“—at?”
Herah’s eyes widened as the artist suddenly found herself flung horns-first at a low table. Overcome by a sudden sense of vertigo, Herah could just barely flip herself over before crashing butt-first through the furniture.
CRAAAAAAAAAAAACK!
Holding her head with one of her hands, the artist shut both eyes as sawdust and the smell of moist wood filled the air.
Wood? Herah thought through a scowl. Who the fuck made a table out of wood?
Unfurling one wing and waving it to disperse the airborne dust, the artist cracked her eyes open then wanted to shut them again as a profound wrongness pierced her down to her flame. As if Herah’s insides had been turned out.
All because the space surrounding the artist was…off.
No smell, not the wood from earlier or even Herah’s own filled her sterile environment. Her tongue felt particles from the air dance across it, but no flavors came with. No sound naturally flitted through the space, leaving the artist with only the pounding of her heart. It felt either too long or too short, each beat warped in her mind even though her heart rate remained steady. Her scales and skin felt prickly and numb, yet the artist’s fingers felt the thick thread of a rug beneath her butt. Her sight felt accurate to a degree. Like the image her eyes laid upon went through a few filters first.
How disgustingly plain. Herah thought, taking in the dull and sterile white of the padded walls, ceiling, and floor. Vaguely in front and behind the artist (for space felt too odd to properly gauge distance), two couches covered in the soft, ridged cloth of corduroy dyed a white only a tad lighter than the walls and floor sat. Black end-tables with white lamps and glass bulbs filled with thin metal sat on the right of each couch.
All of it made her eyes sting. Odd since the room lacked any source of light, instead everything had a subtle and annoying brightness.
Who the fuck covers couches in corduroy? And makes bulbs filled with solid metal? Herah thought while huffing smoke and rising to her feet, her balance unsteady as the act of movement felt unnatural in whatever odd room the artist had ended up in.
Eyes drifting down—
Is this direction down?
—Herah saw the splintered remains of the table her body had crushed nestled into the tufts of white yarn composing the rug at her feet.
For a third time that day, the artist felt memories unwanted surge up from the depths of her flame. Flashes of a room almost as white as the current one struck, a cold and humiliating terror following each. In response, her pupils began to round out and her body bent forward.
Like Le Fourneau. Herah felt slimy and cold recalling the name of that cursed room, Mistress please, let this not be Le Fourneau!
Before her memories could overcome her thoughts, a vision that the artist did not imagine formed in her mind.
It was Herah from a third person perspective, legs-crossed and aflame. A peaceful look adorned her face, her lips moving in a silent song.
Feeling a phantom warmth from the vision, the artist calmed and banished her unwanted memories back to her flame. As her past retreated, her eyes slit once more.
A familiar presence brushed against her thoughts, like a friend knocking at her bedroom door. Of course, Herah let them in, and the presence nestled into a seat inside her head.
Hey Jeffery, thanks.
The artist got back an image of herself smiling, Jeffery’s way of saying “all good”.
On your way?
A vision of herself nodding appeared in response.
Know where I am?
Herah got another nodding vision.
The answer filled the artist with warmth and gratitude, knowing someone was on the way. Not that Herah would ever say it.
Though I can’t hide anything from you.
Another vision, this time of the artist laughing, appeared in her mind.
Herah rolled her eyes before bending back up and stumbling over to a couch. Plopping down onto the oddly textured seating, the artist found her mind wandering toward a question yet to be asked. A question Herah held the suspicion Jeffery knew the answer to. Her creation, while crafted with her arms and legs, was a creature of many secrets and odd bits of knowledge. So, it only made sense to interrogate it first.
Why am I here?
Instantly, a distorted and darkened image entered the artist’s mind. Herah couldn’t make out anything but two black spots with specks of white floating behind them. And as the artist took in it, Herah immediately recognized it as the figure from her dreams. More importantly, the artist finally connected the figure to a name.
