Restless Slumber

Darkness. Cold emptiness. He was aware, drifting in a state of nothingness. He drew not the slightest of breath, nor could he. He had neither lungs to fill, nor voice to expend. Anetho was wracked with fear at the realization his body had gone. Leaving only a fluttering consciousness behind in a state of confusion. Was this death?

There was an awkward sensation to this transient state. How desperately he desired to breath, how violently his very core demanded air, as if trying to dissuade itself from this state of existance. Despair rooted itself in his mind. He longed to lash out, to rip and tear at this thick veil of inky black. The silence was maddening, the isolation of every sense striking him with dementia.

“I have no mouth, and I must scream!” He thought to himself.What remained of his mind reflected on all he’d believed of his religion. Of a warm, gracious, all encompassing embrace. The eternal glow of the Light he’d dedicated himself to. The clergy. The common man. He’d healed the sick, gave to the poor, sang praises of the almighty.

Was this due to his fornication beyond wedlock? The maiden cried to herself by the fountain, he recalled. He had consoled her, treated her to dinner. Then fallen into the lady Maria’s bed. Her fingers running the length of his back, her lips defiling his chastity with the weight of this sin.

But he had begged forgiveness, paid his penance in coin, confession, and faith. He was promised salvation! Why had he been forsaken!?

The fields of Lordaeron sprawled out before him, ablaze. The streets of Stratholme he’d sanctified as his liege demanded. The rites of passing he’d recited. Again he prayed forgiveness of himself and the Prince he followed. Of his kin and those now given to the beyond. But this was truly the only way, wasn’t it? Better they be spared the curse of undeath at their hands, than allowed such a grisly hell.

What of his work in the aftermath, when he’d declined to follow the fleet in pursuit of the responsible party? His efforts in the refugee camps after the fall of the capital city? Those displaced, cold, hungry, and hopeless scattered in the wake of the chaos sown by their own prodigal son. He’d done so much for them. All of them. Surrendered bread and sleep that they might rest easier. He guided them to Dalaran… Why couldn’t he remember anything beyond that!? Why was it all as black as the world around him now?

“What have I done, deserving of this?” His mind raced, he could not fathom what transpired.

There was chanting. He could hear chanting. A sharp pain at the back of his head ripped its way through his consciousness. He remembered now. Those death worshippers took him. Those dark purple robes, the sickly elementium weapons. They’d taken him and nine others, worked twisted and unholy magicks upon them. It was then he’d made the connection. They still had him captive! And in the wake of that revelation came a burning sensation as if all that he was were thrust into the very sun.

He realized at last he was screaming. Cauterized blades and blackest spells penetrating him thoroughly. All at once he just knew where he was. His own body, alien to him. A torrent of experiences not rightly his own mingling with his. “Welcome to my Twilight Delight, Puppet.” A woman laughed maniacly, as his mind came to a halt.

Anetho woke with a start, sweat clinging to his forehead. Hair stuck to his chest, matted in a dishivelled fashion. “…Another dream…” He sighed, looking to his mirror nearest the bed. Within he could make out the source of his duress. A twisted face of black and white energies fading from behind him. Whispers incomprehensible in the air. “…Still here, I see… But for how much longer will you plague me?”

Chapter 6 – Betrayl


~ by anethodawnpride on May 6, 2013.

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