Chapter 8
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Dreams
It was all too much for Eoin. From the moment that something clicked within his mind, everything changed. Where before, he had to peer through an invisible soup to make out things of a magical nature, now it was all just there as if it had always been.
When he first discovered the wind elemental, who seemed conspicuously absent from their current predicament, Eoin had had to make a great effort to see the swirling green patterns which made up its form. Again, when Eoin was forced into another's dream, he had spent minutes trying to detect some kind of thread that the monster had manipulated.
Now, it was as if his eyelids had been peeled back and he could see the world without effort. He shut his seeing orbs and screamed in pain as this new sense continued to assail him.
To say it was a sense, would, in truth, do the sensations a disservice. If this were limited to but one sense, he might have simply ignored it in the same way as sight or sound or smell; he may have been able to block out or ignore the bombardment of feelings which now attacked him.
It would be more accurate to say that something in his perception had cracked and the secrets of the world were spilling out in all forms - not hiding their brutal truths from the young man.
In the short time his eyes were open, Eoin saw an angry red mist which swirled all around the garden; dancing desperately to the tune of death, in the shape of humanoid figures. The blood that splattered the shrubberies and grass in this mesmerising illusion, burned up - becoming an even deeper shade of red. In its more violent state, this magical mist was easily able to suffuse the bodies of Dorcha and himself.
Reithe and the Witch were somehow able to keep this enraging miasma out of them, and with but a thought, and having been able to only steal a glimpse before becoming overwhelmed, he was able to repeat the feat.
Instantly, the blinding fog of fear and anger, emotions which surrounded violence, was lifted. The overloading of Eoin’s mind was lessened, if slightly. Struggling against the nausea, Eoin forced one eye open to find a familiar and panicking ram looking at him.
With the sound of magical plants growing, the rush of air, the chiming of something in the distance, the dark gong of the ground, and the slow rumble of the soil, accompanied by the flute like water of the marsh that assailed him; it was nearly impossible for Eoin to concentrate on his friend. The sounds of the world which were heretofore unknown to the young man were almost too much.
Even so, he struggled, searching around with the one eye he had managed to open. The most overwhelming thing, the thing that came creeping back, knocking back, and slamming back at Eoin’s consciousness was the thick red smog, which somehow took the form and dynamic flow of a battle.
Eoin’s eye roved about manically, tracking this translucent and insisting gas to its source. He ignored the ominous black tendrils that he could see wisping off himself; though ominous, he had no time for whatever that was right now. He ignored the blinding and deep green aura which he could see surrounded the Witch - verifying her identity. He ignored the light trails of translucent green which he could see crisscrossing the sky.
Eventually, Eoin found the area with the highest density of blood mist. It was so thick that the swirls and drifts - formed by an unseen wind - resolved into vague outlines of fighters. They were all short women with evil grins and a love for bloodshed. Their somehow innocent faces were the most off putting thing to Eoin’s mind and when he peered closer, he could see that each of the heads of these figures which were hacking the limbs off one another with joyous abandon were, in fact, the heads of tiny yellow flowers.
Eoin was forced to slam his eye shut once more as one of the insane women saw him looking at her, and beckoned him forth with a finger. The pressure on his mind from the malevolent miasma doubled as it bade him butcher or bandire. Combined with the smell of stone and the taste of the air, whose magic Eoin had never sensed, it was all the young man could do to shout, “bush!” to his companion.
He had no idea if Reithe had heard or understood his shouted instruction as he couldn’t open his eyes to check. At that moment, he was focused entirely inward.
On top of being opened to the world and awakened to its secrets, Eoin was simultaneously being bombarded by a bush that had far more power than should be possible. As he struggled against its violent impulses, he discovered something. The more he grew angry or frustrated with the encroaching red anger, the more of a foothold it would gain in their internal struggle.
Just as he was about to be overwhelmed, and would no doubt bellow like a berserker as he rejoined the fight with a woman that was unquestionably a Witch, attacking over and again without regard for his body - much as Dorcha was doing, Eoin used this new discovery and simply relaxed.
