Trails of Purple Mist

Shades of purple churned before his closed eyes as he awoke from a dark and dreamless sleep. The colour bringing forth a distasteful emotion from deep within as his mind as he reached out through the clearing mists towards the soft warm light of day. His consciousness rising from the darkness where it had stolen away for the evening.

Eyes drifting open slowly still begging for more rest, while his mouth was forming a yawn to welcome a new day. With the presence of mind reminiscent the dead he held up his arms to stave off the bright light that burned at his freshly opened eyes. Still barely half-awake his body moved before his mind, rolling to side and reaching for the edge of the bed.

He’d slept on the same bed for months, ever since his training began, only recently had he gotten used to the feeling of springs along his back and a pillow as hard as rock. Strangely he couldn’t hear the creaking of beds or the grumbling of soldiers still asking the gods for the mercy of more sleep. The mattress beneath him felt strangely firm, without the usual wobble and squeak of springs.

His hand continued reaching towards the edge of a mattress which he couldn’t find. Instead of a sharp drop off he found only the strange texture of wood resting at bed height, hand slapping around for a moment longer before a spark of panic rose in his chest.

The feel of waking up somewhere he couldn’t remember sent his beating heart into overdrive. His arms slammed into the ground as he threw itself into a seated position, head spinning around in a wild panic for a brief moment before pain wracked his body. The sudden shock enough to force him into a foetal position while trying his best not to cry out in pain.

Breathing in barely controlled bursts he clutched at his right wrist, as if trying to hold back the pain bursting forth from his own flesh. In his rushed awakening he’d unconsciously slammed it into the ground with enough force to awaken whatever demons had possessed it. Gritting his teeth he forced back the desire to blackout from the pain.

As the seconds passed by like hours he gradually came back to his senses enough to reopen his eyes. The wrist he was clutching at was wrapped up in cloth bandaging which had not yet been dyed red. Though when he tenderly tried to form a fist, his grip was weaker than that of a child and his wrist ached ferociously.

Following that first wave of pain, a sense of nausea overwhelmed him as the rest of his wounds sparked to life. Horrible sensations from his

torso feeling like he’d taken a series of blows from a heavyweight, a numbness from his hips where it wasn’t aching, a burning sensation from his face and eyes. That wasn’t to mention his broken arm or residual headache. The bruising had already set in across most of his body, discolouring most of his skin in hideous purples and yellows, and swelling up painfully.

The second wave of pain washed through his body as he sat frozen, too afraid to move else he spark further discomfort. Steadily the pain was subdued into a manageable body wide ache. Though he wasn’t forgetting his broken arm again any time soon.

Memories of the previous day came crashing down on his still hazy awareness, forcing all thought of pain to the back of his mind.

“Save them.”

His left hand tore through his matted hair tearing free swaths of his own black hair before the emerald hairpin shone brightly in his grip. The smile crawling up his lips a lie, holding back the flow of tears welling in his eyes. Swallowing back the despair collecting at the back of his throat as her last words echoed in his mind.

“Save them.”

The words echoing back to him from a time when he was a youth, alongside the more recent tragedy, both memories he’d sooner forget but which would never leave him.

“Save them.”

Sensibilities still scattered his breathing slowly formed into a gentle pace, he knew what he had to do now. The smile on his face deepened as he turned to face the reality that he’d been left with.

Eyes leisurely taking in the state of his body he searched for what possessions he was left with. His weapons and ammunition were unsurprisingly absent, though he was startled to discover he’d been stripped of his clothes. The only thing of his own that hadn’t been stolen was the hairpin which had likely been hidden deep under his bloodied hair.

Although his clothes had been taken from him he was pleased to be left with some kind of loincloth, nakedness didn’t concern him overly much but he’d rather avoid the violating touch of a cold morning breeze.

The firm bandaging on his wrist was still holding well but now showed signs of bleeding as it tinged red where his wound was buried beneath. It was unlikely to heal on its own over the next few days but he had

no idea how long it might take to recover if he didn’t get properly treated soon.

