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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Dec 2, 2023 16:41:28 GMT -5
Oh are there indeed? Jean, come now. Beatrice did not trust this man one bit. Not only were his motives unclear, and his experiments clearly horrific, but there was something else. He knew much more than he was telling her, she was sure. Whatever the information was that he was withholding, it made it impossible for her to take anything he said at face value. So, y'know. I think I've done a good job of presenting a very viable explination for what is going on here. Lets see how it plays out shall we...
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Post by HAL 10,000 on Dec 2, 2023 20:44:19 GMT -5
There are 2 possibilities:either Fiona knows the prison is an illusion or she thinks it's the real deal.Both are equally terrifying.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Dec 3, 2023 3:52:49 GMT -5
there are far more than 2 possibilites.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Jan 6, 2024 11:07:57 GMT -5
More is coming, this next chapter is just a very, very tough one to write, so I won't promise anything new for another few weeks, just that I am working on it!
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Jan 10, 2024 10:47:23 GMT -5
I thought a new chapter had been released, and I stopped myself from opening this thread before publishing a new chapter of "I am Chabo". I was wrong, but at least it pushed me in the direction I needed.
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Post by HAL 10,000 on Jan 10, 2024 17:31:11 GMT -5
It's alright. Looking forward to the next chapter when it's ready.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Jan 15, 2024 10:21:37 GMT -5
Chapter Sixteen – Lonely Revolutions
The water on the floor blurred the dappled sunlight ever further, giving it a dulled and diluted sheen as the muffled strands of golden light crept their way across the aged stone floors. As he swept the broom back and forth over the floor it was becoming ever harder to tell the clean from the dirty, so what was the point anymore?
Harry dunked the end of the mop into the bucket, sloshing it around in the thick, murky waters, and slapped it out onto the stone with a wet thump. It was the last warm day of summer, and the scented air hung heavy and thick in the chapel, lending a lazy atmosphere to Harrys' already foggy mind.
His hands were sore as he pushed the wooden pole from side to side, but he did not mind. He was pleased for the work, if truth be told, today of all days. He worked his slow and gentle way down the narrow aisles that snaked between the pews, and tried his best to keep himself distracted.
Perhaps that was why Father Jean had set him to this task. Harry did not know about the normal cleaning regime, but he doubted this was part of it. And the chapel was scarcely used enough to require such specific attention, he was sure. But Harry was pleased for the chance to be alone with his thoughts, and with himself. It was a beautiful place to be, quiet and comforting, and a chance to reflect... although, perhaps Harry did not want to do too much of that.
It had been near enough two years since the fire had taken his parents, his home, and everything that he had known, and yet still he missed it with all of his heart. Nearly every day he thought of them, longed to tell them he was okay, what had happened to him since, what he had learned. Or to ask them, to demand the truth from them about what had happened on that day, what had started the fire, and why, why had they kept so many secrets from him?
He could picture it all so clearly in his mind. The strange paintings that had adorned the walls of his fathers study, the mysterious objects that littered the desk, and the tunnell, hidden beneath the floorboards that had sequesterd him away to safety. It hurt to think of it, sometimes. He had spent all of his life believing he could trust his parents, that they had kept nothing from him, but then there was this darkness that had now enveloped their images in his mind, a shroud of mystery that he could not lift.
But Harry supposed those were merely the thoughts of a child, he should have no place for them. After all, today was his birthday, his sixteenth, but he had no real cause for celebration. He could not help but wonder what the day would have been like, if his parents had still been here to share it with him. Perhaps they would have gone to Briny Beach, as they so often had, or they would have gone to see a movie, and then eaten in one of the city's finest restaurants.
Of course, it made no difference, not now. However he pictured them, his parents never quite felt the same in his mind, not anymore. The questions drowned them out, washed their images into pale imitations. They were gone, separated from him. Perhaps you never even knew them, said a voice in his head, not really.
Harry smiled to himself, though it was a sad smile. He had heard voices that day, voices that had led him through the tunnels and through the labyrinth of secrets that he could never have navigated on his own. He did not know what they were, where they could have come from, and he had never spoken about them to anybody, but he knew for certain that they had been there, not just some idle wanderings of his imagination. Something had been watching over him, guiding him, and he had followed, and this was where he had ended up.
He dragged the mop back and forth over the floor, another patch of coloured sunlight blazing against the milky white stone. There were coloured shapes daubing themselves at the far end of the room where the sun shone through the stained glass windows, and there were small pinpricks of light from the candles set into sconces across the walls, but apart from that the room was dim and dark.
Harry would never have called himself religious, at least in any official sense of the word, but he could not help himself. He found himself in such great comfort here, and having arrived under such unlikely a set of circumstances, that there was now little doubt left in his mind.
He rested the pole of the broom against the end of a pew, and decided to take a small break, seating himself down. He could feel the wood groaning gently under his weight, and for a moment he sat with his eyes closed, feeling the heady scent of the candles drifting into his nostrils. His mind drifted slowly in and out of different places, a mire of thoughts and images criss-crossing themselves inside his head, all of which were confusing and strange to him, a series of thoughts that he could not put into place.
How long he stayed like this, Harry could not say. Whether it had only been a few seconds, or hours that had passed, it made no matter, but he had just begun to drift away into sleep when a noise woke him, his body jerking awake suddenly.
There was a clattering at his feet, and Harry looked down. In his shock he had sent the broom falling to his floor, the handle smacking against his shin, but that had not been the source of the disruption, only its symptom.
There were voices, outside, and they were raised, in argument.
Harry looked around the room, to see that darkness had begun to creep into the room. The dying embers of sunlight were snaking over the pews in honey coloured blotches. The room had begun to grow cold and crisp, and for a moment Harry was frozen into place, desperate not to move or make a single sound. He did not want to be discovered.
There were two voices, as far as he could tell, still talking to one another in raised tones. There was anger in their words, but not enough to call it shouting. The words were muffled by the walls, and as much he stained to hear, he could not understand what was being said. Despite this, Harry was sure that he recognised one of the voices. It was Julian, of all people. Harry was certain it must be him. The other voice was harder to identify, but that was only because he was the calmer of two, his replies a barely audible whisper.
Harry was still rooted into his seat, not able to understand what was being said, and he was about to move, to get nearer to the direction from which those voices were coming, when the talking ceased. A shadow passed over him, and he saw the outline of a figure dart past the windows, heading towards the doors of the chapel.
He considered trying to hide, ducking away beneath a pew and praying not to be seen, but Harry knew that it would be pointless. After all, were they not on the same side?
The door creaked open, and Julian burst angrily into the room, his shoes clanking loudly against the stoneware of the floor. Harry was not sure if it was just the dimness of their surroundings, or that Julian had marched down the aisle with such a pace and fury, but the newcomer had not realised that he had company until he nearly tripped over the broom, strewn forgotten on the floor next to where Harry was sat.
'What the-?' he cried, looking round, setting his eyes on Harry. 'Oh.' he sighed. 'You'
Harry gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.
Julian turned away from him, continuing up the aisle at a slower pace now, scarcely looking back at his unwelcome companion.
'You do seem to have a habit of turning up in the most unexpected of places, don't you?' Julian called back to him.
Harry smiled to himself, perhaps out of anxiety more than anything else. He had never been sure if Julian had recognised him, from that day at the auction house. It had only been a few weeks after he had first arrived at the commune, and their paths had barely crossed beforehand. There had been some recognition in his eyes, it would have been impossible not to notice, but that was hardly confirmation. Harry's death had been well publicised, his picture in all the newspapers, and that was before taking into account that his family seemed to have been well known to all members of the organisation.
'What are you doing here anyway?' said Julian, as he reached the altar. He knelt down onto the ground and began to search for something, moving aside hassocks and books in a great flurry of action. 'Has Father Jean got you working away on another one of his secret projects?'
So if Julian did know for sure, then at the very least he suspected.
'I could ask the same of you,' said Harry. 'Have you lost something?'
Julian turned to him, and through the gathering darkness Harry could see him scowling.
'I am not the one who is lost. no.' He threw a book down onto the floor, the sound echoing around them. Julian stood stock still for a moment, until the resonance had drifted away to nothing, before speaking again. 'I suppose it's clear that I will not find what I'm looking for here. Jean may be a fool, but he is not perhaps quite so foolish as that.'
Without another word, and leaving the mess in his wake, Julian turned and marched back the way he had come.
'But Julian.' called Harry, turning back to face him. 'Who were you arguing with?'
Julian hesitated, the half-light from the open doorway framing him squarley against the entrance of the church.
'What did you hear?' Julian asked, a tension in his voice.
'Nothing much.' Harry admitted 'But enough to know that things clearly aren't going your way.'
Julian smirked. 'Because, of course, everythings been going nice and rosey for you, hasn't it? You know, one day you'll come to realise that it is a mistake for you to place your trust so easily in others. Father Jean may seem like a kindly old fellow, but deep down he's just the same as the rest. And when you realise that, don't come running to me. I don't care what -'
Suddenly he stopped himself, as though he realised what he was saying. He looked around the room, his eyes pausing at the stained glass of the windows, before turning to leave.
Harry didn't know what to make of him, but then he never did.
It was a strange place in which he had found himself, with even stranger people populating its interiors, and he doubted if he would ever truly understand any of it.
When he had emerged from the tunnels, after days without food or water, he had been delirious and distraught. He could not fully recall or remember what had happened, but he had been told that he had emerged far across town, in a plot of forgotten land in the middle of nowhere. Whoever had found him had taken him to a hospital, and when he had awoken the first face he remembered seeing was that of Father Jean.
Whether he truly knew who Harry was or not, Harry could not be sure. They had never discussed the matter, and Harry rather suspected it would be unwise to bring it up. After all, he had started to build a life for himself here; Why should he take the risk of letting it all crumble away into nothing, after everything that had already happened?
But nonetheless, Jean had taken him in, to join their community. He may only have been a young man of fourteen, not old enough to be left to his own devices, but there was still much use that could be found for him, or so that was what Father Jean had said to the authorities. And Harry had gone with them willingly, because he was right. What other choice did he have?
But things were not as straightforward as they appeared.