The army of armed angry women which had been marching through his mind, pulling up his compassion and kindness as if they were weeds, were swept away by a refreshing wave of serenity as he calmed. Instead of the defeat he had feared by the lack of resistance, these representations of violence suddenly found themselves with nothing left to hold onto as they were pulled away by a current, backwards, out of his mind.
Eoin returned to an overstimulated state of normalcy - caused by all the new sights, sounds, smells, tastes, et cetera, that he could now feel. Before a full breath of relief could escape the discombobulated lad, something new assailed him.
It sounded like the battle cry of a cliff, all falling rocks and streaming slurry. It smelt like the settling of dust after a landslide, clawing and oppressive. It felt like a wave made of solid stone, undeniable and unstoppable.
Eoin screamed. The sound escaped him without his knowing, or, frankly, caring. As he was thrown into the air by the indirect magical attack, he clutched at his ears and felt droplets of blood seeping out.
The young man rolled around on the floor, but before he could recompose himself, another mass movement of mana matriculated him into the school of pain as it swept over the man. His eyes were pried open and he was forced to bear witness as a massive image of the woman in the red mists, her bust burning in the air around the remains of a screaming bush, laughed seditiously.
There is a mechanism within the human mind. Whenever it is excessively and relentlessly taxed, it does as any sensible poker player would if their hand were an eight and a three - offsuit. It folds.
Although it is true - Eoin’s mind was technically not human; whilst constrained within this human body, it behaved in much the same way as a mortal’s. He slipped into unconsciousness; A darkness filled with fitful dreams.
✯
As I watched Eoin twist and turn in his slumber, I became curious. Raising a paw, I scratched the air lazily. In the wake of my attack, a rip appeared in reality - leading to Tìr Bruadar, the plane of dreams.
Feeling Vasti, the goddess of space, approach, I quickly veiled the tear in a bubble of time. I saw her - her body nothing more than a silhouette of a woman filled with the night’s sky - as she came to the place where I and the portal had been, but, seeing nothing, she scratched her head and teleported away.
I cursed myself for nearly compromising the god experiment by wanting to observe the human one. Creating a hole to another plane - whilst not as difficult as punching through to a corner of space - still created enough of a spatial disturbance that I should have expected Vasti to notice.*
Shaking my head, I returned my attention to the gap in reality. On the far side was Tìr Bruadar, the place minds ventured to in their sleep - where anything was possible.
Despite my eagerness to discover what was causing my other self such fitful dreams, when I found Eoin, he was enduring a perfectly bland and boring experience, based on a memory:
It was a pleasant spring day, like any other, and the mountain on which Eoin had been reared was just waking up from winter. Shoots pushed their way out from rock and water started to trickle down from the mountain’s white winter caps.
A thirteen year old Eoin, bright eyed and bushy tailed, was bouncing around the rocky and grassy slopes, fascinated by every new insect and leaf. His attention was fleeting and as soon as he reached one item of curiosity, another would steal his attention and he would go bounding off towards whatever it was, much to the annoyance of Reithe.
Reithe was, at the time in which this dream was set, only a year old - a ram lamb, a ramlet if you will. Despite the great energy his youth provided, he wasn’t able to keep up with Eoin’s rapid shifts in attention.
Just as the boy would jump over to a large rock, turn it over, and uncover a woodlouse then scarper off to the next oddity, Reithe would just be coming to the insect and would want to spend his time studying and understanding it. He never had the time as before long Eoin would inevitably call out, worried he'd lost his friend. Even though Reithe was the younger of the two, he couldn’t help feeling like he was babysitting.
“Arrhh,” an elderly voice called up from aways up the mountain with the affectation of one who had just rolled an ankle - in pain but not direly so.
Eoin’s head shot up like a doe hearing footsteps and his head spun about rapidly as he looked for the source of the noise, his curly hair flopping around like a wig. Reithe, who had been listening more carefully, started off across the field and towards the mountain path; the nubs he called horns leading the way.
After a quick dash up the rocky assent, and around a bend, the pair soon found themselves face to face with two others. One was a grey haired old man who wore a blue wool-coat and merchant’s cap. He sat on a rock by the side of the road, nursing his ankle (Things usually go as one expects during a dream… until they don’t).
