, and try not to be sad,” said a new voice, and Phobius found himself looking up at Niello’s cheerful face. “I don’t want you to be sad.”

He wanted to say something to that--wanted to tell him that it was hard not to be sad when he hurt so much--but before he could, the white-haired boy was gone, and he was facing someone whom he hadn’t seen since he’d found Miss Wanda in the dusty ruins of the Alchae. “He’s gone,” she had said, sounding almost betrayed. “He left me. Us.” But he was here, now, and Phobius couldn’t stop himself from scrambling to his feet and running over to him.

"Kuvarakh!" he cried, practically throwing himself at the man and wrapping his arms around his waist. Then the tears came, streaming down his cheeks, and he buried his dampened face in the cloth that covered the man’s stomach. He felt real; as real as Pryzavard and Nana and Niello had been; as real as the snow. And maybe he hadn’t ever been trapped in that mean old house; maybe he’d been in this place, instead, waiting for someone to come along and find him.

"W-w-we thought...thought you weren’t coming back," Phobius blubbered, barely able to speak through the sobs that seized his trembling shoulders. "I th-thought I w-w-wouldn’t see you, again...I missed you so much, I..."

And then he pressed his face even further into his stomach, his hold around his waist tightening.

"Don’t leave, again. Please. Please. Everyone’s leaving, Kuvarakh…a-and soon there won’t be anybody left. But I...I don’t wanna be alone...! Don’t leave me alone!"

He hadn’t wanted to yell, but he had. And the man was silent at first, leaving Phobius with nothing but his own pitiful sobs to listen to. Then he placed a hand on his head, and the boy quieted a little, comforted by the gesture. Lifting his face away from the man’s clothes, he looked up at him, expecting to find him smiling.

And he was. But so were the other faces that seemed to have merged with his, their own smiles warped and full of sharp, bone-white teeth that glinted in the unseen sun. With a gasp, the boy pulled his arms from around him and staggered back, horrified. It wasn’t Kuvarakh, anymore; he’d turned into some horrible thing, some monster made out of faces that might have once belonged to his friends. It stood and watched as he stumbled away…and then it started to lumber after him, gnashing the teeth that lined its many mouths, an unmistakably hungry look in its stolen, glittering eyes.

"No...n-no..." Phobius muttered aloud, shaking his head as he retreated. Then his back hit something, and he twisted around to look at it, only to realize that it was the dreaded door.

Of course. The door was wrong. Evil. It had taken Miss Maya from him, and now...

Though he didn’t want to, he turned back to the monster and whined when he saw that it was getting closer. Then his tear-blurred eyes fell away from its writhing mass of faces, and there, held tightly in his trembling hands, was a knife; the same knife that Miss Maya had given to him before she’d vanished into whatever was beyond that door.

For a few ticks, he stared at it, both dreading and hating its sudden presence. Just holding it was enough to make him sick to his stomach, and where had it even come from? He could have sworn that he had lost it, back in that dark, dreadful place that’d been filled to the brim with monsters…and it hadn’t even worked. When things didn’t work, that usually meant that they were broken, and when they were broken, you were supposed to throw them away, which is just what he had done. But what was he supposed to do with it, now?

The monster kept getting closer, letting out a garbled mess of sounds that might have been his name, and Phobius looked back up at it. All of a sudden, he understood, but the tears returned, and the trembling in his hands only worsened.

"I...I can't," he muttered, his quivering words reaching no one. "I can't do it. I can't! I--"

And then a hand shot out and seized him by the throat. He couldn't speak, anymore—could hardly breathe as the monster’s fingers squeezed the life out of him...

...then it was gone. The door, the snow, the monster, the faces...all of it vanished, and Phobius found himself curled up in his bed; one hand was clutching the pillow that was stuffed under his head, while the other had gone to his neck, its fingers hooked around the band of leather that served as his collar.

So it'd just been a dream...a horrible, horrible dream.

Unfurling a bit, the boy tried to calm himself down. His heart was racing, and his face felt damp, the pillow that he held soaked with tears and sweat. On top of all of that, he was gasping for air, his chest heaving with every strained effort, but as the ticks went by it became less and less difficult, and before long his breathing had returned to normal.

When the odd tapping sound started, Phobius forced himself to sit up. It seemed like it was coming from Nini, at first--sometimes the little bird liked to peck at things when she was bored--but when he looked over at his friend, he saw that she was fast asleep, standing on her little perch with her head tucked into her feathers. And then there was more tapping, this time accompanied by a voice:

"Phobius? Phobius, are you awake?"

Frowning, the boy wiped his eyes with his sleeves and crawled over to the edge of the bed, where the window was. Then he peered through it, but only for a moment, shrinking back when he saw what was on the other side.

It had looked a lot like Miss Maya, but...weren’t she and Mister Ekans gone...? Hadn’t the door eaten them up?

