COF 6: The Last Oracle

BONUS: The Future Seen

2412, Diori 16, Jyda

Cirasa's cheek had been acquainted with the dirt so much he couldn't remember what it felt like without it. His vision blurred and sharpened, slowly building a silhouette with wine red hair and gray robes. How long had he been lying here?

A hand reached out and pushed his damp hair off his forehead. That brief touch sent a shiver gripping his arms and legs as his systems restarted, reminding him of the pain he sought to remove.

"You passed out again," a gentle yet stern voice blared in his ears, rising and falling along with the pounding in his temples. "I told you to let it flow while still maintaining control. Instead, you let go...completely."

A groan rumbled low in his throat as he pushed himself up. "How am I supposed to do that at the same time?" he ran the back of his hand across his chin. His pale skin came up smeared with red. It's that bad, huh? "You're asking me to do contradicting things."

Rutoria's aquamarine blue eyes came to focus and the hardness couldn't have told Cirasa enough. "The future isn't always meant to be seen, yet here we are," she said.

Cirasa edged away from the oracle and scooted closer to the lumpy mattress dumped inside the tent for him. It looked like he wasn't going out of here any time soon. If Rutoria's prediction was correct, he's also supposed to go insane today. Fun.

"Can't you show me how you do it?" He exhaled, jarring his lungs in the process. He doubled over, a coughing fit racking his shoulders and driving tears into his eyes. By the time his airway relaxed, Rutoria's expression had staled into a passive stare.

"If I could, I would have since the first day you've been here," Rutoria drew back and sat on her stool again. "What I could do, however, is to induce a vision instead of waiting for them to come. That way, you will know what to expect and maybe you'll have a better chance."

Better chance, mind. There's still a huge percentage it would all go wrong. Cirasa squeezed his eyes shut as another pang knocked against his head. He hadn't much of a choice now, had he? It's either trying Rutoria's method or spending the rest of his days in Umazure with his pieces knocked around.

Cirasa swallowed against the dryness scratching his throat. When was the last time he drank something? Or have eaten something, for that matter? He plopped against the mattress and ran a shaking hand across his face. "Fine," he said in a voice that quite died half-out of his mouth.

Metal clinked and robes swished. Soon, Rutoria joined him on the mattress and placed the lamp in front of his face. The faint green light almost seared his eyes through his lids even though he kept them closed. He felt a hand against his head once again.

"I'm going to channel some of the throne's power into you," Rutoria was saying but all of that was lost in the thrum of Cirasa's abnormal heartbeat and the raging nausea gripping his gut. "Remember what I said—let it flow and maintain control."

If Cirasa could whimper, he would have. A wall of white-hot magic slammed into his system. He felt his limbs buckle outside of his control. His mind flared with images flickering, searing, tearing. Too fast. He's—

Let it flow. Cirasa had been doing that for the last three days and he always ends up passing out. Divination was rarely a pretty thing to have as a synnavaim. So, he gritted his teeth against the band of pain squeezing his head and exhaled. Let it flow.

The images in his head raged so fast it seemed like they're howling. Gibberish conversations, unsynchronized explosions, and flitting faces whose expressions changed too fast to remember swept across his memory like a sped up gallery. He stopped feeling his limbs. His lungs felt like it was slowly catching fire.