Post by Eurydice on Apr 9, 2008 11:25:22 GMT -5
((Takes place a few weeks (I think) before the actual, proper campaign begins (i.e. the stuff where Jess and Kevin join up), the night before the Council of the Arcane begins. Sharky, let me know if I have any names/concepts wrong ^^.
Might revise at some point-- I feel like I use a lot of weird or excessive metaphors and similes, and I'm not sure how I feel about that at the moment. Oh, and the title's probably temporary.))
Out on the street, several blocks away, Mene heard the night watchman call the hour, but if she heard which hour it was that he proclaimed, she did not notice. She had been working for nearly three days now, and the only reason she registered nighttime was the fact that she had to light more lamps to clearly see her work. Little plates of half-eaten snacks, hot drinks long gone cold, and mostly ignored meals littered the floor around her desk. She was beyond exhaustion.
It reminded her, she reflected, of those late nights working in the lab with Caban. They’d stayed up sleepless nights endlessly, then, it had seemed. But no one was by her side, now; Raowlar had left for Laxwind three nights ago, where he was happily playing the gnome, and Naira would not return from an evening out with Barden until the next morning.
One hand sat on the desk before her, holding the rune book that had been her last gift from Vel Faas, flattening it open to a well-worn, dog-eared page, while the other hand slowly, steadily, blindly copied the penultimate set on the page. Candlelight bent and flicked in an imperceptible breeze. Eyes narrowed; she bent her face closer to the page, propped up on weary elbows.
Her eyelids felt like lead.
Shaking herself of the warm, fuzzy haze around her consciousness, Mene stood and ambled over to the bathroom, where she immersed her head in a sinkful of disappointingly lukewarm water, withdrew, and repeated. After the third dunk, she judged the effect to be sufficient, towled her face off, and resumed her seat.
The lights were burning low, and Mene glared at them discontentedly. Clearly, the lamps and thick, pillar candles were all conspiring against her getting any work finished tonight. It was hard enough trying to keep her shaky hands still enough to scribe the runes properly. The last thing she needed was to singe her trembling fingers while fiddling with the lamps, or worse, upsetting the flames on her desk. All her work was there! To lose that would be beyond unthinkable. She’d just have to keep going until the cursed, insufficient light gave out entirely. And then she would have to wait until daybreak to continue further.
No. She shook her head again, blinking hard against the gritty itch that lay under her eyelids. When the morning came, she needed to go out and pick up the gown that Marié had been slaving over. She’d need the rest of the day free for studying and organizing her research materials; the opening ceremonies for the Council of the Arcane were that evening, and she’d doubtlessly be up late. She’d need to sleep, eventually.
“Eventually” could still be a long way off, though. There were things more important than sleep. Vision blurry, Mene leaned down close to her work, her nose practically brushing the parchment.
“Mene…?”
She shook her head. Her ears were ringing, buzzing.
“Mene, what are you doing?”
Yes, she would definitely need to make sure that “eventually” happened; she didn’t need to attend the Council of the Arcane so sleep-deprived that she was barking mad the entire time. This was the opportunity of a lifetime; she might never have access to so much raw, potent knowledge in such concentration for the rest of her life! She would sleep, eventually, and then she would stop hearing things that weren’t there or having irrational, confusing conversations with herself. She chuckled at the absurdity of it all, rubbing her eyes. Just an hour or two of sleep, and she’d be alright. Just an hour or two, and she would be fine.
After she was done with the work at hand, of course.
She withdrew her hand from her eyes and stared, uncomprehending.
There was more light in the room than there had been a moment ago; the walls glowed golden , as if from within, warm, gentle, supporting light. After a moment of marveling, she saw the source of the light. It was Caban.
He was taller than she remembered, more handsome as well, ethereal and ghostly as he stood there drinking in the sight of her, a sad smile gracing his gentle features. He seemed barely there at all, light and vision just as easily going through him as not. His wings were massive, wide-spreading, powerful things, the wings of an angel, not the frail, flimsy things that she and her kind were cursed with. He glowed with radiant beauty, inner light. An angel.