The other was a boy, slightly younger than Eoin, dithering beside a two-wheeled, hand-drawn cart, not knowing how to help. Each time he tried to approach with one medicine or another from a case within the cart he was waved away by the older man.
“Mr. Marsanta, are you alright?!” Eoin immediately questioned as he skidded to a halt, followed shortly by his ram.
“Just stepped funny, give it an hour an–” the older man, Mr. Marsanta The Merchant began but was cut off.
“Who are you?” Eoin asked the boy who he had never met before, taking both of his fretting hands in his own as he shook them. The frantic motion made the confused and slightly worried looking boy’s brown bowl-cut bob up and down.
“That’s Reic, my grandson,” Mr. Masanta replied, quickly speeding up to match Eoin’s energy as any good salesman might, “You should get to know him; when I retire, he’ll be the one buying your farm’s wool and selling it in Yarnmouth.”
“That’s what the cart’s for?” Eoin asked.
“Ye–” Reic Masanta tried to answer but wasn’t fast enough.
“Can you walk on that ankle?” Eoin asked Masanta senior senior.
“Just about, but not whi—” Mr. Marsanta started but was again interrupted, not that he minded.
“Not while pulling the cart. We’ll help!” Eoin offered enthusiastically.
“We?” Reic asked and let out a little cry of surprise when he found a ramlet was already positioned behind the pull bar, ready to get moving.
While Eoin had been fluttering about, Reithe had taken a second to assess the situation and had assumed this would be what would happen. So, whilst Eoin hogged the attention, he simply walked into position, unseen by the oblivious wool merchants.
In short order, Eoin, Reic, and Reithe were behind the bar and pulling the cart down the mountain path. Reithe felt he was doing all the actual work, Reic was as thin as a twig and Eoin was busy spewing out questions in all directions like a sprinkler:
“How much wool do you get before returning?”
“How much money do you make?”
“Is the business growing?”
“If I were to take our farm's wool directly to market, wouldn’t I get a better price?”
“What does the balance of your business look like, vis-à-vis, liabilities vs assets?
Somehow, Mr. Masanta was able to slip in a question of his own as he hobbled along behind the trundling barrow.
“Do you trust me?” he asked in a voice that was slightly stilted. Eoin didn’t notice the peculiarity as he answered instantly. Thinking of what to ask next, Eoin replied absently:
“Of course, your family has been selling our family's wool for generations and everyone says you give us a fair shake. And as soon as spring comes and the snows melt you’re always here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail so I’d say that makes you pretty trustworthy.”
Although Eoin had not cottoned on, even in Eoin's dream Reithe had immediately suspected something.
The boy felt inclined to join his ram in turning to look at the merchant. Perhaps it would be more apt to say he felt the wooden bar slam into his pelvis as Reithe, the only one actually doing any work, had stopped. Eoin looked down at his companion and saw him staring back, so he turned to the old man.
“You shouldn’t be so open with your trust, not all is as it seems,” the elderly man said in a voice that became more ominous as he spoke. It morphed by the second, changing from the melodic but aged voice of a sixty year old Caorah man to something harsh and whispery.
The boy and his sheep watched in horror as what was a man changed. He raised his arms, and as short brown fur sprouted from them. Black, skin-like wings merged from his underarms. His nose shrank into his face, replaced with a grotesque, pug-like protuberance.
A silent scream left Eoin before the transformation could complete. The sun winked out and he was plunged into darkness. In the sunless void, a voice rumbled forth ominously. It called, it beckoned, it teased, it said:
“Eoin.”
✯
In the pitch black, a flock of bats assailed the now fifteen year old Eoin. He held up his arms to protect his face and let out a cry as they passed. When the creatures fluttered off, further into the darkness of the cave, Eoin was left with nothing.
His eyes saw nothing; there was no light this deep in the earth. His ears heard nothing; what little sound there was bounced off miles of tunnel and was distorted to the point of uselessness. His nose smelled nothing; save the somehow stale yet musty air of the underground.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
In this void, Eoin was scared. He fell silent as his surroundings seemed to demand. He had been thrust into yet another memory and he could no longer remember the grotesque events of the first.
The boy’s mind whirled around as the disorientation of his surroundings was replaced by an influx of memory.
Why was he here?