Yes, he was happy here. He was fed and clothed, had a bed to sleep in, and his work, though menial, was simple enough. Yet there was so much about this place that was mysterious and unknown.
There seemed to be a schism, a divide of sorts, across the whole of their society. There was infighting and arguments at every turn, and Harry understood none of it. There were secrets in this place, and there were things that were being kept from him. Harry had never been quite sure if he had cared that much about it all, thinking that perhaps he was better off not knowing the truth, to be kept in the dark.
Except for his parents, of course. He knew that they were involved, and that was simply too much to bear. He couldn't leave it alone, not that.
A figure had appeared in the doorway. Harry knew, before he turned his head to see, that the man was there, a subconscious bell ringing in his ears upon arrival.
The sunset turned the figure into nothing more than a shadowy outline, but after a moment Harry realised that it was Father Octavian.
'Boy. What are you up to in here?' said Octavian, the voice carrying loud and resonant across the echoing ceiling of the chapel. It was curt and sharp, but there was no anger in his words. When the voice reached his ears, Harry realised he knew who Julian had been arguing with.
'Father Jean asked me to clean.' Harry replied, and he bent down to pick up the broom, still lying at his feet.
Octavian gave a curt nod, and strode hastily past. It was in his nature, a force of efficey and economy. Father Octavian was everything that Father Jean was not. Where Jean was tall and thin, Octavian was short and bulky, a muscular stock of a man. His face was hardened and blunt, a close-cropped beard and tiny, sharp eyes that pierced into the heart of you.
Octavian had drawn himself up next to a stand full of tiny candles, each of them holding a small, delicate flame in its centre. He picked up a small wooden stick with a delicate hand and touched one end to a flame, setting it afire
'Come.' he spoke, his eyes fixed upon the flames.
Harry rose, his legs responding automatically to the command, compelled by an unconscious obedience.
Octavian set another candle alight, and placed it next in line on the circular table. He stood straight, his shoulders down and head up. Even though he was barely an inch taller than Harry, he dominated the room. Octavian paid no attention to Harry, his eyes fixed upon the flames as they danced in the gentle breeze that blew in from the open door. Harry could see the reflection in Octavian's eyes, small pinpricks of light that swayed gently to and fro.
Harry reached into a small box resting on the shelf beside them, and took a small stubby candle. Octavian dipped the flaming stick against the wick, watched as the candle grew to life, before waving the stick and extinguishing it's light. He took the candle from Harry, and as he placed it next to his on the stand, the silence broke.
'We light these candles as an act of remembrance, for those that we have lost.' spoke Father Octavaian, his eyes now turning to Harry. 'Tell me, Boy, who is it that you have lost?'
Harry froze. The intensity of the stare was enough to make him want to run, run far away and never come back. That simply would not do. That would not take him any closer to the truth, nor the heart of the matter. And he had been expecting something such as this, a confrontation of his secrets, ever since he had uncovered theirs.
A few months ago, he had been searching through some old ledgers, simply reorganising and tidying some old papers at Father Jeans request when he had found it. A few small words, scribbled in ink upon a piece of paper, that had changed everything.
He had found his parents' names. A simple donation, yes, to a charitable cause. It could have just been nothing, a coincidence and nothing more, but it had opened Pandora's Box.
Harry had found traces of his family everywhere. The organisation was a simple religious monastic conclave, a charity, a sanctuary, and yet there were secrets at every turn, truths hidden away from him.
Harry believed that he had kept his parentage hidden, and he believed that he had kept his discoveries even more so, but under the gaze of Father Octavian he could not be certain. Those cold, imperious eyes held nothing back, and he felt as though Octavian was boring into his very soul.
'Have you?' He replied.
Octavian smiled, the thinnest of smiles that barely troubled the corners of his lips. 'Of course.'
He raised up an arm, and danced his fingers delicately over the tips of the flames.
'Faith is a curious thing. To believe in something, with utter conviction, and to have a total and comprehensive belief in the surety of your heart, requires a tremendous amount of courage. For many, it is an impossible thing to achieve, and for many more it requires them to give something of themselves that they will never be able to give, whether in whole or in part. But I have faith in many things, and above all else in my own judgement.'
He turned to Harry once more, fixing him with those inquisitive eyes. 'Therefore, I have faith in you. I have faith that you are noble enough to be attuned to our cause and to our ambitions, and that you can be relied upon to see things through to their very end. But, and this is most important, do not mistake that faith, for even a single moment, as trust.
Octavian reached out with his arm, and placed a hand onto Harry's shoulder. The grip was tight and firm, showing the strength of the man. They were stood so close to one another that Harry could see the deep lines marking his face, the only signs that betrayed the priests age.
'It is said that during The Great War' spoke Octavian. 'That if a man had been condemned to face the firing squad, the commanding officer would ensure that the rifles of some of his men would be fitted with blanks. That way, no man could ever say for certain whether he was the one who had done the deed. They say that this was done to ensure that no man would take the blame for the act, but I do not believe this to be so. For in war, it is the responsibility of each man to shoulder the burden of the actions of us all, for the weight of what must be done is too much for one man alone to bear. We must all take our parts, if we are to survive what is to come.'
'But we aren't at war, Father.'
'Oh, but we are. ' said Octavian, his grip tightening. 'You just don't know it yet.'
'Then who are we fighting?'
Octavian took his hand away, and his eyes narrowed, searching for something. He let out a sigh, though if from exasperation or disappointment Harry could not tell.
'That is not the question you should be asking.' Said Octavian. 'The question is, who are we fighting for?'
And with that, Octavian turned and left the chapel, the flames of the candles dancing lazily in the wind.
Harry stood for a moment, watching the dotted pinpricks of lights from the coronet of candles, thinking. He did not know what to make of it, of any of it, and yet he felt himself being drawn ever deeper into the depths of the unknown. It was becoming ever harder to tell the good from the bad, so what was the point anymore? It was none of his business, nothing to do with him, none of his concern.
And yet it was. He had known that it was, ever since he had read his parents name. As Harry picked up the mop and began to gather his things, he could not help but feel as though his troubles were only just beginning. He could not trust any of them. He was surrounded by liars, each one of them better than him, and he should know. He had lies of his own.
Harry locked the chapel door behind him, the heavy door creaking shut with a thunderous clap. The sky was dark above him, but as he made his way back he could see the last remains of sunlight peering their way through the trees. It cast upon the cobbles a honey glow, and beneath, the darkness.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Feb 26, 2024 5:09:19 GMT -5
Chapter Seventeen – Instant History
Fiona could hear the whirring of machinery, a dull pulsing rhythm that gently filled the silence in her mind. It was a gentle sound, and for a while, she almost felt peaceful.
Then, there came a sudden, frantic beeping, echoing around the room, the sound reverberating inside her head. Her eyes burst open, panic and fright pulling her from slumber.
Fiona knew that she must be awake, and yet she felt as though she were still fast asleep. Her mind was floating, detached from any sentient pillar. She felt dizzy, the world out of focus from her thoughts, but at the same time everything suddenly felt clearer. Her field of perception was diluted and distilled, but what was there was cast in sharper contrast than anything else thst she had felt recently.
Her body moved, and her mind moved with it. Fiona felt her eyes glancing over the screen of the console, absorbing and decoding the information, but the decision had not been her own. As Fiona looked around the room, and began to gather herself up from the bunk, she realised that she could not control where her gaze fell. Then without thinking, at least not consciously, she knew what was going on.
Fiona set off, her feet echoing on the metal grilles of the floor, and the dizziness grew increasingly overwhelming with each step. The sensation built up inside, a rush of pressure that made her think she could pass out any moment. Truth be told, she was acting on autopilot, her body# moving without any sort of control.
The more that she thought about her circumstances, the more she could feel panic starting to set in. She was back on the submarine, she understood that much, but how? How did she get back here? Had it all been a dream, everything taking place inside her head?
As Fiona moved, a feeling began to grow inside of that something was wrong. Her body felt different, more muscle and strength in herself than she had felt for a long while. A stray lock of red curls fell down the side of her face, and when she moved to brush it aside she felt how clean and full her hair had become. It felt like she was inhabiting a different body entirely, or that of a strangers.
The beeping noise continued, and Fiona reached into her pocket to take out a notepad. She looked down, reading back the numbers she had jotted down over the last few days. The timings were getting closer together, she remembered. That had always been the way. No matter how far or fast they had ran, the beast was always coming for them.
There were footsteps now, the sounds coming from up above her. Fiona neared a narrow set of steps that led up onto the next floor, and saw that there was already someone heading down, coming towards her. She knew, before she saw his face, who it was. Even though it made no sense to her, she knew it would be him. She remembered.
'Fernald!' she said, the word slipping out automatically. There was a note of panic in her tone, one she had not intended.
He nodded. 'I know, I can hear just the same as you.' He reached out with his hand, and placed it comfortingly on her shoulder. She knew that it was there, but she could not feel it, not like she was supposed to. It was like being wrapped up in cotton wool, her sensations dulled and muted.
'So, the same as last time?' she asked. The same as last time? That made no sense. Fiona did not understand what she meant. How could she be speaking if she did not understand what she was saying?
'What else can we do?' Fernald shrugged. 'It's worked up until now anyway.'
'We can't keep doing this forever.' Fiona sighed, and she pulled him closer, into a hug. She yearned to feel the warmth and comfort of his arms, but also she felt was cold emptiness.
'Not both of us, anyway.' Fiona said, the words still tumbling out of her, distant and without thought.
'Well, if push comes to shove...' Fernald’s voice trailed off. 'Look, just remember. Remember what your mother -'
And suddenly she was pulled, backwards, jerked away from him, tumbling into darkness, falling down, spiralling. Her surroundings melted away from her, the darkness infecting her senses and forcing the images and sounds of her memory away from her. She reached out, her hands trying to claw her way out, to grab a hold of something, anything, but she could not. All was gone, her surroundings faded away into nothing.
Fiona looked down, but there was nothing for her to see, Her eyes making a cruel mockery of her circumstances, She could not even see herself, no shape or form, just pure consciousness her only link to reality. Then, suddenly, far down below her, a light was opening up. She looked down, down, into the light, and she heard the voice again.
