Chapter Twenty-Seven
I don't feel any pain.
I probably shouldn't find it funny that it's the first thought that comes to mind. A smile tightens on my face before I can help myself, though, and maybe that says something about me. I guess it just means I'm just one of those glass half full types, the ones that find the joy in everything.
I almost laugh, but this really isn't the time for it. No, first I need to figure out why I'm not feeling any pain. If I'm lucky, I've only blacked out for a few moments, and I can still stop Sadon. Maybe my injuries weren't as bad as I thought, or a burst of adrenaline has kicked in. Whatever it is, I need to know so I can figure out how to use it to save Zane, Seth, and whatever's left of Ionia.
So, I concentrate inward, searching for the hint of any exhaustion, soreness, or aches in my body.
I feel zero pain.
Confusion and panic strikes me as I realize that not only am I not in pain, but I feel great. There's not an ounce of anything but excited energy within me, my muscles eager to be used like I've been sleeping for a long time. My mind is clear, each thought crisp and quick, and my eyes snap open in alarm.
I expect to open my eyes and see… well, any of a number of things really. Maybe I would still be out in the courtyard, still able to stop Sadon. That, or maybe I would see the sterile, bleached color of an infirmary or hospital, somehow having survived and being treated.
Instead, I open my eyes and I see the last thing I could have expected.
I open my eyes, and I find myself laying in the alleyway where my life changed. Cobblestone walls of the surrounding buildings, the soft, dirt ground I lay on, and even the dark, overcast weather with the threat of rain are what I see. Everything is in pristine detail from that day, like some sort of sick joke, and even my clothes have changed back to my old school uniform.
I stand up quickly, my breathing picking up, looking around. The alley is empty except for a few boxes and crates placed haphazardly along the walls. I slowly back up to one of the walls, head snapping back and forth as I try to figure out what's going on.
That's when I notice the alleway isn't perfectly the same as I remember. No, it's wider and elongated, either side stretching off so far into the distance that I can't see it's end. I stare into the foggy darkness, and then I start sprinting towards it. I don't know what's going on, but I can't be here.
So, I run, my heart sending nauseating spikes of dreadful memory into my throat.
Instead of the alley turning back to the main road, it seems to just stretch on endlessly. I push my legs harder, sprinting as fast as I can, but the darkness only gives way to more and more familiar looking alleyway. I run and run, knowing it has to stop eventually.
It doesn't.
I don't know how long I run, but I don't stop until my breath is gone, my legs buckling underneath me. Even then, I only take a moment to catch my breath, desperate to find a way out.
I look at the walls again, preparing a spell to help my jump over the wall. I look up in horror as I notice the walls seem to have grown taller too, and I can't see if they end either, the stonework stretching into the darkness of the sky.
A hiccuping gasp escapes me, despair filling me. I'm trapped. I'm trapped in my worst nightmare all over again. One moment I'm fighting Sadon, and the next I'm back here. Again. This place is the definition of my own personal hell, and I'm trapped in it with nowhere to run, and nowhere to go.
"It says a lot," a familiar voice says from behind me. "That you would describe this place as such."
I flip around, lifting my hand with clenched teeth and furious eyes as I call forth as much magic as I can, getting ready to throw a blast of pure force at the source. A man stands there in a long, black hooded coat that falls to his knees, dark pants and boots covering the rest of him. His hands are clasped in front of him, covered in pure light strips of cloths, like bandages wrapped into gloves. I aim at his head instinctively, and-
And my concentration shatters, the magic energy within me dispelling in a blast of my aura.
The man wears a mask exactly the same as the image branded on my back. It's even a duplicate of the mask I wore when I saved Kyle it has the streaks coming down the eyes, the ones added by Kor to my back to represent tears, and they're even colored blue. The eyes of the mask are filled with shadows, and the only light that reaches them is that of his crimson colored eyes, a faint glow emanating from them.
I reach for my sword and find nothing. Right, I'm back in my school uniform. I lift a hand, but I don't dare to create a spell, not with the horrible, throbbing terror that turns my muscles to sand and bones to ash. I've been scared and still cast spells before, but this is beyond that. This is a living nightmare. How am I supposed to focus my thoughts when the sum of all my fears is standing right in front of me?
I raise my hand anyway, my entire body trembling. I try to steady my arm by gripping it tight with my other, but it only makes the shaking worse as I grind my teeth together, blood pumping through me as my heart pounds painfully.
"Stay back," I whisper meekly.
The nightmare slowly lifts either hand in a gesture of surrender. He blinks, the darkness consuming the eye sockets of his mask as the the bright red irises and whites of his eyes are briefly covered. Even that simple motion is enough to make me take a step back though, and I almost fall as my leg gives out.
"I'm not here to hurt you," it says, folding his hands behind his back.
His voice is deep and somehow familiar, the faint hint of some unnatural distortion changing it just enough that I can't put my finger on it. Nevertheless, his words carry the weight of absolute truth. I don't understand how, but he says it like he's stating a fact. It only scares me more, though, and it takes me a few long seconds to find my words.
"Where am I?" I ask, my voice wobbling dangerously. "What is this place?"
The thing sighs, looking around. Even with his face hidden, his eyes still somehow take on a grim, almost sad look as they dim. He walks over to one of the walls, putting a hand against it with a long sigh, and then growls with frustration or maybe exhaustion, the distortion in his voice making the sound hard to distinguish between the two.
"Isn't it obvious?" the nightmare man asks solemnly. "This is our prison. This is where we dwell. This is your mind. This, Aria, is you."
Our prison?
My mind?
Me?
"No!" I shout, my confusion and anger spilling out. Rejection hotter than melted steel fills me, as I shake my head furiously. I try not to look weak, to keep up my strong front towards this creature, but I can't help myself. I start to cry, my chin wobbling as my shaking arms feel heavy.
"This is not who I am," I say, more to myself than him as I desperately try to gain control over myself.
"No, it's not," he agrees with a nod. "But it is a part of who you are. One shard of many."
"No," I say again. "This is what they wanted me to be. I will not be this."
