I let out a small sigh, folding my hands over the letter and turning to the window.
Tisali hung outside, a rolling horizon of snow and steam; a city of brass towers and ancient bridges and floating airships. Though, my eyes fell upon the mud-stained sleet that huddled and clung to the underside of towers older than I, the buildings akin to rubble that hadn’t been cleared even in a decade buried beneath the ancient bridges, and the stained stones that would crumble and fall from the cliffs with each passing year. At the best of times, Tisali felt like a city brimming with innovation and excitement, but most of the time it felt more akin to a body littered with a thousand scars, on the verge of rotting but still dragging itself towards the next fight.
War was the bloodline of the Empire— nearly every generation, even mine, had been steeped in it, and while I hadn’t been old enough to fight within the civil war, it had still encompassed a good portion of my childhood. Though, notably, the civil war wasn’t one fought in the typical sense— no lines of infantry charging one another, no massive-scale rituals going off like fireworks, not until the coup, at least— it was mainly fought in a dark, far away from the eyes of the public, and while it was known and acknowledged, general sentiment back then was such that if it didn’t actively effect them, it didn’t particularly matter. An apathetic view, perhaps, but the Empire was still recovering from the great war before that one. Supplies were already in short order, and the former Emperor’s split-focus between both the people’s needs and Silver Flower Company meant struggling people struggled further.
Even days after the coup, when the Silver Flower Company had raised their own Empress, she was practically welcomed despite the amount of death that had occurred, simply for the fact it meant there’d be no more fighting. At the very least, no more fighting for some years— the history had shown that the Empire had periods of peace between each war. Even though the Empress had made the entire basis of her rule to be an era of prosperity and innovation, one could only hope. Currently, it helped little that the Church had split— if not in name, then in practice— from the current Empress, and that dissent between the nobility and the common people were growing year by year.
Historically, those were often precursors to future conflicts.
War was an awfully ugly thing, wasn’t it?
Though, maybe it’s slightly disingenuous of me to say that. My family, as small as it had been, had arguably profited the most out of the coup compared to anyone else. By definition, I was probably viewed as rotten as the rest of nobility. What did it say of me that I couldn’t find it in myself to really care?
The carriage hit a bump, jolting me from my thoughts as it ascended further up the mountains ringing the Empire’s capital. After a heartbeat, I let the small curtain drop back into place, leaned back in my seat, shut my eyes, and took a steadying breath. This was neither the time nor the place to introspect. Penelope’s envelope lay beneath my hand. The paper felt cold. I briefly entertained the urge to ask Stephen to turn around.
A request into the bloodiest coup in recent history. I sighed, worried and weary, stifling the urge. What to make of that?
Typical dreamspinning sessions weren’t anything to be afraid of— I’d done those enough times to grow nearly bored of them, and only ever did them if I needed extra gold to spend— but the clinic’s background information regarding Penelope was concerning.
Typical requests usually came in several forms. Mundane jobs, which consisted of a Dreamspinner being hired for recreational purposes, usually by a rich client who could afford their services. Wakes, which were a variation of the former and often requested in advance, or by the organization caring for the dying person, and consisted of giving the dying or infirmed their last dream before they died. Then the much rarer, and much more expensive requests that involved information gathering— called Memoirs, requiring the Dreamspinner to wade through a select portion of the Dreamer’s memories in the form of dreams. These requests were usually reserved for people who held valuable information, or just knew something the client wanted.
Penelope’s request was of the third— a Memoir.
While that alone wasn’t enough to deter me— I’d done numerous requests similar in the past— much of the wariness I felt was from the exact time frame of the memories they wanted me to step into.
Dreams and memories were often a very volatile thing to deal with— both were abstract and prone to deterioration, and the overlap into the two often brought out the worst aspects of each. Any information extracted had to always be taken with a grain of salt. That said, the single saving grace that made this type of request even vaguely reliable was the overlap between— not only their dreams and memory, but “Truth” as well.
Insofar as to say that certain things outside of the Dreamer’s perception and memory, some things would be an accurate display of what it was at the time. A very simple example I had been taught being the details of a painting the Dreamer hadn’t seen at the time of experiencing the memory being portrayed as it actually was at the time by an observing Dreamspinner.
That being said, memories in of itself weren’t particularly dangerous, though often became unreliable in conjunction with dreamwork. What made them dangerous were a combination of a Dreamspinner presence, as well as the exact environment they’d been asked to explore.
