Page 238 of Awakened

A little girl in a dress similar to the robed figures holds a butterfly in her tiny hands. A dozen more flutter above her. She chases after a little boy with a reed flute held to his lips. His breath is painted in lines that morph into the shape of animals born from the air, escaping into the bright blue sky above.

Children run through the meadow behind them, chasing animals formed from air, leaping to catch the lifelike birds, frogs, and puppies that burst to life with each note of his song.

“Idril, look!” Branwen points across the tunnel and at first, I have to search for what she’s pointing at, sweeping my gaze higher and higher until finally⁠—

There.

High on the wall, nearly lost to the shadows above, painted wings stretch wide, covering half the cavern. My heart starts to race as I follow the perfect dips and curves of the blue appendage with my gaze, leading to a massive, sinuous body. The wings and body are both covered in shimmering blue and gold scales, with taloned feet and a reptile-like head. Its mouth is open wide, exposing teeth sharp enough to rip me in two.

Dragons.

I count five of the majestic Beasts, each painted in sweeping lines of royal blue and shimmering gold, grey the color of a thundercloud, fire-engine red, and purple so dark it’s nearly black. Each creature is easily twelve feet across, with wings that span nearly double its length.

They aren’t breathing fire, nor are they attacking. They simply soar in the air, keeping watch above detailed depictions of villages and farms in the distance.

There are little people painted in the streets and in their yards, but none of them are paying any attention to the mythical monsters in the sky.

“These paintings,” Branwen murmurs. “They’re old. Ancient. I mean, I grew up in Wales for Fates’ sake, and these look older than anything I’ve ever seen.”

We keep floating, passing more and more drawings. A large fire with figures dancing around it, heads thrown back in joyous laughter and revelry, bodies tilted in graceful movements.

A man with an arm full of flowers, walking out of a forest and into an open meadow where a girl sits, eyes closed, face tilted toward the sun, completely unaware of the reverent way he watches her.

Then something changes. The edges of the paintings begin to darken. Shadows creep in, overtaking the moments of serenity. Depictions of everyday life and love morph into something darker. More sinister.

Men in well-made breeches and leather boots sit astride massive horses, cloaks billowing behind them. One hand holds tight to the reins while the other is thrust out in front of them. Light explodes from their palms, shooting toward a darkness my eyes can’t focus on, no matter how hard I try.

Something about the scene is oddly familiar, but the memory I’m searching for slides away every time I get close to grasping ahold of it.

At the front of an army, a woman holds a sword in one hand. The other is held aloft, a cyclone of air spinning in her palm. There’s a look of fury on her face as she aims the cyclone toward a group that looks to be an enemy contingent.

But something about them seems off.

A shadow creeps insidiously among their ranks, as though trying to attach itself to each soldier in the army.

There’s something irrationally terrifying about these scenes. While the figures are drawn in bright colors, depicted as brave and battle-ready, the ones they're fighting seem almost dazed.

Like they’re not fully present.

It reminds me of the Severed.

Too worn out to continue treading water, we eventually let the water carry us along. The paintings never end, and we take them in with a reverent silence, watching them slide by like memories from another world.

Now that my mind has cleared a bit, I’m starting to really worry about my Mates. I can feel them through the Bond—can even tell which direction they’re in—but that doesn’t help me down here.

On top of it, I’m cold and tired and so sick of being wet. My head aches, and my legs and stomach ache too. A few days of decent meals and sleep isn’t nearly enough to prepare me for the kind of physical exertion I’ve been through tonight.

The water begins to slow after what feels like ages. I’ve been floating on my back, but something makes me jerk to attention. My movement startles Branwen, and I reach out for her so she doesn’t sink under the water as she starts to flail.

Unfortunately, my swimming ability only extends to treading water and floating. So when I grab Branwen, I sink under the water instead. I’m seconds away from panicking when my toes touch something solid. I push forward, and my head pops above the surface. In front of me, Branwen’s treading water, eyes wide with worry.

“Oh gods, are you alright?”

I take another step. The water recedes further, and I start to laugh.

Until my foot slams into something solid.

“There are freaking steps,” I curse. “How in the world are there steps down here?”