"You can't keep running away from this," the masked man warns.
"Of course I can," I insist, the knuckles around my right arm turning white. "I will forget about this."
"I wish that were true," he admits, looking down to the ground. "But it won't happen. It can't."
"You don't know that!" I snarl, still trying to control my shaking hand.
"Yes, I do," he whispers.
"How?" I challenge, muscles tightening even more. "You don't know me! This isn't even real! I remember where I was! This is just some trick, some sort of sick Noxian torture! You're not even real so how could you possibly know anything about me?"
The nightmare slowly gives another sigh-growl, lifting a hand and pointing down the endlessly stretching alleway.
"Because this is your mind," it says sadly. "This place stretches endlessly. You can't outrun what you can't escape. Even if you don't admit it or let yourself think about it, this is always what it comes back to. You've been trapped here, in this place and moment, for a long time, Aria. You know I'm right."
I suck in a breath, clutching my hands to my ears as the words echo through my head like ringing steel. This… my mind…
I don't want to accept it. I don't want to admit that this is what the inside of my soul looks like now. I don't want who I am to just be a reflection of the worst moment of my life, but… it is, isn't it? Every decision I've made has been based on what happened that day more than a year ago. This… thing, it didn't just appear from nowhere, but the very first thing it said was based on something I was thinking. This has to be my mind.
So is this like a dream then? A world created by my thoughts and feelings? No, it's more detailed than a simple dream. Everything from the pounding pain of my heart to the prickling cold of the air is frighteningly vivid. This place must be my mind. How else could I be pulled from the middle of trying to fight Sadon, of trying to save Zane and Seth?
But if that's true, then what is this thing? No, more importantly, what is going on right now? Why have I been pulled from reality into my thoughts? I didn't create this place, not willingly, I was brought here, taken from the most important moment of my life.
What's happening to me?
I let my hands drop from my head, trying to stand up a little straighter in front of the man. His crimson eyes flicker in something akin to approval, giving me a nod. I take a breath, letting out as much tension as I can, my hot breath turning into mist in the cool air.
"Why am I here?" I ask, my voice steadying slightly. "What do you want from me?"
"You're here because I brought you here," the nightmare answers with his reverberating voice. "And the only thing I want is the best for you."
"How can I know that?" I challenge, fists tightening. "I don't know what you are or what's going on right now. How do I know this isn't some trick, some elaborate way to hurt me?"
"I would never hurt you," the figure responds solemnly. "That is the absolute last thing I want to do."
"If that were true," I hiss, a sudden spitfire rising in me. "Then you wouldn't have brought me here."
The masked man blinks for a moment, his head rocking back like I just slapped him. He looks away from me with something like shame, his eyes dimming.
"This… was necessary," he whispers.
"Necessary?" I say in disbelief. "It was necessary to talk to me here? If you meant any of what you just said, that this is my mind and you want to help me, then we wouldn't be here! I don't want this so why are we still here? Why can't I will this away?"
"Because I'm trapped here, and as much as you don't want to admit it, you are too."
I stiffen, swallowing as my mouth suddenly feels very dry.
"This is your mind," the nightmare continues. "Your thoughts and very soul linger here, the only thing keeping you from noticing that is what you can occupy yourself with. You try to run, to think of anything but this, and the faster you go, the easier it is for you to forget where you are. The thing is, you'll never stop running, Aria, because this is a part of you."
His words hit me right in the gut, and I stifle a groan as almost physical agony pulses through me. There's power in his words because he speaks the truth, even if I don't want to accept it. I want to reject everything here, him, his words, this place, but my very bones ache in resonation with what he says.
I trust him. There's no logical reasoning behind it, but from the very moment he began speaking, his words have just felt true. The only suspicion in me is that built of sorrow and hate because I don't want him to be right. I don't want to be here because it is my mind, and my memories and very thoughts have been more of a prison than a home.
"This is our prison."
My racing thoughts stop suddenly as if I hit a brick wall, a slow, deep fear crawling over me. Earlier, he called this "our prison." If this is my mind, and my prison, then…
I open my senses up, reaching out around me. I shouldn't feel anything from the stonework, but I do. It feels like my aura, my magic. This is my mind, after all, so it should feel like this. So this man must be a part of me too, my subconscious or something. He'll feel the same, maybe a bit stronger and brighter, but still only my aura. So I cautiously reach towards him, and-
A sick, nauseating feeling rolls through me, robbing me of warmth and strength as I'm almost brought to my knees. I double over, nerves screaming out in danger at just brushing his aura, it's power deeper than an ocean. The only thing I feel from him is a sense of hungry hollowness, a need to consume and never stop. His very aura wants to feed, but that's not what makes me recoil so heavily.
It's the fact that it feels just as familiar as my own aura.
"What are you?" I ask, my throat tight in the sharp silence.
The man lets out a sigh, eyes closing briefly as he relaxes.
"Finally," he chuckles, more relieved than amused. "You ask the right question."
He walks to the alley wall, reaching out a hand and placing it gently against the brick. The stone ripples, and then the whole section changes, becoming clear like glass.
"Come," he motions me over. "It's easier if I show you."
"Show me what?" I ask.
"Why you recognize me," it answers. "Even though it's been so long."
I swallow. It's not fear that grips me so much as uneasiness. Still, there's no point in refusing. If this creature brought me here, pulling me from the middle of the most important fight of my life, then he's powerful. This may be my mind, but that doesn't mean I'm safe here. The thoughts of others don't bother me, but my own are razor sharp, their targets as fickle as the wind.
I walk forward, carefully watching the masked nightmare and the wall simultaneously. It isn't until I stand almost right next to the man that the mirror like surface changes, color swirling into images. Even as I watch, the image solidifies and starts to move, but no sound comes from it. My breath catches as I recognize the place, my throat tight. Painted on the wall in front of me is my old school, two children sitting against a wall in the courtyard. Both look shaken and uncertain, staring awkwardly at the ground in front of them as their mouths move, a silent conversation taking place.