Typically, Dreamspinners would employ one of two techniques when conducting their jobs, Active dreamspinning which included actually entering the subject’s dream, and Passive, which was the act of changing a dream from outside, or in whatever room the subject’s in. Active dreamspinning could then be broken down into two additional categories: Corporeal and Incorporeal— which were about as self-explanatory as their names; Corporeal dreamspinning meant they could physically interact with the dream, and things could physically interact with them, while Incorporeal dreamspinning could not physically interact with objects or people inside the dream.
A large majority of Dreamspinners tended towards Active Incorporeal dreamspinning, as the fact they were a participant of the dream typically lent them enough sway to easily change it. Unfortunately for me, I was an Active Corporeal Dreamspinner.
In basic terms, it meant that anytime I took on a request, I temporarily vanished from the room I’d fallen asleep in, and physically appear within the dream— how that worked, no one was actually sure and no one else actually cared enough to find out. Though, I faintly suspected it had something to do with Dimensionalism, hence my practice into the field. That also meant that if I were to— say— get stabbed while in that dream, when I came back out, I would still bear the injury as if I’d actually been stabbed.
Normally, this wasn’t an issue, even a setting like Dmitri’s war-torn dream could’ve been dangerous, but his was already an outlier. The memories the clinic had requested me to sift through were that of Penelope’s experience during the peak of the bloodshed during the Coup twelve years ago— meaning I was being asked to walk into an active war zone.
Slightly inconvenient, slightly daunting, I’ll confess.
I let out another long breath, steadying myself. They didn’t even have the decency to inform me what they wanted from it.
A part of me whispered, You could just turn around— just go back to the manor, sleep some more. Do something else.
It’s good to get outside a bit, the argument whispered back.
Don’t even pretend that that’s even equivalent to what you’re doing right now— you’re walking into an active war zone!
They could ask me to search for something on the periphery, I don’t have all the details, I can always deny their request.
Yet you dressed yourself like you’re prepared to do this job tonight.
It had me there— shortly after I had Stephen ready the carriage, I had cleaned myself up as much as I could, then drudged up the standard Empire mage-coat, my dark blue cloak, as well as a small pouch that looped into my belt that held my supplies; several vials of Shimmer, my pocketwatch— which actually sat in a cloak pocket—, a miniaturized version of my ritual staff, an eight-pointed star pin, and a spiky bead of glass. A second larger satchel held general protective equipment, hardtack, and a sheathed dagger.
Look— all I’m saying, my rationale spoke, is that even this premise is horribly dangerous. I understand the need to get out— but this is absurd! A disproportionate response! Why are we even doing this?
I scowled, thinking of the alternative, stewing in my study, whittling at work I couldn’t actually meaningfully do, trying to ignore the giant mess I’d caused. My scowl grew, and my rationale fell silent. I really don’t want to think about it.
It wasn’t truly dangerous— sure, if I got stabbed, that’d be pretty bad, but Dreamspinners were capable of hopping out of dreams whenever they’d like— it was the first practical thing they were trained in. I ignored the echo of Talon’s instruction regarding the danger of ambushes.
Then the carriage rattled to a stop. Stephen stepped off the front, his silhouette in the curtains before he pulled open the door for me.
“We’r here, little lady,” Stephen gruffed, stepping back to allow me out.
Moonflower Clinic wasn’t really a clinic. In reality, it was a government-funded rehabilitation center built primarily for the soldiers who suffered most at the end of the coup. Though, rehabilitation center set unrealistic expectations on those admitted. A staggeringly large majority of the people admitted to such centers would likely never be able to properly reacclimatizes to peacetime living.
Some of them, rightfully, questioned whether such centers were necessary, if another war was to be fought in a decade or two.
It also wasn’t a singular building like Amaryllis, where Dmitri had been held. Instead, Moonflower Clinic sat atop a plateau, separated from its neighbors in either direction. The center wasn’t even a singular building, instead a collection of various facilities sat neatly away from one another, with courtyards I could see not currently in use separating them. The main building itself, however, was in similar style to my own estate— candlelights winking from large windows dotting the aging brick and a slate roof held up by large beams. Unlike mine though, this building was clearly well maintained, the courtyards were trimmed, the paths between the buildings were kept clear of snow, and the ivy and moss had been seen to at the source. Each of the windows had some form of light in them, and the path leading up the main house itself was decorated with tiny glowing spell lamps. All in all, it looked remarkably well cared for, and none of the space was simply left to gather dust.