'What do you want?'
She reached out her hand, fingers stretching out to the light. Fiona could feel something, cold and solid, forming around her grip.
Her hand smacked repeatedly against the glass, each bang rebounding around her. There were tears burning in her eyes, and she felt weak, small, nothing more than a tiny ball of rage and fear.
And then Fiona saw.
The sea was thick and heavy, an inky blackness that covered most everything visible through the round circle of glass. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and for a moment her vision was blurred beyond all comprehension. It made no matter, Fiona knew what was out there, she did not need eyes to see it. It was an image she had played back so many times in her mind, it was ingrained deep within her memory.
Her mothers face was crying out in terror, as something, some strange, monstrous beast drew her deeper into its grasp. Thick black tentacles reached out, latching themselves onto her limbs, each strand pulling her closer. She was trying to escape, to work herself free, but with every passing second she was disappearing further into the darkness.
Fiona heard a voice cry out, calling for it's mother, and only then did Fiona realise it was her own. She was so small now, just a child, so weak and pathetic, and yet she kept hammering away, smacking her hands against the glass, desperate to get to her, to help, to try and do anything, anything at all to try and save her.
She could see her mothers face, a small light from the helmet cutting a swathe from the darkness that was surrounding her, bridging the gap between mother and daughter. Her mother was crying out, and Fiona was screaming now, the tears burning salty wounds in her face, and all of it was useless. Nothing could change what had happened, no matter how much she wished.
Fiona had relived this day a thousand times over, reliving every moment in the tiniest of details, but this was different. There was no mere memory or dream, this was real. The pain and the horror were so potent and real that she could feel it burning in her soul. It was a waking nightmare, a hellish torment from which she could not escape.
Fiona could see her mothers face, the fear in her eyes, the silent screams. She tried to close her eyes, to stop herself from seeing the horror again, but it made no difference. Her body did not respond to her thoughts, and she was forced to look on, to observe in helpless imprisonment, as her mothers face disappeared, lost to the darkness.
Her hands kept hitting against the glass, smacking hard against the cold surface over and over. She screamed, the sound so visceral and raw, her fist hitting the glass over and, a feeble assault that bruised and blistered, the pain building and building, erupting in that space between her hand and forefinger.
'What do you want?'
Then suddenly, once again, everything was gone.
The cold wind danced gently across her skin, its caress sending pinpricks of sensation shivering up and down her arms and making her shoulders shake. She could taste the scent of the sea in the air, her nostrils dry and raw from prolonged exposure to the elements. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and the salt made her senses burn.
It was early in the morning, and the sky was still and clear. There were clouds far away on the horizon, tinged orange by the sun, the rest of the sky a gentle blue. The sea was calm, lazy waves lapping tenderly against the hull of the ship. Fiona felt almost peaceful, at home, as though she was back where she belonged, but as the deck moved steadily beneath her feet, the swaying motion made her feel suddenly dizzy.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, a firm grip that turned her towards its owner. It should have made her jump, the unexpected shock of the moment, but it didn't. Her emotions and her thoughts gave her body no response.
Instead, she turned and felt herself smile as she looked upon Harry's face.
'Well?' she heard her voice ask, but the words were not her own.
A grim smile cut across his face. 'I’ve only had a chance to speak with a few of the men you suggested. Most of them…..I feel we can’t trust, the others...' His voice drifted away to nothing.
Fiona sighed, and she could feel her pulse quickening. She turned away from him, staring back out across the ocean.
'They will have no choice. Stubborn as they may be, sooner or later, they will have to start listening to me.'
'To us.' said Harry, and he took his place next to her. She could feel the heat of his body against hers. 'You're not alone in this, Fiona.'
She shook her head. 'You don't understand me, Harry.'
'What do you mean?' said Harry. His voice was steady, but she noted the confusion in his tone.
Fiona took a deep breath, and she felt her shoulders crack as she tired to push the tensions out of herself. Her eyes were fixed on those distant wisps of clouds, unable to look away.
'Don't you ever feel like all of this has happened before? Like your life is just an endless circle, spinning round and round, a never ending cycle? Or maybe not even that. It's like I'm spiralling down, the revolutions getting smaller and smaller, until.... well, I don't know really. I don't know what's waiting for me at the end.'
'What do you mean?'
Fiona sighed, and leant back against him. 'I mean... that all of this has already happened to me before, Harry.'
'I don't understand you, Fiona.'
She smiled. 'It doesn't matter.'
Silence grew between them, and Fiona listened to the gentle sounds of the wind braying with the sea, and tried to understand what was going on. Her mind was disconnected from her body, that much she knew. The memories she had witnessed how been so vivid and real, as if she had really been there, that she could not have questioned their authenticity. Now she was back, but she didn't seem to be all quite there. Fiona felt as if she had not quite arrived.
'Fiona.; said Harry,
'What?' Fiona said, her heart pounding in her chest. After several minutes of silence his voice had made her jump.
Fiona turned to look at him, waiting for a response that was not immediately forthcoming. Instead, he took his hand into his pocket, searching for something. There was a moments hesitation, and she could sense an embarrassment bubbling up inside his eyes. It felt as if he were exposing some great secret to her.
He took something out of his pocket, and placed it carefully into her hands. It was a quick motion, secret, furtive, as though he was afraid someone else might see, some unknown watcher lurking in the darkness that would unexpectedly intrude upon them.
It was a leaflet, the pages old and weathered, tears and rips adorning its pages. There were deep lines and creases where it had been folded and refolded over and over, and it was stained with black smudges, fingerprints leaving thin dark lines peppering the pages. After a few moments, Fiona realised it was.
It was a programme, promoting a theatre production of some king. There were the names of the actors and producers in small type at the top, and the name of the performance 'The Voyage of the Prospero' was written underneath them in block capitals. There was a drawing of an old sailing ship, not dissimilar from the one in which they were currently travelling, passing under a heavy brocade of stormy skies.
'What is this?' Fiona asked.
'I found it, in my fathers study. I managed to put it in my pocket before -, well, before I left. There were many things, things that I didn't understand, but I think that I'm finally starting to.'
'Hello?' Came a shout, interrupting. The voice was calling from afair, and they both turned suddenly, facing towards its direction
'Hello?' said the voice again, suddenly louder, insistent, and Fiona looked up into the eyes of Dr Rasmussen.
Everything had changed.
In an instant, her surroundings had been snatched away from her. She had been transported, the boat and Harry disappearing in-between heartbeats.
Fiona could not tell where she was, her surroundings all but blocked out. She could only see the face of the doctor peering down into her own, uncomfortably close.
'Hello?' Rasmussen said once more, his brow furrowing in concentration. Fiona tried to move, to shift away from him, but it was pointless. Whatever was happening to her, she was starting to understand the rules and limitations. She could not respond or interfere. She had become a passive observer to her own life, even towards those things of which she had no memory or understanding.
'I think she's just dreaming.' said Rasmussen, and he took out a small torch. The light shone in her eyes, and she could feel water building as the pressure increased in her head. She tried to blink, but her body would not obey.
Rasmussen shook his head, disappointment creasing across his face, and he moved out of her field of vision, leaving Fiona alone.
Time passed, minutes eking away against the silence, as Fiona stared blankly out into space. The longer she remained, the more Fiona began to register small details or what was going on around her. She could hear the gentle hum of the machinery, and the muffled talking of busy voices. Fiona could feel the weak numbness that was eating away at every muscle in her body, and she felt as though she had not rested in months.
The coldness was beginning to creep into her naked flesh, except for the heat that she could feel biting into her wrists, snaking its way up her arms. Her body was dead and cold, numb to all feeling and sensation except for the pain that branched out from her wrist. It was like a thick, leaden rope was growing inside her, reaching inside her skin and pulling at her, trying to find her soul and claim it for its own.
A figure appeared before her. Fiona's mind was so hazed, so uncertain, that she could not be sure who. She could feel warm hands touching her skin, and hear someone talking, but the words were indistinct and foggy.
The next moment, she felt something pulling out of her, the numbness in her limbs giving way to searing pain as she was separated from the machine. Her body felt limp and lifeless, and she felt herself falling into the arms of the person who was attending her.
Fiona was being walked, her footsteps lazy and unsteady, like a deer struggling to take its first steps. There were cold hands pressing against her, and she could feel goose pimples rising on her bare flesh. As she moved through the room she became aware of others, her nakedness making her feel ashamed, but they paid her no attention. It seemed they were not even aware she was there.
Fiona felt herself being forced down into a seat, and she could not say how long she remained sat there before her attendant came back. She was pulled upwards, and found herself being dressed into a gown. She had no strength left in her, not even enough to lift her arms, but it made no matter. Her limbs were picked up, like a child's, and pushed into the sleeves of the gown, and suddenly she could feel some warmth beginning to seep its way back into her bones.
'There.' said a voice. 'Let's get you back to your room, shall we?'
The attendant moved back into Fiona's field of vision, and that's when she remembered. When the woman smiled at her, Fiona did not know what to make of it. She had a beautiful face, with long black hair and piercing blue eyes. There was a scar above her left eye, one that cleaved her eyebrow asunder, and Fiona knew, she knew who the woman was. She could see the thin line of a necklace slung around her neck. It was her necklace. Why did she have it?
Fiona tried to cry out, to scream, but she could not form the words. Instead a pathetic groan fell out of her mouth, and she reached up, her arms outstretched, as she tried to snatch at the necklace, to take back what was hers. It's mine!
As Fiona lashed out, Beatrice moved out of the way. Then the ground came rushing up towards her, and Fiona heard the sound of her own face smacking against the ground more than she felt any pain. She lay there for a moment, helpless, pathetic, unable to move.
But she had. Just then, she had thought, to reach out, to move, and she had. For a moment, at least, she had taken back control of her body. She knew that those were her thoughts now, rather than the thoughts she had had back then. She knew.
'Can I get some help here please?' said Beatrice, her voice beginning to fade away from Fiona's mind. No, Fiona thought. No, not now. Not when I’m just starting to understand.