I stare at the replaying of me meeting Kyle for the first time, the day he saved me with magic from smashing my head on the rocks in the courtyard after Damon pushed me through the frail wooden railing. It plays out in front of me, and I see the moment I ask Kyle about his magic, the defeated face he gets only sickening me now even if my past self winces in empathy. The memory shown on the wall is vivid, just as detailed as the memory-dream I had after I passed out during the aptitude test.
As I watch, a familiar looking figure in a black cloak and robe passes by us, and the image freezes even as my mind screams in sudden realization.
Every single memory-dream, I always had the feeling that something wasn't right, that something that happened in the dream didn't actually happen, and now I know what it was:
In every single one of my memory-dreams, I've seen this familiar, black cloaked figure. This figure, the same as the one who now stands next to me, wasn't there in reality. This masked man, this nightmare creature, he added himself to my memory-dreams, always making sure to be there.
The image on the wall begins flashing, changing between scenes and showing me where he was hidden within each dream.
My second dream, Kyle and I were walking through the city, right before he asked me if I really didn't hate Noxians. We passed by homeless Ionians, barefoot orphans by a bakery, and before all of that some shady figures, thieves probably, and the cloaked man who stood amongst them.
The cloaked figure is painfully obvious in my third dream. He was the customer at the mask stand, the one who walked away, a mask similar to the one I picked in his hand.
My fourth dream, the true nightmare, as Kyle led me through the rain I almost tripped over the nightmare man where he sat.
My last dream, he was one of the spectators as I walked to school, watching me as a drunk almost stumbled into him.
The masked man, shrouded by a simple hood, was there in every single one of my dreams, but looking back, he wasn't there in reality, not in my actual memory. There was no cloaked figure who walked past Kyle and I. There was never a cloaked figure among the shady figures and thieves Kyle and I saw. There was no customer before me whose mask was similar to the one I bought. I never almost tripped over anyone following Kyle through the rain. The drunk was just stumbling around, there was no cloaked man he almost stumbled into.
This thing next to me was in every dream. Which means-
"You," I whisper, unable to tear my gaze away. "You're the cause of the dreams I've been having, you made me relive the moments that led up to… why? Why have you been torturing me?"
"If I wanted to cause the dreams," the distorted voice confirms. "Then I had to be there, to reveal myself in some way. I've been here for a long time, Aria, you just didn't want to think on it. Even though you knew something was wrong, that I wasn't really there, you still couldn't bear to look back and figure it out."
His hand falls from the wall, the mask turning back to me. I look at him, trying to remind myself that he can't really hurt me here, that this is my mind, but I suddenly feel a lot less secure knowing that he's been the one orchestrating these memory-dreams, playing with my mind.
"You still haven't answered any of my questions," I stutter, trying not to shake. "What are you? Why have you been doing this? What do you want?"
"I'm the answer to the question you've had for more than a year now. I've been doing this because I want you to be powerful, because you're in danger, and I won't let you die. I want you to achieve your full potential and stop being afraid of yourself."
He snaps his fingers, the sound shattering the stone of the wall rips apart, fissures and indents forming with a loud crack. The broken indentation in the stone forms the same pattern as the man's mask, as the mark tattooed in ink black scar tissue on my back. It's carved in immaculate detail, every sharp tooth and cruel curve in perfect form with the mask.
"That day is where the answers are," the man says softly. "This is the piece of the puzzle you've been missing."
"I don't unders-"
"That day," he interrupts. "They tried to seal away your magic. That symbol on your back was made to stop you from using magic, to put it in a prison fueled by itself, but you and I both know how that turned out. Your magic was changed, it stopped taking heat from everything around it, and it no longer made your sickness appear unless you used certain magics. There's a reason for that, Aria."
Everything starts to slow down for me, my senses seeming far away. The only thing I hear is my heartbeat, the blood pumping through me, and his steady voice telling me a truth I already know but don't accept.
"The reason you can still use magic is because you were born different. Your sickness stems from the fact that your blood was corrupted by the void in your mother's womb. You tried to tell yourself that it wasn't a part of you, that the void inside of you was just some kind of sickness, but it's so much more. I tried to tell you in your dreams, to prepare you for this moment, Aria."
Wait.
"Something was sealed away that day they burned that mask's visage into your back."
No, that's not-
"You can still use magic because an essential part of it was sealed away, not because your magic was so powerful or because your mana was so deep."
I don't believe-
"I told you to remember your origin, and I was talking about more than just why you are the way you are today."
Everything stops.
"That day, they chose to put a mark on you that was based off a mask, a mask that represents the voidborn. They may have intended to seal away all your magic, but you and I both know how important symbols are, how the physical affects the intangible. Those novices played with dangerous, complicated magic, Aria. Did you truly expect them to be able to separate that symbol's meaning with what their true will was?"
He looks at me, his red eyes looking down in shame and disdain.
"Your sickness isn't a disease," it says softly. "It's part of your origin. They tried to seal away your magic, and the symbol directed it right to the source: the void energy running through your blood."
I close my eyes.
For the longest time, I've feared hearing those exact words. Every fiber of my being has fought the idea that somewhere inside, a part of what makes me who I am is void magic. Void energy, the destroyer of everything, the very opposite of life itself, and it's part of me. It is me.
My head throbs at the very idea, a pressure building up that threatens to crack my skull. It hurts so much, and I know the only reason it does is because it's the truth. It makes too much sense not to be.
My magic used to take the very heat, the energy, out of the things around it. My origin, the source of my magic, isn't ice or cold. It's void, absorbing and consuming the things around it to make itself more powerful. My purple aura stained with black… the color of void magic.
"Your mother was attacked by cultists of the void," the masked man continues, and I find myself opening my eyes to a blurry, tear soaked world. "She tried to save the both of you. The void magic in her threatened to kill you, and the healer must have realized there was only one way to save you from it's hunger. The spell put on you merged the void energy with your own. Aria, your sickness, the reason you are so frail, why your mind gets clouded with dark thoughts the more you use your magic, it's all because the void flows in your very blood."