Norwe, that’s who br—
Before the thought could complete, a chilling lance of static tore right through her mind. Thoughts, sensations, and understanding cracked then fragmented as her psyche violently unraveled and drained into something beyond oblivion.
For a second, or was it a minute, or an hour, or a day, Herah was naught but a mindless shell of flesh and fire.
Then, flames swarmed where a mind belonged, and the artist became whole once more.
“Gaah!” Herah cried out, clutching her head. Nothing physically hurt, but explosions of static punctuated every few thoughts, and pain was the only proper response her mind could make.
What the BUZZ ash BUUZZZ happened to me BUZ?
The static eventually passed, though the artist could not tell if only a moment or weeks came before it did so. And when her thoughts returned to normal, Herah found Jeffery’s presence absent from her mind.
Jeffery? Jeffery? Jeffery!?
But no image beyond her own making came to the artist.
Again, Herah was alone.
“Merde!” the artist screamed, green flames flaring from her nose in long, warped streams. Herah rose from the couch, letting loose an angry swipe that left gouges while bumping into the low table in front of—
The artist paused.
I broke this.
Her eyes moved vaguely downward and saw the wooden furniture newly restored.
What the fuck?
Herah snapped her head from side to side, cursing the lack of smells while searching for whatever could’ve reconstructed the table.
Is it Norwe or someone else? Or maybe, the artist’s eyes drifted back to the mended furniture, it’s you.
Herah kneeled before the table and let her attention drift inward, towards a specific sensation on the edge of each of her senses.
A muted buzz at the back of her head. A dim, flickering light in the center of her vision. A faint taste of blood at the edge of her tongue. A thin smell of smoke right under her nose. And a light feeling of something smooth and sharp at the tip of her fingers.
Bringing each to the forefront of her mind, the artist called for all these sensations to grow more intense.
The muted buzz rose into a screeching static. The dim light brightened into a steady beam. The taste of blood overwhelmed her tongue and swelled to the back of her throat. The thin smell of smoke thickened into a smog. And the smooth and sharp feeling engulfed her arms in millions of needles.
Then something broke, and these sensations drowned in a wave of sensory overload where deprivation once ruled.
Herah’s pupils dilated, stretching from their slit state and into circles as radio, gamma and all the waves in-between took shape before her eyes. Her tongue came alight with flavors indescribable, both once forgotten and others previously unknown. The most minute of movements sent shivers through her body as every thread of the rug beneath her feet became known in excruciating detail. Her ears strained to the point that the sounds of electrical charges hopping from neuron to neuron within her now hyperactive brain were as loud as gunshots. Her nostrils flexed as smells previously beyond the artist became thick and endless.
Herah’s perception of reality shattered then reformed, maybe taking a second potentially years, before a gleaming, golden rectangle appeared around what was once a low-table. Now, with all of her senses running wild but focused on just the area within the rectangle, the artist tasted the table’s smooth texture, saw its foreign but earthy scent, felt the black of its paint, smelled the slight shifts and creaks of its wood, and heard its grainy and oily flavor. Herah didn’t just see, smell, feel, hear, and taste the table.
The artist experienced it, down to its smallest subatomic particle.
This table is not of my world. Herah thought, tasting her frown as it formed. The lack of preons says it’s not even from my universe. Though none of that explains why it’s fixed itself.
The artist forced her senses back down, her perception of reality dimming to its original state where naught, but her sense of sight felt anywhere close to proper. Back to normal, Herah felt warm tracks of liquid flowing down from her eyes, ears, nostrils, and lips.
Ugh, more blood. the artist thought before tearing a strip of corduroy from the newly repaired couch behind herself and wiping—
Herah paused then groaned, puffing out more annoyed smoke before looking back at the couch and seeing only a single tear in the seat where there were once five slashes in its backrest.
Merde. I hate this place.
