Page 47 of Remnants: Disruption
My eyes flash open to nothingness. And I can hear the screams and shouts of people. Their voices make no sense, though, and sirens sound in the distance.
“You will not die on me, Arya Skovsgaard,” an eerily familiar voice says almost into my ear. “I will not allow it.”
Rock and rubble tumble from wherever it must be on my body and the scene around me shifts. Light peaks through the debris and—
A woman. A woman I’ve seen before.
Her midnight dark hair falls long and loose down her back, curtaining her face in a way that makes it somewhat difficult to see her expression. But I can see her orange eyes peering down at me.
And they don’t look angry. Rather, there’s a definitive hint of worry glistening in the light hue.
She tosses back her hair and now I can see her full, red lips and thin, delicate nose. Her skin is somewhat pale, but no worse than my own.
And she is, by far, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
“There you are,” she says, huffing out a little in what could be exhaustion or nervousness.
She leans forward and presses lips to my forehead. They’re soft and delicate. And then the world dims again, leaving me with the barest sense of my surroundings.
Then that fades, too.
Chapter 23
Dead
Sometime
For one to dream, they must have a soul. For one to have a soul, they must bear the fruits of labor. I come bearing those fruits, my friends.
Kronos, Cult Leader and Bar Owner, 1000 A.D.
My eyes flutter open at the sound of someone moving nearby. The darkness feels familiar, comforting almost.And it’s natural. The kind that should be here. The kind that isn’t born of misery and fear.
Yet that doesn’t stop the quiet whispers threatening to crawl from their depths.
There’s a soft scraping along the wooden floor as a presence hovers beside me. My head spins when I try to find them, it feels like I’m moving through molasses.
And I’m—
I’m in my own bedroom. My unremarkable wardrobe sits by the closed bedroom door. The chair that usually occupies the furthest corner of my room now sits beside me.
I trace up the soft upholstery and find a figure sitting in it.
They lean forward and flick on the bedside light, relieving the softly hissing shadows.
It’s her.
“I would ask who did this to you,” her accented voice takes a moment to register in my ears as she runs soft, lithe fingers through my loose hair, “but I saw them for myself.”
I swallow thickly, finding my throat raw and dry.
The woman with the ruby red lips and darkened eyes gives me a small smile as she holds a glass of clear liquid out for me.
“Water,” she says as if reading the suspicion on my face. “I promise.”
I reach out and watch as my hand trembles before gripping the glass. The cool liquid washes down the cotton in my throat and does, indeed, seem like water.
“Your friend did not make it,” she says, smile slipping. “I am sorry for your loss.”