Phobius knelt in his bed for a chime or two, stealing glances at the window but making no moves to get any closer to it. As far as he knew, he was still dreaming, the woman in the window nothing more than an unfunny joke that his head was playing on him. Then again, what if he wasn’t? What if she was real?

There was only one way to find out.

Making up his mind, the boy crawled back over to the window. It took some effort, but after a moment he was able to lift it up. With that done, he backed away from it, his round, puffy eyes fixating on the woman as he watched her let herself in.

"Miss Maya...? Is that you?" he asked, his voice barely above a frightened whisper. "Really, really you...?" Please be you. Please...

a Nari a Common a

[Aislyn Leavold]

Thank the lord Ionu, Phobius had opened the window. It was getting rather treacherous running around in the dark, especially with her eyes on the boy in the room instead of on the ground. Even when she had something to grab onto, her boots found their way into a small divot in the ground, throwing her forward so she was essentially being pulled along by a rotating house.
Alvadas was such a safe, secure place to live.

Pushing herself up onto the sill, Aislyn fell forward, hitting her side rather ungracefully on the window ledge. Fed up and with the wind knocked out of her, the illusionist finally managed to fall her way into the room. Nonetheless, she picked herself up almost immediately, smoothing down her hair as gracefully as possible. The first time her fingers ran through it, she found herself trying to reach for strands that no longer existed, ending far higher than before. In that moment, she realized something that, in hindsight, she probably should have realized before falling into Phobius’ window in the dead of night.
She hadn’t seen the boy for… Quite a while. Not since… Well, not since the door.

When she had first stepped into the apocalypse, she had spent her time frantically searching for Phobius, trying to find any sort of method to actually, effectively locate where the hai he had gone. But she was… Distracted. A premonition; a meeting; Ionu; Aislyn hallucinating; whatever you wanted to call it, she was side tracked. Then a day went by. She tried to help those left wounded. Another day. She left for the battlefield, fighting alongside those with the skill to do so. A third, she spent her time collecting information, finding out how just this had happened. How anything had happened. A fourth, and the door appeared. She returned.

Alone.

She hadn’t forgotten him.

She still thought of him, put things aside for him, thought of things to tell him when they saw each other again. She never thought ill of him. She never gave up on him. She had to survive. She couldn’t spend her time worrying over him when there were other things to worry about. She wasn’t making excuses. He was capable.

She had absolutely forgotten him.

He hadn’t forgotten her, though. Even with the grace of half-blood half-nightvision, she couldn’t make out Phobius’ face, but his shaking voice told her enough. He was scared.
Was that her fault?
Aislyn had heard something before she had come in, though. Talking. She had been sure it was Phobius’ voice, but it sounded like he had been speaking to someone. It was muffled, of course, and… Clipped. Like another language. Inartan, probably.
Opening her voice to question the boy on what he had said, the illusionist was interrupted by a whisper. Just barely audible.

"Miss Maya? Is that you?"

Aislyn’s first thought was something along the lines of No, it isn’t, as Maya doesn’t exist, but that was quickly silenced by a much more present need to find out what was scaring him, what was making him doubt her, what was going on.

"Really, really you...?"

Paranoid and borderline suspicious, Aislyn stepped closer. She still couldn’t see him. It was much lighter outside than inside, surprisingly. She needed light. Squinting at the room, the half-Zith used the moonlit window to locate a candle, sitting on a table next to a handy set of flint and steel. Turning her back to Phobius, she struck the rock, which after several attempts, lit the candle. Then, she turned back.

There was a very long moment of silence.
Then, she hissed in a breath.
After what seemed like forever, the two met eyes again. He saw her, bruised and beaten up from four days in hell, hair chopped short and scar dried bloody on her cheek. Still in the clothes she had fought in, the trouser knees were torn, along with several tears in various places where smaller cuts lay beneath from miscellaneous survival. If Aislyn had a say in the matter, all of the mess that was her appearance would be permanently hidden from view. But her only handheld mirror was shattered, and windows could only provide so much context. Illusions were particular things, and there was no secluded, private place that just happened to have a mirror she could borrow.
She didn’t even know half the wounds existed, nevermind had access the means to hide them.

In the same moment, she saw him, wide, puffy eyed and…
Scared.
The boy was absolutely terrified. In disbelief; shock, even, distrusting, and crying. Phobius was crying.
Immediately, she moved towards him. She didn’t touch him- forever and always aware of physical contact with others- but close enough. She certainly felt concern for him, but what to do about that exactly was the difficult part. Phobius was so conflicting sometimes. He was her only friend, but she still held so much away from him. He was so happy, all the time, it was so strange to see him upset. Not to mention the boy was a good three inches taller than Aislyn, although now he seemed so… Small.