A slight ache along his forehead inspired his hand to feel for injury. Other than being slightly sticky he could feel the strange sensation of thread, as if someone had tried stitching him together like an old shirt. Obsessing over the fact his hand felt for the thread and knots rising above his skin, the sensation of his body being so vandalised forcing his gut into somersaults. Vaguely he remembered stories of such a treatment existing centuries ago but that brought him little comfort.

Trying to forget about the stitching on his face he checked over the bruises that marred the rest of his battered body. The discolouration and swelling was already quite impressive, but strangely coating the worst of his bruises was a slightly sticky residue.

Running his finger along it and sniffing at it he could smell a slightly sweet scent to it before taking a quick taste test. The flavour was astoundingly sweet at first but quickly turned bitter with a similar texture to toothpaste.

Probably another half thought out ancient medicine he concluded, praying it wasn’t poisonous.

Breathing in deeply of the cool morning air he let out a short laugh releasing the tension that was building up from his self-assessment thus far.

He was left lying under the fur blankets of a flimsy imitation of a bed. The bottom of which wasn’t soft enough to take away the stiffness of the floorboards underneath, though was still more comfortable than the mattresses in the barracks where the springs dug into his flesh. The fur blankets were amazingly soft given that they were discoloured and covered in bald patches, without them his near naked body would’ve frozen solid while he slept.

Sunlight was filtered into the room through the thick white canvas walls brightly enough that he supposed it had to be around midday. What he deduced to be the door to the room was nothing more than a flap of the same fabric that made up the walls with small weights sewn into the bottom.

Sitting beside the ‘door’ was an attractive young woman with the same demonic attributes as the two he’d met before passing out. If she didn’t possess so many strange qualities about her, he’d think she was of an age with himself. She was sitting motionless, her knees together with her legs folded under her. Cold eyes pointed apathetically his direction.

She wore the same black armour as the others and wore the same sword at her hip, but her presence didn’t exude quite the same force as the other two had. Her skin was tanned between the swirling black patterns covering her exposed flesh.

The wind that had ravaged his mind before he fell unconscious was absent, so either it wasn’t connected to these women or this one in particular wasn’t trying to make his head explode.

Thinking back to that moment with the two women, he wasn’t quite certain whether or not he’d been put to sleep, or just finally succumbed to his injuries. He was definitely close to passing out at the time, but that strange woman exuding purple mist from her hands was very suspect. Though in the end it probably didn’t make a difference whether or not he was drugged, he was a prisoner now regardless.

For the moment he wasn’t ready to pass on to whatever afterlife awaited. However long it had been since he’d fallen unconscious obviously he’d recovered considerably even though someone had decided to turn him into a pin cushion.

He sat up, holding the warm blanket tight to keep the cold at bay as he closed his eyes and focused on what he could hear. The solid and rapid clacking of wood striking wood, the sound of loud footsteps on firm ground and the unmistakably comforting sound of voices grunting with effort. Beyond it all he could just barely make out the sounds of human breathing.

Deep and slow breathes, almost meditative even, the woman to the side of the room was comparatively very alert, sharp eyes leering his direction with little of the apathy they’d held before. Returning her gaze with a faltering smile he didn’t notice any of the dangerous red sheen in her hazel eyes, which was a little comforting.

“Soooooo, nice horns you’ve got there.” She didn’t reply, staring blankly back at him as if he’d said nothing at all. Forcing the smile back to his lips he continued, “Do you…. Maybe have anything to drink? Water? Milk? An aging bottle of vintage liquor? ” her reply that same deadpan stare.

“Guess that didn’t work.” Looking down at his hands he thought of home. The cold barracks where he trained alongside 40 other men and women doing only what he was ordered, thinking only when and what he was ordered. Nothing to wear but the same uniform day in day out, nothing

to eat but the same rations breakfast, lunch and dinner. Nothing to feel but the aching in his body; at least that part hadn’t changed.

He wasn’t dead.

He could hardly guess what they wanted him for, but whatever it was he had a chance to escape. He had too many promises to keep to die now.