A part of me wondered if another noble had once owned it, one that had died during the civil war, and had their properties repossessed and renovated into their current state.
Stephen spoke up beside me. “Will ya need me to stay?”
I let out a deep breath. “No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you, Stephen, have a good night.”
He barked an agreement, before getting back onto the carriage. “G’night, lil’ lady— bes’ o’ luck.”
I waved as the carriage rattled down the road, before turning back to the path that led up to the rehabilitation center.
What did it say about me, I mused, that I’d rather step into danger than face Arthur?
I let out a long breath, watching it mist and disappear before walking in. I spoke to the receptionist in an empty waiting room with warm wooden floors and cushioned chairs, who’s face lit up when I told them I was the Dreamspinner for Penelope. They had nodded and smiled, remarking about how they had begun losing hope. I nodded along until they handed me a dossier and the mandatory paperwork I had to fill out. I took a chair, and skimmed through the information.
The dossier was interesting, and contained a lot more information regarding Penelope and the specific nature of the request they had.
Some of the information was the same, briefly going over what exactly they— an unspecified company that had made the initial request to the clinic, who made the following request regarding Penelope— wanted me to find: the actual events surrounding the climax of the battle, specifically, the source of the Enchantment magic that had led to so many deaths following the Coup.
History was muddled— all that was currently known was that shortly after the breach into the central throne room in the palace, there’d been a mass Enchantment ritual on a similar scale to the Fireflos and Star Falling ritual that claimed tens of thousands of lives indiscriminately. Supposedly, it had started as a pulse originating from the palace, and moments later, thousands upon thousands of people had suddenly turned on one another, incapable of listening to reason, or being able to calm down. Whatever the magic had done, it had turned the people it affected into bloodthirsty animals.
Learning of their goal slightly concerned me— as even indication of interest in the topic was liable to get you investigated by the Empire. It was fine, probably, as the receptionist cleared up for me when prompted that the company was supposedly an independent historical archive, and wanted the resulting memory marble for documentation reasons.
Apparently, Penelope had been moved relatively early on in her care, as her recovery following the final big battle in the coup had stretched from short-term into long-term. Following the coup, she, alongside many others had been moved from a temporary field hospital to Vercari Private hospital, where she remained under intensive care and observation from the staff until they deemed her practically incurable.
The “sickness” in this case being whatever lingering effects the Enchantment ritual had left, information of which— in those short days following the coup— were scarce and barely reliable. The handful of victims that had survived in the end— at least, those who had retained cognitive reason— were left too frayed and traumatized to talk about their experience.
After two years of care, while Penelope and her fellow survivors had completely, physically recovered from their wounds, still proved to be incredibly hesitant to speak about their experiences, and showed excessive stress-relating symptoms. By this point, there was little hope in decoding what exactly had happened, as no one present had wished to speak of it, and any who experienced it were left to live. The people who had been turned into monsters had to be killed.
Following that, Penelope proved to be showing greater signs of reception towards medication and treatment, and was relocated to Moonflower Clinic, who would assist her with rehabilitation. Shortly after, while still completely unwilling to talk about their experiences and prone to occasional breakdowns, the other survivors were also sent to Moonflower Clinic.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
More recently, requests had begun to be put out for Dreamspinners relating to the request I was handling now, all of which had resulted in various degrees of failure. Disconcertingly, the report didn’t tell me the reason why they failed.
The dossier then went into the specifics of what was known about the coup itself, and Penelope’s history in the coup. Her, alongside her teammates, had led a portion of the main siege on the palace, and had been one of the teams to actually venture in after knocking down the gates. Nothing else was known about the specifics of what happened within, as her teammates were unaffected, but utterly unwilling to speak about what had happened. Near the bottom, it listed her team, alongside a short description of where they were today, in the case that follow-up was required.
I felt my heart leap into my throat.
Maple Bell, retired and currently living in Sinclare Complexes. “Talon”, retired and currently teaching at Belfaust University. Mariam Laurent, MIA— presumed deceased in 1640. Joseph Berchon, killed in action in 1635.
I felt my eyes still at my mother’s description— deceased. A strange feeling bubbled up, of disbelief and skepticism. My mother cannot truly be dead, or else I’d inherit the title— wouldn’t I?
I paused. Would I? There are cases where noble titles aren’t hereditary, even after being passed down for generations.
The possibility that my mother was dead had never truly occurred to me— of course, logically, I knew that the possibility existed, I simply thought she’d entirely moved on with her life, and chose to ignore me like some kind of phase she’d grown out of.