"Of… Of course it’s me, Pho. Are you alright?" She reached out a hand experimentally. She left him room to pull away, but tried to provide some comfort. Pho had always been a very contact-oriented person, where Aislyn was, of course, not. But for now, it was obvious there was something more she didn’t know. She needed him to talk to her. She was never one to share details about herself, but the woman was at very least a good listener.

"Phobius…?"
The last time she had seen Phobius, it had been in a dream. Dream-Pho hadn’t been crying, though. At least, not at first. It hadn’t even been Phobius in the beginning, just... Noise. An anonymous screaming; angrily, fitfully, horrendously, in a way that made her almost fear for her life. Then, the anonymity had dissipated, forming from a cloudy nothing to an amalgamate creature that had the face of the Inartan. A piteous crying, of words she couldn't make out.
Perhaps she hadn’t forgotten him at all.

Hovering her hand over the boy’s shoulder, Aislyn made a decision. A small decision. A most insignificant decision to anyone other than her.
Putting her hand on the Inarta’s arm, she pulled him over to the bed, essentially forcibly sitting him back down. Then, she sat as well, pulling her legs up towards her and removing her boots to avoid traipsing mud everywhere. Pushing a strand of short “blonde” hair behind her ear, she forced herself to focus on Phobius, and only Phobius.

"Speak."

~

The line between ILLUSION and REALITY
is one I am willing to cross

[Phobius]

Phobius watched as the woman struggled with the window, though he made no moves to go and help her; not even when she suddenly fell through it, startling him so much that he flinched. And as much as he wanted to go over to her--to ask her where she'd been and how she'd been feeling and if she was alright--he knew that he couldn't, that he shouldn't. Not until he knew whether or not it really was her.

Gripping the edges of his lontev, the boy stood and waited for her to say something. But she was silent, and when she took a step toward him he couldn't help but take a step back, his fingers digging themselves even deeper into his clothes. Why wasn't she talking? If she was the real Miss Maya, wouldn't she had said so, by now...?

But what if she isn't Miss Maya? a small, frightened voice in the back of his mind said. What if she's a monster, like the ones from that awful place behind the Door? What if she came here just so she could hurt you? Just so she could kill you...?

He shook his head, not wanting to believe such horrible things...but there was a chance that they were true. After all, he didn't know what had happened to the Door; if it was still sitting in the center of Alvadas, where he'd last seen it, then couldn't something have crawled out of it and followed him back to the Inn, if it'd wanted to?

All of a sudden, the woman moved, again, and Phobius' eyes followed the dark outline of her figure over to a table. There, she took a handful of things and fiddled with them, and when the faint hissing reached his ears he remembered something that someone had once told him; something about hitting a rock with another kind of rock--mint, if he was remembering the right word--and making fire. He'd bought a candle with the intention of trying it, himself, but had worried about making a mistake and burning something, so he'd never gotten around to it. It seemed like the woman was trying to do the same thing, only she wasn't worried, and after a few ticks it worked. She turned to him, then, and he sucked in a breath, afraid of what he would see, what he thought he would see, having convinced himself that it wouldn't be her, but others, with all of their faces joined into one horrible, writhing mass of eyes and noses and teeth...

In that moment, the boy squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly wishing that he hadn't let her into his room and that she'd knocked on someone else's window instead of his; that way, he could have avoided this whole mess. But he knew that he couldn't stay like that, forever, so he forced himself to look at her.

The woman who stood before him looked a lot like Miss Maya, but it wasn't the Miss Maya that he remembered. No...this one was different; her clothes were torn all torn up, and her hair, which he'd grown used to seeing draped over her shoulders, looked like it had been cut. There were other little details, here and there, but he found himself especially drawn to the scar on her face, the light from the candle almost seeming to make it glow.

Those monsters...they had hurt her.

"Of...Of course it’s me, Pho. Are you alright?" she said, all of a sudden, reaching for him, and he couldn't stop himself from shrinking away from her hand, wariness mixed in with the shock and fear that had overcome his tear-stained face.

Miss Maya was alive. She was alive. And yet she'd changed in ways that frightened him, all because of the Door. It had changed her, hurt her, stolen her from him...

...but she was here, now, and that was the most important thing, wasn't it?

The woman called his name, again, but he merely stared at her, the lump that had formed in his throat making it impossible for him to speak. Then she took him by the arm and led him over to his bed, where she sat him down and took off her boots before turning to face him.

"Speak."

It was as if the word was a cue, of some sort. Tears started to well in the boy's eyes, and when he tried to talk, he couldn't manage much more than a whimper. Without warning, he then threw himself at the woman, wrapping his arms around her in a somewhat-desperate hug.

Just seeing her wasn't enough. He needed to know that she was really there, needed to be sure that he wasn't still dreaming, and after a few, silent ticks he buried his face in her shoulder, his lithe frame starting to tremble with the sobs that were taking a hold of him.

