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Time and time again, I'm met with the same lingering question: What is going on?
After almost being murdered, a plant girl tells me I'm her mother, and then I'm left to wonder again.
Climbing the floors of the Colosseum, Pandora uses her vines to help both of us get to the top faster, and so we do.
In that same room where Cordelia was supposed to be, there's no one—not even a shadow in the corner of the room—waiting to ambush me... again.
"Mama." Pandora grabs my hand and holds it. "Where are we going now?"
The small smile on her face is too sweet to just break it by saying anything, so maybe it is best to just accept this as I did everything else.
"We are going to visit one of Mama's friends who's in trouble."
Pandora squeezes my hand and smiles sweetly. "I want to help, can I?"
I nod my head, reaching my free hand on Pandora's hair, and ruffling it affectionately. "Sure, just stay behind me."
That same dungeon-like corridor is now not so dark as the sword pulsates a low light; interestingly, the sword is now fixed, but gladly not in flames as before.
Because if it were, I wouldn't have put it in my belt once again, and the burn scars it gave me don't hurt as much as I thought they would; they almost don't hurt at all.
Still, that's something to care about later; right now, the only thing that matters is checking on Dalia before someone does something to her as well.
As I step onto the immense library, I see Cordelia and a bunch of other witches holding down that same girl I met when I first got to Cordelia and that tried to use some kind of magic on me, falling in the process. Cordelia's pupil.
Walking towards the group, all open space for the woman of the hour, Cordelia, who tries to approach me only to almost be perforated by one of Pandora's vines.
"Olivia, I'm truly sorry for my pupil's behavior. I assure you that I'll punish her for her actions properly." Cordelia almost begs, probably because she thinks I'll seek vengeance or something. But I'm beyond that.
"You do that; I'll meet Dalia now if you excuse me." Ignoring the scene, I focus on the main goal, earning a curious look from Cordelia's pupil and a relieved sigh from the head witch herself.
"Prepare the ritual; tonight, Morgana Shadowmire is to be exiled from this coven and have her memories revoked." Cordelia's words are heavy and hard to escape from her lips. I see her turn her face away to not look at her pupil's face.
I realize something, Shadowmire... That's the surname of Cordelia too, no? Their eyes are exactly the same. How didn't I notice before?
Shaking my head, I stop walking and turn back to the witch group, more specifically to Cordelia. "I was the one who almost died because of her; can I be the one to choose her fate?"
Cordelia gulps dryly and looks at me with the face of someone who wants to refuse but ultimately decides to allow it, as I believe she wishes not to show weakness to the other witches who follow her. If you make the rules and break them, you're not a good ruler. That's why she's taking the hard decision of exiling her own daughter.
"The punishment she deserves is not to have her life taken from her." Cordelia's eyes soften, and her breath calms slightly, so I give her a small smile to further ease her mind. "Instead, put her to dust the bookshelves of this library and leave her schedule open; if JB calls, I want her to be ready to help with whatever request she has about paperwork."
The other witches raise their eyebrows, and one opens her mouth. "Miss Cordelia, are you sure it's good to let the punishment be decided by an outsider?"
"This girl had to fight for her life and still helped with our problem with the monster. She has my permission to order this punishment." Cordelia speaks like a true leader, putting her feelings aside and letting her decision be clear. "Now, take Morgana to her room and lock her there for now; set up a magic barrier just to be sure."
"Yes, ma'am." The witches nod their heads in unison and put Morgana on her feet. The look on her face is one of extreme confusion as she's taken away to her room by them. At least that's solved.
Seeing the weakening state of Cordelia's legs, I let go of Pandora's hand and rush to her side, offering support before she could fall to her knees. "Let's get you comfortable." Guiding her carefully, I get to her tea table and sit her down on her chair.
Cordelia takes a deep breath and sheds a tear from her left cheek as exhaustion takes over. "Thank you, dear; you didn't have to help me, and still you-"
"Don't thank me; just focus on resting for now, okay?"