There were footsteps, someone running towards her, but even as the sounds grew closer Fiona could feel them fading away. She felt firm hands gripping her arms, and suddenly she was being pulled upright again
'There we go.' said Harry, and he smiled at her, his deep blue eyes full of kindness. 'Let's get you to your room.'
And then everything turned a pearly white, as the world slipped away once more.
Fiona was somewhere new, some place that she had never seen before. The walls seemed to be made of smoke, smoke that drifted lazily in the air around her. The room was dark, but there was a brightness all around her. The light seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere, both at the same time.
Fiona tried to focus her eyes, to see what else was there, but she could not. Every time she tried to focus, the images began to blur and drift around her. There was no real sense of depth or space, so she could not be certain if the room was small or huge.
In the distance, she could see the outline of a table, its features lost in the foggy shade that surrounded her. Fiona could not be certain how near or far the table was, the lack of any other features making it impossible for her to judge.
Fiona tried to move, but as she had guessed, it was no use. But there was something different this time, a sensation different form what she had felt before. Her body did not respond, no movement came from her instruction, but it was not out of restraint or lack of control. There was a freedom in her mind that seemed separated from the constraints of any physical form, and Fiona realised that her body did not really seem to be there.
It was like a dream, one she had so many times before, of her mind floating free of her body. Her consciousness seemed to be drifting, detached from any physical boundary or prison, and as she looked around Fiona realised that she was not, in any real sense, truly here.
It was then that she noticed the man. He was sat behind the table, at the quarter furthest away from her. It was him, of course. The same figure she seen on the boat, and in her dreams. Or had they always been the same thing?
He was dressed in a cloak of deepest black, a mane of fur resting heavily around his neck, the black belt of a bandolier slung across his shoulder. He wore a ruffled hat, and it moved with his brow. creasing together in consternation as his stare turned towards her. His eyes were two small flints of darkest onyx, and as he smiled at her they glimmered, a gleam of light reflecting on their glassy surface.
When he spoke, the words burned deep into her mind.
‘You should not be here.’
And then came the pain.
A terrible, crushing force begin to clasp itself around her mind. A tremendous weight began to pound inside her head, and she felt herself falling, falling down to the ground. Waves filled her ears, and a thunderous roaring crash that confounded all of her senses.
Everything was spinning around her, and Fiona scrambled to her feet, trying to gain some semblance of direction. It was strange to suddenly find herself back in her body, seemingly more in control than she had been before. The swaying of the ground told her that she was back on the ship, and as she put out her arm to steady herself she realised where she was.
Her hand made contact with the cold bronze of the unyielding door, its surface suddenly warm to her touch. How often had she stood outside this door, desperate to know what secrets lay on the other side, but never before had she felt this. The door seemed to be alive, the heat pulsating against her skin, responding to her touch. It had woken up.
She pulled back her hand with a start, and could see the thick black lines that were running across the surface of her skin. Fiona knew now that it was not just a case of where she was, but when, and she was certain she knew.
'What's happening?' cried Harry, and her heart jumped for a moment as she felt his hands against her skin, pulling her back up to her feet.
'I don't know.' Fiona replied, the words not her own. She knew what was happening, of course she did. They were about to be attacked.
The room was no longer spinning, but her head was dazed and confused, difficult to balance upright. She could feel the locket around her neck, and it too was burning with intense heat.
FThere were shouts and screams coming from above the deck, Fiona knew, but there was something else, something that she had not noticed before. There was a sound, a whispering something, that was coming from behind the door. The lock of the door was blocked up, but Fiona could tell that from there was where the sounding was issuing from. Fiona made to move towards the door, but at that moment the whole room shook.
There was another tremendous roar, and Fiona could hear further cries echoing from above. Without wasting another moment, she turned and ran back along the corridor, the room frantically swaying to and fro beneath her. There was another cry, and Fiona felt her feet slipping, tripping over herself, and once more she fell.
As Fiona held out an arm to steady herself, and she felt her own weight nearly shatter it. Fiona was gripping the edge of a sink, her arms weak and frail, her body shaking from the effort to stop herself from falling.
The room was dark and cold, the silence deafening to her after the noise of the ship. Fiona forced herself up, but her back was stiff and heavy, and she could not make herself stand straight. Her arms were still shaking, and she could not bring herself to relent her grip upon the ceramic basin.
The bathroom was small, and despite it’s dinginess the room seem to be clean and well maintained. There was a small cup full of water, and a toothbrush and a rolled up tube of toothpaste sat at the edge of the sink. As Fiona looked around, she could still feel her arms shaking with weakness.
Her surroundings had changed so quickly that the moment had been imperceptible, and yet Fiona was most disquieted in where she found herself. Everything she had experienced prior to this moment had been something she had either endured before, or populated with people or places that she already knew. But not this time. There was nothing about the room that she could latch on to and secure her mind upon.
Only now did Fiona notice there was a woman, a stranger looking at her. Fiona looked up, the eyes locking with hers. The face was lined and heavy, hollowed cheeks hiding behind locks of greying hair, the red still glinting through here and there. The eyes were clouded and dour, spots of red punctuating the whites like blood spotting on parchment.
A voice spoke, but not her own, nor the woman's, but a man’s voice, one that she had never heard before. She turned to face him, but then everything vanished once more.
Once again, she found herself falling into darkness.
Her consciousness was failing, travelling through the deconstructed strands of her mind, and there was no way back.
She was lost.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Mar 1, 2024 6:03:47 GMT -5
Chapter Eighteen – The Naturals
Beatrice could not help but think about them, even now. Her every waking moment was consumed by thoughts of those poor lost souls, their minds drifting hopelessly in time, lost in a breeze or a dream.
She let her hand play tentatively on the soft wooden beam, her fingers drumming restlessly as she tried to hold her thoughts together for a second, letting the tension build as she paused her action for those delicate few moments.
Beatrice could feel the heat from the lights above her, making her sweat under the heavy leather of her captain's garb. The necklace was slung on a delicate line around her neck, and she lifted her hand to feel the pendant with her fingers. The metal was burning hot in her hands, a comforting warmth that set her ease, and she toyed carefully with the thin wisps of metal that held the doors of the pendant shut.
'Fiona' said Harry, calling out to her from across the way. 'I need you to give me an answer.'
Beatrice let the necklace drop down to her chest, her heart beginning to beat faster at the sound of his voice. He had made her jump, but it wasn’t that, no. She had been expecting that. It was something else, a strange feeling that was bubbling up inside her, a boiling unease and discomfort.
'You can't just keep on ignoring what's happening.' Harry spoke again, as he began to move towards her.
Beatrice turned towards him, and with it the dark chasm of the audience came into view. She could not see their faces, only milky white shapes that filtered through the gloom. She wanted to pause, to search for his face in the crowd, but she knew it would be a forlorn hope. Anyway, Beatrice wasn’t sure if she wanted him there or not. Perhaps it was best not to dwell on such things.
'Harry.' she spoke, the word handing between them as she looked into the eyes of her co-star. 'You're the one who is ignoring things.'
'I don't understand.' he replied, and Beatrice felt a dizziness begin to radiate over her, the room spinning gently round and round. She had felt this feeling so many times before, it was not unusual, especially of late, but why did it have to be happening now?
'That's exactly the problem.' Beatrice said, and as he reached out to take her hand she turned, pushing herself away from him. As James spoke she set her hand onto the wooden beam and tried to keep her balance.
'It's not that which is the problem. It's not that at all.' she spoke, and suddenly Beatrice remembered the words that Rasmussen had said to her back at the facility.
They say that when you die, your life begins to flash before your eyes.
'I…' As Beatrice spoke, she could feel a sharp pain in her brow, an intense heat and pressure that set her mind afire.
'I…' The scar on her eyebrow was burning hot, a heat to match that of the pendant on her chest. She held the necklace in her hand once more, the fire of its presence helping steady her physical form, though her mind continued to spiral.
‘I know what…’ she said, but she could not finish the sentence, the words that were meant to be unspoken. As her co-star leaned in towards her, and she felt his lips press against hers, the room spun away, disappearing.
In that moment, the heat in her forehead exploded, her mind and heart combining, and she could feel it all. The fear, the joy, the passion and the pain. She remembered her brother's smile, the wind whipping through her hair, the smell of salt and sweat. The pain of the machine, water choking and filling her lungs, the sound of the beast roaring through the sea. The feel of a child in her arms, the feel of him inside her, the pain of her death. Sand, bone, blood. Her mother drowning as she watched, weak and helpless. All her failures, her one success. A lifetime of memories flooded her mind, consumed her, filling her soul.
And then his lips left hers, and they were gone.
The lights went down, the curtain closed, and the players left the stage.
The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Beatrice could not have said what truly happened next. She just smiled through it all, waiting for it to be over. Her mind was not really in it. but that seemed to be the case more often than not nowadays.
It had been a few weeks since her visit to the facility and her encounter with Dr. Rasmussen, but time made no matter to her, not anymore. Every moment of every day, the things she had seen and learned there were with her, the thoughts playing over and over in her mind like a record stuck in a loop. There are some things that are too big, too difficult to comprehend, and it was taking so much time for her to process these things.
The problem was that while so much of her brain was focussed on trying to decipher and understand these things, everything else was blocked from her perception. She was floating through her life, unable to truly experience what was going on around her.
Beatrice had spent so much of her life wanting to be an actress, to take to the stage and inhabit the life of someone else, and now she was finally realising her dream, she seemed to have no time or appreciation for what was happening to her. The opening night had come and gone, passing her by without a moment of appreciation or congratulation from her own mind on what she had achieved. She had simply breezed through the performance, her thoughts as far away from the production as she could ever have imagined.
A few nights ago Bertrand had proposed to her, something she had not expected or fully considered, but she had nonetheless accepted. She could not lie, she was happy to be betrothed to such a wonderful man, but she had not been able to truly make her decision with any real justification. Beatrice had asked herself that night if she truly loved him, and she came to realise that even if she concluded that she did, she would not be able to trust her judgement any more. There were bigger things for her to be thinking about. And so she had accepted, but only because it seemed the right thing to do, rather than because her heart had truly wanted her to.