"Y-you...you...I thought...gone," Phobius cried, fumbling with his words. "Gone, I th-thought you were gone forever...! I thought...the door ate you, I...and my dream..."

And then he sucked in a breath, trying as hard as he could to choke back his tears.

"My dream...it was bad, Miss Maya. Really, really bad. Pryzavard was there, and...and Nana and Niello, and Ku--"

But he couldn't finish the man's name, the awful memories that came with it wrenching another sob out of his throat.

"Kuvarakh," he muttered once he'd calmed down a bit, though his grip on the woman tightened. "He was there. But then he was a monster, and he...they...they tried to kill me..."

a Nari a Common a

[Aislyn Leavold]

When Phobius stepped back, it felt like, to Aislyn, that something changed. Phobius had always trusted her. She had come to rely on it, even. Everything she’d worked so hard to build- her illusions, “Maya”, everything- was built on the fact that Phobius trusted her. She felt like shyke about the false trust, but it was worth the price. “Maya” made Phobius happy. “Maya” was his confidant; someone to rely on. That “Miss Maya” was someone to be his friend, when “Aislyn” could not.
But if he didn't trust “Maya”, there was none of that.

What would he think if…?

In the middle of her thought, Phobius threw himself full force at her.

Aislyn was about as startled as she had ever been in recent memory. There was no reason to do that. One minute he refused to touch her, the next he wouldn't get off. In a moment of pure reflex, the woman attempted to push Phobius off of her, to no avail. Aislyn gave him that; the boy had a strong grip. And he was certainly was… Affectionate. And he liked contact an awful lot. If she truly though about it, this was about as much contact that Aislyn had experienced for approximately seven years.
It was horrible.

There was a brief moment of silence, filled by Phobius’ sobs and the blood rushing in Aislyn’s ears. Despite everything else- everything more important that there was to panic about- her mind apparently decided that being in contact with another living being was the most pressing issue at hand.

"Gone, I th-thought you were gone forever...! I thought...the door ate you, I...and my dream..."

He was speaking too fast. The contact, his crying, the whole situation at hand… It was too much to think over at once. Her attention was divided, not only between Phobius and what he was saying, but also now on not visibly shaking. The latter she failed, but at least the former was a success. Somewhat. The only part she didn't really understand were the names. None of them seemed familiar, except for…

"Kuvarakh."

Ionu’s mercy, that was a name she hadn’t heard for a while. The man that never returned. Was that what had been bothering Phobius? Kuvarakh, and a nightmare. That was what this was about. A bad dream.
The boy’s face was buried in Aislyn’s shoulder, practically on top of her mark. Gods, what if he could feel it? People had sensed it before, what if Phobius did?
What if it was all over?

"Phobius..."

Somehow, Aislyn had her doubts about the reality of the situation. Surely just a nightmare couldn't have reduced him to tears? But then again, her own dreams were enough to put her into a cold sweat, and this was Phobius. He was… Fragile. At least she could take solace in the fact that the two were in the same boat.
A boat of bad dreams.
Cautiously moving a shaking hand from where it had been limp on the bed, Aislyn tried her best to console the boy. If he wasn't going to get off of her, she might as well try to comfort him. What was she supposed to do, though? Pat him on the back and say ‘there there’? He certainly had no problem embracing her, yet she was so hesitant. No one outside of her mother had ever really hugged Aislyn; at least not for a few years short of a decade. And certainly, no one had hugged her and cried. What was she supposed to do?
Perhaps ‘there there’ was worth a try.

As she moved a hand upwards, Aislyn’s attempts at condolence were cut a bit short when her hand touched metal, instead of Phobius. She readjusted, but her curiosity was piqued. Was he wearing a necklace? It certainly didn’t feel like a necklace.
Ever cautious, Aislyn tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. She kept talking, if only to distract him.

"Pho, it was just a dream. You're fine now. Everything's fine."

Ionu save her, she wasn't good at this.

Despite the decent temperature, Aislyn was shivering rather violently. Maybe she did know that there really was no reason for Phobius to discover her, but deep down, that deep-seated fear still shook and screamed at every little touch. Every part of her mind needed him away. But that wasn't an option at the moment, unfortunately. Her only option was to try to find something else to concentrate on to calm herself down, before she could help Phobius.

The necklace was enough to focus on. Aislyn had never seen the Inartan wear it before, but now she was interested. Thus, against all of her beliefs- along with any common sense she still held onto- Aislyn held the boy closer to her, allowing herself a better look at whatever her hand had hit. For several ticks, it was silent, as she tried to figure out just what it was she was looking at. Was that a collar…?
Why would Phobius be wearing a collar?
The metal piece- the one Aislyn’s hand had brushed up against- appeared to be some sort of lock. Why would a necklace be locked? Phobius certainly wouldn't do something like that. Which meant someone else had. What did that make him?
Ionu preserve them all, was Phobius a slave?
The shivering worsened. What if he had always been a slave, and she just hadn't noticed? How could she have not noticed? Was he alright? She had never met a slave, but had seen plenty of slavery in her time. Or... No, what if she really had met a slave, it was just right in front of her the whole time?