Cordelia stares into my face, even managing to weird me out for a second before opening her mouth curiously. "I get it now; that's why she asked me to help you.
"Ignore my words, dear; just go see your friend, and I'll talk with you two later."
Nodding my head, I grab Pandora's hands again as Cordelia points me in the right direction. In my chest, a bad feeling stirs; something good isn't about to happen.
At the end of an extensive corridor, I see a door with a sign saying 'infirmary', and without losing a second, I enter the room. Inside, a witch wearing a doctor's coat looks at my face while eating a lollipop. Her eyes stare me up and down, focusing on something that seems much more interesting than me, that being Pandora.
"Oh, you're the one that Cordelia hired, I see." She grabs a piece of paper from the side of the hospital bed Dalia rests on. She looks to be in pain, tossing and turning without end as whimpers escape her lips. "This patient is your friend, correct?"
I nod my head, and before I can talk, she does first. "Good, I need you for the next step in her treatment."
"Wait a second, can I know what's happening to her first?"
The witch doctor sighs and looks at me, annoyed. "Fine, I can tell you, but there's not much time before your friend's mind goes beyond saving.
"To simplify things for your small brain, the human body works in complex ways. When exposed to trauma, a child is capable of locking memories away behind a door. The problem is that if that door gets open, even if for a second, the same pain accumulated from those locked memories floods your head, making your body enter rest mode until the memories are dealt with.
"But it isn't that simple to deal with those memories, and sometimes one might find themselves better off pretending that they don't exist. Like your friend, she isn't fighting anymore."
"What? How can you know that? Dalia wouldn't just give up." I ask, clutching my fists, and without notice, I hold Pandora's hand a little too tight, so when she touches my arms, I relax and pet her head in an apology, which she gladly accepts.
"I'm sorry, but that's the truth. That's why I needed you here; I asked Cordelia for you to come here an hour ago. But it does not matter; now that you're here, I'll explain the procedure, so listen closely; I won't repeat myself.
"I will put a spell on you that will allow you to enter your friend's head; there you will need to help her fight the memories and deal with them. Fail, and she dies; succeed, and you'll both be fine. Any questions?"
"What happens if she gives up and I'm stuck there?" My question is met with a forced smile from the doctor.
"So no questions, great." As I try to react, she puts her index finger on my forehead, and everything goes black. I see Pandora shaking me to not let me lose consciousness. Her vines form that same protection around her, but this time protecting me and Dalia inside of it.
Fresh, flowery, and warm. The sun in the sky looks more colorful, the flowers feel so close, and the big landscape in front of me smells like a home I've never been to but still feel like I belong. In the distance, a small girl makes an effort to reach her knife in hopes of poking a hanging apple from a tall tree that stares her small frame down, too tall for her even with the tool.
Moving forward, I'm able to spot more of this place, and it's revealed to be a simple farm with one barn, chicken house, pigsty, and an extensive plantation of rye, oats, vegetables, and fruits. It's almost a dreamy scene, something out of an old painting, making me feel connected with this world. For the first time in my whole life, I'm able to take a deep breath and not feel any lingering thoughts or anxiety.
My footsteps are perceived by the girl, who looks at me and presents to my eyes her green, shining iris. Innocent, pretty; frustrated.
"Miss, can you help me out?" The small girl points her knife at the apple she wants and looks at it expectantly. "I can't reach it."
"Uhm, sure thing." Now that I'm this close to the tree, I notice how my perception of it from earlier isn't the same anymore; it's not as tall as I remember seeing it from afar, so without a problem, I extend my hand and carefully pluck it out.
"Here you go." I kneel and hand the hungry kid the fresh, red apple. Her eyes focus on the food, and she takes it in her palm after putting her knife on her simple farm overall. As if it were the most important thing, she gazes at the fruit before biting its side, closing her eyes, and allowing the sweet juice to soak in her mouth.
