Drip, drip, drip.
It resonates in the air and into his mind. Dripping. Dripping? What could be dripping?
Drip, drip, drip.
Bell let out a quiet groan as he began to regain his consciousness. What had happened? He lies still in a daze—his memories muddled, his mind mazed. He feels his left side soaking wet. It is submerged in something. It didn't feel like water, it was much thicker, and its scent was more akin to oil.
The liquid level was just short of his left nostril, granting him access to oxygen (and the scent of grease) as he lay still. His eye twitched as he slowly pressed himself upright.
For a few moments, he is blissfully unaware. Then it clicks, and he remembers. He remembers the angel, the pain, the death.
He—he's dead. He sits on his knees. His hands begin shaking uncontrollably. Soon, the shaking spread to his arms, his knees, everything. Every limb juddered, every muscle fiber shuddered; his very being trembled in anguish.
Dead, dead, I'm dead—!
Regret. It swelled and swirled in his soul. He regretted he had left his goddess, the only mother he'd ever known. He regretted having to leave his familia alone on their expedition, their first true adventure—failing as a captain. He regretted having left the little flame, wanting to spend more time with him. But most of all, he regretted failing his dreams. He never got the chance to become a hero for his grandfather. He wasn't strong enough to confess his love for Ais. The great adventure, full of heroism, hope, and love. He was so near, but it had all slipped away from his grasp as death snatched him up.
Drip, drip, drip.
As he lamented each sorrow in his mind, tears fell into the liquid that surrounded him. He looked around. A curtain of darkness enveloped everything. Bell stretched out his hands. He could barely make out their silhouettes.
Where was he? Surely, this place wasn't meant to be his damnation, right? He'd been good, not righteous, but just, good. He wasn't a saint, but he tried his best. He loved; he forgave; he was kind, even to those who had wronged him. But this place could not be his reward for his good deeds, his salvation in death. Purgatory then? He had heard of such a place in passing. But no. There was something about this place that was somehow different.
It was neither Heaven, nor Hell, nor Purgatory. He couldn't possibly be sure of such things, yet, something told him that it wasn't those things. Something told him that he had been here before.
Drip, drip, drip.
The sound echoed in all directions around Bell. However, he could faintly make out the sound of the liquid growing tighter, constrained. It came from a few feet ahead of him. A corridor, a hallway, a passage? He couldn't be sure. But he couldn't stay. His curiosity needed to be satiated. And something deep down warned him that he shouldn't stay.
Finding no other choice, Bell picked himself up and began to make his way forward. He stretched out his hands to ensure he didn't collide with anything face first. Each step he took was light and wary. The sound of his steps was muffled by the liquid, which had begun to slowly travel up his leg with every step. Deeper and deeper; until it leveled just below his kneecaps. His hands clasped a cold surface. He stopped and began rubbing his hands along its smoothened face. A wall.
A memory flashed in his mind of his dungeon advisor, Eina. Despite the levels of the dungeon he traversed already having been mapped on paper and memorized in his mind, she still drilled in techniques to maneuver maze-like segments of its treacherous floors. She was always overly precautious like that.
Ironic how her advice would help him at a time like this.
He placed his right hand on the wall and pivoted. He began to make his way along the wall, keeping his right hand firmly planted on it. He would either find the passage the dripping eluded—or worst-case scenario—loop back to where he started. If he did, he would need some sort of marker that could be easily perceived without his sense of sight. He patted himself down, feeling something cold and hard on his chest. He still had his armor on. It felt so comfortable on his body that he hadn't realized he still wore it. It would suffice.
His hand clasped the shoulder guard before he hesitated. Was he to leave the last remnants of his familia behind in this desolate place? Welf made this armor. It was an extension of his desire to protect his captain and his supposed little brother. He felt his grip tighten, and his hand began to shake.
He's leaving. He's leaving them—! No, what a childish thought. He's already gone.
An estranged sense of numbness washed over Bell as he undid the strap of the shoulder guard. It fell into the liquid with a loud plop. Maybe the wall his hand was planted onto was part of a disjointed structure, and he would simply encircle it; back to the armor piece. Perhaps, though, he doubted it. Choosing to dwell on it any longer, Bell continued forward.
Drip, drip, drip.
He had been walking for a while now. Every so often, he would turn left or right, keeping his mind from going drab and dreary. He began to sing nursery rhymes in his head to keep himself both preoccupied and sane.
"This old man, he played one. He played knick-knack on his thumb. With a knick-knack patty-whack give the dog a bone. This old man came rolling home."
Though he much preferred reading heroic tales. Every now and again, he would find himself reading and singing along to those silly songs. His grandfather used to sing them to him before he learned the alphabet. Even at that age, the old man would sprinkle some perverted pizazz into the lyrics. Had to start him off young.
A bitter smile appeared on his lips as he rounded another corner. He had been walking for twenty, thirty minutes? He couldn't quite say. He was walking, he was moving, he was aliv—no. But he wasn't dead.
He felt as though he had been walking in a perpetual loop. Though the direction in which he turned would sometimes repeat or differ, his situation had not changed. But he had to keep going. Naturally, this place had to have some kind of exit. Surely this wall would provide some sort of clemency from the dreariness of the dark.
Drip, drip, drip—Plop!