Eoin crouched down to lay his hands upon the cave tunnel’s rocky floor. Sweeping them back and forth, he found the edges of the confined space but not what he was looking for, what he and Reithe had ventured into this ‘shallow’ cave for - mushrooms.
The pair had visited the village hall in Shearford. A bedraggled storyteller had been staying there on his way across the land and he told a tale for his supper. It was one of fairies and the fae. Such stories Eoin and Reithe had heard before but when attacked by Eoin’s questions, this old man capitulated. In the treasure vaults of his memory they found a horde of information men, whose livelihood was not based upon fairy tales, did not know.
Through his interrogation, the pair learned that fairies came to the mortal plane through things called fairy rings. Circles of mushrooms that opened a portal to the fae realm. The old storyteller conveyed a story; one of trickery and mischief which led to the fae making a deal with Vasti, the goddess of space.
As soon as Eoin heard this, he shot out of the village and up the mountain in a flash. He knew exactly where to find mushrooms. There was a shallow cave halfway up the mountain that Reithe and he had explored many times in the past. Mushrooms grew plentifully there and they would occasionally take some home for their dinner.
Reithe had bleated something at Eoin as he entered the cave but the young man had ignored his friend as he shot into the darkness. He regretted that almost immediately as this was not the opening in the earth he had thought it to be. Within a few steps he slipped, fell in a hole, and disappeared into the underground.
Eoin was alone, he had tried calling for his ram a few times but there was no reply. All he was doing was alerting anything within the underdark to his presence, so he stopped, choosing instead to listen.
Nothing, just as there had been before. No, wait, there was the faint drip, drop of water but the underground passageways he had been thrust into mangled and reverberated the sound so much that it was impossible to tell what direction it was coming from.
Eoin moved his hands to the walls and felt them. The dripping, being the only thing in the dark, also reverberated through the stone - if barely. Slowly rubbing his hands against the course and dusty surface, first one direction then the other, Eoin was able to determine which way the sound was coming from… probably.
Truth be told the difference was so minute that he may be tricking himself. That didn’t matter however as now he had a direction, a purpose. It helped to quell the panic which boiled just beneath the surface.
Many a tale was told of fairies and, though he had never seen one, they were supposed to be mischievous and sometimes even evil - but only in a drown your cow sort of way. The creatures that stalked in the underneath… suffice to say the stories of them were the only thing that still gave him nightmares at fifteen.
With that in mind, Eoin moved slowly and carefully; one hand on the wall at all times. His ears strained and he stayed still, wincing, every time his foot sent a pebble skittering along.
Nothing but the drip, drop, dripping filled his ears - growing louder as he approached its source.
A faint corona of light edged the corner he was edging towards and slowly, ever so carefully, Eoin edged round the bend. On the other side, there was an open chamber, with light. Not much light, but just enough to see by.
It danced its silvery dance across the surface of a pool as drips dropped into the water. The faint light flickered around the small opening and played around the rock of the cavern.
Tenderly, Eoin stepped closer. Looking where he placed his feet. Despite the presence of the light, it wasn't enough to see the small rock fragments that littered the floor and he sent another skittering across the cavern.
Clenching tight, he held firm, waiting to see if something would come of his mistake. Something wet touched his back and he broke the silence by letting out an ear piercing scream. He spun around, finding a very familiar silhouette.
“Reithe, don’t do that!” Eoin chided, clutching his heart and forcing it back down his throat. The ram’s only response was to Baa, but within that sound there was a mix of emotions. Most prevalent, the self righteousness that came with such a statement as “serves you right,” but under that Eoin detected the concern and worry that had plagued his friend.
“It’s alright,” Eoin soothed, squatting down and ruffling what wool remained after the spring shave.
Although the lad could barely see the sheep, the sheep didn’t seem to have the same issue, he guided Eoin’s hand to the scruff off his neck, intending to lead them back to the surface. Eoin trusted his friend and together they traversed the tunnels, Reithe somehow knowing exactly where to go
Eoin understood that Reithe could see better in the dark than he did but he hadn’t realised that the ram could walk so confidently in complete darkness. Occasionally, when there was a sliver of light from some unknown source, Eoin could see the red reflection in the back of Reithe’s eyes that granted him his sight.
