A/N:
Hi everyone, thanks for reading! Just a few notes before we get started:
Regarding the M rating: this story is on the dark side and includes violence, adult themes and sexual content, so mature readers only, please. Please heed these warnings as I won't necessarily repeat them throughout the story!
Feel free to review! Criticism is fine, but try to keep it constructive. Flames, however, will be unanswered and simply removed.
Heart-felt thanks to my beta StoryWriter831 for everything she does to help me. A huge thank-you also to bloomsburry, who designed the gorgeous book cover! There is a cool GIF version on AO3. Thanks also to the talented Strip_Dancer who is translating the story into Russian; you can find it on ficbook dot net under the title Принадлежащая туману.
...
Frequently Asked Questions:
Will this story have smut? There will be sex, but bear in mind this is a slow-burn. There is a lot of angst and tension to get through first. The sex will be fairly explicit but hopefully written in an elegant way. It's not going to be a silly smut-fest like Play Cissy for Me!
Will this story have rape? No, is the short answer - however, there is violence with sexual overtones and threatened rape (Lucius/Hermione) and a scene of violent attempted rape (not Lucius/Hermione). Also, since we're dealing with an amnesiac, there are definite complications around the issue of consent. Please don't read if you find such things upsetting.
Is Hermione of age? Yes. The story is set after the events depicted in canon.
Will there be a romantic Lumione HEA? Yes. Eventually.
Will there be any major character deaths? Not of the main pairing. I wouldn't do that to you! All other characters are fair game, though ;)
Do you have an update schedule? I'm a very slow and sporadic updater, and my real life does intrude on my writing time. However, I won't abandon this story. It means too much to me and I've put in far too many hours (years, actually) into it, to think of abandoning it. I appreciate your patience and understanding.
...
Lastly... this story is many things. It is a dark romance, a psychological drama, an angsty thriller...but first and foremost, it is a MYSTERY. So if you like your stories laid out before you in neat, orderly rows, then I suggest you don't waste your time here. If, however, you don't mind being lost in mist and entwined in shadows, then by all means, join hands with our heroine as she makes her way through the dark, winding forest, in search of the light...
Hope you enjoy :)
xox artful scribbler
BELONGING TO THE FOG
'You can fall ill with just a memory' - Paolo Giordano
...
PART ONE
...
I was running through a forest, but I had no idea why.
A stinging rain lashed my face and bare arms, plastering my clothes to my body, my hair to my scalp. I was freezing cold and crying, but the tears meant no more to me than an ephemeral warmth on my raw cheeks.
Where am I? My heart was thumping in tempo with my pounding feet. Where am I?
...WHO am I?
Thin branches welted my skin, I felt twigs snapping and leaves catching on my hair and clothes.
I wondered if I was running towards something or away from it.
Was I being chased? Was there something pursuing me—something terrible, unspeakable?
...Or was I desperately seeking, searching for something?
I had no idea how long I had been running for, but my calves were burning, my knees jarring and I was puffing in deep gasps. I had nothing but instinct to guide me, nothing but momentum to keep me from collapsing in a heap.
Thud—thud—thud—thud, my feet struck the ground with rhythmic urgency, thud—thud—thud—thud, my heart struck my ribs with synchronous fear.
The trees began to thin and the light was changing, the gloominess lifting. I must be nearing the edge of the forest. That could only be a good thing.
The rain abated, but now a thick, encompassing fog was roiling in towards me. I could see the vapor of my breath billowing before me in white puffs, but beyond that, it was difficult to make out anything, the trees were now but vague dark smudges in the haze.
My foot suddenly caught a jutting tree-root and I slammed into the muddy forest floor, landing on my right wrist and twisting it painfully. I uttered a cry, but my voice sounded eerily muted, deadened by surrounding fog.
I clambered to my feet, rubbing my wrist with my other hand.
Brushing myself down, I now realised I was wearing an inadequately thin dress, pale yellow, stippled whimsically with daisies. Splattered thickly with mud.
My legs were bare, scraped in places, the pale skin almost blue with cold. At least I had on trainers. They appeared to be the only item of clothing suited to a wet forest terrain, although a disjointed voice in my head irrelevantly informed me that they did not go with my dress.
My right hand twitched, but it wasn't from the pain in my wrist or the bone-chilling temperature. There was something odd about it; it almost felt as if something were...missing from it.