But he knew nothing. Bertrand, her fiance, knew nothing of what she was feeling, of what she was experiencing, and of what she had learned. She wanted to tell him, to explain, but how could she? She could not even explain it herself. But it was a barrier between them, a secret that she knew would have to be exposed if they were to spend the rest of their lives together, yet how this could ever come to pass Beatrice could not say.
When she reached her dressing room, she stared at the bouquet of flowers that were sat on her dresser. Bertrand had brought them for her before the start of the performance, and she had said thank you, kissed him, and said how beautiful they were. But when she looked at them now, Beatrice had no recollection of their appearance. The colours and shapes were strangers to her, and she knew that once she stopped observing them, their existence would fade from her mind, a memory destined to always be forgotten.
As she undressed, Beatrice could still feel the heat coming from the scar on her forehead. She scratched irritably at the old wound, and remembered something else that Rasmussen had said to her.
You have been touched by the beast, he had said. She was still not sure what that meant, even after everything she had learned, but she could guess. Her father had tried to warn her that there were things that she was better off not knowing. Perhaps he had a guilty conscience, or perhaps he simply could not live with whatever things he had subjected upon his own daughter.
Beatrice began to gather up her things. The rest of the cast were due to be celebrating with drinks and chatter, but she knew that she could not endure such things, not at the moment. She pulled on a coat, and left her dressing room as quickly as possibly. She had promised to meet Bertrand by the stage door, but as she moved through the tunnels and crenelations of the theatre, Beatrice realised she did not even have strength enough for that. She needed to be alone, to have some time to think, to get her head straight.
In order to avoid him, she would need to head out of the main entrance, which meant she had to worm her way through the thronging congregation of theatre goers as they made their way out of the auditorium, stopping to mingle in the main lobby. With her make up removed, and her body swallowed up in the form of a long black coat there was little chance of recognition blocking her departure.
When she finally pushed her way out of the glass doors and into the open air, the noise and hubbub of conversation and merriment was replaced by the chill wind of autumn. and the sound of tyres screeching against rain and tarmac.
The heat of the summer had finally broken, and there was a chill to the night that cut through the fog in Beatrice's mind. The rain had brought with it a renewed freshness to the air, and Beatrice took a long, deep breath. As the air filled her lungs, she could feel something starting to steady itself inside of her. It was only now that she realised how much her arms had been shaking.
As her head cleared, Beatrice noticed two figures stood ahead of her, talking excitedly to one another. The noise of the rain made it hard to hear what they were saying, but the two men were only a few feet away, at the bottom of a set of steps that led up to the theatre. One she recognised immediately, his arms gesticulating wildly as he spoke, a serious but nevertheless genial look upon his face. The other man was a stranger to her, and as she moved towards the pair of them he turned towards her, his eyes fixing her with a strained look of curiosity.
He had a kind face, thinning hair and a large square nose, and there was something about his demeanour that had Beatrice uncomfortable. His eyes were imperious, and he looked upon her as though she were the most extraordinary thing he had ever seen.
‘So.’ spoke the stranger. ‘I see that I have wasted an afternoon.’
He was not addressing her, of course, but Rasmussen, who shrugged casually, as if the whole thing was insignificant.
The stranger check a watch on his wrist, and raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Or evening, even.’ He smiled, and turned formally to the both of them ‘Good evening, then. Dr Rasmussen, Madam.’
‘Goodbye, Jean.’ said Rasmussen. ‘I do hope you will reconsider.’
‘And I hope that you will learn to listen to reason.’ Jean grimaced, but Rasmussen seemed not to notice.
With that, Jean moved away from them, into the night, and Beatrice and Rasmussen stood in silence, watching as the figure disappeared into the rain. Only once Jean was gone from sight did Rasmussen turn his attention back to her.
‘So, my dear, how did it go?’
‘You didn’t come?’
Rasmussen shook his head. ‘Ah, no, I’m rather afraid that something came up - Or, rather has come up – and so I was unable to relive myself of my duties ‘
Beatrice nodded, not wanting to enquire any further. She could feel the cold starting to move into her skin, as the tiny droplets of rain began to catch softly in her hair. She would catch her death if she stood out here much longer. She smiled at Rasmussen
‘Well, I must get going. It was nice seeing you.’ Beatrice said, although she was not sure if it was true.
‘Oh, I think you misunderstand me, Miss. Baudelaire.’ Rasmussen was shaking his head. ‘The something that delayed my egress… Well, I was rather hoping that I could be counting on your able assistance?’
Beatrice sighed. She looked at this strange man, standing in the dark of night, his eyes earnest and full of sincerity, and pondered what could possibly be going through his head. Beatrice did not doubt the man’s intelligence and conviction, and yet there was nothing about him that she could trust. She knew what he was doing, and that meant he was capable of anything. She wanted no part of it, nothing to do with it all, but here he was, and yet here he was, asking her for help, drawing her in.
Perhaps he knew that she could not refuse.
Beatrice felt so tired and weak that the journey to the facility passed by in a blur. She stared blankly out the window of the car at the pinpricks of street lights, and when the view had diminished to nothing but the dark she continued to gaze out into nothingness, her mind wandering far away from any conscious though.
It was nearing total darkness when they arrived, but that made no difference. Here it was always night.
The patient was laying on the floor of his cell when they entered, his eyes staring wildly up at the ceiling. His head was shaking back and forth, his body seeming to vibrate without any clear cause or reason. When Beatrice knelt at his side, there was no reaction, no sense of understanding or acknowledgment of the uninvited visitors to his presence.
Beatrice placed her hands on the man’s head, and she could feel the heat from his fever burning against her skin, scaring away the cold from her fingers.
‘Shhh.’ she whispered comfortingly, and she could hear the man’s breath’s beginning to grow frantic and rapid. ‘Just relax.’ She said, though she doubted that he could hear her whilst in this state. Regardless, it made her feel better to dispense what little comfort she could.
Beatrice closed her eyes, the better to aid her concentration, and tried to focus her thoughts as best she could. It was difficult, like trying to open a door without a key and no discernable lock in which to enter it. She was not truly aware of what she was doing, or how she did it, but somehow she always found her way in.
The man’s shaking subsided, his eyes drew shut, and she was there.
A lifetime flew before her eyes. A field of tall grass, the sound of beaten metal, the scents of spice and meat. A heavy book of faded parchment, and a man shouting orders in a harsh voice. The feel of bruised limbs, a woman's kiss soft upon his lips. Dancing and adrenaline, the cold shock of icy water, a bone breaking beneath him. Fear and disappointment, the heady rush of drink and smoke, pain and an overwhelming despair that made tears form in Beatrice's eyes, and then it was done.
Beatrice fell back with a start, sticking out an arm to stop herself from falling backwards. The scar on her brow was burning with an intense ferocity, and the room was spinning around her. She steadied herself for a moment, waiting for her breath to come back to her.
The patient's rapid movements had stopped. His eyes were still wide and vapid, but he seemed to be calmer, and she knew that after a while he would be able to sleep and start to recover. It would be several days before he regained consciousness though. It was always the same.
If Beatrice had felt tired before, then now she was completely exhausted. For her to share her mind with the thoughts of another was bad enough, but now it had happened twice in the space of only a few hours. Perhaps she would need to sleep for several days to recover as well.
‘Is it done?’ Rasmussen asked.
Beatrice nodded, and the motion set a wave of nausea crashing down upon her.
‘I need water’ she said, her voice dry and cracked. She closed her eyes as the dizziness took control of her once again, but she could her shuffling footsteps heading away from her, and she knew that the good doctor had gone to fetch her a drink.
She could feel the cold stone of the floor, and the heat radiating from the patients’ body. She would have fallen asleep were she not so uncomfortable.
Rasmussen returned a few minutes later, standing in the doorway with a glass of water. He held the glass out at arms length, as though afraid to move too close towards them, to cross over the threshold of the cell.
She took the glass, and as the water filled it her mouth she felt renewed, the last vestiges of the man’s thoughts washing themselves away from her.
‘So.’ said Rasmussen, breaking the silence between them. ‘He’s back with us, then?’
Beatrice nodded once more. It hurt a lot less than it had the last time.
‘It’s a curious thing.’ said Rasmussen, still hesitating in the doorway. ‘The substance seems to have a strange relationship with time. It is constantly reinventing itself. Its properties are in a constant state of decay and renewal – as each of its elements die, that process causes its relative opposites to become renewed, thus ensuring its continued regeneration. When it enters the bloodstream, it seems to have a similar effect on the patients. Their minds become detached from the physical self, the past giving way to the present, and to the future. One feeding into the other, over and over. It really is an extraordinary thing to behold.’
Beatrice knew this all already, of course. Rasmussen was still in the doorway, and Beatrice had watched as he had spoken, lost in his own world of theories and understanding. Yes, he understand the consequences, and what the patients were experiencing, and yet he did nothing.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ said Rasmussen. ‘And if there was any other way, truly, then I would not hesitate to grasp it with both hands.’
Beatrice did not doubt what he was saying, but to her it made no difference.
‘I know it must be hard for you to understand.’ Rasmussen continued.
‘I am -’ he broke off, failing to find the words.
‘ - I am truly sorry for what is happening to these people.’
‘But not sorry enough to stop?’ It was more of a statement than a question, yet Beatrice was desperate to know what his reply would be.
‘Well, that’s where I think you could do some real good.’ He smiled, gesturing at both her and the patient. ‘With your remarkable… well, for lack of a better word, ‘qualities’ you can help to put all of our patients at ease. And not only is that good for them, it’s good for us. I have already begun to see a marked improvement in-’
‘But It doesn’t make any sense.’ Beatrice cut him off at this, waving her hand at him as she rose up from the floor. ‘Why is any of this happening? Why is it that I can ‘settle’ these people, or whatever it is that you call it?’
‘It’s not an exact science.’ said Rasmussen. Shaking his head. ‘But that is exactly why you must continue. The more data that I can accumulate, both from the patients and yourself, then the closer I can come to understanding the truth.’