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"Thank you so much, Miss. I had to wait two summers to let them get this big. If you want one, you can grab it, but just one." The girl plants her feet on the warm grass and lifts her index finger while her lips curve into a smile so soft that it's hard to imagine her being less sweet than the apple.
"I'm not hungry, but thank you, though." Looking around, it's almost easy to forget why I'm here. My head is slightly foggy, but one thing stands out among the clouds: I need to find Dalia.
Noticing my wandering eyes, the girl waves her hand to steal my attention back. "Are you lost, Miss?" the girl asks with a curious look, shifting towards my hoodie. "Now looking at you and your clothes, they look expensive. Did you come from the city?"
"Yeah." I guess one could say that, but I believe the city she refers to probably isn't the place I think it is; after all, this looks like another time. No roads, no light poles, no nothing—just simplicity to its fullest.
"Really? That's so cool." The girl comments while chewing the sweet fruit with a grin. "I've never been to the city before, but my pops say it's like going to another world. Oh, and I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself; mom always says to be a polite girl.
"I'm Dalia; what's your name, Miss?" The girl, Dalia, extends her small hand to me, and for a second I freeze. It's so strange to see Dalia like this. This just confirms more of what I was thinking—the colorful world, my messed-up perception of things—these are her memories.
"Olivia." I shake the girl's hand, and she smiles so strongly that she closes her eyes.
"Come on, let me get you to my pops; maybe he can help you with some directions." The girl holds my hand and guides me alongside her toward a simple farmhouse down the plantation.
Upon passing by the plantation, in a single unthinked blink, the day turns to night, and the little Dalia by my side disappears. Gazing around, I see lights from afar, seemingly from a forest, before they go away—torch lights, it seemed. A woman with autumn hair styled into a long, thick braid, wearing common, loose-fitting clothes resembling a white tunic, runs toward the lightened barn.
"Hey, wait up," I scream for the woman who seems to ignore me. Catching up to her, the smell of a barn hits my nostrils—the smell of hay, horses, and their excrements. I find the small Dalia feeding a big horse an apple, moving her hand along its long neck affectionately and caringly.
The woman stands outside, looking upon the small opening of the barn doors, apparently waiting for Dalia to go away. Putting my hand on the barn door, I try studying the woman's face, but, unknown to me if it was my hand or a slip of the woman, the barn door opens, and she falls forward, tiredly, breathlessly, and in seconds, unconscious.
The horse Dalia was feeding, now scared, jumps back to the shadows of its stall, almost knocking the small girl from the chair she was standing up on.
"Oh no, Miss? Are you okay?" Dalia slowly and carefully approaches the unconscious lady and touches her shoulder, but the woman doesn't wake up. I watch as Dalia grabs a bucket with clean water and some vegetables from the camp outside before the blink of my eyes once again causes time to move.
The woman, now awake, rests against an empty stall door, eating some vegetables as Dalia sits in front of her, watching the young woman desperately eat as if she were left starving for days.
"I-," trying to come up with what to say, the woman sighs and lets out a dry laugh at her pathetic state. "Thank you, kid. But you shouldn't just help anyone who comes up to you; they could be bad people, or worse, a witch."
Dalia tilts her head in confusion, but I get the meaning of her words; she is not saying that out of goodwill, she's testing the waters. Her eyes and tone tell me all I need to know, but so does the nagging feeling in the back of my head, just like when I saw the tree, this strange part of me that just knows it, Dalia's certainty.
"Mom always said to help people in need, so that's what I did. I don't like thinking too much about this other stuff, and besides, you don't look like a bad person."
The woman focus on Dalia's eyes before opening her mouth to talk, only to be interrupted by the calling of an old woman.
"Dalia, dear, it's time for dinner, and you know how your father is when he's hungry." The comment is followed by a sweet laugh at the good memories tinted in her motherly tone.
"I'm coming, Ma," Dalia shouts back and looks at the seated woman's desperate face. "Stay here; I'll come back tomorrow with clean water."