I counted my fingers. One, two, three, four, and my thumb made five. I turned it over and over, but it looked like a regular human hand—muddied, scratched and bruised, but a normal hand none-the-less. And yet I couldn't shake the inexplicable feeling it was somehow incomplete.
Who am I?
A very watery, very low sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the billows of mist and the silhouetting the canopy above. It couldn't be too far off sunset. ...God, it was freezing. My body was shivering violently. If I didn't find shelter before nightfall there was no question I would die.
I began a hurried, stumbling march, dogged determination now taking place of momentum. I headed in the same direction I had been running before, simply because I had been running that way, never mind that I didn't know why...
A harsh, guttural "Kraa!" brought me to a second lurching stop. Peering up into the stark branches, I made out the shape of a large, black bird, perhaps a crow or raven. It launched off its perch and fluttered to the tree further beyond. For no better reason than it gave me a visual incentive to keep moving forward, I began to follow the bird. Each time I neared, the bird would loudly caw and flutter onwards. Sometimes it would make a different kind of cackling call and I fancied it to be mocking me for my plight.
On and on we went, bird and human, one elegantly swooping through the air, the other noisily trudging along the forest floor.
Then suddenly my feathered guide disappeared from sight and almost at the same moment I found myself standing on the edge of a wide open moorland, soggily shining in the last thin rays of sunlight which pierced the great hood of darkening sky above.
A sharp wind raked through my saturated dress and hair, penetrating through my skin, to my very marrow. My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, and my head ached with the cold, but despite the lack of shelter, I was relieved, immensely relieved to be out of the forest.
Wet scrubby grass and limp tussocks stretched out in all directions. In the distance, I could see a copse of tall trees, and rising above the copse was the unmistakable curling tendrils of chimney smoke from a building hidden within.
Chimneys meant hearths, fires, warmth. Oh god, for some warmth.
I stepped out onto the plain and began trudging towards the copse. They wouldn't turn me away, would they?—whoever 'they' were? Surely not. And they could ring the police, get help, find out who I was.
And then tell me.
Adding insult to injury, the rain returned, first as a light spatter, but swiftly turning into a drenching downpour. I began to run again because I was too cold, frightened and sodden to walk.
It was further than I had thought. On first glimpse I had assumed the copse was smaller and nearer, then I realised it was much bigger and further away. As I ran I counted the swirls of smoke...seven, eight...no, nine altogether. It was either a small enclosed village with several dwellings or one huge building, like a stately mansion or manor-house. I didn't care which, as long as they let me sit by one of the fires and thaw out.
There was no obvious road leading into the copse, but as I neared I saw there was a towering black wrought-iron gate set deep within the trees, overgrown with creepers. I slowed down, puffing, rubbing at an aching stitch in my side.
Rather daunted, I approached slowly, cautiously. The gates creaked open of their own accord. There must be a security camera somewhere, I thought, the gates must be electrical ones. I was surprised I had been let in, the state I must be looking.
Beyond the gate was an enormous house. It looked ancient, more like a forbidding fort than a stately home, thickly walled, with narrow windows and heavy buttresses, cloaked in thickly braided layers of dark-leaved ivy.
I shivered with cold. With trepidation.
A wide flight of stone steps led up to a huge door of iron-braced oak, and I paused at the bottom, steeling my nerves.
Before I could take the first step, I heard a cracking sound behind me, then the crunch of feet on gravel. I jumped, startled, and quickly turned.
A man had appeared as if from nowhere and was striding towards me, but he hadn't noticed me, for his eyes were fixed on the silver head of a long black cane which he held in his gloved hands.
He was a tall man, with an imposing bearing, not young—perhaps mid-forty—but wearing his years with an easy grace and power. He was handsome: very, in fact almost beautiful; his face was full of sharp, arresting angles and planes, but the harmony of his features was marred by an insufferably arrogant hauteur of expression. His hair was blond almost to whiteness and fell in a silken cascade past his shoulders, contrasting vividly against the sable-black of his attire.
I had the oddest sensation that I had gone back in time. The man was dressed in a compellingly eccentric way, his clothes being not so much old-fashioned as historical, even medieval, although manifestly immaculate and expensive. Most striking was his long black coat—or robe, rather: high-collared and trimmed deeply with dark fur, which billowed around his elegantly booted ankles as he walked.