Red? Wasn’t it blue?
Eoin’s wondering was cut short as Reithe stopped and pressed them into a nook in the rock. Trusting his friend, Eoin squeezed in and waited, though he knew not what for. Just as he was about to ask why they were pressed in so tight, he felt something.
A movement of air, warm like breath, passed his cheek. No sound accompanied the feeling and he froze like a rabbit hearing a fox. For the first time since he had reunited with the ram, he was grateful that he wasn’t the one able to see the source of this rotting meat smell.
Eventually, the hairs on the back of Eoin’s neck stood down as whatever it was that he couldn’t see nor hear moved on. Still, he waited for Reithe to urge him before moving again, and even then, tentatively so.
After that encounter, he stayed closer to the ram and kept both hands on him at all times. It was difficult to do so as they pressed through the narrow caves that lead ever upwards but he felt he must.
Before long, light could be seen down the tunnel, proper light. Not the silver illumination of the waters of the deep but the golden radiance of the sun. It burned away the young man’s fears; soon he was the one leading his friend as he sprinted towards the surface.
Eoin let out a breath of relief and inhaled the mountain air when once again he was on top. Smiling, he turned to where he was still holding onto his friend. He was not holding on to his friend.
Instead of the lovable ram, with his white fur and dark face that Eoin was so used to seeing, he now saw what could only be described as a demon, in the shape of his friend.
Its horns were crooked, the colour of crystallised blood. Where there should be wool - wool that Eoin could still feel beneath his touch - there was a tough red skin which captured muscles - muscles that no sheep should ever have.
In place of hooves, it had two curved claws on each foot. Instead of the head Eoin had been expecting, not Reithe had scales from the neck up. This thing’s head looked not like a proud ram but bore a likeness to a cold-blooded lizard.
Sensing something was wrong, it cocked his head and looked up at Eoin in a gross imitation of the sheep. It “Baa”ed exactly as Reithe would, the sound sounding wrong coming from the creature.
Eoin reeled back in disgust, which made the grotesque perversion of his friend step closer - trying to give the appearance of concern. Eoin, in his attempt to back up further, tripped and fell back into the darkness, screaming all the while.
As he fell, his eyes clamped shut and air rushing past his ears, a voice reverberated all round him - slithering in through his pores like a rhino.
“Eoin!”
✯
Eoin hit the ground with a light thump. Despite the duration of his fall, his rear was only slightly sore. The young man who felt to be about the same age as his present self, pushed against the grass; he tried to come to his feet but the sword, scabbarded about his waist, complicated the normally routine manoeuvre.
With one hand rubbing his soreness and the other shielding his eyes from the spotted light that pierced the lone mountain ash he had oft slept beneath, Eoin examined his surroundings. The memory of the last two dreams returned as if they had never tried to flee and now with them retained, the Shepherd expected this to be yet another recollection, twisted in some manner by a demonic influence.
He did not remember the scene. It was a pleasant summer day on the mountain he called home. As he looked down the slope at a field and farm that would one day be his, Eoin could not for the life of him mark this day in his memory.
The young man looked about his immediate area, a semi sheltered cutout halfway up the mountain, in which this solitary tree grew. Failing to find his friend, Eoin called for his buddy. No response. The only thing that filled his ears was the wind which swept up the hill. It was eerie.
He couldn’t place his finger upon it, but something wasn’t right. As he strained to hear his friend respond from wherever he was on the mountain, Eoin was able to place the source of his unease.
It was quiet, too quiet. Although his high perch only afforded him a good view of his own farm with the others acting as a backdrop to the scene, the Shepherd expected to hear something. The faint moo of their cow, the clucking of hens, or most telling, the bleating of sheep.
It was not only the ram that was absent, but the couple dozen ewes who would normally dot the grassy precipices were also missing. Animals knew when something was wrong. Eoin looked towards the peak for answers.
This was no memory. The sword was the first clue, though easily overlooked. The giant dark cloud with red flashing edges was harder to miss. It’s sinister shades of reality, which were only now visible thanks to Eoin’s awakening. He remembered that moment, seconds and a lifetime ago, when the world shifted and he was forever changed.
