Raven Chapter 14 Fun New Traumas and Unicorn Farts 163 #2
Em says something, but I'm too far gone to catch it. My consciousness has sunk too far into the glorious abyss that is sleep. It’s actually criminal that I wasn’t able to experience this before.
It’s like being dead without the commitment.
Which, at this point, is the only flavor of dead I’m okay with.
When my eyes open, all I see are feather beds and silk scarves.
Well, color me confused. Wasn't I just in Emerson's room?
After blinking the sleep from my eyes, I look around.
Women move around me, pulling on long, flowing robes of a deep, twilight purple.
The room is a cavern, hewn from smooth black stone with no windows in sight.
The vaulted ceiling stretches maybe twenty feet high, draped heavily with silks in jewel-tones.
My gaze is drawn to a sunken fireplace, its pit surrounded by sheepskins and oversized pillows that look so inviting I immediately want to curl up there. The beds themselves are elevated on a platform surrounding the hearth, each one semi-private behind curtains of that same, shifting silk.
A shimmering light snags my attention. It takes me a moment to realize the illumination doesn't come from electric bulbs, but from floating orbs that weave through the draperies like playful, luminous minnows in a silk stream.
I've never seen a place so lavishly comfortable, yet so simple. There's no gaudy gold or silver, no ostentatious decorations. Even the women wear no obvious wealth, just those elegant robes and the practical, lethal daggers tucked into their sashes.
It also looks like a phenomenal room to get up to some thoroughly adult activities. I mean, stoke that fire, push a few of these ridiculously comfortable mattresses together, and you've got yourself a five-star kink chamber. I should totally keep this layout in mind for future… endeavors.
When I look down at myself, the world tilts.
These aren't my hands. These are the small, slender hands of a child. My body feels compact, lighter. I'd guess I'm tucked into the shell of a twelve-year-old somehow.
Well, my kink chamber recommendations are officially on hold until I figure out who's driving .
"Lady, are you ready?" a woman asks, her voice coming from what feels like a mile above.
My head bobs in a nod I don't command. I'm just a ghost in this girl's machine as I watch her—me?—reach out a small hand to clasp the woman's. Panic is a logical, distant thought, but the body I'm wearing feels only a serene determination.
Looks like I'm going along for the ride. It's not like I can request a different channel.
We fall into step with a parade of women, a river of dark, twilight-purple robes.
My gaze drops to my own clothes. The breath catches in my throat, even if the girl's remains steady.
My robes are a pitch-black velvet, so deep it feels like holding a piece of the void.
Adorning it is delicate silver lace and tiny, clear gems sewn in swirling patterns, making the fabric look like a frozen, star-strewn night sky.
My stupid, traitorous head lifts again before I can drink in the details, and we walk into the most stunning assembly hall I've ever seen.
It's a triad of open arches, all three sides exposed to a misty, pre-dawn world.
Everything is forged from polished black obsidian, reflecting the shifting light like a dark mirror.
Silk draperies, the color of bruised twilight, fall from hooks and stretch between the stone pillars.
The sound they make as they snap and flutter in the wind is a rhythmic, soothing whisper, and I feel the child's shoulders relax slightly as we glide toward the far end of the hall.
When we reach the end, I understand. The entire hall is built on a jutting protrusion of the mountainside.
Nothing but sea and mist and, I can only assume, a very long fall.
The body of rock we emerge from stretches far above and behind us, a solid wall of safety.
Everywhere else is a misty, swallowing unknown that sends zings of primal awareness—part thrill, part terror—through this small body.
We stop at the very edge. Situated just beyond the final pillars is a stone ledge that juts defiantly into the abyss.
Oh, Hel’s bells no. There is absolutely no way—
The thought is cut off as the woman beside me gives my hand a final, reassuring squeeze and a gentle push forward.
Against every screaming instinct in my own mind, the child's body obeys, stepping slowly onto the ledge.