Should I believe this? It says ‘presumed deceased.’ I— No. No. You came here for a different job. I shoved the feeling to the side, but my eyes lingered on the end of the dossier, where it’d written my mother and father’s names, alongside two others I knew. I glanced up at the nurse, still working at their desk.
“May I meet Miss Oliver?” I asked.
They paused, looked up to think, then nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem, though she may be asleep. Please, come with me, Lady Estelle.”
We stood, and they guided me down hallways decorated in warm lights, painted flowers, and empty frames. Before long, we stopped outside a plain, wooden door. The nurse knocked, softly calling, “Penelope. Are you awake?”
A moment passed before they gently opened the door, peeked in, and then waved me in.
The room was much the same as the rest of the rehabilitation center, composed of dark wood flooring and pale walls decorated with chalk and paint. A window sat facing the setting sun, blanketing the room in a haze of warm orange. None of the spelled lights hanging from the walls were lit, and the tiered shelf opposite of the bed had been cleared— replaced with photos and little trinkets and objects behind a glass door, alongside a couple of other books. Across from that was a nightstand with a little lamp, besides a bed with a woman sitting up in it, faced away towards the window.
Penelope Oliver had certainly seen better days. Even from my view from the door, I could tell she was faded; brown, almost-beige hair hung limp down her back, brushed and dry, almost wispy in the light; deep lines were set into her face, contrasted by the soft smile on her lips; her eyes were dull and unfocused, staring off into the sunset and lost within her own thoughts; a book sat forgotten in her lap, bone-thin copper hands settled atop one another. Her clothes were simple, a faded brown tunic and loose pants. The blankets pooled on her lap.
The old soldier also hadn’t registered our footsteps into the room.
The nurse called out to her. “Penelope, there’s a visitor for you.”
Penelope blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a stupor and slowly turning to face me with a serene smile as the nurse bowed and left. Then, she blinked more, her soft eyes shifting into focus, her expression morphing into one of haunted recognition, as if she’d seen a ghost.
She let out a hollow breath. “… Mariam?”
A heartbeat passed, before she looked briefly horrified— her face dropped into her hands and she groaned. “Ah— cruds— sorry, sorry. Sorry. You just look real similar to someone else.”
I strangled the urge to sigh. I’d been mistaken for my mother before, and every time after did little to alleviate my annoyance— if anything it only dragged out the exhaustion of being constantly reminded of it. Don’t get angry at the patient, Estelle. She’s gone through a lot. Stay professional.
I folded my hands in my lap as I took a seat, wearing what I hoped to be a neutral expression. “Miss Oliver, I’m the Dreamspinner that the clinic has requested for you. You may refer to me as Estelle.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “Oh! I’m— I’m so sorry— you’re— oh— so sorry, I didn’t recognize you— you— you were so young, last time…”
I frowned. “Have we met before?”
“I— uh—“ her eyes scrunched, as if she was doubting herself “— your mom… Mariam, right? Your mom is named Mariam? Mariam Laurent? Gray-blue eyes, black hair like you… pretty tall?”
I restrained the urge to sigh again. “… Mariam Laurent is my mother, yes.”
“Oh… uh… how— how is she? It’s been…” she trailed off, looking expectant.
“… My mother is…” I mulled over the words, ignoring the feeling that I didn’t actually know, other than the ambiguous report earlier. “… fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Uh… and— and you’ve been doin’ okay…?”
My brain stalled, and I took a moment to consciously unclenched my fingers in my lap. Right, no more personal questions.
“I’m sorry,” I sharply said, “and I apologize in advance for any rudeness on my part, but unless my memory is currently failing me, I don't believe I know you."
“I— uh…” her gaze fell to her lap. “Right. You were probably too young to remember me. Sorry.”
Shame flickered in my gut, my eyes flicked away, towards the opposite wall. Did you really just snap at a patient?
“So… uhm… Miss Laur—“
“— Estelle.” I said too quickly. “Just Estelle is fine.”
“O— kay…” she looked sheepish, and I took a deep breath, sighing.
“I apologize for my tone, I didn’t mean to shock you, Miss Oliver. I… I dislike mixing my personal life with my work, you see.”
“I— yes. Yeah— that makes sense.” Penelope’s shoulders deflated farther, but she seemed a little less tense than a moment before. She looked back up with a strained expression. “So, Miss Estelle… uh— you’re a… Dreamspinner?”