But that was no answer at all. Beatrice did not understand how she could do what she could, reaching into the minds of strangers and calming their thoughts, rearranging the strands of their consciousness like the books on a shelf. The power that she had scared her, and the thought of continuing to meddle in such things was not a comfortable one.
But the opposite was a prospect no less daunting. All her life she had felt these strange thoughts and stray dreams, and now she was beginning to understand that they were parts of someone else's mind, inhabiting her own. The feeling had been intensifying for the last few months, and she did not know where it would end, how much worse the symptoms may become. Rasmussen could be the only person that could help her to gain control, or to stop her sanity from slipping away through her fingers.
Rasmussen said it was because she was touched by the beast, whatever that meant. She could ask him, but she did not know if she would get an answer. And there was a part of her that felt she was better of not knowing. Some things were best left answered.
But there was one thing that was bothering her, something that she needed to ask.
‘How did you know?’ she asked Rasmussen, her face now level with his.
‘I’m sorry?’ he replied, a look of puzzlement settling onto his face.
‘That first day, when I came here, you were waiting for me. You knew that I was coming, that’s for certain. And yet the only person that knew I was coming here was my father, and I doubt very much that he would have done anything about it, so my question is – How could you possibly have known that I was coming?’
Rasmussen smiled at her. ‘Oh, that. Well, I didn’t know, you see. Or at least, I didn’t know until I was told that you’d be coming.’
‘Okay.’ Beatrice nodded. ‘Told by who?’
‘Well.’ said Rasmussen, with a shrug. ‘By the boss.’
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Post by B. on Mar 2, 2024 2:27:45 GMT -5
My brain has been so rotted by current affairs that I read the title and immediately thought of the Glasgow Willy Wonka experience lmao
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Mar 3, 2024 18:48:25 GMT -5
My comments, I read up to chapter 17: I think things are becoming clearer. As I said, Fiona went through some kind of experiment. Apparently her consciousness was sent to the past in other people's bodies. A time travel mechanic similar to what happens in my story "I am Chabo". The question is: why? I believe that just like Chabo, her consciousness inhabits the bodies of other women in other times. But what about Harry? And the caduceus? Are the timelines tangling like caduceus serpents? Is this the meaning of the symbol?
Could he be another time traveler? Were the priests responsible for guiding him until he gained the power to travel through time? Or maybe even create the machine that allows you to send your consciousness to the past? It would be interesting to put priests in this, as they could be called upon to deal with something that appears to be supernatural, in addition to being able to deal with prophecies, without anyone suspecting that they are actually phenomena caused by time travelers. And of course, the idea of destiny is closely connected to the idea of the inevitability of events that have actually already happened from the time traveler's point of view.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Mar 4, 2024 2:55:57 GMT -5
Interesting.
I will say that the consequences of what is being experienced are only side effects of the intended purpose of any experiment. We have seen only the merest hints of what that actual intended purpose is.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Mar 19, 2024 9:58:29 GMT -5
Chapter Nineteen – It’s Always the Quiet Ones
Julian studied his reflection as the ripples brushed across the surface of the water. The sun was falling low upon the sky, and his features were blurred and indistinct, but perhaps he would not have recognised them anyway.
His arms were stiff as boiled leather, and with each push pain ricocheted down his back, but it was nothing compared to the torment in his mind. The oar splashed gently as it bit down into the water, and his reflection shattered away into nothing.
As they made their way across the water, Julian looked up into the face of Father Octavian. The priest was staring up at the sky, and in the gathering gloom his eyes almost looked black. They had not spoken to one another since they had made their way onto the boat, but perhaps it was better that way. Julian was full of questions, and he did not think he could contain himself if he continued to be refused any answers.
The day had been spent ferrying supplies away from the monastery and onto the ship, and it had only been the two of them. It was hard work, and as far as Julian was concerned, all of it had been fruitless.
The Prospero was a ship similar to its namesake, a recreation of an 18th century vessel, but one that seemed to serve no purpose. When Octavian had taken him to see the boat for the first time, he had not understood. He still did not understand fully, but he knew that the intention behind it was serious. Octavian was planning for them to sail the ship, that much was certain. Where and why, however, were known only to him. Julian was not sure how much longer he could stand it.
They had been stocking up the ship with food, water, and ammunitions. Enough for at least thirty men, Julian reckoned, though where those thirty men were to appear from he could not say. There wre only a dozen or so of them at the monastery, and most of those were old and tired men. It made no sense, no sense at all.
Julian had felt uncomfortable the entire day. There was something about the ship, so vast and empty, it’s purpose unknown to him, that made him feel trapped. For the entire day he had been accompanied by a prickling feeling on the back of his neck, as if he were being watched by something, or someone. It was a curious paradox, but the space seemed to crush him. He was in the centre of a web, the net closing in around him.
Julian stared into the eyes of his master, and wondered = What was it all for?
He had been a young boy when he had come to the monastery. He came from a rich and noble family, and it had been his fathers idea that he subsume himself in an ecclesiastical profession. Julian had had no choice in the matter, but in truth he was glad to have had the opportunity to escape from his family.. The scars of past were forgotten here, at least to all but himself.
Julian had found himself drawn to Octavian from the beginning. There was something in his manner and demeanour that appealed to Julian. There was an honesty and integrity to what the man said and did that Julian found himself able to trust in, despite whatever secrets the man kept from him. Julian would not make mistake honesty for openness, and never for trust. Octavian’s mind was a closed book, and his actions were shrouded in a cloak of darkest mystery.
It made no matter, Julian told himself. He would get his answers, in time.
As they reached the shoreline, the sky was beginning to darken, a deep blue haze that seemed to descend from the heavens. Julian could see the moon appearing from behind the spire of the chapel, the stone masonry of the monastery seeming to shine against the moonlight.
It had been nearly twenty years since he had first come here, a young man, yet still a child. In all this time he had never felt as though he call the place home. He was only a visitor, an observer. He has always felt out of place.
They climbed out of the boat, and Julian picked up a length of rope, starting to the boat to the shore.
‘I think I might stay out a while.’ Julian said. ‘I fancy a walk in the woods, to clear my head.’
Octavian nodded at him, and he disappeared without another word.
Julian sat for a moment, looking at the water as the darkness began to settle upon the world, before staying true to his word and heading towards the thicket of trees.
The air was quiet and crisp, and every footstep he made was like a thunderclap in the woods around him. His steps were tentative and gentle, trying not to disturb the environment as much as he could. He would have to be quiet, and he would have to be patient.
He made his careful way though the trees, stood tall and still like patient soldiers. As the sun vanished over the horizon the leaves turned a shade of crimson, but in truth in was still the middle of spring. The woods were bustling with the reawakened nature of the world, and Julian knew that he would not be alone in the darkness.
He was being watched.
He had felt it all day, ever since they had set out that morning, but Julian had not been too concerned. There were eyes everywhere, especially here. Whatever Octavian was planning, it could not have escaped the attention of anyone, Julian was sure. But it was more than that.
Someone had been following Julian for quite a long time. Ever since Octavian had taken him under his wing, an observer had marked him out. Julian had not minded all that much. In some ways he had found it reassuring, in fact. But now enough was enough.
Time passed, Julian could not say how much. He walked through the tree carelessly, heading deeper and deeper into the woods. He was careful to make sure that he would leave enough of a trail that he could still be followed through the growing darkness, but not so much that it would be obvious that he was making things so easy. He had no destination, there was nothing in these woods for him to head towards, but they didn’t know that.
Julian heard a rustling above him, and something emerged from the branches of a nearby tree, taking flight, moonlight shimmering against the feathers of the bird as it took flight into a cloudless night. Julian took this as his opportunity. He veered away from the path, moving into a cluster of trees, and ducked down, trying to keep himself from sight.
Julian waited, pushing himself against the bark of the tree, his fingers digging against the cold moss that had grown up its side.
Julian strained his ears, waiting for some sign, an indication that his suspicions had been correct. His fingers continued to pick at the bark, tiny of flecks of wood digging themselves under his fingernails.
A twig snapped, and Julian tensed, his hand’s frozen in place. He could his breath pulsing up his throat, and he focussed his eyes in the direction he had come, waiting for the stranger to show himself.
In a moment he was there, and in the next, Julian was on him.
He leapt from being the tree, driving straight at his stalker. He took him from a crouching position, knocking the wind from the both of them as they fell to the floor in a haze of confusion and darkness.
It was a risk, of course. Julian did not know who it was, and they could have been armed, or dangerous. But as Julian knelt over the boy, he decided that it was a risk that had paid off.
‘Harry.’ said Julian
The boy nodded, though he was not really a boy. Not any more, at least. In the few years since Harry had been at the convent he had grown into a young man, though Julian was still bigger and stronger than him.
Julian sat back, thought for a moment, before reaching out a hand to the spy.
‘I suspected as much.’
Harry looked at the hand uncertainly, but took a hold of it, pulling himself back up. He dusted himself down, but in the darkness Julian was not sure if he had truly been dirty.
‘Well.’ said Julian, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What do you want?’
Harry looked at him, staying silent.
‘You’ve been following me.’
Harry studied Julian for a moment, his eyes narrowed, careful caution showing in his portrayal.
‘Yes.’ said Harry.
‘For quite some time, I think.’ said Julian. ‘I should be flattered, but I don’t imagine it’s out of choice, is it?’
Harry took a step back from Julian, but did not answer.
‘Jean wants to know what Octavian is planning, and so he’s set his young protege on my trail. Well, more fool you. What is really going on, Harry? Because if you know, then please, tell me.’
Still Harry remained quiet.
‘You’ve been following me for months, surely you should know by now? Or are you as stupid as you look?’
Julian sighed, and rubbed the back of his head. He will still dizzy from his sudden movement.
‘Well, I’ll spare you any more blushes Harry. I don’t know what Octavian is up to, not any more than you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ said Harry, his silence breaking.
‘Really?’ Julian snorted. ‘Well then, you’re a fool, and so is Jean for entrusting this task to you. But fear not, just because I don’t know what Octavian is up to doesn’t mean that I haven’t learned anything. I’ve not been idly wasting my time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been talking to someone. Someone you should know all to well, ‘Mr. Duncan.’
