Eban

8 - Eban

Darkness, infinite and warm. Light, harsh and lonely. From one comes the other, and then they cycle back again. A cycle with no end, no beginning. Just the darkness and the light.

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of Eban's mind, he knows this is a dream. Deeper still, down from the heights of his mind and into the depths of his soul, he knows it is true.

Darkness and light, ever circling, bringing flashes of peace, moments of joy, and endless glimpses of pain, terror and, back to the dark, relief.

Darkness. Light.

Somewhere, far beyond his current reality, Eban's body stirs in its sleep. For those with the power to see it, a faint haze shifts around him as he tenses.

Darkness. Light.

The two states flicker, faster and faster, glimpse after glimpse of life and death and everything that comes in between, until Eban is no longer able to distinguish the two.

Light.

Eban's head swirls as the dream kicks him out of the whirlpool and in to something new. His eyes, closed against the rush of images, do not open.

There are few things that Eban truly fears. Amongst them is sleep and, more specifically, dreams.

Eban stands, waiting. Experience has taught him that patience will get him to the point of the dream far faster than any other method.

He waits, counting each breath as the silence around him throbs, his eyes still tightly shut. Until the dream starts, he knows that there is nothing around him. Nothing but the void.

Sound comes first. It slams into him, the weight enough to make him sway against the tide. His body tenses, bracing against it.

Desperate to make sense of the cacophony, he opens his eyes.

Another crowd greets him. Their clothes are different, and the village is larger than Lakeside had been, but the expressions and the shouts of anger, fear and hatred are the same.

And it's all aimed at him.

Eban turns, eyes scanning the mob as he tries to get his bearings. Below him, the jeering continues, the fury impossible to ignore. It seeps into his thoughts, clouding them and making it difficult to focus.

A voice, shrill and desperate, breaks through.

"Arte! Arte!"

A woman forces her way through the crowds, her elbows, fists and feet making room where her presence can not. She reaches the edge of the platform upon which stands. Unable to go any further, she reaches for him, stretching her arms and body out until Eban fears they will break.

Unable to take her distress, unable to recall who she is, Eban looks away.

He is not alone on the daise. On either side men, women and children stand. All are silent, watching the crowd, or watching him. All are hollow, their eyes empty and their faces slack.

All are branded with the same symbol. A spiral, vivid against pale skin, marks them as mages.

Eban reaches for his own cheek, desperate to understand, to know whether he too has been branded, but the movement is stopped before it can begin. Shackles weigh his hands down and, matched by a pair around his ankles, limit any movement.

"Arte!"

Her voice cuts through the surrounding chaos, forcing him to listen, to turn, and to face her.

Ailis. Her name rises up from the recesses of his soul, forcing itself out into a roar that leaves him hoarse. Even through the crowd, she hears him. As tears stream down her face, Ailis smiles.