“Don’t be alarmed, Mene.”
She heard a sharp thud. Mene decided that she must have banged her leg on the desk, as she found herself standing now, her knee throbbing. She massaged it absently as she watched him step closer. Opening her mouth to speak, she felt the skin on her lips, dried and cracked, protesting at being put to work. “Are… are you…?” It seemed too silly to voice. She broke off, oddly giddy.
“No, Mene, I’m not really here. I’m just a figment of your imagination.” His voice was low, gentle, hypnotic. She felt his words filling her head with that same soothing, sleepy warmth, and she tried in vain to shake it away again. “You haven’t slept in days. You’re hallucinating.” He chuckled softly, as if sharing an inside joke, an endearing, teasing prod. There was so much sad tenderness in his manner, so much more openly than it had ever been.
Her hand stretched out, tentatively extending in his direction. “You’re…” She stopped, tittering, high-pitched and helpless, and shook a finger at the specter before her, as if chastising a naughty child. “Oh, Ifane, I really am going crazy… and the last thing I need to do is indulge in the crazy by actually talking to you!”
He shook his head, closing the distance between them with swift, silent steps. Light heat warmed her as his hands took hers, and though she knew that Caban was far away from her now, miles above and miles away, she saw him lift her hands, felt the gentle pressure of his skin under her palms. Shaken, disoriented, she tried to push past the hands that she knew she only imagined, tried to step back, step away to collect her swimming, muddled thoughts, do anything to give herself a moment to breathe, but nothing about her body was functioning the way it was supposed to. She couldn’t even shut him out by closing her eyes.
His voice swam around her, sweet and thick as honey. “You’re not crazy, Mene. You’re tired. You need to sleep.” Airy fingers caressed her wrist. “Don’t you have a big day tomorrow?”
“I know that,” she said stubbornly, her wings twitching softly. “Just want to finish one more thing, and then I’ll sleep.
“I promise,” she added, feeling foolish, childish, justifying herself to her imaginary friend.
Deadly silence. Caban’s eyes, pale and probing, rested on hers for a long, uncomfortable moment. He sighed. “You don’t keep your promises.”
Mene blinked, trembling.
“You promised me, before you left, that you would take care of yourself, use proper precautions in your work. You promised me. But you didn’t do that, did you? Consuming three, four potions a day, without knowing any of their effects. Inventing rune combinations when you’re not even completely sure of how the original components should be used. Not sleeping. Not eating. Not stopping once, whenever you can help it. You made yourself so ill, last winter. You nearly died. Just like before.”
“I promised that I’d do the best I could!” she cried, rounding on him, a crimson blush splashed across her paper-white skin. “I can’t do more than that! Accidents happen, I’m not perfect!”
That same unhappy gaze bore into her, gently unrelenting, with all the resigned sorrow of a suffering martyr, knelt in prayer. “Nobody wants you to be perfect, Mene. You know I thought you were perfect already.” He squeezed her fingers gently. “But you have to realize that you’ll never fly if you end up poisoning yourself.”
“But I have to try!” Deep, irrational anger flared up in her heart, furious how he dared to simplify it to such an idiotic, melodramatic generalization. This was her life’s work, her heart’s dream, and he had never understood it, never felt anything even vaguely close. How dare he? How did he have the nerve to criticize her being passionate and bold? She glowered at him defiantly. “I’ll never fly if I don’t take the risk, either! Which you would know, if you were brave enough to do the same!”
“Always so stubborn.” He shook his head ruefully. “Perhaps it’s what I loved most about you.”
And there it was: the word she didn’t want to hear him say, that one, stupid word. The word that had been Caban’s reason to assist her as long as he had done. The word that had been his reason when he shattered her world. She couldn’t bear how weak and irrational that word was. It had brought her grief at home, driven her from her work, and Mene would have nothing to do with it.