Until he managed to escape he wanted to try to get along with these people, if they gave him their attempts at medical care and kept him from freezing then they had a reason to keep him around. He couldn’t survive out here on his own and he preferred the thought of making a few allies if that was even possible.

As much as he thought of himself as having few actual friends Matt liked people. Talking with people and getting to know them, figuring out what makes them smile and trying to get on the good side of even the grumpiest of people.

But it wasn’t going to be easy.

Licking his dry lips he breathed in deep and stood up throwing aside his blankets and embracing the cold morning air. The behaviour earning him a strange look from his guard who finally revealed some emotion. His near complete nakedness wasn’t usually concerning but it was darn cold this morning shocking him right awake. Breathing deep he tried rolling his stiff joints slowly working out yesterday’s damage and seeing how much movement was left in him.

Thinking back to yesterday he was suddenly reminded of the fire wielding maniacs who attacked his squad. Their movements were rather simple and easy enough to mimic, leading him to thinking that maybe he could do the same thing if he tried. He was in another universe after all. At least he had nothing else to do while held prisoner by a woman who, at his measure, could cut him into a dozen pieces before he even felt the first cut.

Taking a basic hand to hand stance with his right foot back holding most of his weight, he suddenly drew the attention of his guard, who stood from her seated pose. He was facing one of the empty walls of his cell with her standing intimidatingly at his right, but tried his best to pay her no mind while he focused on breathing.

Breathing in, he drew back his arm at a backwards angle, twisting his waist to build up power in his straightened arm. Another deep breath and he felt something building up inside a powerful inhuman force.

Moving his arm forwards gently, the pressure built up and he could feel a slight burning sensation. The woman was getting ready to draw her sword, as her expression changed to take him seriously.

The burning pressure built up to a peak until he couldn’t hold it back anymore. As his arm was flung forwards reaching out towards the sun shining through the white canvas… he released. Loudly.

Noxious gas filled the room, the sound vibrating through him as it continued on… and on… until echoing away into a final silence. By then the smell was overwhelming, if he had a shirt he’d have covered his nose with it. Eyes watering he lowered his arm and looked over to the other occupant of the room.

His guard stood frozen. Not moving an inch, her eyes sparkling beautifully in the rich light of his prison cell, before finally she burst out with laughter. Her sword which she’d drawn at some point was nearly slipping from her hands as she curled up a little trying to catch her breathe. Her previous dignity seemed to pass as she snorted with laughter no different from an ordinary soldier. She was somehow unaffected by the poisonous odour refusing to fade from the room.

Matt pausing for a moment to muse at the absurdity of the moment, how such a crude form of humour was able to spark such a reaction from her even when they came from such different worlds. He also realized that at some point she’d drawn her sword on him, one wrong move and he’d be dead rather than standing here laughing.

His voice had already joined her deep laughter without an ounce of pretence. He lost himself in the absurd laughter, laughing mostly at how close he’d been to death. It was a few minutes before they’d returned to themselves but her expressions was considerably more relaxed as she sat by the door.

The smell still stinging his eyes lightly, he looked over to the woman, although her laughter had faded a lively smile was still left to remember it by. She was young, at least she looked around his own age though it was difficult to be sure considering her strange appendages.

Wiping the tears from his eyes he thought of trying something that he should have done at the start, but was far too tense to think of.

He held his broken hand up to his chest, “Matt” he used his childhood nickname, since she’d have difficulty with pronouncing his full name.

Looking at him a little confused she held her hand up to her breast plate, “Matt?” Her accent sounded sweet but she was completely misunderstanding.

“Ah… no, no.” He thought for a moment trying to think of a better way to explain himself but without coming up with any good ideas he resorted to the ridiculous. He pointed at his foot, “Matt”, he pointed at his arm, “Matt”, he pointed at his chest, his hand, his pointing finger, his groin, left nipple, a strand of hair, his right eye. “Matt” he kept on repeating.

She let out a brief snort, holding back any further laughter, “li,li, Matt.” She said pointing at him.

Revealing some understanding of his intentions she puts her hand to her chest, “Myra” She said with a slightly crooked smile.