By rights, he should have been soaking, like me, but weirdly neither his garments nor his hair seemed affected by the pouring rain. Before I had time to puzzle on this aberration the man looked up, stopped dead in his tracks, and in the drizzly light, I saw his pale face turn a deathly, waxy white.
"YOU!" The word was a hiss, a bark, a snarl.
I recoiled at the violent intensity in his eyes: eyes that should have been light-grey, but were somehow silver and liquid, like mercury, blazing with an unfathomable hatred.
"P-please, I'm lost—" I stammered, backing away. My heel caught on the bottom step of the stone stairs and I lost my balance, tumbling heavily backward.
Before I could scramble to my feet, the man bolted forwards, thrust me back down and pinned me bodily under him, shoving his cane hard across my throat with both hands, crushing my windpipe.
"You dare show your face here, mudblood?" His voice was hoarse with fury.
I tried to scream, but the cane constricted both voice and air supply, and I started to choke. I flailed uselessly beneath him, clawing at the cane, black and white starbursts obscuring my vision. Horrible gurgling noises were issuing from my throat.
I wondered if I was about to die. I wondered why.
Please, stop it! I haven't done anything wrong! I don't even know you!
STOP!
YOU'RE KILLING ME!
It was almost as if he heard my mind screaming. He suddenly discarded the cane, releasing me of its throttling pressure, then he grabbed a fistful of my sodden hair, wrenching it back, forcing me to look in his eyes. "Why are you here?"
I gasped in huge lungfuls of air, coughing violently, my eyes streaming. "I-I'm lost, I got lost a-and I don't know—I d-don't remember—" I was stuttering, almost incoherent with fright.
The man stared down at me, breathing hard. His incomprehensible rage was now alloyed with an expression of increasing incredulity. His other hand roughly gripped my chin, his fingers and thumb digging into each cheek painfully. "Who am I?" he demanded.
I looked confusedly up at him, utterly at a loss. "I have no idea," I shakily replied.
Suddenly he reached towards my throat again and I emitted a small cry of fear, flinching away. But his arm made a swift, hard, jerking movement and I felt the chain of a necklace briefly bite into the skin on the back of my neck, then snap off in his fist.
I hadn't even known I was wearing a necklace.
He thrust it in front of my eyes. "Where did you get this?" he hissed urgently, twisting my hair painfully.
"I don't know!" I cried. I tried to focus on the glinting object. It appeared to be a small silver pendant in the rather macabre shape of a bird's skull. I hadn't realised I had it on or remembered having seen it before.
A series of rapidly-changing emotions told upon the man's pale face. Shocked recognition, astonishment, disbelief. "Is it possible...?" he whispered, through barely moving lips.
He swiftly pocketed the necklace, then looked sharply back at me. Suddenly he clasped me against him, bringing his mouth so close to my own that for one panicky, disorienting moment I thought he was going to kiss me. But instead, he breathed an odd, foreign-sounding word.
I felt the whisper brushing my lips.
His eyes locked onto mine in a gaze at once enigmatic and engulfing: I felt myself falling, falling, drowning in the slate-silver of his irises, the infinite blackness of his pupils. I could feel the slow, strong thud of his heartbeat reverberating through me...the heat and inflexibility of his frame pressed against my shivering, wet body...
...Then a strange sensation in my mind...as if invisible tendrils were reaching inside my head to curl around and sift through my very thoughts...
"What are you doing?" I gasped, but he merely clamped his hand over my mouth and continued holding me closely, his immersing, intrusive stare probing deeper and deeper into my brain...his body was hard, rigid, every muscle tensed, every tendon strained. For a moment he seemed to hold his breath, then very slowly he exhaled through his nose, almost as if he were deriving some kind of gratification, satisfaction from whatever it was he had been doing to me.
He let me go, propelling himself to stand over me, gazing down at me with a new expression lighting his icy eyes, one I could not begin to fathom, but which was somehow related to...triumph?
In that moment, his entire manner seemed to change. Gone was the ferocious, violent assailant and standing in his place was a perfectly cool, perfectly urbane gentleman, albeit one with an intolerably arrogant smile. "Forgive me, my dear. I mistook you for...another young lady." His voice was velvety and suave and edged with razors.
He held out his hand to me, the leather of his glove creaking as his fist slowly unfurled.