Her voice was hoarse when she spoke again. “I’ll sleep. I will. Just let me finish this first. Please.”
Releasing her hands, Caban drew her to him in a soft, easy embrace. His pale wings, wide and muscular, enveloped her. Mene felt dizzy; warm light swam in the air before her. “Don’t promise me anything,” he murmured. “Just make sure you do it for your own sake.”
The downy brush of his wings stroked her shoulders. Mene had been groundside for years now, and she had long since forgotten what it felt like, the smooth, faintly sensual touch of another’s wings. “Always,” she said, softly but stolidly.
Her former associate sighed, a profoundly melancholy sound. He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in golden, airy, angelic hands, stroking her cheek slowly, lightly, with infinite care, as if afraid that too harsh of a touch would break her, shatter her like a porcelain doll. “You have to be strong, Mene. For the future.”
She stared at him, baffled. “What does that mean?”
Caban bent his face to hers, kissed her. Mene felt giddy, intense heat envelop them as the air shifted before her eyes.
A battle. She saw dragons, proud and fierce, soaring, plunging, roaring their fury against what looked like enormous metal birds, moving with unspeakable grace, hissing out thin streams of black smoke. The atmosphere was rent with shrieks, organic and artificial, and dense, black smoke rose from below, where a city burned.
A city in flames. She saw mothers, children, the infirm and elderly, fleeing down back alleys with damp cloths clutched over their mouths. She saw men and women on the front line, the flesh seared away from their smoking bones. Wild flames ate at the few buildings that still provided ample food. At a nearby port, a towering, flame-battered structure gave out its last hold on the ground and plummeted to its death in a roiling river.
The great river. She saw it churn, writhe like a living mass, shift like a swarm. Lightning seared the thick, dark clouds above. On either side of the mile-wide expanse, she saw dragonboats dashed against the docks, rammed into the shore again and again until there was nothing left but kindling. She saw river dragons fleeing the tumultuous surface, seeking solace from the ferocious storm, hiding their sleek, powerful bodies in the clear blue grey at the river’s floor.
Blue-grey like the aura of a young man with dark hair, his figure all aglow. She thought, for a moment, that she saw eyes of the same color, but the figure’s face before her was blank, blurred, empty, even though his lips must have been moving. She could hear him chanting, calling, making a prayer to Ifane.
The goddess herself. Mene saw Ifane, a simple strip of white cloth covering her vision, her hands raised to shield her head, her body shaking as tears cascaded down her face.
Somewhere in all of this—Mene did not know where—Caban’s ghostly form began to fade from around her, slow and effortless, like fog being swept away in a warm breeze. When she opened eyes that she hadn’t remembered closing, he was gone entirely, and she was no longer standing where she had stood facing him.
With a shudder, she sat up from her desk. Her face felt funny.
The lights burned low around her.
Mene shuddered. Her rust-colored wings drew in flat against her back and arms. She picked up the rune work that she had left off. “I’ll sleep soon,” she muttered. “Soon as I’m done these, I’ll sleep.” Over and over she felt the words leave her lips, like a mantra, as she triple checked the runes, which looked as perfect as if Caban himself had scribed them. A vial, filled with a dark green liquid sat in the rack, and she checked the list of its components again, trying to ignore the ethereal sensation of arms and feathers faintly wrapped about her. Her fingers absently tried to brush something off of her lips, but there was nothing there.
Her standard set of emergency supplies, a simple painkiller, a moderate one, and a strong purgative were in their usual spot on the little shelf above her desk. Mene stood, set her hands down flat against the runes and began to chant.
Buoyant radiance flowed up from the parchment into her palms, up her arms and shoulder. She took a deep breath to steady herself, took another for good measure, and downed the green potion. The taste of it was rich, complex, like a dark chocolate or an expensive red wine. It coursed through her body with swift intent. Mene took another breath and completed the incantations as soft breezes brushed her skin, tickling her arms, ruffling the fabric of her shirt, gently buffeting against her wings.