“Mirror” He tried the name out, “Mila.”

“Myra.” She repronounced it again patiently teaching him how to say it properly.

Focusing with all he had, “Mi-la, Myra.” The sound of the r rolling across his tongue into almost an l sound, and y pronounced fully like mi from miso.

“Li, Myra.” She still had the crooked smile on her face.

Having finally managed a short back and forth communication Matt lost direction unsure about how to continue from here. The fact that she was willing to smile and laugh with him combined with his ‘medical treatment’ he was confident that they weren’t intending on execution this side of sunset.

“Water,” Licking his dry lips he tries mimicking drinking from a cup to spur Myra’s imagination towards understanding. Still smiling she looks at him questioningly raising an eyebrow.

Maybe they don’t use cups, he concluded and tried imitating drinking soup from a bowl. Her lack of reaction spurred on the frustration building in his breast, his game of interlingual, cross-cultural charades wasn’t quite working out as he’d hoped.

Her smile deepened as his attempts grew more intense and absurd, he tried mimicking everything from the ocean to rivers, rain to puddles.

Never even hazarding a guess in her foreign language Myra sat silently watching over him, judging him with her sparkling hazel eyes.

Matt was doing his best impression of a rain cloud so that his mimic of rain would make some sense when his cell was intruded upon by another demonic woman. She was dressed in the same armour, with skin covered in similar lines, her expression was at once both surprised and disgusted as she looked over him standing on one leg, both arms in the air while dressed in nothing but a loincloth.

His limbs slowly fell back into place while silently judged by the newcomer. A beautifully constructed crystal decanter filled with clear liquid accompanied by a matching glass, were gently lowered to the ground beside Myra. Quiet words were shared between the two, filling Matt with the anxiety that came being talked about while he was still in the room. With a single revolted glance back at him the woman left the room leaving him alone with Myra, still standing mostly naked on top of his bedroll.

Looking down at the water sitting beside the silently smiling Myra he came to realize how thoroughly he’d just been played by this woman. She probably knew right from the very beginning what he was trying to say, the one part of it all that he didn’t understand is when she called out for this woman’s help.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Dry laughter left his lips soon joined by a few stray giggles from the young woman who was still somehow acting as his prison guard. Carefully he approached her looking for permission to reach out for the water. With a slight wave of her hands he gratefully accepted taking both glass and decanter while sitting only a little away from the woman.

Praying that this wasn’t just another trick, he poured a glass of water from the beautiful decanter into an equally fine-looking glass. Sniffing at the liquid he couldn’t tell if anything was strange about it, his carefulness earning him a short glare from Myra. Apparently doubting her hospitality wasn’t a good way to earn her respect, making this a good moment to abandon caution.

He briefly glanced at the glass before lifting the decanter straight to his lips and pouring down his gullet. The cold temperature at first shocked him but practice at the barracks kept him from choking up, swallowing the water as fast as it flowed delighting in the cool refreshing flavour. Finishing it

in seconds he lowered the overly beautiful decanter before licking the remaining water from his lips.

The chill of the water reached deep into his stomach, sending a slight shiver through his reinvigorated body. The flavour was slightly different from what he’d been used to but it was unlikely to be as pure as he’d drunk back at home.

Looking back over to the slightly shocked Myra he was glad to see that her brief glare was long passed. While she was still a little shocked at his sudden recklessness he put on the largest grin he could muster and formed a thumbs up with his intact hand eliciting a comfortable smile from the woman. Careful not to use his broken hand, Matt stood up and carried the crystal drinking set back over to Myra.

When he knelt to put down the water decanter and glass Myra suddenly reached out and snatched his arm in a soft grip just above where it had broken. The smile on his face twitched for a moment as he felt the urge to run away. The urge was quickly buried as his smile was repaired.

Her grip was light enough that he could easily shake himself free, but that being the case there was no point in doing so. Realizing she didn’t mean any harm, he entrusted himself to her hands. She directed him around to a seated position in front of her.