A shaky breath dislodges the tears from my eyes, and I begin to see clearly again. His explanation makes sense. Void energy running through my blood, ebbing my life force to keep itself alive… no wonder my bones break easily, why I'm so thin. There's something inside literally feeding off my life, like some kind of twisted parasite. Mana, formed within one's self, in one's blood… of course my magic would be touched by the void.
So much makes sense now. How I used to get cruel and grim after using magic, how Fairfax, Zane, Akira, and my mom would force me to take the medicine right after I practiced or got hurt.
Wait. The medicine?
"My medicine," I gurgle, bile quickly rising in my throat. "That wasn't medicine, was it?"
"Now you know why," he says gently, "in all your days of watching Zane duel, of fighting here at the academy, in your whole life, not once have you even blinked at the sight of blood. That red, thick liquid you thought was medicine was your mother's blood, given so your void magic could feed off that instead of you. By drinking her blood, the void magic inside of you was sated without having to feed off of you. It doesn't bother you, it focuses you, because a part of you realizes what it really is: food."
It starts to rain.
It comes from nowhere, thunder cracking the sky open and pouring out rain in thick, constant sheets that soak into me. I slowly lift a hand, too sickened with shock to do anything else, looking at the rain as it weeps off my skin and clothes.
It's all red.
It's raining blood.
I blink, and it's gone as suddenly as it came, literally disappearing from existence like it never happened. Neither I or the man in front of me is soaked, and the alley is dry as it was before.
"I hate it when it rains here," the masked man whispers. "In your mind, I mean. I can withstand overcast, but the rain… the turmoil inside you… I can't take how much it hurts."
He's silent after that, and I use the moments to process. Everything he says makes sense to me. All my knowledge of magic, of the void, of my experiences… I don't understand how I couldn't have figured this out before. It was right in front of me the whole time, so how could I not see it?
No. It's not that I couldn't see it, it's that I didn't want to. I've spent so much effort and energy running from what happened to me. I never wanted to think about it, and so I never found the truth. The worst day of my life, the day everything changed, it was also the day I got the final piece of the puzzle, the day I could have figured out what I really am.
A monster.
I stare at the man, a deep numbness coming over me as I force myself to just stop fighting and accept the truth. It hurts. It cuts deeper than any blade, hits harder than any hammer, and burns hotter than any fire, but it's the truth. It's what I am.
"Aria," the masked man asks. "Are you alright?"
He asks with genuine concern, but I still almost break out into laughter. It wobbles inside of me, threatening to break my whatever self-control I have left into panic. I manage to hold on though, giving the man a nod as I go back to the numb shock of acceptance.
"Everything you've said," I say, my voice empty. "It's… the clues have always been there, haven't they?"
"I haven't told you anything you couldn't or haven't figured out for yourself," he nods. "Only things you've so deeply forsaken into the depths of your mind, things that only your subconscious knew."
"Is that what you are?" I ask, more to keep there from being quiet than actually caring. "Are you my subconscious?"
"Not really," the figure responds. "But you already figured out that much already, haven't you?"
"Normal people don't get pulled into memory-dreams or discussions with their subconscious," I nod. "Which means you're something else. Something that's still a part of me, but… different."
"A part that has been separated?" he suggests. "Or maybe sealed away. Maybe something that only formed when it was necessary. Tell me, do you remember what led to our first encounter?"
My mouth runs dry. The Magical Aptitude Test. I was channeling all my magic when I passed out from exertion and… no, that's not entirely right either. I frown, combing through the memories of that day, that moment. Just before I passed out, there was a snap. Almost like-
Almost like the spell was designed to pull every ounce of energy from the user after certain amount of time.
"That test wasn't just designed to root out Ionian mages to be killed in Noxian battlemage training," I say quickly. "It was designed to kill Ionian mages who would be too powerful, who might actually make it through the training."
"And so, after a certain amount of time, if the participant lasted long enough…" he starts.
"The orb would snatch every remaining ounce of magical energy from them," I finish. "It would look like they pushed themselves too far, that their body couldn't take the rigor of channeling that much energy."
"So the real question," the man nods approvingly. "Is what would happen if a participant had part of their original magic, the very power of their soul, sealed away within themselves?"
I blink.
"I survived that test because my void magic, my origin, was sealed, no, seperated from me by the symbol in my back?"
He doesn't answer. Right. My mind, so I already know the answers, even if I haven't considered them fully. So, instead of sealing my magic, they ended up separating the void magic from me, making it so I would have to mentally acknowledge it to use it. That explains why only certain spells, my offensive and ice spells to be exact, still summoned my sickness. I expect them to, so they do.
"So," I say, carefully putting everything together. "I was born with void magic corrupting me. It wasn't until the mark on my back that it was seperated from my blood and sealed away, basically taking away my sickness unless I expected the void magic's effects to return."
"Exactly," he says.
"But… that still doesn't explain you," I say, shaking my head. "I mean, you're some type of… manifestation, an entity created to speak to me, but the question is what are you a manifestation of? The void magic sealed away inside me?"
"You and I both know," it answers. "That magic has to be shaped. It has no will or purpose unless it is given one."
"But you're obviously made of that void energy," I push. "I can feel it radiating off you.
"It's no coincidence that you've felt hollow since that day, Aria," it breathes deeply. "Ever since that day, you've felt shattered because you are. I'm not some creature of the void, I'm a piece of you, the last piece left to pick up, and I don't want to be alone anymore. I want you to accept what happened to you so you can finally be whole again."
"What happened to me…" I whisper. "You mean… that day?"
"Aria," he pushes desperately. "It's not coincidence that things have turned out this way. You're a mage. Your thoughts have power, so what exactly do you think would happen if you constantly tried to separate yourself from that day? I wasn't formed because of the void's will to escape, I was formed because you willed me into existence. Memories can't be destroyed, but that doesn't mean they can't be reshaped."
I stare in shock.