And with that, Julian leapt upon him. He threw himself at Harry, the two of them falling together, Harry landing against the trunk of another tree. Julian placing one arm against the boys neck, another against his chest.
Harry struggled, but Julian held him tight against the tree.
‘Now, you listen here.’ said Julian, the shock registering in Harry face. ‘There’s something about you that I find suspicious, boy. Because you’re supposed to be dead, aren’t you?’
Still he struggled, but Julian only tightened his grip.
‘Answer me!’
‘How did you know?’ Harry gasped.
Julian smiled at that. ‘Because someone told me, of course. A relative of yours, or so he says.’
At that, the boy became speechless once again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Fernald Duncan.’ Julian sighed. ‘Or so he calls himself, anyway. The man I met at the auction house, if you remember? You were spying on me already, I believe. He’s had a lot to say to me, Mr. Duncan. The thing is, he knows an awful lot about this place, about Octavian and Jean and all the rest of them. And more than that, he knows what really matters. And he would like to - How should I put it - extend an invitation to you.’
At that, Julian took his arm away from the boys throat. If he wanted to run, Julian would not stop him. He had to let him make the right choice.
‘An invitation to what, exactly?’ asked Harry.
‘To talk with Fernald, and to find out what’s really going on. It’s time to pick a side Harry.’
‘What sides are there?’
Julian laughed. ‘The dead and the living, harry. Don’t you want to live forever?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No, you don’t. Not yet. But you will, given time. But that’s what it’s all about, really. Life and death are two sides of the same coin. You just need to be careful which face you land on. You should not be so easy to decide where you place your trust, boy.’
At this Harry bristled. ‘I’m always careful – that’s why I’m not listening to anything you-’
Julian shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, You’re not seeing the big picture here. It’s always the quiet ones who change the world, the loud ones just take all the credit. You and me, we have a chance to work out the truth. Look at it this way – don’t you want to find out the truths your parents died for?’
Julian saw the look in Harry’s face, a clarification behind his eyes, and he knew that it had worked.
The net had closed.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Apr 1, 2024 11:33:06 GMT -5
Chapter Twenty – The Fog
It was like a dream that never ended.
Except it was much more complex than that. It was one dream after the other, a never ending sequence of events from which there was no escaping.
As soon as Fiona had the chance to settle down into her surroundings, she would then be jerked back into another place and time, another random moment from the history of her life, another portion of her experiences playing out in front of her.
She was in her bed, her arms as stiff as boards and her back a wreck of knotted muscles. Despite the room being as dark as pitch, she could be certain where she was. After a few moments, the gentle swaying of the room was enough for her to be sure that she was back on the ship.
The last thing she remembered – really remembered, before she had begun her strange journey, she had been sitting here, on her bed, the lockets in each hand. Now there was only one, and it was absent from her neck, which meant it must be settled upon the dresser. It could only be a few inches away from her, right at that moment..
Fiona knew that the locket was the key to all. It had started her on this journey, so it must be crucial to ending it.
But it made no difference of course. Even if she had been able to take control, Fiona would not have been able to move. She remembered, now. It would take her a while, but Fiona had found that the longer she stayed in the mind of her other selves, the more that their memories and thoughts began to open to her.
And so now she remembered. Her arms were stiff, and there were burn marks scorched onto her skin, of course they were. How could she ever have forgotten? She was not going to be moving any time soon, not until she had gotten a decent night's sleep.
The chill of the cold night air sent a shiver down her spine, and with the shaking movement of her body, Fiona found that she was somewhere new once again.
The strength that flooded into her body was incredible. Yes, she was hungry, and tired, and cold, but those were nothing to how she had felt only a moment before.
Fiona was still on the boat, only now she found herself up on deck, with the salt and the wind filling her lungs, the sound of the sea cloying against her ears. She breathed in deep, the ocean filling her body with life and soul.
It was night, and there was a darkness surrounding the ship, though in truth Fiona could not see. Instead, there was a fog forming close against her, milky white strands of moisture that hung in the air, enveloping the boat in a tightening web.
She was standing where she had been before, back when she had been talking with Harry, her hands resting on the wooden prow of the ship. For her mind it had been only a few hours at most, but for her body she could not say for certain how much time had passed. Fiona could feel the sweat in her hair, an aching in her legs, and a nausea in her stomach. Seasickness had never really been a problem for her, but there was a strange taste in her mouth that suggested otherwise.
Fiona stared out at the ocean as the fog began to grow denser, blanketing the stars from the sky and the waves from the sea, and she realised that she could no longer tell one from the other. The cold was beginning to set in to her fingers, and she rubbed her palms gently against one another.
That was when she heard the footsteps behind her. She did not need to guess who it was. She knew.
'Fiona' said Harry, calling out to her from across the way. 'I need you to give me an answer.'
Fiona did not know what to say. How long had she been away for? What had he been trying to tell her?
'You can't just keep on ignoring what's happening.' Harry spoke again, moving closer towards her.
Fiona sighed, and she felt her eyes close for a moment, before she turned around to face him, raising her arms protectively against her chest.
'Harry.' she said, letting the word hang in the air for a moment, dancing between them. 'You're the one who is ignoring things.' His face was open and honest, a naivety that almost made her feel sorry for him. 'I don't understand.'
'That's exactly the problem.' she said, and with that she made to turn away again. He reached out to take her hand in his, but she pushed it away.
'I... I'm sorry if I've made you angry.'
'It's not that which is the problem.' Fiona shook her head, but in the darkness she knew he could not see. 'It's not that at all.'
She braced herself, and turned to him
'I...'
Fiona hesitated, and she felt everything beginning to drain away from her once more.
'I...'
The fog was drawing in, the white mist drowning out the world.
And then she was gone.
The whiteness that had subsumed her was suddenly replaced by a blackness, the dark wall of the sea cushioning up against the glass of the porthole.
Fiona knew, of course she did. It took only the smallest of seconds, and she knew for certain where she was, trapped in the repeated cycle of her worst nightmares.
Fiona could see her, floating out there in the darkness. There was a thin beam of light stretching out in the gloom, the white falling to shreds as it succumbed to the impress of the sea. Fiona wanted to cry out a warning, but it was no good. She was only a child, of course, and she knew what was going to happen. She always knew.
Her mothers figure began to diminish as she floated further and further out into the darkness.
And then the light flickered away, fading into nothing.
Fiona let out a scream, a shriek of fear and terror. Her voice was so weak, so powerless, that nobody would ever be able to answer it.
And then she was gone.
The floor was cold to touch, and yet Fiona found that her hands and feet began to burn hot the longer that they were pressed against the stone. Her body felt heavy, but as she pulled herself she was alarmed by how light she felt, a dizziness blocking her senses.
Fiona appeared to be in some kind of cavern, with heaps of jagged stone serving as the walls around her. Light was coming in from the distant edges of her visions, but the light was so dim and blurred that she could only make out a burnt orange, coarsely painting the corners of her vision. The floor, which moments ago had felt like stone, now seemed to be made of cloth, the weight of her feet sagging into its surface, and it’s colour and shape were constantly in motion below her. The walls seemed to be moving as well; Where once they were close by, now they seemed to be drifting, fading further away from her.
As her mind had continued to travel, Fiona had grown used to the experience of being unable to find her senses and understand her place, but nothing that she attempted seemed to make her circumstances appear any clearer to herself. Wherever she was, it was not somewhere she had ever been before. Something felt different this time, something that she had not yet been able to put her finger on.
As Fiona moved through the room, the air felt thick and claggy, a taste of ash and brimstone that made her cough. She looked where she had been laying on the floor, and wondered how she had come to be there. There was a sharp pain in the back of her head, and when Fiona reached up to touch herself she realised, impossibly, what was different..
She was in control of her body again, and her movements were now her own.
The thick air was making it harder and harder for her to breathe, and she could feel her chest tightening with confusion and fear. She had to get out of this place, whatever it was.
Fiona turned back towards the source of light, only to find that her way was now blocked. There was a man, slung from a chain that descended from the ceiling. The chain was forged from iron links that burnt a bright blue, light radiating from the metal like shafts of moonlight. The man was naked, with thin black lines covering his entire body. His hands were bloody ruins, the fingers and bones mashed together, blood flowing freely from the left, where on the right it had stagnated and crusted over, turning a shining black. When he looked at her, Fiona saw two eyes, one white, the other black, but they were not the eyes that she had expected. They were not the eyes of her brother.
‘Fernald?’ she said, her voice only a whisper, barely audible.
But somehow he heard, and he smiled when she said his name.
‘Fiona.’ he said, and against her worst expectations, it was truly her brother's voice that she heard. Despite the absurd horror of what was happening, it made Fiona feel all the better for hearing him speak to her again.
‘What are you-? I mean…’ Fiona stopped, gathering her thoughts, composing herself before speaking again. ‘What’s happening?’ Fernald simply shook his head from side to side, and his shoulders seemed to shrug.
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ he sighed.
‘Understand what?’ she asked
‘The beast is coming for you, Fiona. You should have listened to me.
Fiona did not understand. She always listened to him. ‘What are you talking about? Please, just tell me what’s going on.’
Fernald stopped talking, and closed his eyes. He remained still for a few seconds, as if contemplating something, trying to reach a decision. The air grew thicker, the heat rising and building a wall between them. Fiona felt as though she was going to pass out, her head spinning in circles, her throat drying and her lungs straining for breath. She could feel an ache in her stomach, a pain that ate away at her very core.
And then it was all over.
Fernald opened his eyes. The black and white effect was all gone, now replaced by their usual deep brown hue. As her brother's eyes had opened, oxygen had seemed to flow back into the room, and Fiona could breathe freely once more. She took several thirsty gasps of air, and tried to steady herself, the feeling of sickness building up inside her.
‘Fiona.’ said Fernald, his voice growing cold and distant. ‘I met god, and he had nothing to say to me.’
Fiona could not understand, could not take in what he was saying, what was happening, where she was. It was a mystery.
‘And as for you.’ Fernald continued, his voice growing louder now, the sounds echoing deep inside her mind. ‘Well, you’re going to find out very soon.’
‘Who are you?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Hear what?’ said Harry. ‘I can’t hear anything.’