In the past dreams, he had not recalled the real world and all its problems, but now he was lucid; awake in the land of dreams. It was… disconcerting. The force that normally drove dreams forward was absent and Eoin was left alone to decipher the way forward on his own.
The storm that would come with those terrible and rapidly approaching clouds was not something he wished to be caught up in. So, it was with haste he descended the mountain towards his home.
The stillness which had roused him to cognisance prevailed within this land he knew to be a dream. With nothing but the familiar trail beneath his feet, Eoin couldn’t help but turn back time and again to look at the oncoming storm. This was partly to gauge whether he was outpacing the thundering giants and partly because the magic it contained fascinated him.
There was magic everywhere, even in the grass and rocks; Eoin wasn’t able to see it in his past two visions, but that was the past, he hadn’t awakened back then. Strangely, the onrush of sensations wasn’t present within this dream.
He could still hear as the mana within the ants made its impossible squeak as they constantly communicated with one another. He could still feel the regenerating power within every droplet of water that touched his skin from the mists of rain that acted as a prelude to any proper storm. He could taste the fixing, popping, gliding mana of freedom which was ever present in the air. He could see the subtle shades and glowing coronas which ringed and suffused everything.
The only difference, in this dream it was completely bearable. The unwanted sensations simply slipped into the back of his mind until he focused on them instead of constantly assailing the young man. Eoin, realising this, took a moment to remember this feeling; he would need to gain this ability in the real world if he ever hoped to control himself.
The moment of internalisation slowed his stride and he was caught by the first of the real storm. With only the field to cross before he was home, ominous red lightning struck the peak of the mountain and black sheets of water fell from on high.
The heavens opened and Eoin was drawn back to his dream-self as the weight of the downpour pressed on his shoulders and soaked him through to the bone. Visibility dropped to naught; the storm covered the sun. That mattered not to Eoin, he knew the way from here… Or he thought he did?
There was a darkness to this storm, one he had not seen when it was distant. As Eoin came to the place the house should have been, there was nothing but open grass. Peering out into the blackness, now dark as night - only illuminated by threatening red flashes, Eoin saw nothing.
But why?
The mana, present in all things, was thick within this watery darkness. It’s black and misty presence pulled at him like kin. A tendril, unseen in the hammering rain, had slithered through the surrounding black mist which helped to obscure the young man’s vision. It shot straight through his chest and was tugging at his heart.
As soon as Eoin noticed, he panicked. In one smooth motion, he withdrew his sword and chopped straight through the misty tentacle. Nothing happened. This was not a physical thing.
Something rolled out across the mountain, a sound that fit perfectly with the heavy drumming of rain: a low, rumbling laugh. The voice was one Eoin recalled.
Now he was truly scared. Something happened in the blink of an eye. An idea, taken from his saviour, the wind elemental, solidified in his mind. Though he could only just see the floating green ball when they had met, there was an intrinsic understanding of wind mana in its movements and Eoin drew from that.
Eoin swung again at the tentacle of darkness wrapped around his heart. As it tugged at him, pulling him towards something with vile tenacity, Eoin’s strike landed. The sword glowed green for a moment. He made the over exaggerated swing and it parted the thread that had such a hold of him.
As soon as he was no longer attached to this dark magic, the same magic felt within the storm, it was as if a blanket had been removed from his mind and he felt the full force of the fear which had been attempting to grip him.
The range of his sight was the puffs of steam which came with every breath. Eoin followed his footsteps back to the place he had been led astray then sprinted towards where he knew the house to be. His fear was not only that of self preservation but a sinking feeling deep within his gut told him his family was in danger.
As he sprinted through the pouring darkness, a whisper swept down the slopes. Sounding both far and near all at once. From both the peak of the woolies and from right in Eoin’s ear, it said:
“Eoin.”
The armed Shepheart practically knocked the door of its hinges as he burst into his stoney home. Though he charged in, sword in hand as he fled the storm, the darkness still hung thick in the air and Eoin couldn’t see a thing.
Once or twice he had been the first to arise on a winter morn, so it didn’t take him long to fumble his way to the fireplace. A tension pressed in on the young man, squashing his reason and narrowing his focus.