"Your every thought for this past year has been to deny what happened to you, to forget the agony and sorrow and shame. You've ignored and pushed those things with all your being, refusing to accept them. That's what I am, Aria. I formed using the sealed away void energy because it was the only source you weren't using, the only place I could find refuge."
He stands up a little straighter, looking away from me with a lost expression in his eyes.
"I am fear, pain, sorrow, shame, anger, anxiety. I am everything you felt and everything you've felt because of that day. I am what you have refused to accept. I am that tragedy and every effect it has or could have had on you."
My chest aches, my heart breaking against my ribs. Every breath feels serrated, the air carving out my lungs. Tears form, blinding my vision with hot liquid even as I stutter, trying to find suitable words and reasons to deny him.
"This isn't…" I begin, voice cracking desperately. "Why? Why are you here?"
His eyes return to me, flickering as they drink in my pain.
"I'm here because your thoughts created me," he whispers softly. "You wanted to be separate from me, from that day. At first… I was fine with that. I was fine with being something abhorrent, being separate from you. You wanted it, to forget, and I did my best to help, absorbing any thought or trigger that might hurt you, being a silent guardian."
It slowly lifts its hands, the bandages wrapped around them trembling slightly as he curls them into fists and relaxes them again.
"Just like you, I thought it would help you, that you would heal," he says. "But you haven't, have you? No matter how I tried, memories of that day still seeped in. No matter how powerful I got, I couldn't prevent every trigger. That's when I began to realize that… maybe we were wrong. Maybe you can't heal by forgetting. Maybe… the way to get through this is to accept what happened, not deny it."
"No," I shake my head fiercely. "You're wrong. If I accept that day, if I let it change who I am, then they win. Don't you understand? Every ounce of pain, regret, and shame, it's what they wanted me to feel, and I will not let them get that. I. Am. My. Own."
"If that were true," he asks. "Then why haven't you forgotten yet?"
My eyes flutter, first with confusion and then with anger.
"What?" I spit out, clenching my teeth.
"It's been a year and some," he pushes gently. "And you still are trying so hard to not let what happened changed you, that you're doing exactly what they wanted."
"No-"
"No? No? That's interesting, because I don't remember you being terrified and sickened when someone touched your skin.
"Stop," I whisper.
"I don't remember you refusing to use magic for offense, so scared that you might hurt someone because you know pain like almost nobody can."
"Stop…" I try again.
"You may have been shy before, but you weren't scared into timidity, into only responding to people."
"Stop," I push desperately as pressure builds behind my eyes.
"I don't remember you seeing enemies everywhere, of refusing to consider anyone a friend, of watching everything, of always taking stock of a room so you know its exits and hiding places because paranoia and fear rule your mind."
I choke, clearing my throat with a guttural groan.
"I don't remember you hiding your back from people, so terrified by what's on it that you take measures beyond reason!"
"I said-"
"I don't remember you ever thinking of yourself as broken, as a sharp piece of glass that cuts anyone who tries to help you, as someone who has been corrupted and violated-"
"Stop!" I shriek, head pounding, and everything falls still.
Sweat forms on my brow with each heavy, too-quick breath, my hands trembling as I clutch my head. I try to will away the thoughts and headache, but the pain is in my bones, in the dark crevices of my mind. It whispers to me, just like this nightmare does, memories of just how much I've changed flashing through my head.
My soul hurts.
Because I have changed. I've tried so hard to not have been affected, to not let Kor and Kyle and the rest of them get what they wanted, but it's just as he says. Every action, thought, and choice has been governed by that day. I haven't forgotten anything. I've been living in that day for a long time. I can try to run from it, to deny and ignore it, but it doesn't change the fact that even if I can't see it anymore, it doesn't mean it's not still there.
"I don't want to be here," I say, more to myself than the nightmare of truths.
"Neither do I," he says, his voice cracking in sympathy. "But here we are."
I slowly take my hands from my head, looking back to the figure.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I ask. "If you really are a part of me, and you know how much I just want to forget, then why? Why are you hurting me?"
"Because it's time for you to heal, Aria," he urges. "And there's one last path I believe, that I know, will lead there. You need to accept what happened to you."
"What?"
"You can run from sorrow and agony forever, but then you'll be running your whole life, never able to rest again. That's how people survive, but if you want to live, then you need to accept what happened. Accept the betrayal, that you can only help someone so much until it comes down to their decision. Accept the shame that you feel everyday you get dressed, the embarrassment and disgust that fills you, but stop letting it define who you are. Accept that you're a victim, that something terrible happened to you, but don't ever forget that being a victim also makes you a survivor, someone who has been broken so they can be reforged stronger and more powerful than those who never suffer as you have."
"I don't want to let it change me," my voice wobbles, the words childlike and weak. "I don't want to be defined by what happened to me."
"Then don't. That's the beauty of suffering. You may not get to choose when or how it happens, but you certainly get to choose what you do with it. You can let it haunt you, as you have been, or you can use it to transform into something stronger. Change isn't bad, not necessarily, but if you don't accept the fact that you have been changed, that you've suffered and survived, then you won't get to choose how you change. You need to stop thinking of yourself as a victim, broken by the hurt, and start thinking of yourself as a survivor, made powerful by what you've overcome."
There's a melody in his words, a undertone of hope and faith that resonates with the very air, that tingles with power against my skin. He says things I've dreamed of, thoughts that have were slain by the constant despair. I want him to be right, I've wanted it so badly. It's my dream, my best case scenario, a shining star that I don't dare look at for too long for fear of seeing it disappear.
"This isn't anything new," he says. "Seth tried to tell you these things, but you still haven't fully accepted it. It's time, Aria. It's time to accept yourself for who you are, because who you are is beautiful."
"...you're not beautiful in spite of your scars, you're beautiful because of who you are, of what you've turned those scars into."
Seth's words echo in his, a truth that he may have accepted, but one I still haven't.
"Let him be right. Stop being defined by those scars, and start defining them."
I don't understand why, but something in me still wants to fight, to reject him. Maybe it's fear, or pride, or simply hurt, but it wants me to believe that I'm already too far gone. It makes me want to wallow, to stay in the darkness, to refuse what might just be what I've been longing for.