No, no. There were no slaves in Alvadas. There were servants, yes, but slaves…
There was only a fine line between the two. Was either really any better?

Purposely noticeable this time, she touched the collar again. It was of a rough leather. Surely that couldn't have been comfortable. How long had he been wearing that?

"Phobius, what is this?"

~

The line between ILLUSION and REALITY
is one I am willing to cross

[Phobius]

Miss Maya tried to comfort him as best as she could, telling him that it'd just been a dream and that things were fine, now, but her words weren't enough to stop the tears from flowing, and he kept his face pressed into the sodden sleeve that covered her shoulder, sniffling every so often to keep snot from dribbling out of his nose.

He'd had bad dreams, before, but this...this had been worse than all of them, combined. Yet the woman was right; no matter how real it had felt, it'd been nothing more than a dream, and dreams couldn't hurt him, even if something--or someone--in them always seemed to be trying to. Dreams were just dreams.

After a moment, the woman held him a bit closer, and he started to cry a bit harder, his tears gradually spilling down his cheeks and chin. He couldn't help it; she was always so nice to him, always listening whenever he had things to say and giving him advice whenever he needed it, and he felt as though he was the luckiest Inarta alive to be able to have a friend like her. Once he'd calmed down enough to speak, he opened his mouth, wanting to thank her; then fingers pressed themselves against the strip of leather that had been fastened around his neck.

"Phobius, what is this?"

The boy was silent. It felt like a palm-sized rock had lodged itself in his throat, and for a few, terrifying ticks he couldn't breathe, having gone rigid in Miss Maya's arms. She had touched it...but how? How could she have touched it--have even seen it--when he had been wearing his...

...his scarf.

It's gone, Phobius mused, suddenly on the verge of panicking. The scarf's gone. But I wore it today, I know that I did, so where is it? Why don't I have it?!

As quickly as he'd thrown himself at her, he pulled his arms from around her and scrambled backwards, his eyes wide and fearful, looking for all the world like he thought that she had meant to hurt him. And he knew that she hadn't, knew that she wouldn't in a million years do something so terrible, but those fingers had told him otherwise. Fingers belonged to hands, and having hands near his neck had never been a good thing.

Away from her, now, Phobius searched every other inch of his bed for his missing scarf, lifting his pillow and sheets more than once to make sure that it wasn't there. Not that that would make much sense, since he never slept with the thing on--the one time he had, he'd woken up with a sweat-soaked neck and an itch that had lasted for days--but it didn't hurt to check because maybe, just maybe, he had forgotten to take it off a few bells ago. But the scarf was nowhere to be found. Worried that he had actually lost it, now, he sprung up off of his bed and frantically scanned the room with eyes that were still wet with tears. And then he saw it, draped lifelessly over a small trunk that he'd grown to like putting things in. He didn't hesitate to go and snatch it up, yet as relieved as he was to have found it, he didn't seem to know what to do with it once it was in his hands, and made his way back over to the bed in silence.

Was there any point in wearing it, now...? If he'd been thinking straight, he would have put it on when she had knocked on his window, but he hadn't, and now she'd seen the collar. Trying to hide it wouldn't change that.

The boy sat himself on the edge of the bed and stared down at the scarf, running his thumbs over the thick, dyed wool as he thought. Pryzavard had asked him about the collar, once, and he'd told him as much as he could bring himself to, but there were a lot of things that he had left out; things that weren't nice, things that often made him feel sick whenever he thought about them, things that invaded his dreams whenever he slept and turned them into nightmares. They were things that he hadn't thought the Symenstra would have wanted to hear--things that he hadn't wanted to hear come out of his own mouth--so he'd kept them to himself, and his friend had never brought it up again. Now Miss Maya was asking him the same question, looking for more or less of the same answers.

For a few ticks, Phobius considered telling her what he had told Pryzavard. Then he thought better of it.

"It's nothing," he said, not looking at her, his voice quiet. "Not anymore."

The truth, but not the whole truth. Nonetheless, that was as much as he was willing to say. He didn't want to go into it any more; his stomach was already upset with him, clenching up and making him grimace.

After that, things were silent for a while, save for the occasional sniffles from the boy. He had stopped crying, but his nose was still running and didn't seem to want to stop. When it eventually did, he turned his head to look over at Miss Maya; the fear had left the amber pools of his eyes, letting concern step in to take its place.