The artist wiped her face with the fabric, bristling at its roughness on her skin, then tossed it aside before making her way behind the couch and away from the furniture. By this point, her body had acclimated to the odd space and time of the room, so no wobble shook her steps.
THUNK!
Her body’s acclimation did not extend to her senses however, so Herah surprised herself when her horns suddenly bumped into the wall.
Exhausted from the day and bullshit and feeling more unwanted memories bubbling beneath the surface, the artist sighed out some more smoke, dropped to her knees, and closed her eyes.
Fear, anger, and shame all swirled in her mind. Fear because of her confinement in a room indicative of her worst days. Anger towards Norwe or whoever tore her freedom away, because they were a bitch and wouldn’t even show their face. And shame for feeling so powerless all over again.
Everything was so wrong and twisted, too weird for her senses but too familiar for her memories. So Herah focused on those sensations at the edges of all her senses and compelled them to lessen. And as the sensations grew weaker, so too did all of the artist’s senses.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Until Herah was left with nothing.
No smell.
No sight.
No sound.
No touch.
No taste.
Nothing, but endless warmth from the fire in her chest.
Nothing but my link to La Flamme and everyone else.
The warmth spread, flames spilling into the artist’s lungs and swelling them large and proud.
Nothing but my prayers and fire.
Spreading even further, the warmth stretched out all through Herah, flames racing through her arteries and veins.
Nothing but me and all I ever was.
The warmth engulfed the artist, fire spewing from all over her body and wrapping her skin and scales in a dancing shroud.
And as the flames danced, Herah sang.
Grande flamme, qui passe,
Grande flamme, dans le ciel si élevé
Grande flamme, si seule et deprimé
Grande flamme, qui devient lentement cinglé
Grande flamme, brûlant notre foyer
Grande flamme, pour que nous puissions errer
Grande flamme, s'il te plaît, ne pleure non
Grande flamme, les enfants que tu as mis au monde
The artist heard not a word leaving her mouth, but that mattered none for her song was a prayer to La Flamme.
It wasn’t meant for her ears.
In her singing, her warmth grew hotter but never uncomfortable. Her flames shifted color, and by their current heat and her steady tiring, Herah knew them to be indigo now. Where it felt at first like a shroud, her fire now wrapped around and embraced her form, like a mother comforting her child.
The artist did not feel it, but Herah knew a smile graced her face. Her mind, now calm but still alert, was ready to face this room and whatever it held in store.
Reigning her flames back in and bringing her senses back up to normal, the artist opened her eyes and found two peculiar aliens staring back.
Both stood in a vague spot between Herah and the couch.
They have the same face. the artist’s thought, focusing on their same lack of scales, leaf green eyes, small noses, and soft jaw lines. This sameness extended to their bodies as well. No scales anywhere on their pale skin, thin but fit frames, the short height of five-ten, no real sex specific features, and ponytails. They were near duplicates of each other with only four things distinguishing them.
Their positions, expressions, hair, and clothing.
One stood in front of and slightly covering the other, scowling at Herah.
I’ll dub you Fureur. the artist thought, tracing her eyes from their hazel hair and down to their clothing. Said apparel appeared somewhat familiar but slightly odd to Herah.
Fureur wore two shirts. One a slightly thick, blue zip-up with long sleeves, a hood, and pockets. Its ends reached down to just below their hips. Currently unzipped, the weird shirt revealed a more conventional one underneath: green and covered in illegible symbols that appeared as: Do You Want The Truth?. A pair of blue jeans draped their legs, leading down to the oddest part of Fureur.
What looked to be an odd combination of grey rubber and polyester was either both their feet or covering them.
Weird. The artist thought as her eyes shifted towards the other alien.
The creature vaguely behind Fureur looked at Herah with a few blinks and a squint.
I’ll call you Confus. the artist thought, taking in their light auburn hair and even odder clothing than their doppelganger.