I stared up at him in total shock, my heart pounding wildly, wondering what the hell was going on. One minute the man was trying to kill me, the next he was—well, god knows what he was doing—and now he just expected me to cheerfully take his hand as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place?
I saw that his cane was tucked under one arm, although I hadn't seen him pick it up. I glared at it mistrustfully, my hand going automatically to my throat. It still throbbed and ached from the recent assault. It was sure to bruise.
He made an impatient beckoning gesture. "Come, I won't have you expiring on my doorstep like a half-drowned cur." Then in a softer tone, he murmured, "...You needn't fear me."
Needn't fear him? He'd just about strangled me! ...And had he really been...reading my mind?
No. That was impossible...
I still couldn't bring myself to put my hand into his.
With a soft curse of annoyance he reached down and caught my wrist, roughly pulling me to my feet. His grip was crushing, making me wince. Immediately he dropped my hand, turned away and ascended the stone steps. His heavy robes flicked against my bare arm as he pushed past me, leaving me standing at the bottom in a puddle of bedraggled bewilderment.
I watched him tap his silver-headed cane once against the massive oaken door and it swung silently open. He half-turned back to me and even at this high vantage his head was tilted back with an undisguised superciliousness. "Are you coming? Or do you mean to spend the night enjoying a gradual hypothermic demise?"
I grimaced. Well, I thought, if you put it that way...
I knew, as of course did he, that I had no choice.
Wearily and warily, I clambered up the stone steps, not at all comforted by his inscrutable gaze and curling lip, mulling over the questionable wisdom of entering a strange house with a strange man who had just attempted to kill me. My brain was sending out all sorts of warning signals to the rest of my body, making my hands shake, my knees tremble and my mouth go dry.
As I joined the man at the top I was uncomfortably aware of his height and the powerful breadth of his shoulders and chest. I wouldn't be besting him should he choose to engage me in a wrestling match, that much was certain.
He held out his arm towards the open doorway, directing me to go before him. "My humble abode," he murmured, handing me courteously over the threshold—so courteously as to leave little doubt that he was mocking me.
Many scenarios flashed through my mind as I stepped into the gloomy, low-lit hallway. Was I entering the lair of a predator, a rapist, a psychopath? A murderer?
Well, I decided grimly, I'd rather be murdered inside and at least die warm and dry, than spend another second out in this freezing cold rain.
...
He showed me into what appeared to be a dining room, furnished in a manner at once grand and oppressive, cluttered with dark-wood furniture and dreary burnished antiques. A huge mahogany table ran the length of the room, its highly polished surface dimly reflecting the lights cast upon it by three low-strung ormolu chandeliers.
An enormous fireplace dominated one wall and its bright flickering blaze was the only remotely cheery thing in the whole room.
I staggered over to it, kneeling down and stretching out my hands as close as I dared to the tongues of red-gold flame. I closed my eyes and let the warmth envelop me, heedless of the strange man, of his recent bizarre behaviour to me—heedless of anything but the perfect beauty of heat on my skin.
"What is your name, young lady?" The man's soft, drawling voice was much closer than I expected. I gasped with surprise and my eyes flew open. He was standing over me, one arm resting on the marble mantle-piece surround. I hadn't heard him approach. "Who are you?"
...Who am I?
For some reason I didn't want to admit to him that I had absolutely no idea. It seemed so horribly vulnerable, to not know my own name. Why didn't I know? How was it possible that I could be so lucid, so aware, and yet know nothing, remember nothing, of my own identity? It was like my memory was a butterfly, hovering just out of reach, flitting away whenever I tried to snatch at it.
I felt tears of frustration threatening to well up but I forcibly swallowed them away. "Um, my name is Alice," I improvised unconvincingly. "Alice...Carroll."
I could see in his eyes that he knew I was lying and yet he looked oddly pleased. "Alice Carroll," he murmured. "That rather rings of a little girl who fell down a rabbit hole. Is that what happened to you?"
"I don't know," I replied, confused by the glinting light in his eyes. "I think I must have had an accident and banged my head or something. I can't remember...some things."
"Indeed?" His expression was impassive. "But that is unfortunate. Can you recall where you live? Or perhaps, how to contact your parents, your family?
Reluctantly I shook my head. "No, that's all rather a blur, at the moment."
"What about your friends?" He said the word lightly, yet it rang with a sharp, metallic timbre. "Do you remember their names, addresses—anything at all?"