I slowly settled back into professionalism, schooling my features into neutrality. I nodded, falling into routine. “That’s correct, Miss Oliver. I received the request from the clinic, and came down to ask some preliminary questions, as well as settle any fears or questions you may or may not have, as well as gauge your willingness for this session.”
“Oh— okay. Uh— can I ask…” she trailed off, seeking my permission.
“Miss Oliver, I am here to answer any questions you may have regarding the appointment, as well as to ask you a couple questions of my own,” I reassured. “I will let you know if a question is too personal, and I expect you to do the same.”
“Uh— okay— you… sorry if this is rude—“ her eyes roamed my outfit “— are you really a Dreamspinner…? You’re a lot more armored than the others…”
“I assure you I am,” I evenly replied. “The reason I’ve come tonight in protective clothing is because I’m what is categorically known as an Active Corporeal Dreamspinner— meaning I will physically be in your dream during the time which you spend asleep.”
A crease formed in her brow. “Physically there…?”
“Meaning if I get trip and scrape my knee, when you wake up, I will have a scraped knee.”
The crease deepened. “And— and I will be there too?”
I frowned. “… Yes, but no. It’s complicated. Technically, you’ll be there, but also here. Your consciousness will be actively participating as you had back then. But you will physically still be in bed.”
“Will… like you said— if I get hurt, and then I wake up— will I…?”
“No. You will be physically unharmed.” I bit the inside of my lip, watching her expression turn from confusion to worry. “Miss Oliver, I should ask, has the clinic made it clear to you the exact nature of the Memoir request?”
Penelope got a funny look, shaking her head. “No— no. They haven’t told me a lot— just that Dreamspinners are going to be looking through some of my memories…”
My frown deepened. “How many Dreamspinners have you had up to this point?”
“Uhm… a lot… like— ten, I think? They don’t really have a schedule so… sorry…”
“Did the clinic ever tell you what memories the Dreamspinners were to specifically sift through?”
“I… no…”
Is that the reason why the other Dreamspinners failed? Because they couldn’t find a good focus for the memory they were trying to look into? I sucked in a small breath. Did I take the risk and inform her? What if she reacts badly? Her report said that she was handling it well— it’s been twelve years— should be fine, right? Just be gentle about it.
Okay, piped up a small voice, what if you don’t do any of that, and just fail the request? There’s no breach of contract if you just can’t access the memories, and there’s no penalty for failing. Then you don’t have to walk into an active war zone.
A good idea, except for the fact that I’m corporeal, if Penelope dreams up something absurd that destroys all laws of physics, odds are that I will actually die. I think I’ll stick with the war zone.
I let out a slow breath, which caused Penelope’s gaze to turn more concerned. “Miss Oliver.”
“Yeah…?”
“Please, let me know if this is too personal, but may I ask about the Coup?”
I watched as her concern turned sour, though she looked conflicted. Before I could withdraw my question, resolve flashed through her face and she met my eyes. “You can.”
“I…” I blinked. “Apologies, Miss Oliver, I only asked because… I felt it prudent to inform you of the exact nature of the request. That being, the other Dreamspinners, alongside myself, were requested to walk through your memories of the final battle of the Coup.”
I watched as her expression fell from resolve to concern, then to strain and horror. She softly said, “I’ll have to experience it again?”
“Not necessarily, as I said before you’ll be there, but not really.”
“I— yeah— I know—“ her voice rose “— but you said my consciousness will be there? I’ll— I’ll have to relive it?”
A frown tugged at my lips. “As far as I am aware— and I have dealt with Memoirs before— you will be unaware that anything is amiss… When we begin, you will not remember this conversation we’re having until you reawaken. You will not be aware of anything that happens in the immediate future. It will… It will be as if you’re experiencing it all for the first time again.”
Penelope did not look reassured, if anything, she looked vaguely nauseous. Regret began to build in my gut, but I continued. “I will assure you, however, that afterwards, when you wake up, it will feel like any other dream. You might not even remember it, and even if you do, you’ll forget it in due time.”
When she didn’t respond, her gaze glued to her hands in her lap, my worry grew. “If you wish to withdraw, you may.”
Then she quietly responded, an expression of harrowed sadness visible. “Is there any way for me to keep my memories when we start?”
“For what reason?”
“Maybe— maybe I could change it…”
I mustered the gentlest expression I could. “I wouldn’t recommend that, Miss Oliver. At the end of the day, they are memories, and while the medium through which they’re being expressed are dreams, if you end up changing it too much, it becomes less memory and more dream, which could endanger me, as well as the request itself.”