The cool of the morning air, the freshness of the breeze was such a shock to Fiona that she could not even hear what she had said in reply.
Fiona could feel her body trembling as shook in the open air, taking hold of the wooden rail to steady herself as she swayed at the ship's edge.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ said Harry, a look of concern creasing on his brow. ‘Perhaps you should go back to your cabin, get some rest.’
Fiona shook her head. ‘No, the doctor said I’m fine.’
This only made Harry seem even more concerned. ‘I really think you should get some rest.’
She shrugged, and folded up the leaflet he had given her. She was back where she had been before, not the last time she was talking with Harry, but the time before that. It was such a relief to be back somewhere more tangible, more understandable. Fiona would have laughed, if she could – how could this be the most sensible part of her life?
As she made to pass the pamphlet back to Harry, he pressed his hands onto hers, their chill shocking her.
‘Look at it, Fiona. I mean really look. This play took place fifteen years ago, see.’ He pointed to the date scrawled at the bottom of the paper. ‘And yet look at the names of some of the characters.’
Fiona followed Harry's fingers as he pointed at the cast list on the inner pages of the leaflet.
‘Fiona,’ he said, his finger pointing at her name.
‘Harry’ he continued, but Fiona's eyes were distracted, her gaze latching onto something.
‘Julian.’ said Harry, though now she was barely looking, her eyes caught somewhere else.
‘Even bloody Tamson.’ he said, but Fiona's eyes had lingered on another name. Josephine Anwhistle. Now, that was interesting. Where had she seen this name before?
‘Are you even listening to me?’ Harry asked her.
She stared at the name, trying to think, trying to get her brain to understand, but it was no good.
Fiona felt his hands on her, pulling her close towards him, forcing her to look up at him.
‘Fiona, listen to me!’ he said, his voice rising. There was anger in his words, but she knew he did not mean it to show. It was desperation, and it was fear, and those were things she was all too familiar with. She understood. Fiona stared back at him, words failing her.
‘All of this, it can’t be real./ said Harry. ‘I mean, really, it can’t, can it? You say that all of this has happened before, but it’s not just that, is it.’ She could see that tears were forming in the corners of his eyes, the light of the sun reflecting back at her from the silvery opals that were taking shape in his deep blue eyes. They were the kind of tears that come out of fear, out of the terrifying realisation that you have stumbled upon the darkest of secrets.
Harry drew a breath, steadying himself.
‘Everything that’s happening, it’s all happened before, hasn’t it? But not to us, perhaps. To other people. Whether in reality or fiction, in stories, or in a play, I don’t know. But there’s too much coincidence, too much that doesn’t make any sense, that cannot be explained. Because it’s our minds, Fiona. We’re losing control of our sanity, because of what they’ve done to us, because of what they are doing to us.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, though she knew what his answer was going to be.
‘I think…’ his voice trailled off, and he drew her even closer, his lips brushing up against her ear, his breath prickling hot against her skin, and he whispered. ‘I don’t think we ever really escaped.’
Fiona sighed, and closed her eyes for a moment thinking. When she opened them again, Harry’s face was still hovering in front of her, his eyes desperate to hear what she was going to say, for her to confirm his worst fears.
‘You poor sweet fool.’ she said, raising up her hand to stroke his face. ‘It’s not that Harry, it’s not that. Of course we escaped.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Fiona. It’s the only explanation.’
We’re dead, Harry. We’re dead, and this is what happens next.
‘In fact’ said Harry, as he reached into his pocket. ‘I can prove it to you.’
He took something from his pocket, but Fiona had no time to see what it was. She took a hold of him, hands frozen, and pushed him away.
But then the next second her hands were on her, full of heat and passion.
The sun had gone, her cabin full of darkness, excepting for the single sputtering flame from a tallow candle, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the shift in her surroundings.
Harry's hands were firm against her skin, caressing her flesh with a gentle urgency. She looked down to see his naked form below her, and when she moved in surprise he seemed to move with her.
Fiona did not know what to think, feeling almost embarrassed as she looked down at her body, and at his, their intimacy exposed before her. Even though the body was her own, there was something voyeuristic about the experience, her detachment from the moment robbing herself of any pleasure.
Fiona could feel the locket between her breasts, it’s metal burning with an intense heat that seemed to match the one that had built inside of her. She placed her hands upon Harry’s chest, and could feel the tense muscles clenching as he breathed beneath her. His eyes were closed, curls of his long blonde hair stuck to the side of his face with sweat.
Fiona felt her own eyes begin to shut, and as she felt her hands move down between her legs she relaxed, and let her mind hang in that space, soaking in the feeling of peace and companionship.
She could feel Harry’s hands move, feeling their way towards her breasts. She opened her eyes, and took hold of his palm instead, taking his right hand into her own. The marks on both their hands were burning red, the black tattoos were shining and inky, only now she realised.
They were not tattoos, they never had been.
They were scars.
As the sound cut through her, an incessant beeping that pounded through her ears, she turned her head towards it, only to find herself somewhere else once again.
The noise. She knew that noise.
And then she was running, moving down a corridor, the sounds of her footsteps clashing against the furore of the siren, warning of the imminent attack. Everything around her was red, the warning lights of the sirens setting everything to a hellish glow. The floor shuddered beneath her, and for a split second she lost her footing, crashing into the hard metallic wall.
Fiona fell down upon the floor, the room spinning in circles around her. No, she thought, no, not this. Anything but this. Please, don’t make me go through it again.
‘Fernald!’ she screamed, but she knew it would be no good, that her words would not reach his ears until it was too late.
And then it came, the ominous roar of the beast, its thunderous cry chilling her soul and her heart, as she froze into place, unable to think. The fear was taking control of her, clouding her thoughts and swamping her judgement, both then and now.
She had to make a choice. She could flee, run away from the noise and carnage, away from where she knew her brother was fighting against the impossible, take herself back to the control room, and do everything she could to try and steer them away, to get back to land before they were killed. Or she could try to help her brother, to fight an impossible fight against a force that she could not prevent. In her heart, she knew that the only way to save them both was to leave her brother to his fate, but she couldn’t let it be. She could not let her brother die alone.
Fiona drew a breath, and made the wrong choice.
She did her best to block her mind from the screams of terror, the cries of the sea, and she shouted out her brother's name again as she ran towards him.
The corridor shook around her, her footsteps sending up splashes of cold icy water to dash against her thighs. And then suddenly she was there.
The most impossible, absurd scenario of her life unfolded before her, now for the second time. The walls of the submarine had been ripped open, and through the thick, black waters that gushed their eager way inside the vessel, Fiona could see a mass of black tentacles, like liquid rubber darting their way through a surface of glass. It was a writhing mass that seemed to be forcing its way inside the ship, with innumerable tentacles squirming their way towards her like a thousand restless limbs.
And there was Fernald, of course.
At first she had almost missed him, her mind so distracted by the horror afore her. He was laying on the ground, half submerged in the water. His face had turned white and bloated, and there was blood spattered about himself.
‘Fernald!’ said Fiona, tears forming in her eyes. She knelt down beside her brother, despair numbing the cold of the water. She put her arms around him, and began to pull him upwards out of the deepening trench. It was then that she noticed it for the first time. Where his hands had once been there were now only two bloody stumps, the red turning the water to deepest crimson around her. The beast roared once more, and the whole submarine shook from one side to the other, as the creature jerked itself forwards.
Fiona stared towards the monster, her eyes full of hate, her mind full of fear.
The beast seemed to sense that she was there, as at that moment it seemed to halt in its movements, the flailing of its tentacles ceasing.
Fiona rose, her legs shaking unsteadily beneath her, and moved towards the great unknown.
With each step that she took, Fiona urged herself to stop, to turn away, to run, to escape, to hide. But her body was not hers to control, her legs trembling like a marionette with each careful step that she took. She knew she would be okay, of course she did. But that did not make herself feel any safer.
Fiona came to a halt in front of a sheer black mass, its shape indiscernible from the reddish glow that the lights had cast upon its surface. She felt as though the creature were surveying her, studying her, although there were no eyes of its own that she could see.
For reasons she could not explain, not even now, Fiona stretched out her hand. The movement was hesitant, seeming to happen in slow motion, and yet before she could process it her hand was upon the creature's skin. It’s heat bit into her, sending shockwaves spiralling, ip through her finger, her arms, up her neck to her head, her mind.
Something cracked, deep inside of her very soul.
Fiona screamed.
She was on her bed, sweat pouring off of her in waves, her arms and legs thrashing in pain.
Pleasure soared through her body, pressure crashing through her brain, crushing her mind and sending her spinning through waves of bliss.
Fiona screamed.
Her heart raced in her chest, thumping against her ribs with urgent need.
A searing hot pain tore between her legs, she could herself being ripped apart, tearing through her very being.
Fiona screamed.
Her lungs were leaden, filling with dirty black water. She tried to breathe, but with every breath she could feel the life draining out of her.
The pain ruptured up through her wrist, a cold black liquid spreading through every fibre of her being, until suddenly it was ripped away.
The beast roared.
Fiona fell back, crashing into the water, the siren of the submarine's alarms echoing distantly at the back of her mind.
She could hear the wet slithering of the beast's tentacles as it withdrew from the ship, receding back into the night.
The last thing she could see was the face of her brother, pale and white as a ghost, as he scooped her up into his arms.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Apr 1, 2024 11:39:34 GMT -5
I am fully aware that what I am writing if of an extreme elngth, and that most people are not reading, so to clarify for the more general (i.e not Jean Lucios) among you.... this is, essentially, an orgiional novel. The links to ASOUE are tenuous at best, but it has a flavour of the word, and some of the details. But there is more that doesn't match that does, and that will change considerably when I am finished and this is put into it's published form. So, I will continue to write and post it here, but I am amore focussing on my intended audience (i.e, one who will have the full novel to hand and can read in one go) rather than the current (those who have to wait weeks between chapters and will therefore forget a lot of the small details).
But hey. It's good, i feel. Plus, i'm over 60,000 words now, which has got to be some kind of record for this site.
(and another 19 chapters to go...)
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