That's when I figure it out. It's easy. Staying under the control of despair and depression is easier than fighting it, because if I fight, I can fail, but if I let myself suffer, then I can't fail. I've fought for fifteen years of my life, and I'm exhausted, but maybe that's the thing about life. You never stop fighting, because if you do, then you stop having an effect. You stop mattering. You exist, but only to let things happen.
The thing is, I may be tired of fighting, but I've rested long enough. Exhaustion is nothing compared to the hate I have for the things I'm letting happen. I've watched as Xander sacrificed himself, as Molly wept, as Devon died, as Seth screamed in pain, and as my brother was hurt in front of my very eyes. Agony is being endured all around me, and I've watched because I don't want to feel pain ever again.
That's life, though. Life hurts, but that's how you know something really matters. Pain doesn't exist to be dwelt on, it exists to ignite a passion inside to overcome or be destroyed. Pain is a challenge, fear its shadow, warning of things to come, and shame is a reminder to never stop fighting, that something isn't right about what happened, that it needs to be fixed.
I've felt hollow a long time. I thought it was because something was taken from me, my happiness, my innocence, my dignity and purity, but that's only part of the truth. Those things may have been taken from me, but I've felt hollow because I haven't filled the hole they left with something stronger, something that can only grow from the burning ashes of good things taken too soon.
Now, though, I feel it. I feel it building inside me, a warmth like that of Seth's hand. Passion. It fills my emptiness, and it feels great. It feels like I've only just started breathing again, my head and heart sharp with focus, keen as a katana's edge.
I accept what happened to me, that I will never be the same, that I was changed, that I was tortured, that I was branded, that my life was in danger, that a mark of abhorrence mars my body, that I may never be considered "beautiful" by those who see who I am now.
I accept it all, because it's who I am.
I accept it, because now I can be so much more.
I accept it.
I look back up to see the man looking at me, and maybe it's just my imagination, but the mask he wears doesn't seem nearly as threatening as it once did, it's edges no longer sharp and hungry but detailed and intricate.
"Just remember, it's not something you choose to do once," he says. "It's a fight to just remember. The darkness inside won't ever stop whispering, telling you that you're not enough, not strong enough, that you don't deserve to be happy. This isn't a battle, it's a war. You might fail and forget, falling back into despair, but you need this moment, this foundation, to remember the right thing is almost never the easy thing to do."
I nod, a sour taste in my mouth. Even now, I can already feel the passion inside me flickering, but I won't let it go out. Not now. Maybe the darkness will snuff it out for awhile someday, but the thing about hope and truth is it can always rekindle, to reignite the fires of faith. Right now, though, I won't stop believing that I can be more, that I can be strong, that my scars no longer define me.
"Besides," it says. "As long as I exist, a piece of you is separated from your soul, and you'll never be able to feel true acceptance outside of this place where you have to face me."
"Wait," I say, a stopping at his first few words. "What do you mean 'as long as I exist?' You can't mean that-"
"Aria," he says, a somberness deep in his voice. "I am a piece cut from you, a piece made entirely from some of the worst, soul rending pain you've faced in your entire life. Ever second of my existence is defined by being only agony and despair. I don't want to exist anymore, not like this. The purpose of my existence is to make us whole again."
"But if I accept you and everything you mean," I push. "Then won't I just… won't you just be destroyed? If I stop trying to ignore and forget my past, won't it kill you?"
"Not exactly," it chuckles. "All I am is a manifestation of what you tried to destroy, a voice given to what already exists. If you accept me, then my purpose is fulfilled. I'll still be a there, just no longer a voice, no longer a creature. Instead of having to talk like this, you'll always be in touch with me. That is, if you still truly do want to accept everything that happened."
I chew the thought over for a moment, before I give a nod. I can mostly wrap my mind around that. It's complicated, but the things that are really important, the intangible matters of soul and thought usually are. I'm not going to destroy him, I just won't have to talk to him like this anymore because the emotions, memories, and thoughts he represents will be able to be directly available, a constant factor.
I guess that explains a lot about why he's doing this. It's not so much him trying to help me as it is me trying to help myself… or maybe him trying to help both of us so I can than choose to help myself… or something like that. The important part to remember is this isn't some person with their own motives and plans, this is just a piece of me trying to come back home.
Now that I can understand.
A shaky breath leaves me, eyes flittering closed for only a moment as I gather myself.
"Alright," I think out loud, because, well, this is my mind. "My blood and the void are mixed, and the reason why my body is so frail is because my blood doesn't have as much energy or life as it could because of the void in it, draining it. My sickness was separated when the mark was put on my back, drawing the void into a prison and leaving it's nature dormant in my blood. Finally, you were created by my will to forget the event, and you've used the void energy that's been stored to create a manifestation of yourself to help me become whole again."
"Yes," it nods. "So I caused those memory-dreams, to ease you into the truth that you need to accept what happened."
"Well," I sigh. "You certainly waited until the last moment to make your final case."
"It wasn't for lack of trying," he laughs. "But it wasn't exactly easy to get to this point."
I give a weak smile. I guess I haven't been the easiest person to work with. If only I had realized sooner, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe I could have saved Xander and Devon somehow, but I'm past that now.
"So what's next?" I ask. "What's the last step to accepting you?"
"That… is a less pleasant subject," he hesitates. "Perhaps it's better if I just show you.'
I frown as he walks past me, gesturing for me to follow. I do, but I'm not really sure where we're going if…
The distant fog begins to fade, and I see the end turn of the alley. I see the exit. I try not to rush ahead of him, but hope adds a spring to my steps, and I end up reaching it before he does, turning down the path and-
I stop, almost tripping over myself.
Instead of turning off onto the street, the alley opens up to the courtyard of the academy. Everything is exactly where it was before I was brought here, frozen in a grotesque painting. Sadon stands near the fountain, eyes closed as he basks in his victory, the grail glowing as it drains Ionia's mana. Zane lies on the ground with metal shrapnel sticking out of a dozen places, blood spreading around him. Seth is pinned to the ground by the spike in his hand, his face frozen in a twisted grimace. I can even see myself lying on the ground, my black hair shrouding my face.