She felt light, as if she were afloat on a thin cushion of air between her cold, bare feet and the carpeted floor. Her eyes fixed on the three emergency vials, she flexed her wings.
They billowed smoothly, as if supported by a gust of air, and Mene’s heart soared as she swore she felt herself rising. But that instant passed, as had often happened before, as she had become used to, with every other failure, and she sank again, her hands holding the chair back. A wave of nausea washed over her, with dull, steady ache sinking into the muscles of her wings. She flexed them again, painfully, and felt no magical winds lifting picking her up, felt nothing but lightheaded and desperately in need of whatever sleep the remainder of the night would yield.
Too tired to manifest anything stronger than limp annoyance, Mene made a half-hearted attempt at tidying her desk a bit before acknowledging that it was beyond repair for the moment and would be dealt with later. With awkward, leaden fingers, she withdrew the first potion from the medicinal rack and drained it, observing dully as it numbed the pain in her joints.
The dizziness did not abate; it was multiplying, if anything, wrapping around her head in a hazy mass. Mene put out the lamps, one by one, and stumbled to bed.
Lying down helped, though in the dark room, it seemed that she was rocking, as if she were sleeping in a boat on turbulent waters. Shadows lengthened, retreated, and grew again. It was silly to think such things, silly to dwell on nighttime shadows, with so much else to dwell on. Tomorrow, she’d have sold out to the Woolard Academy, given them what they wanted. Tomorrow, she’d be on her way to the Council of the Arcane. Tomorrow, all sorts of things.
Like dragon’s blood. That would be worth it, at least.
Mene sighed and rolled over, hugging herself in the strange chill that had descended on her. Her thoughts wandered strangely, wildly, like wayward children dispersing into a curious wood. She thought about the great river, wondering whether, if she had visited it a million years ago, she would have found it narrower or wider than it was today. She thought about dragon boats, wondering if humans and elves had tamed them, or vice versa. She thought about love and death and how the two somehow seemed to fit together easily, hand in hand. She thought about gods, and she thought about angels.
She thought about Caban, his hands as pale as milk, his hair as bright as gold, his burning lips meeting hers.
She slept.
Might revise at some point-- I feel like I use a lot of weird or excessive metaphors and similes, and I'm not sure how I feel about that at the moment. Oh, and the title's probably temporary.))
Out on the street, several blocks away, Mene heard the night watchman call the hour, but if she heard which hour it was that he proclaimed, she did not notice. She had been working for nearly three days now, and the only reason she registered nighttime was the fact that she had to light more lamps to clearly see her work. Little plates of half-eaten snacks, hot drinks long gone cold, and mostly ignored meals littered the floor around her desk. She was beyond exhaustion.
It reminded her, she reflected, of those late nights working in the lab with Caban. They’d stayed up sleepless nights endlessly, then, it had seemed. But no one was by her side, now; Raowlar had left for Laxwind three nights ago, where he was happily playing the gnome, and Naira would not return from an evening out with Barden until the next morning.
One hand sat on the desk before her, holding the rune book that had been her last gift from Vel Faas, flattening it open to a well-worn, dog-eared page, while the other hand slowly, steadily, blindly copied the penultimate set on the page. Candlelight bent and flicked in an imperceptible breeze. Eyes narrowed; she bent her face closer to the page, propped up on weary elbows.
Her eyelids felt like lead.
Shaking herself of the warm, fuzzy haze around her consciousness, Mene stood and ambled over to the bathroom, where she immersed her head in a sinkful of disappointingly lukewarm water, withdrew, and repeated. After the third dunk, she judged the effect to be sufficient, towled her face off, and resumed her seat.
The lights were burning low, and Mene glared at them discontentedly. Clearly, the lamps and thick, pillar candles were all conspiring against her getting any work finished tonight. It was hard enough trying to keep her shaky hands still enough to scribe the runes properly. The last thing she needed was to singe her trembling fingers while fiddling with the lamps, or worse, upsetting the flames on her desk. All her work was there! To lose that would be beyond unthinkable. She’d just have to keep going until the cursed, insufficient light gave out entirely. And then she would have to wait until daybreak to continue further.