Confus wore what looked to be an even thicker and far larger long-sleeve shirt than their counterpart, this one a dark brown, possessing a popped collar, and reaching down to their knees with buttons lining the right side. Slightly open, Herah saw another conventional shirt underneath, red this time, with similar symbols to the other alien’s shirt on it. From what the artist could parse the last symbol was different. Herah assumed they combined as: Do You Want The Lie?. Instead of blue jeans, they wore khaki cargo shorts that ended just after their knees and allowed the artist to see the peach fuzz covering Confus’s legs. Further down, much like their counterpart, this alien also had an odd combination of materials where feet belonged.
This time it was black rubber and leather, and they reached up to just past Confus’s ankles.
After taking these aliens in full as best as possible, Herah decided it time for diplomacy.
“Who and what are you two?”
Confus perked up and went to speak, but Fureur raised their hand to cover their copy’s mouth.
Ugh! the artist internally groaned, scowling back at the scowling alien. I wish I could smell you proper, it’s hard to read you based purely on sigh— What the ash are you doing?
Herah watched Fureur move as if submerged in lava, slowly reaching into the pocket of their long shirt.
The artist glanced to Confus who shrugged and looked just as perplexed. Looking back at Fureur, Herah found their hand pulled from their pocket and arm slowly extending with an odd blade now in their grip.
A little longer than a dagger, the weapon was asymmetrical and wavy in its shape. An intricate pattern of silvery lines and circles covered the blade’s black length. Something about the weapon felt ominous even from the unclear distance between the artist and it.
Both Herah and Confus watched Fureur in confusion as the alien completed the slow extension of their arm and the blade slowly floated from their fingers and in the artist’s vague direction.
“Are— are you attacking me?” Herah asked, brows knit tight while glancing to Confus, disbelieving the sight before her eyes.
“Uhh, I sure am.” Confus responded, their voice neither distinctly masculine nor feminine but clearly joking as a soft grin marked their face, “I attack with my devilish charms.”
The artist raised a brow at the alien, getting back a small chuckle and running of some fingers through hair as Fureur’s dagger continued on its slow journey.
“I’m lying.” Confus added.
“Ok,” Herah answered with a blink before the artist added, “My earlier question?”
Confus blinked, clearly unsure of what Herah meant for a moment, or maybe centuries. The artist stared back at them, unblinking in her wait. Then, the alien let out a small chuckle.
“Oh, yeah.” Confus pat themself on the chest then waved at their slow-mo copy, “I’m Max, this is Alex, and we’re humans. Nice to meet you…”
“Herah War Hej," Herah mimicked Max’s patting, “Cendreux.”
The human’s grin stretched into a full smile.
“Ashen? That’s a pretty cool name for a species.” Max’s smile turned suggestive. “Are you called Ashen cause you’re all so hot you burnt up?”
Herah felt her cheeks redden slightly at the obvious compliment.
“Thanks, I pride myself on our—” the artist paused then snarled, stepping forward slightly with the strike of a sudden realization, “How do you know Cuviebu Ahcend?”
Max flinched back and raised her hands defensively, eyes wide and smile gone.
“Whoa! Please don’t freak out.” The human practically ran the words from their mouth, “Uhh, I’m not exactly sure why, my brother can probably explain, but what you call Cuviebu Ahcend is French where I come from, and I learned it.”
What? Herah thought, shocked as if struck by lightning. Max’s mere mention of Ahcend having another name was sacrilege. Couldn’t be from one of our conquered worlds.
“’Where you from?’” The artist’s eyes started to glow as green flames leaked from her mouth and rage started to boil up. “And are you saying you’re related to La Flamme?”
Clearly sensing her anger, Max smiled at Herah. And the artist’s fire dissipated as her anger disappeared.
“Uh, no.” The human responded, pointing back at themself with their index fingers, “I don’t know who that is, but I’m confident that’s a no.”
Max pointed to their brother, his expression slowly morphing as his hand started to drop back down from its throw.