"When did your hair get short? And did somebody hurt your face?" he asked. Then, in a somewhat hushed tone: "Was it a monster...?"

a Nari a Common a

[Aislyn Leavold]

When Phobius pulled away, there was only one clear image in Aislyn’s mind. Him, from before the nightmares, before the monsters, before the door, right before they stepped into Hai itself. It seemed impossible to believe that such a thing had happened just a few days ago. And to believe that those few simple words could leave such a large impact on her.
I trust you.
Three words no one had ever said to the illusionist before. And now they were all banished like shadows in light with the addition of just three more syllables.
What is this?

Immediately, Phobius had gone still, and Aislyn had panicked. She’d said something. Stepped awry. Upset him somehow. Something must have been wrong, wrong in some way.
Then he had moved.
Aislyn swore, she had never seen the boy move so fast. He ran in circles around the room, searching for something. Stunned, Aislyn remained on the bed, fallen back where he had pushed her. He looked even more scared than before- a different kind of scared. A fear less like that of the dark, and more like that of the future. A difference in that one could be banished with a candle, and the other never really left.

Eventually, the search ended with the location of a small piece of clothing- a scarf- limply laying over a chest in the corner of the room. That was how Aislyn had never noticed the collar. Phobius had always worn a scarf- in fact, she had never seen him without it. For some reason, the woman had never thought about it, always believing Phobius to be as transparent as he seemed. She’d believed him to be glass when he was really a mirror. But reflections were not the same as observations.

For several long ticks, it was silent. Phobius stood in the center of the small room, looking about as lifelike as a doll, before he finally answered her question. Nothing. Not anymore.
Perhaps even a mirror was not the best way to describe his countenance. More like shattered porcelain.

”Phobius…” The collar was locked. That much she was certain of. With the way Phobius had reacted, it was obviously something he wished to hide, if not outright remove. But the boy couldn’t do such a thing by himself. As Phobius kept talking, Aislyn kept thinking. She answered his questions deadpan, well versed in the act of almost answering inquiries that would end the conversation then and there. Her words fell softly into the quiet as she pulled on one of the unevenly cropped strands of illusionary blonde.
”I cut it. It got in the way.” It had also nearly gotten her killed, but Phobius didn’t need to know that. ”My face is fine, it’s just a scratch. I just messed up, that’s all. My fault. It was all my fault, I promise.”

She didn’t say where the ‘scratch’ was from. Perhaps being honest with him would help, but then again with the boy in such a fragile state it was impossible to know how he’d react. He probably already assumed the truth, but would confirming it do any good?
What was the best course of action when there was no clear path to take?

It took her a while, but she spoke again.

”Yes. It was a monster.” She’d lied to the boy enough. The very existence of their friendship was a lie. He deserved some truth, at least. ”But I survived, didn’t I?”

Looking out the window, Aislyn suddenly felt the need to breathe again. She’d spent so much time without a room or bed to sleep in it almost seemed unnatural to be inside.

”Pho, how about we go for a walk?”

~

The line between ILLUSION and REALITY
is one I am willing to cross

[Phobius]

Phobius blinked at her, a bit confused. She had cut it...? But it had looked so nice. Not that it didn't look nice now, but...well, he was just so used to seeing it draped over her shoulders or hidden behind her back. If she'd had her face covered when he had let her in through the window, earlier, he probably wouldn't have recognized her. And that scar on her cheek didn't look much like a "scratch". Scratches were things you got on your knees when you tripped and fell, and on your hands when you were trying to climb a really old tree, but he doubted that Miss Maya had done either of those. Whatever had happened--and regardless of what she'd said--it hadn't been her fault.

"Yes. It was a monster," she admitted a little while later, as if she'd been able to read his mind. "But I survived, didn't I?"

Not knowing what to say to that, the boy remained silent, his eyes shifting back-and-forth between her own and the scar. He imagined that the monster had been big, with long, sharp claws, and that it had backed her up against a wall, wanting to hurt her some more--maybe even eat her--but she had fought it. Why wouldn't she have? She was strong and smart and brave, and she had brought that wooden thing with her, that wooden weapon thing, so she'd known how to keep herself safe. And now she was here, which some small part of him was still having a hard time believing. It had only been a few days since all three of them had gone through the Door, but to him it'd felt like forever, and he had missed his friends; missed them so much that it had hurt to be alone in that awful, awful place.

"Yeah, you did," he said after a few ticks, a small, weak smile coming onto his face. "And it makes me happy."

The woman then turned her head a little and glanced at the window. Phobius followed her gaze, assuming that she had found something to look at, but there was nothing out there except for the moon. Then she asked if he wanted to go for a walk. To him, it sounded like an odd thing to do at night, but he felt wide-awake, now, and sleep wasn't something that would be happening anytime soon, so he nodded at her. "Okay. I like walks," he said, still with that smile that seemed to be struggling to stay where it was. He then looked down at his scarf and, after a moment of thought, wrapped it around his neck. Despite Miss Maya knowing about the collar, now, he still wanted to hide it, uncomfortable with the idea of walking around outside without it being covered up.

