[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1022401923321708605/1049414026838421534/ArwenHeaderARC1.png]Chapter 34: The Second Test
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Indeed, it is the very dreams we strive towards that set the conditions of our suffering; to posit great aspirations is to enslave ourselves to a tyrannical judge; In time, we might achieve the dream; In time, we might become the judge.
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“Welcome to the second test. Congratulations! You’re one third of the way to the first floor!”
Arwen blinked. The world was an endless sea of white. The corpse of the raving man was gone; the bits of flesh, the spear, the sword, the armor of the man who— Arwen doubled over, her hands on her knees, and retched onto the glossy white floor, bile burning her throat. There she remained for several moments before finally lifting her head, spitting the acridness out of her mouth. Everywhere, everything was white, and she was all alone. There was a harsh brightness that made her head buzz and her eyes squint. The floor was glossy and reflective, and in it she could see herself.
Her rags, for they’d departed too far from the definition of clothing for the term to be relevant, were covered in blood. Great spats of it splattered every surface until the light brown beneath was almost impossible to make out as the base color of the fabric. Globules of flesh, what must’ve been chunks of organs, skin, hair, and the other semi-liquid, semi-gelatinous remnants of her assailants body adorned her rags, her bare arms, her face, legs, and hair. She was drenched in sweat, matted in blood both dried and fresh. She shuddered, then began to tremble. She felt so unclean; a thousand thousand baths could never rid her of this feeling. The way that boy had been cut in half, so dispassionate, so brutal; the man she’d killed… the boy she’d killed before him. Was she a killer? Is that what she’d become? She felt at the madman’s wooden key, the prize of her slaughter. And she’d been so close to death—mere seconds away from it. Her body shook, self-loathing, fear, helplessness; she didn’t know how to react, didn’t know what to do.
“The second test will begin momentarily!”
Arwen touched a finger to her face, feeling at a cold spot of goop on her cheek. She took it away and stared at her finger; a small gob of meat like finely squished hamburger slid down her finger, trailing blood that coated her skin. She flicked her hand and it hit the floor with a splat, staining the perfectly clean material with red. Suddenly, the endless whiteness closed in around her, and she squeezed her eyes shut as her head began to throb. She remembered the man whose blood now stained her body, and she wondered if she was going to explode. The pressure disappeared as quickly as it’d struck her, leaving her feeling perfectly fine, standing with her eyes squeezed shut.
“Arwen?” a soft, concerned voice asked. She felt a hand touch her shoulder, gentle, warm. This couldn’t be happening. “Is everything alright, darling?”
Hesitant, like the dipping of a foot in a cold bath, she opened her eyes. A flood of the sensations hit her at once; the rich cinnamon apple scent from her father’s favorite candle, the delicate smokiness of her mother’s ever-burning incense box, the dancing light pouring in from her favorite window hung with thin lace drapes. Her mother’s beautiful, familiar face; hazel eyes shining with an eccentric curiosity and an immediate, sincere, glowing interest for anything they observed; her straight Illandiel raven-black hair that’d been passed on to her only daughter tumbling down past her shoulders to her middle back, foreign and beautiful; her voice like warm honey, washing over Arwen like the lapping waves of an ocean of motherly love and affection.
Seeing that Arwen had opened her eyes, Sarah’s features melted into an easy smile. “Hi honey, you okay?” Her mother’s hand dropped from Arwen’s shoulder to wrap around her hand, squeezing her fingers in one firm, gentle pulse. She felt the squeeze, felt the skin, soft and warm, of her mother’s hand. Her own arm was covered to the wrist in a loose-fitting light blue sleeve, part of a shirt that her father had made for her seventeenth birthday.
“Mo-Mom? I-“
“My dearest angels fairest in all the realms, your curry will get cold if you don’t come and eat.”
Her father’s voice, low, full, sonorous; it resounded through the house, calling to them from the room across the hall. Sarah tilted her head back revealing her elegant pale neck, and laughed. It was a sound Arwen missed desperately, a tinkling, lilting, bubbling sort of laughter that seemed to bring smiles to the face of anyone in company as surely as the sun brings warmth.
“Come on, let’s not keep your father waiting,” she said, smiling at Arwen and pulling her by the hand down the hall and into the kitchen. Arwen followed mute, too shocked to respond, to resist. She padded along behind her mother, her feet navigating the familiar wooden floors, her eyes fixating on every painting on the walls, each exactly as she remembered them.
The kitchen was warmer than the living room, and a comfortable heat washed over her bringing with it the rich aroma of the spiced curry. “Ah ha, and just in time! These are for you lovely ladies,” Arture said, handing them each a glass of deep purple wine then pulling out two chairs from each side of the long wooden table where plates of steaming rice beside bowls of orange curry sat waiting for them. Silverware was arrayed at each place setting; a spoon for ladling the curry and a knife to skewer and the potatoes and steak chunks. He took a seat at the head of the table. Sarah let go of her hand making her way around the other side of the table, and Arwen just stood there, staring at her chair, then looking between her father and mother.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Artur’s jovial face, full head of combed blond hair combed back and to the side, his short, cropped beard, rolled sleeves, and eager blue eyes. He looked at her, gestured to the seat, smiled, and said “come on, sit sit, you’re going to love it! I’m experimenting with a recipe that Maurice taught me yesterday at the craftsmen mixer; there are lots of new faces! So many young men are turning from the sword and picking up real skills now that the war’s over.” He scooted himself in, then held out his hands over the table, one to each of the women sitting with him.