No. She shook her head again, blinking hard against the gritty itch that lay under her eyelids. When the morning came, she needed to go out and pick up the gown that Marié had been slaving over. She’d need the rest of the day free for studying and organizing her research materials; the opening ceremonies for the Council of the Arcane were that evening, and she’d doubtlessly be up late. She’d need to sleep, eventually.
“Eventually” could still be a long way off, though. There were things more important than sleep. Vision blurry, Mene leaned down close to her work, her nose practically brushing the parchment.
“Mene…?”
She shook her head. Her ears were ringing, buzzing.
“Mene, what are you doing?”
Yes, she would definitely need to make sure that “eventually” happened; she didn’t need to attend the Council of the Arcane so sleep-deprived that she was barking mad the entire time. This was the opportunity of a lifetime; she might never have access to so much raw, potent knowledge in such concentration for the rest of her life! She would sleep, eventually, and then she would stop hearing things that weren’t there or having irrational, confusing conversations with herself. She chuckled at the absurdity of it all, rubbing her eyes. Just an hour or two of sleep, and she’d be alright. Just an hour or two, and she would be fine.
After she was done with the work at hand, of course.
She withdrew her hand from her eyes and stared, uncomprehending.
There was more light in the room than there had been a moment ago; the walls glowed golden , as if from within, warm, gentle, supporting light. After a moment of marveling, she saw the source of the light. It was Caban.
He was taller than she remembered, more handsome as well, ethereal and ghostly as he stood there drinking in the sight of her, a sad smile gracing his gentle features. He seemed barely there at all, light and vision just as easily going through him as not. His wings were massive, wide-spreading, powerful things, the wings of an angel, not the frail, flimsy things that she and her kind were cursed with. He glowed with radiant beauty, inner light. An angel.
“Don’t be alarmed, Mene.”
She heard a sharp thud. Mene decided that she must have banged her leg on the desk, as she found herself standing now, her knee throbbing. She massaged it absently as she watched him step closer. Opening her mouth to speak, she felt the skin on her lips, dried and cracked, protesting at being put to work. “Are… are you…?” It seemed too silly to voice. She broke off, oddly giddy.
“No, Mene, I’m not really here. I’m just a figment of your imagination.” His voice was low, gentle, hypnotic. She felt his words filling her head with that same soothing, sleepy warmth, and she tried in vain to shake it away again. “You haven’t slept in days. You’re hallucinating.” He chuckled softly, as if sharing an inside joke, an endearing, teasing prod. There was so much sad tenderness in his manner, so much more openly than it had ever been.
Her hand stretched out, tentatively extending in his direction. “You’re…” She stopped, tittering, high-pitched and helpless, and shook a finger at the specter before her, as if chastising a naughty child. “Oh, Ifane, I really am going crazy… and the last thing I need to do is indulge in the crazy by actually talking to you!”
He shook his head, closing the distance between them with swift, silent steps. Light heat warmed her as his hands took hers, and though she knew that Caban was far away from her now, miles above and miles away, she saw him lift her hands, felt the gentle pressure of his skin under her palms. Shaken, disoriented, she tried to push past the hands that she knew she only imagined, tried to step back, step away to collect her swimming, muddled thoughts, do anything to give herself a moment to breathe, but nothing about her body was functioning the way it was supposed to. She couldn’t even shut him out by closing her eyes.
His voice swam around her, sweet and thick as honey. “You’re not crazy, Mene. You’re tired. You need to sleep.” Airy fingers caressed her wrist. “Don’t you have a big day tomorrow?”
“I know that,” she said stubbornly, her wings twitching softly. “Just want to finish one more thing, and then I’ll sleep.
“I promise,” she added, feeling foolish, childish, justifying herself to her imaginary friend.