Ready to go, the boy got up off of the bed. Then he frowned and looked over at her, suddenly overcome with shame.

"I lost your knife. I'm sorry," he told her, and though he was pretty sure that he had run out of tears to cry, he could feel the familiar warmth of them start to gather in his eyes, making his vision all blurry.

a Nari a Common a

[Aislyn Leavold]

The air was cool outside, and quite a bit more breathable. She inhaled slowly as they left, listening quietly to Phobius’ words, then the sound of silence. She let his words sink in, mulling over the events that had transpired since she’d left. How long had he actually held onto the weapon? Surely not long, considering him. What had she expected? It had just supposed to be a failsafe, something to get him through the door without breaking the rules.
”It’s alright. I was never any good with a blade anyways.”

Then it was quiet. For the first time in quite a while, Aislyn felt the need to make conversation. That was a new feeling. She had never felt anything to be 'too quiet' before.

”I could remove it, you know,” Without context, she fixated her gaze on her shoes. They were coated with a crisp layer of mud and dust, aging as it went up the leather of the boot. ”The collar.”
The most recent material was at the bottom, whilst splatters of various substances littered farther up. It was practically a written record of where she’d been. Water, mud, dirt… blood.
”I have lockpicks. From-” From ‘Thief’, when she’d come alive after Aislyn had stepped through the door. But that was a different story entirely. ”-from the other Alvadas.”

Slowing her pace, the illusionist swung her bag over her shoulders, resting it on her knee as she rifled through the various items inside. She had the same supplies as when she’d entered the door, leaving her pretty much prepared for anything. Like the apocalypse. Or a slave collar that needed removing.

Clothing, rations, crossbow…

The picks must have been in the bottom, or buried under something. In the low light, it was difficult to tell.
Waving an insect of some sort away from her face, Aislyn suddenly felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Shivering, she sent a cautious look around their surroundings. Even with a natural incline towards the darkness, it was hard to make out colour or any sort of fine detail past a certain point. But movement was easy. And movement there certainly was.

”Or... perhaps that’s something for another time,” Slowly reassembling her backpack, Aislyn abandoned the search for the lockpicks, drawing out her crossbow instead. ”Let’s keep moving.”

Wrapping her hand around a bolt as well, the artist played with it in her fingers. Maybe she was just paranoid. That was probably it. She was suffering from insomnia and sleep deprived, seeing shadows at every turn. Notching the bolt, she kept Phobius beside her as they moved, with ever the glance over her shoulder. The night was relaxing, but she felt the obligation to make sure the situation was safe for both of them. There were very few people that Aislyn would actively attempt to keep alive, and Phobius was one of them. The other was her mother. Anyone else was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing.

Phobius was quite an interesting figure in Aislyn’s life. There were a total of three, perhaps four people Aislyn had called friends in her life. Two of them were dead. The ‘perhaps’ friend Aislyn hadn’t seen in five years. The final one was Phobius, and he technically didn’t even know her. Maybe one day she’d tell him. Willingly let down her illusion for him to see past. After all, she had learned a few years after she’d been marked that she could tailor her illusions so only specific people could see them. She could reveal herself to him, and only him, if she’d like.

The thought made her sick.

The illusionist shivered. Phobius deserved a good day, at some point. A day filled with sunshine and whatever else he liked, where there wasn’t any danger to look out for. A day where nothing went wrong. A day without shadows and alleyways and secrets. A day without…
Casting another glance over her shoulder, Aislyn knew for certain this time she saw something. Squinting at the darkness, she realized she’d quickened her pace, allowing herself to pull ahead. Something had come up behind them. Behind Phobius.

Lifting her crossbow slowly, Aislyn kept her breathing steady. She wasn't the best shot, and if there were any sudden movements, she'd miss for certain. But missing wasn't an option. She wasn't the only one she had to protect anymore. ”Phobius, can you do me a favor?” The movement was back. There were eyes in the darkness. Glowing eyes. ”Don’t turn around.”

~

The line between ILLUSION and REALITY
is one I am willing to cross

[Phobius]

The woman didn't respond at first, and Phobius' heart sank, the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Was she angry with him for losing that knife? He had held onto it for as long as he could, wanting to give it back to her when he found her, again, but those monsters had kept bothering him, and in the end he'd had no choice but to use it. Or, rather, he'd had no choice but to try to use it, only to realize that he didn't know how. So he'd thrown it, hoping that it would at least startle the monsters enough to give him the chance to run, and though it hadn't, he had still taken off, leaving the knife behind. There'd been mixed feelings of regret and relief that had come from that--the thing was a lot heavier than it looked, so it'd been nice not to have to carry it around, and he'd never gotten used to how it had felt in his hands--but on a whole he'd felt bad about it, and hadn't been looking forward to telling the woman. That knife could have been special to her; maybe she'd bought it on her first day in Alvadas, or had gotten it as a gift from her daddy on one of her birthdays, or had won it in a game. And even if it wasn't--even if it hadn't been anything other than a plain old knife--she deserved to be angry with him. He shouldn't have been so careless and lost it.