His arm was still hurting where blood was seeping through the cloth wrapping, the combination of aching bones and stinging flesh leaving him irate at her touch. The pain was bearable but unpleasant.

Practiced hands unwrapped the bandaging that had been hiding his injury with professional speed and care. Her eyes focused on the task in front of her seemed distant, as if she were in a different world altogether as she worked.

Her eyes were prying into his wrist with enthusiasm while her hands worked, her dedication and focus equal to that of any doctor he’d ever met. So much so that he already felt like nothing more than a slab of meat laid out on a platter before her.

Noticing her distance he entertained the idea of reaching for her weapon, but quickly disposed of the idea. As he saw it there was no point in aggravating the closest thing he had to a friend for the sake of a doomed escape plan. Removing his eyes from the sword he was forced instead to face the reality of his own injury.

Underneath the bandaging he noticed a bloody mark in his skin where the bone had struck through, the stains of dried blood now moistened as the wound reopened. Along the opening, stitches like those on his head, were mangled and torn. More than likely something he’d managed to do when he woke in this strange place.

Her grip disappeared in an instant, she made no move to bandage his arm again, instead turning her back to him and shuffling through a basket he hadn’t noticed earlier. She acted with purpose moving items around with care only to return them to their place after retrieving her goal, a short curved needled alongside a length of thread.

Seeing what was coming Matt hesitated, unwanting to participate in this archaic medicine but also unwilling to undo all of his work getting friendly with the woman. There was so much he wanted to say, so much about this procedure that he knew in his gut was wrong but in the end he smiled anyway. “Thanks,” was all he could say, but even that garnered no reaction as she tied a knot in her thread and started working.

She quickly struck his flesh through, drawing the thread through his torn skin forcing a slight grimace to take the place of his smile. For the first time since she’d entered her focused state she paused, looking up at his face while he hid his displeasure as best as he could. Without saying a word she returned to work but this time with a measurably more gentle a touch.

Her hands dexterous and gentle but with a firmness to them that he knew she had the same kind of inhuman strength as he’d already seen from the other demonic woman. A power that was frightening to behold, especially when combined with such demonic appearance, yet already she was transforming before his eyes into a kind hearted young woman. She liked to laugh and was willing to help even a man like him heal from his injuries, such a woman he didn’t want to have to consider an enemy.

Trying to focus on something other than the needlework Matt’s eyes strayed to the lines covering her skin, they were a simple black in colour and showed no signs of the strange mist he’d seen from the other two. Another difference he noticed was that the pattern was different on this girl, many more swirls shifting around and spinning in place with a lot less sharp points evident. They moved so lazily across her skin it was he was almost convinced that it was an illusion of his eyes.

Unconsciously he reached out with his left hand towards her upper arm, touching of the swirls that were spinning in place and eliciting a brief cry from Myra who still had a thread in her mouth. With a guilty smile on his face he apologised to her, though she wouldn’t understand. She gave him another strange glance but didn’t seem hostile about it, if anything she was more surprised than upset. Already she’d returned to working on his wrist.

Suddenly inspired with playfulness he gently poked at her skin again in the same place. He felt no texture to the black lines but they did stir at his touch shifting towards his finger as if following it for around half an inch before slowing to a pause. The other lengths of the pattern seemed to react filling in the gap left behind so that it kept a rather balanced spacing.

Myra let out a sigh as she worked, shaking her head slightly as she worked, he also noticed a small smile rising to her lips. For the moment at least it seemed she didn’t mind his meddling though thinking about his own behaviour threatened to make him self-conscious about it.

Curious he tried again, again it followed his finger for around half an inch before stopping in its new position, the rest of the pattern flowing and filling the emptiness left behind. Myra who was now wrapping up his arm having finished the stitches, looked at him kindly as she spoke, “Okiri Vira,” before petting his head.

He didn’t quite understand what she was saying but stopped poking her arm, the enchanting strange lines still tempting him.

Movement to the side caught his attention while he was returned his now bandaged arm. The ‘door’ was lifted up revealing another of the demonic women, the air itself seemed to change with the aura she carried into the room.

