WARNING: As the second installment to Flare's tortured story and a sequel to The Living Nightmare, I must again warn you that this story will contain extreme blood, violence, gore and twisted scenes of torture. Yet again will it be rated M. Read as you wish.
SPIRITUAL DEVASTATION
Chapter 1: Reawakening
Flare hated the feeling of waking up. Every time he had woken up, he'd only opened his eyes to nightmarish worlds and vividly grotesque scenes of torture, such had been his tortured, confused life. His mind stirred and a groan escaped his lips. He was sitting against a wall, but the surroundings were unfamiliar. He was in a small room, it's walls made from pure obsidian, a black carpet laid ont the floor, which was also obsidian yet hummed with a strange, unrecognizable energy. Torches on every wall glowing with a ghostly violet flame, yet the room still felt cold. The room had no doors, and Flare could not remember how he had ended up inside.
"Curse the spirits, it's happening again." He swore, his strangled, dragonesque voice dripping with hatred.
His mind flashed with memories, remembering when he had first woken up, unaware that he had spent the initial fifteen years of his life in a forced sleep. He had awoken in a world of destruction, unarmed and unable to wield fire, and stumbled into the clutches of the horrible demon Strahovlada, the spirit of terror and destruction. Eventually, after seemingly endless torture and beatings, he had reclaimed his fire abilities and destroyed Strahovlada forever, but it had cost him his life, until the twin spirit of Strahovlada, Sanacija, spirit of recovery, had recovered his soul and explained all she could about herself and his missing past. He had said goodbye and walked into a passage she had created, which was supposed to lead into the mortal world and away from the spirits, but everything after that was blank in his mind. He absently started fiddling with his necklace, a gift from Sanacija before he had left the world of Strahovlada. It had a blue diamond on it's end, showing jagged reflections of himself. He was a Fire Brother, but the torture of Strahovlada had taken it's toll on him. His skin was deathly pale, his left arm had been wrapped in a bloody cloth, his left hand's three middle fingers had been replaced by sharp, metallic and artificial replacements. His eyes seemed to glow and blaze a bright scarlet, the way it had been since he had rediscovered his fire abilities.
He rose to his feet, pacing around the room, examining every detail. He felt a sense of dread, as if something as bad or even worse than his time with Strahovlada was about to take place. Yet again did he have the feeling of not knowing anything, or what he was up against.
"Could be worse." He muttered. "At least I'm not retching my soul." He shuddered in the memory.
He gently reached out to the obsidian walls, running his hand across it's smooth, dark and strangely powerful surface. A feeling of anxiety started to swell inside his chest as well, anticipating the worst was to come. He couldn't shake himself away from the feeling, it's grip holding him firmly in it's cold grasp.
"What am I doing here and why?" He asked angrily. He willed himself, and his arms broke into flames, burning bright red, it's flames licking at the cold air around him. He felt comforted by the fires, knowing he hadn't lost his fire this time. He extinguished the flames and pressed his flat hands against the wall, firmly focused on finding a way out, even though he had no knowledge on how to do so.
Minutes turned to hours as he furiously paced the room, hoping for answers but finding nothing. He felt condemned, like a criminal in a prison, eventually punching the wall with anger. He hadn't accomplished anything, frustrating him further.
The obsidian started to crack, the cracks glowing bigger and the room starting to vibrate. The torches on the wall started to flicker, their light constantly getting weaker. Flare shut his eyes and put a hand on the wall to hold his balance. when the room had stopped shaking and he opened his eyes, a passage had appeared in the wall in front of him, blasting him with freezing cold air, a horrible sound that reminded him of wailing spirits, with the violet light of the torches fading into pitch-black darkness. Flare muttered at himself. If he'd known that had been the way out, he would have broken the wall hours ago.
A trickle of dark-red liquid trickled into the light, and Flare instantly recognized the liquid. He'd seen it too many times with his own eyes, whether it was from tortured corpses, walls, buildings or even himself. Blood. He cursed in hatred. He despised the liquid. Seeing as it was coming from the passage, it proved that worse was to come.
He took a long, deep breath and took his first steps into the passage, disappearing into the darkness. Any normal soul would have been terrified of what might lie on the other side, but Flare kept his calm in an angry way. He had been in situations like this before, and it seemed like it was about to happen all over again. He started walking through the pitch-black, his fire doing precious little to light the way, the cold wind blowing through him.
"Whatever lies ahead. I'm ready for." He told himself.
END OF CHAPTER 1. Next chapters will be longer, but I normally begin with a shorter chapter.