Deadly silence. Caban’s eyes, pale and probing, rested on hers for a long, uncomfortable moment. He sighed. “You don’t keep your promises.”
Mene blinked, trembling.
“You promised me, before you left, that you would take care of yourself, use proper precautions in your work. You promised me. But you didn’t do that, did you? Consuming three, four potions a day, without knowing any of their effects. Inventing rune combinations when you’re not even completely sure of how the original components should be used. Not sleeping. Not eating. Not stopping once, whenever you can help it. You made yourself so ill, last winter. You nearly died. Just like before.”
“I promised that I’d do the best I could!” she cried, rounding on him, a crimson blush splashed across her paper-white skin. “I can’t do more than that! Accidents happen, I’m not perfect!”
That same unhappy gaze bore into her, gently unrelenting, with all the resigned sorrow of a suffering martyr, knelt in prayer. “Nobody wants you to be perfect, Mene. You know I thought you were perfect already.” He squeezed her fingers gently. “But you have to realize that you’ll never fly if you end up poisoning yourself.”
“But I have to try!” Deep, irrational anger flared up in her heart, furious how he dared to simplify it to such an idiotic, melodramatic generalization. This was her life’s work, her heart’s dream, and he had never understood it, never felt anything even vaguely close. How dare he? How did he have the nerve to criticize her being passionate and bold? She glowered at him defiantly. “I’ll never fly if I don’t take the risk, either! Which you would know, if you were brave enough to do the same!”
“Always so stubborn.” He shook his head ruefully. “Perhaps it’s what I loved most about you.”
And there it was: the word she didn’t want to hear him say, that one, stupid word. The word that had been Caban’s reason to assist her as long as he had done. The word that had been his reason when he shattered her world. She couldn’t bear how weak and irrational that word was. It had brought her grief at home, driven her from her work, and Mene would have nothing to do with it.
Her voice was hoarse when she spoke again. “I’ll sleep. I will. Just let me finish this first. Please.”
Releasing her hands, Caban drew her to him in a soft, easy embrace. His pale wings, wide and muscular, enveloped her. Mene felt dizzy; warm light swam in the air before her. “Don’t promise me anything,” he murmured. “Just make sure you do it for your own sake.”
The downy brush of his wings stroked her shoulders. Mene had been groundside for years now, and she had long since forgotten what it felt like, the smooth, faintly sensual touch of another’s wings. “Always,” she said, softly but stolidly.
Her former associate sighed, a profoundly melancholy sound. He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in golden, airy, angelic hands, stroking her cheek slowly, lightly, with infinite care, as if afraid that too harsh of a touch would break her, shatter her like a porcelain doll. “You have to be strong, Mene. For the future.”
She stared at him, baffled. “What does that mean?”
Caban bent his face to hers, kissed her. Mene felt giddy, intense heat envelop them as the air shifted before her eyes.
A battle. She saw dragons, proud and fierce, soaring, plunging, roaring their fury against what looked like enormous metal birds, moving with unspeakable grace, hissing out thin streams of black smoke. The atmosphere was rent with shrieks, organic and artificial, and dense, black smoke rose from below, where a city burned.
A city in flames. She saw mothers, children, the infirm and elderly, fleeing down back alleys with damp cloths clutched over their mouths. She saw men and women on the front line, the flesh seared away from their smoking bones. Wild flames ate at the few buildings that still provided ample food. At a nearby port, a towering, flame-battered structure gave out its last hold on the ground and plummeted to its death in a roiling river.
The great river. She saw it churn, writhe like a living mass, shift like a swarm. Lightning seared the thick, dark clouds above. On either side of the mile-wide expanse, she saw dragonboats dashed against the docks, rammed into the shore again and again until there was nothing left but kindling. She saw river dragons fleeing the tumultuous surface, seeking solace from the ferocious storm, hiding their sleek, powerful bodies in the clear blue grey at the river’s floor.