Myra stood up beside him inspiring him to follow her lead, but even at full height he was still a small measure shorter than the woman standing in front of him.

She was the one who he’d seen moments before passing out, the one with the purple hand, which was no longer purple, he noted. Her face was stern, like his lieutenant on a bad day, almost making him salute out of reflex. Myra on the other hand was relaxed and almost completely unconcerned about the powerful aura radiating from the woman.

Speaking in a relaxed tone as if between two friends Myra started conversation with the taller woman. The other woman’s voice was as stern as

her appearance when she returned comment; the two of them forming a strange conversation even without him being able to understand a word of it.

After only a few lines the older woman cut the conversation to an end, turning to Matt. The smile on his lips fought against her oppressive expression, “Ah, hi.” Gulping back the tension he continued, “Are you looking to schedule a meeting? I’m awfully busy today…” She continued to stare at him, not revealing any emotion, “ah but I’m sure I can make some time… Please don’t hurt me…”

Her eyes were focused on his head, as she confidently reached out towards his hair. He was shocked into stillness for a breath as her hand grew closer to the hairpin still stuck through his hair.

Crying out noisily, he realized what she was reaching for, leaping backwards from her reach and snatching the hairpin out of his hair. The woman continued to stare at him with empty eyes before lowering her arm. Myra turned to face him with a sudden shock as if suddenly seeing him in a new light.

His breathing was ragged as he clutched the pin, hand sticky with blood from gripping too tightly. Before he realized it, he was in the furthest corner of the room away from the woman, crouching low to the ground.

For some time matters stayed frozen as such.

The woman waved him forwards before turning from the room not portraying any doubts that he would follow. Matt looked over to Myra who smiled hesitantly towards him, still crouched in the corner. Forcing deep slow breaths Matt stood up, strengthening his heart for whatever was coming next.

“I guess I over reacted a little, didn’t I?” He spoke to no one in particular, as he returned her smile. She didn’t reply with words, but instead waved him through the door, insisting on him going ahead.

He paused at the ‘door’, thinking back on the days behind him, and on the emerald gem still in his possession. “What’s the worst that could happen?” He whispered, laughing quietly as he stepped forwards Myra following behind.

After passing through what served for a door to what passed for his cell, he followed obediently after the strict woman. All around him were the same while walls as he’d been surrounded with in his cell but a here the air was pleasantly warm. The woman’s pace was faster than anticipated and he

was soon lagging behind, finding himself unwilling to close the gap ahead of him.

Myra had already caught up with his slow pace, turning and smiling at him exuberantly. He felt a growing sense of confidence as she snatched his hand out of nowhere gripping his clenched fist tightly in her own before dragging him ahead.

Half walking, half dragged through roughly a hundred metres of tent he found himself in a large, round chamber filled with dozens of demonic women. They were sitting in circles around circles, forming a four layered ring around a central point, though there were still two holes in the formation.

Matt found it strange how they were all women, not a single man amongst them horned or otherwise and the only woman in the room without any horns or demonic traits kept to the side of the room quietly observing.

All of women, apart from the observer, were dressed in the same armour with the same style of sword he’d seen the others armed with, though the patterns on their skin varied from woman to woman. His eyes fell upon a familiar pattern on the outside ring, but it seemed she was focused on meditating, her hands resting on crossed legs.

Myra letting go of him just as suddenly as she’d grabbed him pushed him forwards to the centre of the formation, still smiling like a maniac. He looked down at the hand she’d been holding onto him with, covered with his blood. His tightly formed fist continued dripping blood around the pin struck through his fist.

Myra found her place in the third rind, turning to him and giving him a small wave before sitting in place and assuming the same meditative pose as many of the others. Only around half of the women present were in pose, the others seemed as interesting in staring at him, as he was in staring back.

The tall woman who’d been leading him up until this point nudged him into place, dead centre of the strange formation. She didn’t need words to tell him not to move, her eyes piercing him before she turned to fill the last gap in the in the innermost circle.