Arwen wanted to speak, to object, to ask what was going on—but she was home. There was the misshapen bowl that Devon had helped her make as a present for her dad that he still used even though it wobbled; there was a stack of square fabrics that Sarah was sure to move to the studio after dinner because Artur always got distracted and “couldn’t be blamed for the consequences of creativity and burgeoning ideas.” There were her parents, alive, breathing, smiling, warm, and real. She took his hand in her own, closing her eyes and bowing her head.
“Climb…” The voice was faint, a deep rumbling whisper in the back of her head, a fly buzzing by her head, heard but unnoticed.
“We raise our voices and open our hearts, this prayer a reflection of the lives we live in service to you,” Sarah intoned, Artur and Arwen repeating the words after her. “Your presence fills our home, your blessing warms our bodies, your favor fuels our desire.” Again they repeated, and indeed she felt warmer, her body less stiff, her worries gentled.
“Climb—” A whisper tinged with irritation.
“We dedicate this meal to you, an acknowledgement of the sustenance with which you invest our souls, Intis, Mother of Knowledge, Warden of Wisdom.” Sarah finished, they repeated, and Artur squeezed their hands. The prayer concluded, they opened their eyes.
Steam rose from the bowl before her, and she stared at it, salivating. The complex aroma of spiced herbs wafted up into her nose; she hadn’t eaten like this since… since—
She looked up at her mother, ladling spoonfuls of curry over her rice, the orange liquid soaking into the white grains, blowing on the bowl, a strand of long black hair falling over her shoulder and precariously close to her food. She turned to her father who—
Artur raise the bowl to his lips with both hands, his mouth open wide, and tipped the contents in. Some of the hot curry landed in his mouth while most of it spilled onto his face, his nose, his jaws, dripped down his chin. His skin began to turn pink and tender, raw from the heat, then it began to droop. The orange curry dripping from his face pulled the skin with it until globules of flesh began condensing and running from the bones of his cheeks and jaws like beads of water down a glass. His face began to melt away as if touched by the strongest of acids, his skin pitting and sinking inwards, running, and sloughing off in small droplets and large swaths of muscle, blood, and skin. Sarah smiled absently, dipping her spoon into the rice—now evenly saturated with the curry—and lifting a bite to her mouth.
“Dad! Stop it! What’s happening? Stop, STOP!” Arwen screamed at him, tried to push herself up from her chair, tried to rush to his side, but it was as if her clothes suddenly weighed several tons. She strained against the arms of the chair, her muscles tensed fit to bursting with the effort.
Artur dropped the bowl where it clattered onto his plate of rice, splattering curry and grains across the tabletop. He turned his head to face Arwen, his whole bottom jaw melted away, his cheeks and nose and upper lip drooping like heated wax. Then he fell forwards, collapsing onto the table with a thunk. Upon hitting the tabletop his head burst like a water balloon, the remainder of his face, his brain—pink and soft like uncooked ground pork—and his skull opened themselves onto the wood, spilling out their contents in a runny, splashing heap.
Arwen screamed, her voice cracking, her throat raw, her head swimming. Her heart beat faster than a galloping horse; It pounded violently against the walls of her chest, threatening to burst at any moment. Her vision tinged with a red hue, flickered with white and black spots, expanded, blurred, narrowed. She felt a pressure building inside her, something stronger than the haywire responses of her own body, something deeper: ancient, overwhelming, all consuming.
“Stop yelling like that dear, we’re at the dinner table!” Sarah’s shout was cruel, it cracked at her like a whip. Her mother had never spoken like that, not ever. With an effort like heaving a boulder Arwen ripped her eyes from the pool of phlegm, bile, blood, and flesh that sluiced from the stem of her father’s neck oozed across the table. Sarah held her knife upright in her hand, knuckles white and face contorted in rage.
She never looks at me like that.
“Mom! What happened to dad—what’s happening, wha—” Arwen’s face was a twisted rag, tears seeped from her eyes, pouring from her face. Her blouse had disappeared, replaced by the tattered cloths she wore in the tower. Her hands, face, neck were caked with blood and mud, her hair was a matted mess. Sarah shot up, her highbacked chair falling over behind her and cracking against the floor. She stalked around the table with fast, sure steps, circling Artur’s chair, knife clenched at her side, disciplining fury in her eyes. Her long black tresses billowed, rising into the air by some invisible force. Arwen could just barely turn in her seat to face her, her body still feeling sluggish, weighed down by immovable, unseen shackles. Her mother ran at her, knife raised in a reverse grip, metal glinting hatefully.
Terror seized Arwen; her mother’s face had never been so horrifying, her eyes never home to such malice, her lips never harbored such a snarl. Arwen began to shake with effort, trying in a desperate, frenzied struggle to free her hands from where they lay trapped on the chair and protect herself. As her mother fell upon her Arwen released an earsplitting screech unlike any sound she’d heard before; In an instant, the pressure that’d been boiling inside of her burst forth. Her scream erupted outwards, a thunderous detonation of sound infused with a tempest of power that shattered plates, glassware, windows, and launched her mother flying backwards, catapulting out of the dining room and into the hallway where she cannoned into the wall, smacking into it, making a crater where she landed and shaking the entire house. Large, spiderwebbing cracks shot out from the impact like lightning bolts, cutting into the wall and causing it to sag downwards with precarious grating noises. Sarah forcefully disgorged a spray of blood from her mouth, her body caved in on itself, her spine shattered and her body a lifeless corpse that peeled off the wall to collapse to the floor, crumpled and limp.
Arwen’s adrenaline surged through her body in great pulsing rivers, her heart thumping a frenzied rhapsody that pounded audibly in her ears and filled her head with its throbbing. She found that she was standing, panting, sweat pouring from her chest, back, and scalp. She shook, heaved, trembled—then fainted.