She seemed to mull over that, her expression pensive and downcast. “I— uh— I understand, Miss Estelle. Thank you for explaining…”
I repeated again, “If you wish to withdraw, there is no penalty.”
“I…” her concern cleared, replaced with resolve once more. “No— I want to— are you going into my memories tonight?”
“Mhm. Yes, it is my intention that this session will be happening tonight, unless you’d like it rescheduled?”
“I…” Penelope’s creased gaze fell to her wringing hands, and she stilled them.
“I’ll be returning shortly, please take the time to think on it.” I gently stood. “Please, don’t feel pressured to agree if you’re at all uncomfortable. It’s alright to say no.”
I turned, exiting through the same door I came through and winding my way back towards the front of the rehabilitation center, towards the receptionist I’d first seen. They were still behind their desk, and looked up when they heard my approach. Some time later, after we briefly went through the paperwork, and I announced my decision to take the request as well as my intention to do so the same night, the nurse sent for another of their colleagues, who would administer the medicine and monitor Penelope’s vitals.
Before long, I found myself back in Penelope’s room, slowly setting down the components I’d need and use while the nurse quietly informed Penelope of what would be coming next. I lay out a couple stones from a bag I’d brought with me, carved from marble and the size of my finger, they looked more like candles than stones. Eight of those went into their spots, and I took out a small stick of silver, before kneeling to draw an eight-pointed star connecting each of the marble stones, large enough to fit me at the center. Palming my focus, I willed the stick of silver to melt into the design, thickening the lines, widening the design, and straightening the lines where it was needed. After it was finished, I stepped back to give everything a third and fourth look, then mentally went over a checklist.
The ritual circle’s fine. My hand drifted towards my bags, quickly thumbing through for everything. Protective equipment, Shimmer vials, miniature staff, both my focuses, dagger, hardtack, canteen, feeling fine— not particularly anxious or nauseous… anything else?
My mind drifted back to when I’d first woken up after Dmitri’s Wake, and I put a chair at about where I’d be standing when I disappeared. Doesn’t usually happen, but I’d like to not wake up on the floor again.
I sat down, resting my arms on either side of the armrests. I found the nurse had completed whatever preparations were needed, now standing beside Penelope with a tray and a syringe. I bit the inside of my lip, realization slowly dawning on me of what exactly I’d just signed up for. I asked again, “Miss… Miss Oliver, you are certain to wish for this to proceed? If you have any concerns or would like additional clarification, please speak up now.”
Penelope wrung her hands, a troubled look flickering through her expression. A heartbeat later, she let out a long, steady breath and met my eyes from across the room, dispelling her worry as she’d done before.
A part of me, whispering with the pounding of my suddenly-loud heart, hoped that she would say yes.
“If,” she began, “if it would help people then— then I think I want to do my best.”
“Okay,” I breathed out frost, tucking my glasses away. “Okay.”
The nurse then watched over Penelope as she laid back in her bed, making sure she was comfortable, before shutting her eyes. The nurse murmured something, before silently sticking the needle into Penelope’s arm.
My ether spooled to life, and I took another deep breath. The exhale came out frosty. The objects in my vision sharpened, and I felt my mind clear, thoughts less important than my immediate task swept away and buried. I took another breath, letting my muscles relax, slowly letting the ice settle in my veins, letting myself acclimate to the chill, so I wouldn’t shiver. My pounding heart slowly began to settle with each breath. I let my eyes fall shut, focusing on slowly gathering ambient ether within the room. Like usual, there wasn’t a lot, but any amount of ether would allow me to stay for longer.
Then, after hearing the nurse give a soft confirmation that Penelope was properly asleep, I began the uncomfortable process of letting the hold on my ether slowly slacken until I only had a hand on it’s metaphorical back. I always hated the feeling of releasing control over my ether— it ran completely in the face of everything spellcasting had been built upon: absolutely control over every facet of your spell, so that there’d never be a risk of backlash.
I let my mind clear, simply letting my intent slowly seep into my ether. It felt like sinking into a pool of warm water. First, my sense of touch slowly fell away; the cold air became distant, I stopped feeling the cushions underneath me, then I couldn’t feel my fingers against my palm. The air tasted of nothing, then the feeling of my tongue vanished, followed by the sounds of the room, replaced by an absence so absolute I heard no buzzing in the silence. The smells vanished, replaced by mist and snow.
I felt my mind diffusing into the ether, and my conscious fell away.