SEQUEL OF GYMNOPÉDIE
The war is inevitable. Wizards, witches, pick a side, pick your ruins. Because in the eye of war, brothers shared no blood though came from the same marrow, families strayed and abandoned, heart ostracized from mind, and you mi...
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"You're awake," said a hoarse voice, followed by a relieved sigh but she couldn't discern to whom the voice belonged. "Don't move too much, I'll get—"
The voice died in her mind and she could no longer hear anything but her breath and the rhythm of her frantic heartbeat. Something fogged her vision like a layer of ruined films and she blinked to regain clarity and it helped, albeit, she only managed to process blurred edges and swirls of ink. It moved like tendrils of pure energy, swarming like bees in the air before it morphed into pairs of giant hands, crawling to her. The closer it got, Gammaliel could paint the long, boney fingers that often found on horror tales. Sharp and dry, like branches of a dying tree.
When it reached her, it caressed her cheeks and she had expected pain but it wasn't there. What she felt was coldness, the kind that would sting your fingertips. She tried to open her mouth to scream but she could not even twitch her lips. Her body felt bizarre. It did not obey her wish. It didn't even feel like it was hers. For a moment, she thought she was paralyzed.
A voice panged at either side of her skull, screaming. "Run. Now."
The Irish witch obeyed that command, no, herbody obeyed the command. Like an automatic response. With labored breaths, she collected every remaining energy within her and moved her legs. She heard herself panted, heavy and syncopated as she peered at her lap. Something beneath her felt cold against her feet and it took her some time to discern that she was barefooted. She took a step forward but she was soon wincing, stung by pain that prickled at her spine. That did not stop her.
"Gemma, don't!" The call echoed behind her, telling her to go back to bed. To take a deep breath and calm down. But how she could remain calm when each cell of hers was screaming their pain.
As Gemma fought to walk, the voices kept ringing in her ears. It was cold and razor-sharp, and she recognized it from her battle in the platform. She heard another voice, shrieks and whimpers of terror, then came another, another, and another until everything overlapped in her ears, poured over her at once. Whatever deity ruled over her had wanted her to feel every pain the world endured. It wanted her to reel and seethe. Before she knew, images flushed her brain and she saw the grey ruins, puddles of blood on the ground, and ashes and the vicious flames that soared like funeral pyres.
The air felt suffocating to her in every drew of breath. She slumped herself from one piece of furniture to the other like a drunkard. Images kept rolling before her eyes. She saw a mother clutching her soulless daughter in one and brothers losing their bond in the other. Each frame was presenting different kinds of pain. From regret, guilt, wrath, and revenge. She was forced to grief over the wound that wasn't hers. And she did. She wailed. Begging for it to stop. Oddly enough, when her heart was aching, the flames harvested the pain as if it was a sweet, sweet delicacy.