It was getting closer. His hands shook as they fumbled about for the flint, in its cubby by the fire.
His hands slipped about something sticky and he could not find the firestarter. It mattered not, he always kept one on his person - the fear whose source he could not name had caused him to forget that fact.
“Eoin,” the monster said, and although its callus whisper was impossible to judge the distance of, the young man knew that it was closer.
He found his flint and yanked it from his pocket. Two quick strikes was enough to set the already set fire ablaze. For a moment his attention was taken completely by the mesmerising comfort of the familiar flames but the pressure Eoin felt meant that didn’t last long. He looked at the main room of his family home.
Black and red. Black as dark as the abyss and with the tint of an eternity of torture. Red, the evidence of life, and the proof of death. What remained of his father, of his mother…
Eoin vomited, extinguishing the fire he tried so hard to start. That was not enough, all that he had ever eaten and more spewed forth, leaving Eoin along with his innocence.
“Eoin!” the voice of the demon said, not a whisper but a shout, filled with jubilance and malice.
Something stamped down on the wooden floorboard as he simply walked through the door as if it were made of leaves, sending splinters as long as Eoin’s arm flying across the room. One nicked the young man in the cheek but he couldn’t notice.
A strike of demonic red lightning illuminated the horrible scene and silhouette of the demon for but a moment.
Why are you doing this?
What did my family ever do to deserve this??
How could you???
What the fuck!!??!!
Questions, thought but not given voice to. Now was not the time for conversation. Eoin snatched up the sword his father had commissioned and shot at the figure. As he had managed before, it glowed green with the power of the wind.
The weapon clattered to the ground and a stillness overcame him. Looking down, Eoin saw a giant muscular arm disappearing into his chest. It had been far too fast to react to. With another flash of red, Eoin coughed blood.
A giant hand, able to hold his head in its palm like an apple, turned it to face the blood and twisted remains. Eoin struggled, but he stood no chance against the creature's impossible strength.
“Eoin,” it growled with menace, “When the last peddle of spring’s blossom has fallen, and the heat of hell has declared this summer campaign, you shall meet me here and you shall die by my hand. Lest this be their fate!”
With that pronouncement, it withdrew its demonic claw from Eoin’s chest, leaving pain to flood the void. He screamed as, dangling from the hand that still held his head firm, the blood covered hand peeled open his eyes with surprising care as he was forced to look upon the grizzly sight of his parents terrible death.
Black and red. White spots filtered in as the pain became too much. The cold warmth of death’s embrace was slow in coming but when it finally did Eoin welcomed it with a stinging heart and tear-filled eyes.
*An Aside:
The Multitudinous planes are a curious thing. Whilst all reality can be thought of as being on one flat, two dimensional plane, this doesn’t tell the full story. Anywhere, the demon plane, the fae realm, the sea of endless mana, and even the creeping desolation that I like not to think about, can be reached by picking the right direction and traveling.
The distances are inconceivable to most but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t possible. One could even travel through the entire universe in a straight line - assuming they could travel faster than instantly.
The Planes come about when one thinks of the universe, not as a two dimensional surface - like a map - but as a three dimensional object - like a cube.
In this example, assume the mortal plane - the area of space in which the planet Gaius resides, the demon plane, and the fae plane, occupy three sequentially adjacent faces of a cube - such that the mortal and fae planes are opposite one another. One could travel across the surface of the shape and make it to the fae plane, but they would have to first traverse the area of space known as the demon plane. This is how the first and furthest means of travel gets things done. Instead, one can punch through the center of the cube and make it to the fae plane far quicker.
One might assume that they would require greater energy to punch through the center, but this is a false assumption. The cube is a 3D representation of a 4D reality and the two opposite sides are, in fact, adjacent. The way in which they are connected is, however, inconceivable to a self identified 3D life form.
This simplified view helps demonstrate the idea of planes, however the reality is far more complex. Instead of a near infinite number of surfaces of something approaching a sphere, it would be more accurate to think of it as a twisting shape with faces that come in layers and the furthest and closest points being near equidistant.
To add to the complexity, the universe isn’t 4D. At times it’s 5D, 6D, 12D, and in some places 2D or even 7E or 9F!