Blue-grey like the aura of a young man with dark hair, his figure all aglow. She thought, for a moment, that she saw eyes of the same color, but the figure’s face before her was blank, blurred, empty, even though his lips must have been moving. She could hear him chanting, calling, making a prayer to Ifane.
The goddess herself. Mene saw Ifane, a simple strip of white cloth covering her vision, her hands raised to shield her head, her body shaking as tears cascaded down her face.
Somewhere in all of this—Mene did not know where—Caban’s ghostly form began to fade from around her, slow and effortless, like fog being swept away in a warm breeze. When she opened eyes that she hadn’t remembered closing, he was gone entirely, and she was no longer standing where she had stood facing him.
With a shudder, she sat up from her desk. Her face felt funny.
The lights burned low around her.
Mene shuddered. Her rust-colored wings drew in flat against her back and arms. She picked up the rune work that she had left off. “I’ll sleep soon,” she muttered. “Soon as I’m done these, I’ll sleep.” Over and over she felt the words leave her lips, like a mantra, as she triple checked the runes, which looked as perfect as if Caban himself had scribed them. A vial, filled with a dark green liquid sat in the rack, and she checked the list of its components again, trying to ignore the ethereal sensation of arms and feathers faintly wrapped about her. Her fingers absently tried to brush something off of her lips, but there was nothing there.
Her standard set of emergency supplies, a simple painkiller, a moderate one, and a strong purgative were in their usual spot on the little shelf above her desk. Mene stood, set her hands down flat against the runes and began to chant.
Buoyant radiance flowed up from the parchment into her palms, up her arms and shoulder. She took a deep breath to steady herself, took another for good measure, and downed the green potion. The taste of it was rich, complex, like a dark chocolate or an expensive red wine. It coursed through her body with swift intent. Mene took another breath and completed the incantations as soft breezes brushed her skin, tickling her arms, ruffling the fabric of her shirt, gently buffeting against her wings.
She felt light, as if she were afloat on a thin cushion of air between her cold, bare feet and the carpeted floor. Her eyes fixed on the three emergency vials, she flexed her wings.
They billowed smoothly, as if supported by a gust of air, and Mene’s heart soared as she swore she felt herself rising. But that instant passed, as had often happened before, as she had become used to, with every other failure, and she sank again, her hands holding the chair back. A wave of nausea washed over her, with dull, steady ache sinking into the muscles of her wings. She flexed them again, painfully, and felt no magical winds lifting picking her up, felt nothing but lightheaded and desperately in need of whatever sleep the remainder of the night would yield.
Too tired to manifest anything stronger than limp annoyance, Mene made a half-hearted attempt at tidying her desk a bit before acknowledging that it was beyond repair for the moment and would be dealt with later. With awkward, leaden fingers, she withdrew the first potion from the medicinal rack and drained it, observing dully as it numbed the pain in her joints.
The dizziness did not abate; it was multiplying, if anything, wrapping around her head in a hazy mass. Mene put out the lamps, one by one, and stumbled to bed.
Lying down helped, though in the dark room, it seemed that she was rocking, as if she were sleeping in a boat on turbulent waters. Shadows lengthened, retreated, and grew again. It was silly to think such things, silly to dwell on nighttime shadows, with so much else to dwell on. Tomorrow, she’d have sold out to the Woolard Academy, given them what they wanted. Tomorrow, she’d be on her way to the Council of the Arcane. Tomorrow, all sorts of things.
Like dragon’s blood. That would be worth it, at least.
Mene sighed and rolled over, hugging herself in the strange chill that had descended on her. Her thoughts wandered strangely, wildly, like wayward children dispersing into a curious wood. She thought about the great river, wondering whether, if she had visited it a million years ago, she would have found it narrower or wider than it was today. She thought about dragon boats, wondering if humans and elves had tamed them, or vice versa. She thought about love and death and how the two somehow seemed to fit together easily, hand in hand. She thought about gods, and she thought about angels.
She thought about Caban, his hands as pale as milk, his hair as bright as gold, his burning lips meeting hers.
She slept.