"Thoughts are so much faster than the physical realm," the masked man startles me. "Everything is exactly as you left it, only a few seconds having passed."
I walk tentatively over to my body, everything feeling very surreal. I reach my form, still clothed in my black coat, leggings, and boots. I reach out a hand, to brush the hair away from my face.
"Don't," the man orders tersely, and I jerk my hand back. "Not unless you want to return without having accomplished anything."
"Right…" I say, standing back up slowly. "So what am I supposed to do then? To properly get back, I mean."
He lets out a slow, long sigh. He seems suddenly hesitant, taking his time to gather his words and I frown.
"The question you should be asking," he says slowly. "Is how to get rid of me."
"Okay," I start thinking. "So… I know you're a manifestation of my will, created to store the things I didn't want to face."
"That's how I was created," he nods. "But what am I made out of? What is my origin?"
My eyes widen, and whatever I was about to say only comes out as a choked little gasp.
He already told me. I formed him with my will unknowingly, but there had to be energy available to create him, a source that I wasn't using, that I was rejecting.
"Your origin… it's the same as mine… it's-"
"Void," he finishes with a nod. "The void sealed away in the mark on your back, separated from your blood. Aria, the only way to move forward isn't to just accept what happened to you, but to accept who you are."
"No," I shake my head quickly. "That's not-"
"I didn't bring you here just because your situation was dire," he interrupts. "I didn't do it because I wanted you to die accepting yourself. I brought you here because this is how I think you can survive. You've been fighting at half power, maybe even less, this whole time because you've refused to accept what you are."
Anger flashes inside me, an explosion of outrage and denial.
"What I am?" I say. "You mean not human, right? A creature of life and void mixed together. You want me to accept that I'm a monster?"
"I want you to accept that you are human."
I stop halfway through my next shout at him. The anger is still there, a wound reopened and bleeding, but his words still make me pause.
"Everyone has a darkness inside them," he says. "It whispers and tempts them to give in. Hate, greed, hubris, lust, whatever it may be, everyone has it, a force that can't be seen or created. Just as every mage has an origin to their magic, you could almost say everyone has an original evil, sin, temptation, or whatever you may call it. The thing is, you have been given an opportunity to physically use that darkness."
"You don't play with blades!" I shout. "Because they are made for killing! For death and destruction! No matter what you try to do with it, that fact will always remain! The void is infinitely more dangerous, and you want me to try and do the same?"
"A sword may be made to kill, but that doesn't mean it can't do good. Can you not defend yourself with a blade against those who mean you harm? Can you not repurpose a blade to cut thread or hair? Can you not use a blade to teach, to be used as a symbol?"
"It doesn't change the fact that it's made to do evil. That is its origin."
He chuckles to himself lightly, making me grind my teeth even harder.
"The thing is, you of all people should know the truth. It doesn't matter what the source of your power is, how it acts and behaves. What really matters is what you do with it. That's what determines if you're good or evil. Would you call fire evil? Fire that can warm your bones in winter? Fire that can burn someone alive? The great gift and curse of humanity is choice, and that's not something you can run from, not anymore."
I look away, hands clenched tight. I want to keep arguing with him, but how am I supposed to argue with myself and win? It's not like a part of me doesn't believe what he's saying, I mean, he is a part of me. It's just, the idea that something evil, that something bad can be used to do good is… is…
Is the biggest hope I don't dare to dream. The idea that all the bad things that have happened to me, the torment and loss, that it didn't all happen for nothing, that I can use it for something good… I've wished that for a long time. So why haven't I?
Because I'm scared.
I'm scared of what it might mean, of the idea that it's up to me, that it's my choice to make it good or bad. I'm scared of what it might mean for the future, that this is only the beginning of my trials. I'm scared that I'm not enough. Strong enough. Powerful enough. Kind enough. What if I can't? What if, instead of using the bad for good, I only end up becoming the very thing I loathe?
"The void is a part of who you are, Aria," he whispers. "It's part of your life, and nobody's life starts out good or evil. Void isn't the darkness that whispers to you, it's fear. Now is the time to be courageous, because if you let fear rule you, then it will be evil. Even if you never use your void magic, it will still have been evil because you never tried to use your full potential. because you were scared."
I look down at my feet, and I don't know what to say.
I don't know what to say because my heart aches, my bones almost giving out in relief that I've finally faced the truth.
We sit in silence for a long time. I process and think and make excuses and regret and finally…
"I understand," I say, my voice barely a whisper.
A hand squeezes my shoulder gently. It doesn't make me feel any more uncomfortable than if I were to have done it myself, and a hiccuping breath escapes me, the kind you get when you're on the verge of absolute panic and insanity. All I want to do is run, to find a single reason to reject everything, but that's also how I know I'm doing the right thing. It's scary, harder than any spell I've ever tried before.
But it's time to start fighting and to stop running.
"Alright," I say, still shaky. "What do I have to do?"
"You need to break the seal," he says, hand dropping away. "It sealed away the void inside of you, taking away your sickness and a lot of your power. If you can break that seal and you start using the magic that you've been hiding and ignoring, you might just have a chance at stopping Sadon."
"Is that even possible?" I ask. "I mean, breaking the seal. The mark was put on me with the purpose of being a magical seal, and they used magefire to make the symbol. I know all magic can be undone, but this is on a completely different level of complexity and power."
"Then I guess it's a good thing that you've already created the means to access it once again." he murmurs, and I give him a confused look.
"What do you-"
You.
My eyes widen, and he chuckles.
"I was made from your will to forget," he nods. "But I formed out of the sealed void magic. I'm part of both worlds in you, made by your humanity from your void. I'm the bridge."
I'm beginning to think that there's no such thing as coincidences. Maybe things do happen for a reason, even if you never figure it out. That, or maybe my luck is finally catching up to me, and I'm finally seeing the results of enduring the bad for so long.
