As a rapturous voice escapes,
I will tremble a prayer.
And I'll beg for forgiveness
-AFI, "Silver and Cold"
The pace was set hard even without her awareness. For miles, the only thing that drove her thoughts were the constant, rhythmic beat of the horses' hooves as the distance between the monastery and themselves grew in bounds. The sun made its appearance, providing them all the light they could ever need at the expense of just asking for one's temperature to rise. The landscape sped by much the same as the sun did in the sky, a blur of features that despite her abilities, she could not recall.
She could not recall.
It was not until well after midday, a break and a meal completely and utterly forgotten in the hard pace that she had set that she finally slowed the horse. Thankful for the break, lathering profusely it was a wonder she hadn't ridden the horse into the ground. It wasn't wheezing beneath her but it was dangerously close to doing so. The blonde. Why hadn't she stopped them?
Slipping from the saddle without realization she looked around her. Eyes that were often attributed to a post sunset night looked about first in alarm, then confusion, before a slight bit of panic overtook their nature. In the distance she could see two riders; Phobos and Deimos she could automatically tell but where was the blonde? Turning she looked up ahead, perhaps the blonde had ridden ahead? But nothing of course, just further landscape and a soon to be setting sun.
Her hand went immediately to her head, nearly clutching it as a headache tore through it. Headaches could be commonplace, but never something like this had happened before. Either her mind was trying to escape, something was trying to get in her skull, or any combination of the two just magnified worse. Stumbling back, her body met with the horse's; a far more solid of mass that didn't move though it did wicker.
Hands then went to her, voices; male she could tell dimly, and she felt her world, already unsteady take a turn for vertigo. Down, or was it up? she went, feeling something underneath her that felt solid; not the horse, but far more unforgiving. Tears streamed up or down her face; she couldn't tell and didn't care, the pain slowly receding. She would have welcomed the pain if it meant the images wouldn't be there.
The images. They were the worst.
She saw herself talking with the sleepy, half dressed blonde. Herself waking up, dismayed to be curled up to the blonde's side who was still asleep. In front of the flames in a meditative pose. Standing in a training room with the blonde. Handling a sword with almost the same, if not more finesse than the blonde did. She saw herself avoiding the blonde, ignoring the looks that passed. Then she saw herself rising quickly from a chair, a sword held at the blonde's throat. Followed by another smashing into her temple hard enough that the blonde instantly crumpled to the floor unmoving.
By the Gods, what have I done? She immediately questioned herself, wishing for the pain back because that was easier to deal with. The emotional barrage of images and visions broke through her defenses, assaulting her essential being until all she could do was sob repeatedly against a strong shoulder. She wept, a sensation of feeling dirty, violated and used washing over her. To someone like her, a Priestess, it was not something she ever thought to feel, ever thought she would feel and that she did. That she did, that she had done these things for her mind so blatantly said she had left her ransacked by guilt.
Her face rose, shamed as she met Phobos' concerned look, shifting to find it mirrored by Deimos. She hadn't struck them, or had she? The images were mixing in with bits and pieces of things she had said to the blonde, callous words that perhaps she deserved but not in such a fashion. Or maybe she didn't deserve them at all; sure she was vague about all so many things such as her real purpose; taking her to the Moon, really? and if there was more to her than just her name and ability with a sword. But why? What would cause her to so strike out at her in such a vicious manner? Why would she have challenged her so, belittling and degrading her skills merely because she got the jump on her.
Because she knew that the blonde was not expecting it for one. She never thought she would be turned on much less betrayed in such a fashion. Anyone would be defenseless against such. She heard her voice, it sounded small, hollow, hardly like herself who was a stubborn, hotheaded Priestess. "We have to go back. We have to get her."
She saw the exchange that passed between their eyes, the silent judging despite their attempts not to. She hated it at once, immediately. This was why she did not confide in anyone. The only person she had was her grandfather, and he never once judged her in such a way as they did. Fuck, even the blonde probably judged her but she had the decency to hide it behind the reaction to her words. Anger began to replace despair, her temperament growing in lieu of guilt.
"It's too late to turn back now. The sun will be setting soon. The horse have ran too long today; they won't make it back." Phobos spoke, his voice low.
Practically, logistically, she could agree with such an assessment. It was late. The horses; seeing that Deimos was taking care of them, would not be able to make the trek without leaving them to the fate of the night. Practically and logistically yes, she could agree to such a thing. It made sense. It didn't mean however that she had to like it. Part of her, likely the emotional part that had been strung along and put through a battering, did not want to accept it. She wanted to go back, she wanted to apologize; her, apologize? She wanted to make sure the blonde was alright.
That she hadn't killed her.
A thousand deaths, or one murder.
It was a male's voice in her mind now, a voice she had never heard before. It belonged not to Phobos or Deimos, or to any warlord or scout or innkeeper or priest she had ever encountered. It was malicious, malevolent, evil, tainted. Wrong. Corrupting. It was a whisper, edged with madness. Sharply she looked up, so close was it, spinning around as though the owner of such a voice was standing right behind her.