Dalia's smile calms the woman down, and she walks through me, phasing like I'm just nothing, a ghost. The resting woman looks at the shadow of the little girl as she closes the barn doors and leaves.
She takes the herbs from the necklace she has and stuffs them in her mouth, toughly forcing them down her throat, letting out a grunt followed by a relieved sigh. I see her face regain color, the small, unnoticeable cuts on her cheek disappearing, and her tired eyes shutting off.
Slowly blinking my eyes, I manage to make time pass again. 'I think I'm starting to get a hang of it.' is what I think, blinking my eyes once again to make sure it works.
Red, burning, devouring flames take the barn, and the grass as all become scorched—it even scorches the farmhouse in front of me as screams ring out of pure agony. I'm able to see from the window of the house, between smoke clouds, the faces of an old couple as their skin melts down their faces. Their voices start to abandon any humanity they may have had, succumbing to the primal survival instinct.
It's hard to not vomit at the sight, and the only reason I don't is because my body in this state has nothing—no stomach to feel hungry, no nerves to feel pain. But in my mind, the scene spirals down, making my sanity shatter at the horrible, gory, and unholy display of humanity's worst.
Young men and women stand in front of the burning house as people holding crucifixes pray in Latin.
"Those who help witches are no better than them; it's a true shame, but that's God's will, people. See their corrupted bodies, let go of their souls, and ascend to the heavens so they can be fixed, forgiven even." That's the words I have to hear coming from the mouth of an old priest. Acting like a savior, only so he can push people into his distorted beliefs with the wish to keep his position of power and influence.
On the grass, lying on her stomach, lies Dalia, with a farmer's fork stuck to her side and perforating her body, as the witch's head is held up by the simple bystanders around her as they bathe in this scene as if it were holy.
Dalia's moans of pain slowly go away as she gives in to the slowly approaching darkness. The world around me becomes dark, and I can see just the house, Dalia, and the witch. The witch's rageful scream brightens her form only for a second as she headbutts one of the people holding her and uses her fist to punch her stomach. The priest laughs at the scene, believing the witch has gone mad at the sight.
But as she vomits blue flowers and they create roots on the grass, blooming into a field of them, the people go silent. Petals of blue fly in the air, and as they come in contact with the priest's face, they attach to it and start to create more and more flowers, until all there is left of the man is a pile of them. The rest of the people around scream and try to run, but their feet coming into contact with the flowers on the ground have already sealed their fate.
The screams disappear into the surrounding darkness, figures losing focus, and then there's only Dalia on the ground, slowly bleeding out with no hope in her heart. The witch moves close, and I see in her hand something—a small vial with a purple liquid. She grabs the small kid and puts her against her chest comfortably, breaking the vial's top and helping Dalia drink it slowly.
Nothing happens for a second, and the witch starts to shake Dalia desperately. "Come on, kid, I know you can take it; just don't let go yet."
Silence... but then, steady breathing as Dalia's pale face regains the life it had seconds before. Upon opening her eyes, something changes; the world is not as bright as before, and her eyes are not so innocent anymore as they lose their green color, turning the familiar gray I know very well.
The witch sighs in relief and hugs the child in front of her with a newfound motherly care, whispering words of apology.
"I'm sorry, kid. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for any of these to happen. But that's okay; I'll take care of you now."
Looking into Dalia's eyes once again, I notice something. As her gaze meets the burnt house, seeing it break to pieces and break down, there is no more familiarity in them, but why?
As I see the witch take Dalia in her arms, yanking the fork out of her and feeding her some more leftover herbs, closing her wound almost instantly, I slowly blink my eyes.
Blue flowers stand proudly as the sunset nears, the autumn leaves are blown away gently, and so is the hair of a more mature Dalia. She watches the sunset with a smile. Water droplets fall from her recently washed hair as she reads a book with lots of symbols and writes in a language I can't start to make sense of.
"Come on, Dalia, you'll catch a cold if you don't dry your hair properly."
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