“Um, he can explain this a lot better, I’m sure. So, let’s just give him a minute or two or whatever the hell time is here to buffer.”
Herah gave Max an odd look, surprised by the human’s manner of reference for Alex.
“You insult your brother so easily.”
“What are you talking abo—”
WOSH!
The dagger suddenly accelerated, appearing right in front of the artist’s surprised eye. Only thanks to years of practice, Herah leaned back and swiped up with her left hand, deflecting the blade and sending it into an upward spin.
TIIIIIIIIIIING!
“What the—”
Alex blurred from the artist’s sight, appearing somewhat in front of Herah, knees bent and his fist reared back for a punch.
Instinctively, the artist raised an arm to block the telegraphed strike while bringing her raised hand back down to slash through the human’s neck.
But Alex blurred away again, Herah cutting empty air. A quick snap of her eyes from side to side revealed no one.
Up!
But just as her gaze rose something heavy and vaguely foot-shaped slammed into the top of her head, snapping her vision down and tipping the artist forward.
Both to avoid a follow-up attack and face-planting, Herah unfurled her wings and swung one up and the other into the floor. One wing deflected another kick while the other caught the artist’s full weight and kept her balance.
Merde! So fast! Herah thought, snapping her head back up as Alex landed blade in hand next to Max, whose lips moved impossibly slow finishing their sentence.
“Are you Concept, Maker or Abyss Walker?” Alex asked with the same voice as Max, his question feeling more like an accusation.
“The fuck are those!?” the artist responded, rage flaring as Herah leaned back onto her feet proper and allowed her wings to hang in the air behind herself.
Alex’s scowl deepened, and the human leaned forward as if about to lunge.
“That’s the worst answer.”
Alex twirled his weapon then blurred away once more.
The artist instinctively swiped at either of her sides and kicked the space at her front, hitting nothing but empty air.
SPLOTCH!
“Merde!” Herah cursed, a cold, stabbing pain appearing in her back and between her right, lower ribs.
The artist slammed her raised foot back into the floor, denting it, before spinning around and swiping where Alex’s head should be. But again, her strike hit only air as the human dropped into a low crouch.
In her turning, Alex kept his blade in place causing Herah to turn her stabbing into a disembowelment as her intestines spilled out.
The artist cared little, taking a sharp breath as flames welled in her mouth, and the human tore his blade from her stomach. But before Herah could let out her blast, one of her feet caught on her blood, and the artist slipped—
SHUK!
—right into Alex’s rising blade. The weapon stabbed through the boneless spot behind her chin.
Herah felt metal pierce her tongue and nail it to the roof of her mouth as the blade tore behind her nose and slid up through her brain before catching on her skull.
“Tough bones.” Alex whispered, though the artist couldn’t tell if for her ears. Her thoughts were too addled with pain and shivers to make proper sense of words.
But understanding language wasn’t needed in the moment, so Herah seized her chance and embraced the human. Squeezing with full force, bones snapped and skin broke under her grasp. Alex gasped in her killer hug right before the artist threw herself back and suplexed his body into the bloodied and dented floor.
CRAAAAAAAAAACK!
That wasn’t the floor.
Not done, Herah flipped over her pinned opponent, dragged her grip to Alex’s ankles, and heaved the human over her head before slamming his body back down.
CRAK!
This time, Alex bounced off the floor, allowing the artist to let go and plant a haymaker into his gut.
“ACK!” The human let out as his body tore through the air and slammed into the wall somewhat opposite of Herah. After a moment, or days, or weeks, Alex fell bloodied and broken behind the couch on the other side of the room.
Quick feet, weak body.
Blade still in her head, the artist leaned back and tore it out. A wince of pain and discomfort escaped her lips, the feelings soon replaced with a soothing warmth as green flames surged and ate away at all her damage.
Herah spat out blood, her neck and bare waist drenched in the crimson fluid.