There was nothing. How could a whisper feel so real, so tangible when all she had to go off of was just a feeling, a sensation and a cryptic series of words. A thousand deaths or one murder? What did it mean; she could prevent a thousand deaths just by one murder? Was possibly killing the blonde what she was meant to do, preventing herself, others; likely far more than just a thousand, from dying in return? Was a thousand lives worth one simple killing?
There is no sharp distinction between the real and the unreal.
The voice whispered again in her mind, accompanied this time by the same sharp pains of before. Instead of the images she had witnessed of acts committed, they were of the visions of before. The darkness, sweeping across the land. The despair, the absence of hope. Her hands immediately went back to her head again, a vain attempt to block them out perhaps, or drive them away. She wasn't sure, she didn't know. All she could do was gasp, close her eyes tightly and endure the maddening visions and prophecies.
All places, all things have souls. All souls can be devoured.
She was going to go insane. The realization hit her hard, like a bucket of cold water poured over her. In this case it was a waterskin, upended over her head. That hair as black as sin dripped, droplets that ran down her face in a pathway to depart did not stop the visions. It gave her a degree of clarity to understand what she was enduring was not real, but it did not make them stop. She didn't have control over herself, of herself, of anything yet. The images kept coming, wrenching at her, pulling at her piece by piece until she felt she would be ripped apart if she wasn't already.
The void sucks at your soul. It is content to feast slowly.
Something burned within her, flaring to life. From her toes all the way to her crown, she felt a slow fire that burned away all that lingered in its path. It traveled along her veins, infusing her blood with something. It wasn't corruption, nor was it something tainted. It felt like resolve, or memories. A feeling, a sensation. It triggered a memory, the vision of her following the blonde's orders of swordplay in the training room. The way her sword flickered and moved like an extension of her arm. A muscle memory, something marrow deep that she suddenly knew, without doubt or hesitation, she could…
She could…
You resist. You cling to your life as if it actually matters. You will learn.
Just as they were brought on the sensations of the voice and the visions faded, leaving an obviously worried, if not outright distraught, Phobos and Deimos looking at her. The former held the emptied waterskin in hand, uncertain if another should be warranted. Relief flooded them as she blinked, both falling back to their knees before her.
"Your gaze. It was dark, black like your hair. We thought… we thought you were lost. You laughed, speaking in languages we have never heard before… Rei, what is happening? What has happened to you?"
It was so rare for them to call her by her name, so rare for that matter to even hear her name. Not even the blonde… but of course not. She never gave her name; the blonde settled on Priestess as she lacked anything better to address her as. Neither had related it to her either, despite their travels. So rare that she had to blink a few more times before realization hit; it was her name, after all.
"I. They were visions. There's…" She stopped, looking up at both of them. For once her gaze turned to something of pleading, begging for sanctuary, absolution from the desperation that felt too much like a second skin. "She… Minako. She's alive, isn't she? She's … alright?" The blonde's name felt foreign, but how she silently savoured it. As though it had a taste just the feel of it lingered on her tongue.
Either looked at each other for a moment before Deimos spoke. "Be not knowing. Left in a hurry, we barely had time to collect our things." They left out the rest of it, how she had struck her. How she probably broke her skull. The skull that already took a blow for her that the blonde still suffered from. Sure, they left that part out, perhaps out of mercy.
Her shoulders slumped. Perhaps once, she would have appreciated a lie. Perhaps the lie could have brought her comfort; warmth in a world that felt suddenly bone chilling cold from the truth. A simple lie, the blonde was fine. She was alive. She was on her way; she'd be here any time. There, just look to the horizon. She'd appear on it, just wait. Just watch.
Just have hope.
She felt despondent as either finished the rest of the journey to an outcropping of rocks that signified a cave was within. That she had been put back to her saddle she didn't even recall, blindly following them in an emotionally locked down stupor. She didn't even look to the fire, did not follow nightly routines of meditation. She merely curled up in her bedroll, her back to her companions as she faced the rock wall instead.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this should be real. It should all just be a dream.
Her eyes felt heavy; she hadn't even scrubbed off her face. Her ego hadn't even flared up that she had acted out of character for herself, that she had shed the armor she locked herself in. That she had let herself open, minus her protections and her fortresses. She didn't have them, not any more. Not any longer. She felt effectively stripped of all she was, all in a matter of seconds.
A tear fell across her cheek. Another soon followed. They were silent in their sorrow, equally as detached as she felt from reality. Maybe they were fleeing her, off to find a better host. Without a word her eyes closed, exhaustion winning out, triumphant over the weariness of her body or the way that either sword; the one in a makeshift scabbard, dug into her side. Consciousness soon followed, but not without one final fanfare to usher her off to a troubled dreamscape.
Do you dream while you sleep or is it an escape from the horrors of reality?