Whatever the reason, I'll take it.
"So how does this work?" I ask, nervous anticipation flooding over me.
"Fairly easily, I would think," he says. "You just need to do something that symbolizes the fact you want to stop running from your past and origin. What's the first thing that comes to mind?"
"Easy," I answer. "I'll just put on the mask you're wearing."
For the first time since I've arrived here, he freezes, utterly speechless. His eyes blink a few times, and he looks away.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why?" I ask. "I mean, it makes sense, finally putting on the mask that has its visage branded on my back seems like it would-"
I trail off, looking at him closer. He seems incredibly nervous and hesitant the more I go on, and I realize that it's not the plan he's scared of, it's what I might see.
"What form did you take?" I ask cautiously. "Who are you underneath the mask?"
"Someone who you've been trying to forget about for a long time."
I swallow, my heart suddenly heavy, each beat a basso thump echoing through my body. More than a few ideas spring to my mind of who he might look like, and all of them mean something. He wouldn't have that form if it didn't, and everything here is a symbol for something.
"Take off the mask."
He reaches up, grabbing the bottom edge. It has no straps keeping attached to his face or anything like that, but it still takes a firm tug to begin slipping it off, whatever magic was keeping it there hesitant to let go. The mask dislodges after a moment, and he takes in a nervous breath. Then, he pulls the mask away.
My world stops.
He has a mop of black hair and thick stubble covering his refined face, his eyes glittering with uncertainty and something else. Happiness, maybe? Regardless, he has the face of a soldier, just unkempt enough to betray his profession while still being good looking. A touch of humor hides in what otherwise might be cold corners, and it adds a warmth to him.
I stare at him. It's a face that I shouldn't recognize, not with how long it's been, but I do. Every inch of me resonates that I know who he is, a fluttering hope tightening my throat as my eyes begin to water. I drink in every detail, and I start to spot the small resemblances that betray the truth strangling my heart.
"Daddy?"
He smiles, and my heart melts.
I throw my hands around him, choking as I sob. His arms wrap back around me, and I hold him tight. I weep in his embrace, a forgotten yearning suddenly turning every muscle into jelly. He says nothing for a long time, but I hear a few suppressed sniffs and coughs from him as emotion floods through me.
My father. He left before I was even three, too early for me to clearly remember his face or anything else about him really. I don't understand how it's possible or how I just know it's him, but I do. I see his face, and I know it's the face of my father who I never got to truly meet, to talk to, to joke with, to make proud.
My head swims as I let out a gasping, crying laugh, and I squeeze him tighter.
"Aria," he says quietly. "I'm… just an image of… you know I'm not really him… right?"
"Yeah," I whisper, my eyes squeezed shut. "But that's enough."
His embrace tightens.
I want it to last forever, this feeling of having my father back, even if it isn't real. I know it can't that things way more important are going on that the love of a father and daughter, but at the same time I don't care. Even if it isn't really him, even if he just looks like my expectation of who my father was, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because for the first time in maybe my entire life, the regret of not having ever gotten to even see my father is gone.
We hold each other for a long time.
Then I force myself to let go and pull away.
I wipe my face with my sleeves, and I can't help but smile up at him. He returns it, his eyes glittering with emotion.
"Thank you," I say. "For everything."
He just nods a few times, gathering himself back up as he stares down at the mask in his hands.
"It's not over yet," he says with an almost sad smile. "But I know that you are the only one who can stop this."
"A human with void in their blood," I murmur, a small smirk forming. "A human who has blood as a part of their origin. I wonder if that makes me a vampire."
"Do you have pointy teeth?" he frowns.
"No," I answer, checking with my tongue just to make sure.
"Do you turn to ash in the sunlight? Have no heartbeat? Burn at the touch of silver? If so, that necklace was a very poor choice in gifts from your father."
"No," I say exasperated. "But I'm pale as death and apparently have been drinking blood as medicine this whole time."
"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffs. "Corpses are much paler than you."
I give him a look, and he smiles back innocently.
I sigh.
"Alright, whatever," I say, shaking my head. "Just hand me that mask already."
His smile deepens, and he holds it out. I reach out a hand, taking it from him. It feels unnaturally strong, but also familiar. I run my fingers over the painted tears, the sharp teeth, and cruel eyes, not sure what I'm expecting to happen. It just feels like a mask, and even if the very sight of it still sends chills through my bones and make my heart quake, it's nothing I haven't faced before.
I take a deep, steadying breath as I flip it around and begin to raise it to my face. I stop after a second, looking up at the man one last time.
"Do you really think this will help?" I ask. "That accepting everything will really change anything."
"I honestly don't know," he says softly. "But I believe that once you make this decision, that you decide to start using not only your original magic, but also the full force of all three branches that make it up, it's going to be a whole new fight on Sadon's hands."
"The three branches…."
"Come now," he smiles. "You've had a suspicion on what they were for a long time."
"If my origin is void…" I trail off. "Then, the direct effects of it would be… ice?"
"The nature of the void is to consume, to fill itself," he nods. "Your spells eat the very energy in the air, the heat. Ice and cold is sort of a cousin, in a way, a lack of heat that wants to be filled."
"So then my other two would be… well, one has to be blood."
"It sustains your magic," he agrees. "And keeps your sickness from killing you. You know your own blood at a very deep level. The way you think of enhancing your muscles with magic energy is very similar to that of blood magic. It shouldn't be hard for you to change your kinomancy spells on the fly to enhance your blood and muscles with energy instead of pushing more energy through them."
"So then that leaves… conjuration?"
"You certainly have a talent in what you've conjured already, even if you've refused to conjure that this whole time, and you've limited and changed your spells. Might I suggest recasting your current armor but in it's original form? The form you were going to use for what you were practicing for? Condensing your armor back to it's raw, powerful form and conjuring that…"
"I might stand a chance after all," I hardly dare to whisper.
"All's that's left," he says quietly. "Is to accept."
I give him one last nod, steadying myself.
And then I put the mask on.