Still not wanting to reply with a negative, I said, "Maybe if you called the police, they could help me?"
He smiled, although I couldn't understand why. "I'm sorry to inform you that I don't have a..." He paused, and it seemed, rather oddly, as if he were casting around for the correct word. "...Er...telephone."
"Not even a mobile?" I asked. He shook his head, that smile still hovering about his mouth.
"I suppose there wouldn't be coverage here," I answered myself.
"As you say."
"Well, can you drive me to the nearest phone box?"
He gave a faint sigh, apparently tiring of the conversation. He left his post by the fire and began to pace around the room, the click of his boots echoing on the wooden floor. "I'm afraid that is out of the question, Alice. This is a very remote area, some several hours away from civilization. You will simply have to stay here tonight and we shall see what arrangements may be made for you tomorrow."
I nodded. "Alright. Thank you," I said quietly. I certainly wasn't in a position to argue. My throat still ached from the crushing pressure of his cane, the knowledge of which made me shiver uneasily. He said he'd mistaken me for someone else, but it wasn't exactly comforting to know that he was capable of attempting to throttle any young woman. What sort of a man was he? Which reminded me—
"Ah, excuse me, sir?" I said tentatively.
"Ye-es?" He elongated the word in a decidedly patronising way.
"I... I was wondering what your name was."
He leveled his gaze at me and for a moment seemed to be considering how to reply. Then he made a slight, elegant bow and said, "Lucius."
"Oh." The name seemed to fit him perfectly, it seemed so silvery and cold and strange. "Well, I just wanted to thank you for helping me out...um, Lucius." I flushed self-consciously as I tried the name out loud. "I appreciate it."
Again he smiled, but it was a hard expression, nearly a grimace. "Oh, it's nothing, I assure you."
I gulped and looked away, stung by his scathing tone. I was only trying to be polite! Clearly the man was some kind of misogynist or chauvinist. Well, he could make the conversation from now on, since he obviously found mine so contemptible. I pressed my lips together and stared at the fire.
After a minute of frosty silence on my part, the man addressed me again, his tone now perfunctory. "Are you hungry, Alice? I can have something prepared for you."
"No thanks," I said shortly, although my stomach was actually cramping with hunger pains. I had no idea how long ago my last meal had been.
"Very well, we shall have a drink."
"No, really, I'm fine." I don't want to be more of a nuisance than you obviously already regard me, I thought sourly.
Ignoring me, he moved over to a rosewood drinks cabinet and took out a cut-crystal decanter containing a liquid of a rich, burnt-umber hue and two short-stemmed, tulip-shaped glasses. He poured out a generous measure into each glass and conducted them gracefully over to where I still knelt.
"Hors d'Age Bas-Armagnac, 1910," he murmured, proffering one to me. "It is superb."
His expression brooked no refusal, so I accepted the glass from him, taking as much care as possible not to let my fingers brush his.
"It's wasted on me," I said. "I don't like spirits." I was surprised at my own conviction. How odd that I could know that, without actually remembering anything about myself.
"You will like it," he briefly replied.
He seemed to be waiting for me to drink.
I had an idea that I was supposed to take a small sip and slowly savour the subtleties and layering of flavours, but I wasn't going to make a pretence just because an insufferable snob was looming over me.
I brought the glass to my lips and took a large, clumsy gulp.
Hopefully he hasn't put a date-rape drug in it, I thought, coughing and tearing up a little as the burning liquid hit the back of my throat. I wasn't too sure about the flavour, which seemed awfully strong and spicy and smokey...but then a lovely warm glow began quickly spreading through every part of my body, warming my insides as thoroughly as the fire was warming my outside.
"Oh," I whispered, blissfully, thankfully. "It's...it's like..." I couldn't find the words.
I looked up at the man - Lucius - and for the briefest moment I thought I saw a flash of that same white-burning hatred I had beheld before. But I blinked and it was gone. A mocking smile touched the corners of his mouth: his eyes derided but did not detest.
I must have imagined it.
He lifted his glass towards the lambent flames, swirling it slowly. "Like 'liquid fire and distilled damnation'," he said softly, evidently quoting.
I nodded. That was pretty much it.
I was getting sleepy now. Exhaustion was steadily, seductively seeping into my limbs, stifling my brain. I made a rather unsuccessful attempt at muffling a yawn. "Would it be alright if I... I mean, is there a couch or something that I could sleep on, tonight?" I asked awkwardly.