That seemed to act as a queue, with everyone abruptly taking up the pose without a word between them. Silence reigned in the room, he could barely even hear their movements. Awkwardly standing in the centre he wandered if any of their statuesque figures would even notice if he walked out of here.

Softening his tense expression he glanced towards the observer, the one human in this room apart from himself. She had dark hair cut short and haphazardly, with ragged clothes that were close to falling apart but was surprisingly clean. From her height he guessed that she was only around 13 years of age, but she had a dangerous spark to her eye, and when their eyes met he was the first to look away.

Before he had the chance to consider his position, he noticed a slight headache forming in the back of his mind and cursed his own stupidity. The patterns on every last woman in the encirclement were gradually shading themselves purple. The shade, one with which he was quite painfully familiar.

“This won’t hurt a bit.” He spat sarcastically as he fell to his knees. In an instant his mind became fragmented, torn apart by a half dozen gusts of wind.

The pain should have been enough to make him pass out, but strangely as distant as the world became he could still feel the painful sensation tearing through him. It was nonsensical, and unreasonable. His fingers bit into the wooden floorboards to keep from digging out his own eyes.

Slamming his head into the ground he pleaded for the pain to stop, but even if he spoke the right words, he doubted that they’d listen. What was this, some kind of torture method? A strange and horrible execution? Or perhaps it was something else entirely, some strange ritual for a purpose he couldn’t understand?

To keep from going insane as time stretched out, he focused on breathing. In, and out. In, and out.

The pain plateaued in intensity for what seemed like minutes but was probably more like seconds. Forcing himself to control his breathing he opened his eyes to the world around him, hoping to find some salvation from the pain in the faces around him.

The inner circle was completely lost in some meditative state an intense purple mist rising from their bodies. The rows behind them were all a little less focused, he couldn’t make out any familiar faces but even many of the strangers showed signs of uncertainty that they hadn’t had before. The observer was wide eyed, her face pale as she stared at him with fright.

The second circle abruptly brightened to the same colour as the inner circle, but Matt didn’t have time to think about the cause. A dry scream

reached his ears but he could no longer recognise it as his own. Tears formed and he clenched his teeth, no longer able to breathe through the pain.

He felt his mind slipping. If it continued much longer…

Forcing his body into action he looked down at his own hands, and forced his lungs into action. The sight of bright purple lines flowing along his arms made his stomach twist inside. The lines winding and whirling, released a weak mist into the air.

Willing his body to move, his legs kicked at the ground weakly, sliding his body slowly away from his position in formation. Helplessly he cried out in pain, but his strength fled as soon as the third ring resonated with power.

Again the pain spiked, again his mind fled deeper into its scattered self. The dispersed parts of his consciousness barely able to come together and form thought.

For a moment he thought he felt something familiar in his mind. A playful presence, like that of a cat he used to care for as kid, but as he focused on it his mind constricted in greater pain. The pain was plateaued, a fine balance, with his consciousness slipping. His opened eyes able to see purple lines swimming across his skin, like growing vines tightening around him. An emerald light shinned through the purple mists at his hands giving him some little strength.

“Just…. Stop…” His muscles grew loose, and eyes distant, but the pain was still there.

One more time it struck him.

His mind slipped into the dark void sensing nothing, no thought or sensation passed through his awareness. An experience that could only be considered death.

Still sensation returned to him, pain washing over his senses in an intensity far greater than his body should be capable of surviving.

“Please just stop… I can’t take it anymore.” Somewhere in the overpopulated cacophony that was his mind, he felt something familiar. No longer able to think and acting on instinct alone, he reached out for it. Hoping for reprieve from the torture.

“Please, please, please.” His mind lost apart from that one word.

“What’s this?” The thoughts, although in his mind, were not his own, sparking hope and a last reserve of strength.

“Stop the pain! Can you please stop the pain?!” Despair rose in his chest as he waited for a reply from that strange voice.

“…Why did it have to be me?” The tired thought filling in his mind but it didn’t seem as though it was meant for him.

A voice rose in his ringing ears, calling out in the dead silence signalling the end to his suffering.