Bell froze. Something had fallen in the liquid a few meters in front of him. It sounded fairly light, almost like a pebble skipping across a pond. Bell stood still, his breath suspended in his throat as he waited. He began to feel the liquid ripple and quiver against his legs.
Should he run? But all that progress would have been for naught. Progress? Nothing had changed in all that time. And something nagged at him, begging him to stay. It held the carrot on a stick in front of his curiosity's eyes. Stay. Unable to unbind himself from the magic that inculcated obedience within him, he stilled himself and waited.
He felt the ripples grow stronger as its source continued to make its way towards him. He squinted, making out a slight discoloration in the liquid. It was a small blip, no bigger than the size of a grain of rice. As it approached, it seemingly began to morph limps. Arms, legs, until it sprouted a head. As it did so, its head combusted into flames, illuminating itself and its surroundings. Bell's eyes widened at the familiarity of the figure's features.
"Shadrach…?" Bell muttered in utter disbelief.
The figure stopped and began to awkwardly tread the liquid as it stared up at Bell.
"Huh?" the little flame figure remarked as it tilted its head. "Oh, no, no, no. I'm Meshach."
Snapping out of his stupor, Bell could see that the flame was blue, not orange. Not only that, but the voice was a bit deeper, creating a quality of maturity. Albeit, it still had a high pitched voice. But color and voice aside, it was practically a carbon copy of Shadrach.
"Wait, Shadrach? You've met Shadrach? Wait, no, hold that thought. Getting ahead of myself. How'd you get here—"
Suddenly, the flame sank into the liquid. Bell immediately let go of the wall, and lunged towards it. Submerging his knees in the liquid, he frantically sifted his fingers through the liquid in search of the flame. His panicked breaths ceased for a moment as his fingers gripped onto something grainy. Forming a cup with his hands, he brought it up near his face. One, two, three seconds.
Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me—!
Then, much to his solace, a flicker. He felt his hands grow warm as the flame rekindled itself. He breathed a sigh of relief as the flame continued to burn brighter. Manifesting its head yet again, Meshach shook his head.
"Hoof! Thanks. You caught me off guard. I didn't expect to run into anyone down here. Accidentally morphed into, well, myself. Can't exactly swim very well in this form."
Down…? There was something above them? Another floor, another world? Questions began to fill Bell's mind as he held Meshach in his hands.
"Ughhhh. Ah, man." Meshach flicked his wrists as hard as he could as he tried to dry himself off. Having little to no progress in doing so, he looked up to Bell.
"Um, would you mind helping me get out of here? I can't when I'm soaked. And, you know, I'm already in the palms of your hands."
Bell felt a newfound sense of responsibility as he tended to the flame. Be it his naivety or his sympathy, he wouldn't dare to dispel the cup he formed to cradle it. He turned back towards the only marker he had in the darkness, but it had vanished, having seemingly been dispelled by the light that was Meshach. His compassionate nature aside, it was rational to utilize his newfound companion as a guiding light in the darkness.
"Yeah. Just tell me where to go."
Bell flashed a tired, warm smile to Meshach as he stood back up. Meshach returned the smile.
"Alright then!" he plopped himself down comfortably in Bell's hands. "You wouldn't happen to have an affinity for fire magic, would you?"
Bell nodded.
Meshach gave a blank stare at Bell for a few moments. Politeness, semantics, a need to be certain. That's why he asked. But he didn't need to. He knew the answer.
"Perfect," he said, snapping out of his stupor. "Scorch the liquid around us. Don't worry about it going up in flames."
Holding Meshach close to his chest in one hand, Bell outstretched his hand and pointed it downward.
"Firebo—!"
"Erm, well, not all of it anyway."
"Tah—!"
Bell's eyes widened as fire dispelled from his hand. He braced himself for the flurry of heat about to hit him. Subconsciously, he tightened his grip around Meshach. As soon as the fire clashed with the oil, it burst into flames. However, instead of the whole floor being engulfed and transformed into a hellscape, the flames swirled around him, forming a perfect circle. As the flames finished forming a circumference, the fire created a straight line, a trail. It stretched out, braving the darkness with reckless abandon.
Bell looked down at Meshach with a crooked, cumbrous smile.
"A bit of a heads up would have been nice," he said with a skittish laugh.
"Nawww." Meshach teased. Despite having no visible mouth, Bell could feel his smirk. "Sorry. Couldn't pass that up. Don't get a whole lot of chances like that often."
Bell sighed. He couldn't find it within himself to be angry with the flame. Instead, he found a smile slowly curling upon his face. Soon after, he began to inexplicably laugh, which Meshach happily joined in the chorus of chortles. After a short bit, they calmed down.
"So, we should probably get going," Bell said. As he spoke the words, he felt his smile still present on his face.
"After you," Meshach replied, holding a thumb up.
And so the boy and the flame began to traverse the darkness, the fire marking their way through. He could do this. One foot in front of the other. It wouldn't be so bad. He now had newly-made company. And a newfound smile on his face.
But unbeknownst to the pair, something else trailed behind them. A murky shadow clouded in a haze of darkness followed them, just beyond the reach of the light. In perfect sync, it stepped concurrently with Bell, masking its presence. Save for the faint dripping that came from its gaping maw.
Drip, drip, drip.