Annoying that I took that much damage, but nothing to sweat. the artist thought, her flames strength having waned from a pyre into a campfire. Herah hadn’t fed it since her fight with Rose, so all those past hours and healing without sustenance were starting to catch up.
The artist stared where Alex sat out of her sight, unsure of what the human might do next.
I should be fine though; it’s unlikely healing is in his capabilities.
Alex rose fully healed.
“Merde.” Herah cursed, glaring into the human’s eyes.
Alex glared back, leaf green reflecting in emerald.
“I heard there was another group, Hypocrites, but it wouldn’t make sense for one of them to be here.”
The artist felt only more confused at the odd gibberish the human spoke.
“What?”
“You might not be a Hypocrisy but if you aren’t,” Alex shook his head, “You’re too off to let exist.”
Again, Herah knew not what to make of the human’s statement.
“What?”
Instead of answering, Alex closed his eyes and raised an arm towards the artist. Herah readied herself for another attack, fire swelling in her throat again.
But before the artist could make a single move, the area around the human brightened.
As if standing within a beam of white light, Alex was illuminated.
As was the couch kinda at his front.
And the table in front of the couch.
And the other couch behind Max.
And Max themself.
It was only then that Herah realized that the light was widening and soon to reach.
What the ash!? Is it an attack? No, Max isn’t hurt. What is it then? The artist’s thoughts ran amok with the light growing even closer and her back quickly, or slowly, finding the wall.
Herah couldn’t help noticing that of everything in the room, the light appeared the most natural in how it acted. It didn’t stutter in its speed as it grew closer, and its position felt clear.
As if it’s beyond whatever strangeness plagues this place.
Finally, the light engulfed the artist, and for some reason, the first thing Herah thought of was her father’s ice.
The second thing was just how exposed it made her entirety feel.
Alex’s light felt like prying eyes, shifting through all that was the artist. Her body, her thoughts, her feelings, her… everything felt laid bare under the glow.
Nothing hidden, nothing safe.
Herah felt disturbed and invaded having something peer into her being as the human’s light did. Like having someone rub their hands all over her body, from head to toe, without permission or care for her own thoughts.
It felt violating.
Overcome by this sudden exposure, the artist didn’t react as a ball of white light phased out of Alex’s raised palm. It hovered over his hand and grew to about the size of Herah’s head before the human raised the light over his own.
“You don’t exist.”
Alex’s words came out distinctly feminine and divine, as if stating a great truth of reality. And following his statement, the light held over his head dispersed.
One moment, the artist stood grappling with the implications of the invasive light.
The next, Herah knew nothing.
The artist was nothing.
No body.
No mind.
No fire.
Not even an idea.
Just nothing.
Herah was gone.
…
…
…
…
…
Another moment came, and a small fireball appeared hovering where the idea of Herah once existed.
And the artist knew once more.
Fire. Herah thought, the warmth of her flame filling a non-existent form.
The fireball turned violet, and a small and near translucent wave of flames pulsed from it.
Wish I could grab it. the artist thought to herself, possessing not even phantom limbs.
Another pulse left the violet ball of fire.
Wish I could see it. Herah thought, seeing nothing but darkness.
Another pulse left the fireball.
Wish I could control it. the artist thought, telling her flame to flicker.
The ball of fire flickered.
And with one final pulse, Herah’s body burned itself back into existence.
All her senses came back in a sudden rush as the artist fell to her arms and knees, gasping for air. Her heart thundered in her chest, her muscles whimpered pitifully, and her bones turned to ice.
The level of regeneration that Herah had just, or decades ago, performed was far beyond any that the artist ever knew possible. And her flame feeling like naught but a spark, told Herah it wasn’t happening again unless fed.
Thank you, La Flamme. the artist mentally proclaimed; her sense of self returned proper. Rising to shaky legs, Herah soon found a confused Max and scowling Alex looking at her newly restored self, both seated on either couch.