With his head hanging and his shoulders slumped, Phobius followed Miss Maya outside, looking like a guilt-ridden dog that expected to be yelled at for tearing up its owner's favorite couch. But she didn't scold him; she didn't even seem to care about the knife, telling him that it was alright that it was gone, and he blinked at her, surprised and still a bit ashamed but glad that she wasn't upset.

I can get her another one, he told himself. A nicer one, to show her I'm really, really sorry. Or maybe I should get her something better...like a hat, or a pretty necklace, or drawing pencils...

After that, things were quiet for a little while. Phobius didn't mind, content to just walk alongside the woman as he tried to come up with the perfect thing to get for her as an "I'm Sorry" gift. She liked to draw, so the pencils might work...but they would have to be special pencils. Either that or paint that was her favorite color. But what was her favorite color? And how come he didn't already know it?

"I could remove it, you know," she said all of a sudden, breaking the silence. "The collar."

Having lost himself in his thoughts, the boy looked over at her, his eyes widening in a turbulent storm of emotions. Then he let his gaze fall to the holes that still riddled the toes of his boots and frowned. Once Alvadas was back to normal, he would have to go and buy some new ones. Maybe Miss Maya would want to come with him and get some for herself; the ones she had on were old and covered in mud, so he doubted that she would wear them for much longer. Not that any of that mattered right now.

He was silent for a moment, unconsciously slipping a hand underneath his scarf and touching the leather of the collar as he thought about her words. It was stiff, and felt rough against the tips of his fingers, like it always did.

"You can't," he finally said in a quiet, somewhat tired-sounding voice, and for a tick or two it was as though all of the years he'd been missing had caught up with him. For a tick or two, he was older; older, smarter, and sadder. "I tried."

Tried; it was the truth, as well as an understatement. He had done everything in his power to get rid of that horrible thing, but it had stayed where it was, wrapped tightly around his throat like a leather snake. Knives wouldn't cut it, flames wouldn't burn it, and its lock wouldn't give for anything that wasn't a key...and as long as it was still there, he was still there, still breathing down his neck with his sour breath...

Phobius shuddered, then looked up to see that he had fallen behind. Miss Maya had her pack out and might have been going through it a moment ago, but now she was looking around, like she had heard or seen something that he hadn't. Something that she didn't like.

Not seeming to find whatever it was, she pulled out her wooden thing and slung her pack over her shoulders, saying that they should keep moving. The boy nodded and fell in step beside her, again, throwing a few cursory glances over his shoulders while they walked. Given how late it was, he didn't expect to see anyone else out and about, so what had bothered Miss Maya?

He wanted to ask her, having begun to feel a bit nervous, but she had gone ahead of him, and he stiffened when she lifted the wooden thing, seeming to aim it right at his chest.

"Phobius, can you do me a favor? Don't turn around."

He opened his mouth, about to ask her what she was doing and why she didn't want him turning around, but the sudden chill that went down his spine silenced him, the words shriveling in his throat. There was something behind him, wasn't there? Something bad. Something with claws and teeth and eyes that weren't its own, eyes that it had stolen from someone else, eyes that he could feel on the back of his neck. And he didn't want to look at it, some small part of him already knowing what it was that he would see, but his body moved without being told to, his head slowly turning before the rest of him followed suit.

At first, there was nothing but a pair of eyes; eyes as red as rubies that glowed and stared fixedly into his own. Then the rest of it shambled into view, and Phobius had to stop himself from screaming right then and there. It might have been a horse at some point in its life, but now it was just a nightmarish beast on four legs, with old, grey skin that was peeling off of its body and a face that wasn't much more than a skull. Its eyes seem to float in their semi-hollow sockets, and its mouth was in tatters, pieces of scorched meat and flesh hanging from it like drool. Horrified, Phobius stared at it, his own eyes as wide as the fullest of amber moons, and though every fiber of his being told him to run, he didn't. He couldn't; it was as though his legs had frozen, along with the blood that his heart was working hard to pump through his veins, chilling him down to the marrow of his bones.

The beast held his gaze for a moment longer, then reared up on its hind legs and let out a monstrous roar. At that moment, Phobius sank to his knees, his own legs seeming to have turned to rubber. Before he knew what was happening, he was gone, his eyes rolling back into his head as he fell onto one side, and the beast jumped over him to charge at Miss Maya, its hooves beating at the ground, a harsh, almost human shriek coming from its throat.

a Nari a Common a