Faelith woke, but slowly. The sluggish haze of someone whose body and spirit were starting to wear down. Eyes still closed, it was the smell that first reminded her of what had happened. The thick, metallic tang of blood she smelled all the way to the back of her throat reminded her of where she was… secured in the center of sigils, circle and star, drawn on the cold stone floor of the dias in blood. She had tried to destroy the sigil, between kicking at it and eventually sitting in exhaustion, her boots and the lower third of her robes were now soaked in the slick stale rust colored substance that slowly dried into the fibers. Yet, every time she smudged a line, the blood trickled back, redrawing it over the smudge in pristine red ichor lines.
Her ears twitched at the brittle staccato of bone rattling against bone and the hollow percussion of that same bone against stone. A reminder of the skeletal minions surrounding the elevated platform which was her cell.
She lifted her head slowly from where it had slumped against her left arm, outstretched involuntarily to the side by golden chains, mirrored by the right. The Undone that had once been known as Zoma apparently had taken her words seriously, that she would die before letting him use her, and had taken precautions to ensure she couldn’t make good on that threat. He needed her alive. He wanted her immortal body, her druidic power… things he could only claim for himself if he took her as a living vessel. What was he waiting for?
Faelith shivered as she woke more fully, the damp cold of the stone leeching the warmth from her body. It had been days?… hours?… she didn’t really know how long it had been, honestly. Eyelids opened to see the eerie bluish glow of energy fields forming walls around her, the golden skeletal guards milling around mindlessly beyond them.
Fingers twitched with tension, she curled them in as if to grip or seize the empty air, trying to draw upon her mana to summon up a spell… only to be disappointed for the hundredth time as the magic … her mana… failed to heed her call. She’d tried so many when she arrived here… lightning, earthquakes, curses, summons, but nothing seemed to work. These manacles that held her in place also seemed to suppress the mana flowing through her, through her Lyrandel, preventing even her own healing aura.
Maybe that was the plan, wear her down till she could no longer resist. She wouldn’t just give in though, she’d fight to the end. She thought of Arthrand and his past, he’d lasted decades, surely she could do the same …
Except it wasn’t the same. Eventually *he* would come to claim her body as a vessel, and if that happened all those she cared for most in this world would be forced to face not a golden mask but her. Faelith. It would be her face, her body, that came at them.
She thought of the people of Arandor, childhood friends and those she’d come to know since she’d returned from her travels with her family. For a moment she tried to imagine what it would be like, seeing them stand before her with a voice that wasn’t their own spewing threats, knowing she would have to fight them. To end them.
She pictured Elion. Her Elion. Her Firefly.
A boisterous self proclaimed man of fame who charmed even the most skeptical to follow along with whatever he said. Whose shenanigans, puns, teasing and coin tossing antics both infuriated and amused Faelith into countless eyerolls. The man who reminded her how to play, laugh, tease, and even make her own mischief.
There was also Elion the poet, whose sweet words and intense stare stole her breath leaving her flushed and lost for words.
And in moments of sorrow, worry, guilt, or self doubt there was Elion her champion, a calm voice of reason who consoled, counseled, and always lifted her up. He believed in her, always, and she would do anything to protect him.
Even if it was to protect him from herself.
Pursing her lips, she started the same routine she had tried the day before, pulling at the chains, trying to force her hands to slip from the golden manacles. Her shoulders ached from the unrelenting position, more so as she yanked and pulled in short violent spurts followed by pauses where she pooled her strength only to try again. It would be a matter of time till one or both dislocated, but she didn’t care. Perhaps if she pulled hard enough she could dislocate her thumb… or the skin at her wrists would wear enough for the blood to make them more slick. She had to slip free. She had to escape... Or she had to die trying. At least as a skeleton she wouldn’t be recognized, and could save the ones she loved from that horror.