Mid-World buckles & distorts under the weight of her presence.
The plague of darkness, blackness that consumes everything it touches. The glitching reality as it bends & twists, threads of existence trying to hold itself together. The hum in everyone’s ear, the maddening whispers, unrelenting in their language about what observes them from thrones of dark matter & stellar corpses. Unrelenting in their language about what observes them from beyond the stars. ( Have you had the dream yet? The dark thing with billions of eyes that watches from the outside. )
People complain about the headaches. Mind-splitting headaches. Headaches like storms. Headaches that feel like something is growing inside them, some sound, some noise, some living thing eating their brain.
It is very dark. The sun has not been seen for three days. They galactor core of the Milky Way bleeds into the sky as the all the stars turn black. There are doors where doors shouldn’t be. It becomes very cold.
She is standing behind the one gifted in the touch, a gift that pulses like an organism, like something eagerly awaiting her influence. Her shadow appears to him first by the illumination of candles, a shadow that contains many writhing appendages, a shadow so dark that it eats the light. Something drips onto the table, onto his book. Her daughters surround him, above him, looking down at him. ( Do not move. Do not breathe. )
There is a voice, her voice, that fills the air with a cold, teeth-rattling baritone. It is a sound that drills into his skull, a noise that sinks deep into his brain, past the bone, past the grey matter. The dark thing says his name in the dreadful voice.
Dreams of darkness have come more often lately; crawled into the thin line the mind would walk between this world and another. Sometimes, they would drip over into the waking mind, sometimes they would turn thoughts into such a haze it was made impossible to differencate between either. More often than not, they would leave behind a lingering taste, bitter on his tongue and ripping through his head, colors dulled down or washed out altogether, blurrying together.r
He is no stranger to being sensitive to things others would barely know are there. Does he not feel hearts beating that are not his without touching, questions asked before their very creator would know they thought of them? Does not coming near to that wicked magician of his dinh's father (his fathers dinh, ka is a wheel and it goes on and on and on until it seems it turns backwards much rather) make it impossible to listen to his own thoughts, being under the influence of something that screeches and bites and hurts?
He knows about things he couldnt. Things the people of his own mother had whispered of, had known and feared, and that knowledge laid within his blood, his gift despite having been too young for her to teach him about these darker things when she left onto the clearing at the end.
Before darkness comes, he knows something else will too, and something to be scared of. Something a part of his gift is awaiting, but whether it is with eagerness or fear, he does not know.
Darkness comes and covers everything like a blanket, one that makes it impossible to breathe. There are things approaching. They always are — children know, because why else does everyone of them fear the minor darkness nightfall brings, if not in preparation to this?
It is Manni blood that expected her, awaited her, but it is gunslinger that keeps from being frozen by the things lurking in the shadows. That keep his blood from freezing entirely, although just so, just enough for breathing to continue, even if hitched so. (The touch reacts like a thing of it's own, calling out, and the mere fact he cannot say if in greeting or the opposite does scare him almost as much as the situation itself would.)
Voice trembles, more than he would like, less than expected.
He dares not look directly.
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