Chains (5)

Ayla dangled in place, waiting for Mya to return. The strain on her arms had risen; her arms were pulling at her sockets, never able to separate. For some reason, she found plucking her arms out of their sockets preferable to the conflict of in-between.

She hung with a slouch, eyes heavy, and teetered on her tiptoes. Sleep had been a luxury for her—her only escape and a way to stay sane. Sleep didn't come easy. Pain kept her awake, making her aware of the burning chains. And how pointless it was!

Veins that closed and blocked the blood flow and pain were re-opened for the pain to be recycled. Demonic energy betrayed her; it fed on her recurring injuries, healed her, and stole the numbness she yearned for. Of course, it saved her. It had saved her, but it couldn't save her now.

Her consciousness slipped into darkness, and a door clicked behind her. Her eyes snapped open, narrowing.

Mya stepped up beside her. She wore a white dress, clean of the grime and filth Ayla's body had. Clean face, brushed hair. An appearance a Saint should have, yet her lips twisted into a sadistic smile, her eyes mirroring crescents.

"Catch." She formed a demon crystal and tossed it. 

Rather than allowing Mya to force it in, Ayla aimed her mouth and caught the crystal. The crystal melted, and fullness returned to her stomach. She'd done this countless times before and had become numb to what Mya implicated. Feeding and chaining her—as if taking away her freedom. No freedom to feed herself. No freedom to move. Humiliating her, breaking her. Had she broken under it? She no longer felt humiliated or resisted, as all it did was cause her pain. No, she hadn't; she still harbored the desire to kill her, steadily building and patiently waiting for the right moment.

"Oh, good, those burns are starting to heal. You really should take care of them more often. Is it not common sense to clean and care for yourself? Though I shouldn't berate you. We're about to begin our lovely session, so I'll leave you alone this time." She stepped closer and flicked her hand. "You're too high. Let's bring you down. Down to your knees."

The chains lowered while the chains on the floor pulled back. Her toes pressed flat against the floor, but the chains yanked them back. A sense of weightlessness came. Her knees touched the cold floor, and her arms relaxed in the absence of weight. Still, not in socket, but the relief cooled her.

"Normally, we use divine crystals for this, pricking you until you offer the information, and once you do, we kill you, but…" She formed an object in her hands.

Ayla backed up—the furthest the chains allowed her to go. She kept her eyes on the floor. She'd moved on instinct. What Mya had, she repulsed; she hated it. Couldn't stand even the sight of it, but she understood it—a Dragon Heart. Like the one she absorbed recently, but that's where the similarities cut off. It was the size of her head. White with a gold-misty substance flaking off. A White Dragon Heart.

Mya trailed closer… closer. Close. Ayla leaned back, straining her arms. All to get away from it. What did she plan to do? Kill her with it. It'd do that fast with the conflict of elements.

"Interesting. Your hearts are similar, but you don't act friendly towards them, and you killed the Black Dragon. I find that strange, don't you?" Mya reached for Ayla's chin, slow and careless. "As long as it benefits you, it's fine; is that what you think?"

Mya yanked Ayla's chin up and shoved the heart into her cheek. Icy needles prickled her cheek and numbed it. No pain, just a numb sensation spreading. Had Mya removed the heart? No—a scream pierced her throat, but she suppressed it. Held it in. Held it. Mya had taken everything from her, but she hadn't taken away her scream. She hadn't heard it, but it devoured her, and her mouth opened—a screech rasped by its force tore through her ears, and her vision flickered—and returned. Warm liquid trickled down her cheeks. Her mouth had gone numb, and thick blood filled her throat.

I'm not dead?

A crown coiled her forehead, and she tipped her head back. Directly above her, the Dragon Heart hung from two chains, its tip pointed at her mouth. She tried craning her neck right, left, then forward, but chains confined her. Mya had achieved something. Ayla had no means to keep her eyes away. 

Behind her, the chains clanged.

"Are..."—she spat blood—"you. Done?" 

"I'm. Not." She said. "We'll begin, and once this is done, that fear you hold for your brethren's heart will be gone. Forever purified." 

Mya pressed her palm on the Dragon Heart, and a droplet coalesced. 

Time slowed for Ayla, and her emotions withdrew, making her cynical about the events. The white gold droplet drooped, and a thin string formed, attaching it and breaking off, jiggling and re-forming into a flattened sphere. Then it hit. This isn't so bad. Warm. It slid across the seam of her lips. Through the seam, it grazed her tongue, and she lost it. Screamed, but the sounds stopped. Light stopped entering. 

A-m I dy-ing?

Sensations became absent. Thoughts spiraled into incoherent nonsense and shut off. Darkness consumed her being, overwhelming her.

****

Medoa waited in the shadow of a cave stalagmite, which hung over a hanger caked in darkness. However, she found the darkness warming, which didn't obscure her vision. The rocket, which Viden intended to use for his departure, lay below—technology she'd never seen before—a transportation tool not powered by essence. Electricity, was it? Or something; Cynthia recently introduced it after finding an essence-absent world.

So humble, not willing to say she made it herself. At least she said she enhanced it; that's close to saying she made it.

While enhanced, the rocket was as fast as a short-distance teleportation, which was part of why it was so valuable. Rockets were invisible to the Light Pantheon's perception. Their perception worked on the fact that they sensed essence. But, without essence, their perception would fail. All perceptions would.

Medoa glanced down further at Viden, who had entered the hangar with three men behind him. He wore a black, non-descript cloak with the hood down, buttoned from his shoulders to his thighs. She had no doubt he wore something fancy underneath, and with a shift in his step, his long blue tunic showed through.

She sighed, turning her eyes to the three men behind him. Cynthia instructed her to monitor them all closely to gather as much information as possible. Each wore the same outfit—a brown cloak buttoned down to their ankles with the hood up. As expected, Viden had his men wear clothing of inferior status. Few under him wore clothes like his own, opting for simple brown garments.

The four entered the rocket, and moments later, it burst awake, roaring and echoing before quietening into a low hum. The roof opened wide, and the rocket blasted off once it was open in full.

Medoa swam close to the shadow's edge as the rocket rose halfway out of the hanger. Then she jumped out of the shadow.

Smoke burst into her face, and the fiery heat soiled her hair. She reached out for a shadow on the rocket. Black spots sprang into her vision across the rocket, and she pulled on the one that could hold her, slipping into the shadow as the rocket left the hanger.

****

Cynthia sat, watching the rocket ascend past the world's barrier through a screen. Since she talked to Medoa, she never took her eyes off the screen, showing Viden and the rocket. 

Her heart played tug of war. One side wanted to save Ayla, comfort her, and protect her. She could do it. Be there and return within hours. The other side took a more logical approach. She knew that Viden and those who disliked her would use her actions of saving a recruit against her. Their disapproval would only grow since they were already scrutinizing her every decision. They'd argue that she lacked the necessary expertise and experience, as proven by her decision. Insult her mother and all the good she had done. All to gain this position. A position worse than it seemed. 

She knew—she just knew—they'd cause the downfall of Asteria, which would inevitably spark the loss of the Dark Pantheon. That's why, despite everything, she didn't intervene. She couldn't save Ayla.

Please be safe. Be safe. Endure until they arrive. She pulled up her dress sleeve and looked at her arm. Dozens of deep, bloodied scratches covered her arm. I'll endure if you endure.

She poured demonic energy in, and they all melded together, forming renewed skin.