"There is a guest suite," he replied. "I will take you to it presently."
I felt so heavy. So tired. Maybe he had drugged me, after all... My body swayed forward slightly, a little too closely to the fire. A firm hand gripped my shoulder, drawing me back. "Steady, Miss Carroll. We don't want you falling into the flames, do we?"
I suddenly realised he was still touching my shoulder and I felt my body stiffen as a prickly, hot flush overspread my face. At some point he had removed his gloves and his hand rested, bare skin on skin, between my neck and dress-strap. It was warm, unexpectedly so, all at odds with his icy demeanour. My whole body began to tingle alarmingly, galvanising me into a state of exquisitely self-consciousness confusion...
I dropped my glass.
It happened with a slow-motion inevitability: my trembling hand simply lost its hold on the stem of the wine-glass, over-balancing it towards me, spilling the remaining drink all over my dress before tumbling to the ground and smashing on the marble hearth.
I gave a small cry of dismay. Mortified, eyes burning, I bent down and blindly tried to gather the pieces of the broken vessel up, muttering apologies.
"What are you doing, you foolish girl?" I heard the man snap, with irritation rather than concern. "You are cutting your fingers." He knelt and grasped my wrists in his hands, preventing me from scrabbling about the shards of broken crystal any longer.
"I'm sorry about the glass," I said, eyes fixed on the floor. "I'll pay for it, of course—"
"Do not speak nonsense," he cut me off sharply. "Show me your hands."
My fists were balled, but I opened them at his insistence. There were some small cuts stinging my left fingers and a deeper gash on my right palm which was throbbing and trickling a trail of bright scarlet.
For some moments the man gazed down at my bleeding hands, his expression a harsh, stony blank. Then he sighed and shook his head, as if thoroughly unsurprised by my clumsiness. He muttered a word through gritted teeth, but I didn't catch it. Clearly, it was no complimentary term. He brushed away a couple of crystal fragments from my bleeding palm with his thumb.
I barely noticed the twinge of pain, suddenly overwhelmed by this new, too intimate proximity—him leaning so closely over me, the gentleness of his touch on my hand, the iron inflexibility of his grip encircling my wrist...my heart was thumping and I was sure he must be able to feel the corresponding flutter beneath his fingers. My senses were inundated, ambushed, by a complexity of hypnotic scents: his aftershave: subtle, expensive, ozonic. The woody spice of the Armangac on his breath. And his skin. It smelled...warm. Was it actually possibly for skin to smell warm?
I bit my lip. What the hell was wrong with me? Here I was: lost, amnesiac, covered in scratches and bruises, stuck with glass and bleeding all over the place—and all I could think about was how incredible this man smelled? A man who had recently tried to throttle me, no less? ...I must have banged my head really badly.
The man reached inside his robe and took out a silk handkerchief. He deftly wrapped it around the palm of my right hand and knotted it securely. Then he stood up, still holding my hand tightly, bringing me with him. "Come along, Alice," he said, his voice fairly dripping with condescension. "I will show you to your room."
I wobbled on my feet for a moment, the blood going to my head, making me dizzy. I felt like a silly, chided child.
He escorted me back into the corridor. I now saw that the walls were hung with lavish tapestries and huge gilt-framed paintings, although despite the grandness and splendour, it somehow still managed to feel dingy and very bleak.
We passed a painted portrait of a medieval-looking woman with luminously pale skin and pointy features. She was beautiful, with a fine-boned, glacial loveliness, but her expression was unutterably disdainful.
Obviously an ancestor, then.
The artist had captured her in such a clever, subtle way that it almost felt like her eyes were moving, following us... It was hard to take my gaze off those eyes...they were compelling...mesmerising...
Suddenly, horribly, the eyes rolled back then forward, the pupils changing to narrow black slits in a veiny yellow surround. The portrait bared its teeth at me—teeth that were pointed like fangs and oily with blood—and hissed like a snake.
I shrieked, stumbling backwards into my host. I heard him softly curse, thrusting me back upright, but I couldn't regain my balance, my head was spinning and my throat clammed up with pure terror. I couldn't breathe, my legs had somehow liquified, and I was falling.
I tried to clutch onto something, anything, but all I felt was air, nothingness and air...and I was tumbling down, down into the darkness.