When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 219

(Serena)

Help, my mind calls as I am sucked into darkness, that inky blackness washing over me like a tidal wave of death. Somebody help me.

But my calls for aid are as futile as shouting into the wind: there is no one to hear me, much less to help me. The only person that can really do anything about the matter is myself now, after all, I brought this situation on none other than yours truly. It would be naïve to even dare to assume otherwise. I made this decision.  I shall be facing Azrael.

Alone.

The murky depths of sleep call to me uninvited as I am sucked away in the calloused clutches of Azrael, my mind becoming hazy, as though suck knee deep in mud, unable to move. It is shortly after this wash of blurriness overcomes me that my eyes snap shut, heavy from the weight of exhaustion and the compelling lull of the void.

And so I drift into slumber in the arms of the monster I never thought to hold.

***

By the time I awake, the room around me is dark. But room is a generous term for the abode I am sprawled in- a cell would be a much more accurate description, for the door, and even the large, gaping window is completely barred. There is no light source, no faint simmer of warmth upon the stagnant air, but there is something else. Heavy and fragrant, almost intoxicating:  incense.

Managing to crack open my eyes that are stiff with a rim of sleepy dust, I mull over this matter with as much time as I will allow myself, scraping the dust off my hands. Incense is largely expensive throughout Faey due to its rarity and the sheer shortage of its quantity. I’d hazard a very good guess that we are in a rich noble estate, or perhaps even palace, given the fact they can obtain incense in such vast quantities. But I suppose I shall have my answers to that soon enough.

It occurs to me suddenly in a brief bout of heavy thoughts that I might have been put to sleep when I entered through that portal, for no deep sleep such as this comes naturally to the conscious mind. But I swiftly push back the notion, for it may have just been the travel through the portal that sent my head spinning into unconsciousness. There is simply no way to tell.

As I let my eyes adjust to the crippling darkness, I note with a pang of melancholy that I suddenly feel somewhat empty- my heart no longer filled with that musical bond that beats between my husband and I. The swaying chatter of thoughts and feelings that had scattered across our bond is weak now, minute, and I no longer hear the tickle of his honeyed words caressing the back of my mind. Only a murmuring hum, so far that it seems almost inconsequential.

I wonder if he can hear me at all. If  I  can hear him. But no answer comes.

My thoughts flying back to everything, to Kal, to Ithuriel, Delina, Dawn, and I pray inwardly that they are safe and well. Before I left, I could hear the distress in Soren’s thoughts, and Ithuriel’s too, as I flew across the portal, but equally, a grim understanding as they formulated a plan of their own. Whatever they are planning I just hope they have come to understand what it is I must do.

After a while of listening to my jumbled thoughts, my vision adjusts to my surroundings, my new vampiric qualities kicking in to give light to my location.  As I peer into the gloom, I can make out it is not in fact a prison cell as I had originally thought, (at least not fully), but a room, well furnished in slivers of silky red and gold, the colours of blood and royalty. I am equally surprised to find that not a single one of my limbs are shackled- no cuffs around my arms that lock me to the ground, or even a safely precaution of such. There are no weights dragging around my feet, no iron collar digging into my neck with the bitter strain of Azrael’s malice.  Aside from the bars of the windows and the door that seems locked from the outside, I am free to roam the room as I please.

At the very least, the whole situation seems entirely unnerving.

Perhaps, I think slyly to myself, glancing down to the now empty space on my chest, reminding myself over and over that the weight of the hidden object is still there, it is because Azrael things I am now susceptible to his little tricks that allows me to be so free going for a prisoner. Or maybe, I counter more darkly, he simply wants to give me a false sense of security. Maybe there are bigger measures at play that are preventing me from escaping this place.

With a hint of sombre melancholy, and attempting to not spare too many thoughts to my friends- wherever they might be- I make my ways around the room. For the most part, I use this exploration as a form of distraction: dragging my fingers absently over the red velvet couch, the bed propped up in the corner of the room, the fireplace, the writing desk- all equipped with pens and ink, stained at the sides in an implication that the object has been well used. Nevertheless I take a seat at it, anxious to clear my thoughts and hash out more of my half thought over plan.

In my mind it seems simple enough. Let Azrael have control over me- but not too much control, let him skim the tips of my mind, tell him what he wants to hear, all without letting him figure out I still have a charm against him. Let him believe he has power against me, that is charms and spells and mind controlling tricks have a perfect degree of measure against my poor, helpless mind.

Part of it relies on the extent of his ego- how powerful of a vampire he thinks himself to be to have me in his grasp, for he knows well enough that the power of the mind soul only works on those who are susceptible. But I am quick to reassure myself on the matter. Azrael has the biggest ego in the whole of Faey, there would be no dispute on that.

Gulping down my fear, I begin to tap against the sides of the table, worry gnawing at my gut in a series of pulsing waves. Then I breathe out slowly, trying to steady my breath against my inner turmoil, my mind calming into a false sense of security as I remind myself that I am the one in control here, not Azrael.

But, a small part of my mind squeaks, that does not push aside that he can do anything and everything with you, and you would be forced to comply.

With that notion surfacing in the back of my mind, all at once I feel like I need to vomit. Perhaps it is best that I do not think about that.

Closing my eyes, I steady my elbows against the desk, my head in my hands as I try my best to let a temporary tranquillity wash over me. There is no use of me making a mess of the room, burning it to ash and cinders in spite of what has happened. Such an act will only make things harder on myself, because by the looks of things, this is to be my long time abode- I might as well get used to things now.

Puffing out a breath, I let my mind fall into a watery submission, floating aimless as it rises up against the sky, searching, pacing anxiously, apprehensive to find what it is looking for, to once again feel the bond of magic that had become so essential to my existence. Knowing this might be my last chance at communication for a long time, I breath out a few words against my mind, letting my magic lift into the air and float out against the window, trailing through the sky, too quick for me to see. I don’t know where its going, only that it is following the trembling link that lies between my husband and I. So with a desperate fervour, I hope against hope that somehow, my words, and the last few drops of my magic, reach him.

Though I hardly doubt it will.

A key turning in the door rocks me to my senses, my eyes snapping open as I whizz my head around, hands braced on the table, ready for a fight. I realise with a glimmer of pride that I have yet to have any glamour or legislations put upon me, and that whatever- or whoever comes through this door, I can do whatever I like to them. The thought is somewhat comforting.

The key turns in the lock with a swift click, and the door creaks open. Streams of buttery light creep through the gap in the door, silhouetted by a tall, familiar figure enshrouded by a red cloak, white hair glistening…