Her eyes close. A power rises from within her—a deep, resonant hum that feels…
familiar. Why does it feel so familiar? It pulses out of her, a wave of energy spreading into the mist around us.
Then, her eyes open, and she sings.
I know this song. I can sing along in my head, every word right there on the tip of my borrowed tongue. But the second it ends? Poof. Nothing. Like it was never there at all.
A flash of light snags my attention—a mirror, cleverly set into the cliff face. Then another flash, and another. Mirrors are placed all around the rocky surface, and I just know they're for directing light, though I have no idea how I know.
Before I can ponder it, my gaze lands on my reflection, and my internal monologue short-circuits.
Long, straight black hair and piercing, storm-grey eyes stare back from the glass. If I had control, my jaw would be on the floor. Instead, this body just keeps singing.
This isn't a dream.
This is a memory.
Two black ravens land before me, tilting their heads in unison. I reach a small hand out to touch them, but before my fingers can make contact, an explosion rocks the mountain around me.
The women around us don't just pull weapons; they become weapons.
Swords and daggers appear in their hands like they were grown there, as they use their other hands to draw in the air in front of them.
Scorching bright, furious symbols right onto the world that sizzle and hang in the air, throwing off sparks.
It's less like magic and more like they're angrily graffiti-ing a shield into existence right in front of the assailants.
Just as we are swallowed by the darkness of the mountain, I catch one last, horrifying glimpse of the hall: a swarm of grey-clad men appearing from the mist like ghosts, their weapons drawn.
The child's voice that isn't mine screams, a raw, desperate sound. "Let me fight! It's not fair! They can't die for me!"
For me? The thought echoes in my own head. Why would they die for me?
We burst back into the room of silks and low beds. I'm set down roughly, tears I'm not crying streaming down this face. The woman who carried me is already moving, her hand tracing fiery, complex symbols in the air that hum with protective energy.
Panic, both the child's and my own, is a suffocating blanket. I can't breathe. I'm lost in this memory, being pulled under. My mind, desperate for anything solid, anything real, claws outward in a blind, silent scream.
"Raven, what's happening?"
The voice is too calm for this setting, too British, too impossible. My head whips around. Emerson stands about ten feet away, his brow furrowed not in fear, but in intense, analytical curiosity as he surveys the magical chaos.
A sob of relief mixes with sheer confusion. "The fuck should I know?" I gasp out, my voice my own again. "I woke up here. I think… I think this is from before, Em. I think this is a memory."
His eyes widen a fraction as he processes the new information, his gaze sweeping over the room with purpose. He takes in the terrified women, the glowing sigils, the sheer, raw magic saturating the air.
Before he can speak, a dozen more women pour into the room, their faces grim.
I can feel a pressure building in the air, a collective power rising for a last stand.
The woman from before breaks away and strides toward me, her expression heartbreakingly resolute.
She cups my face in her hands, her touch both gentle and urgent.
"You cannot use your magic, Lady," the woman says, her voice fierce and low. "The ceremony was not completed. You are too young. Your power is too volatile. It will burn you from the inside out. Use it only as a last resort, do you understand?"
My head nods without my consent, a puppet on a string. Panic claws up my throat. My hand flies out, desperately finding Emerson's. I grip it like it's the only thing tethering me to reality. He stands solid beside me, a silent, analytical witness as the scene descends into hell.
We watch the room shift from tense waiting to desperate fighting, to a full-blown massacre.
Hot, silent tears race down my face as I watch the women, who are trying to protect a younger me, get cut down, their bodies discarded like they’re nothing.
I try to lunge forward, to do something, but they've formed an impenetrable ring around me, a final, dying act of defiance that leaves me helpless.
Everything narrows to a single, terrifying point as a man strolls into the room. He smiles. Amidst the blood and the fire, that smile sends a jolt of pure, undiluted dread through every nerve I possess.
"Asigr?" the child's voice escapes me, small and broken. "Why? What are you doing?"
He smiles wider, a cruel, predatory thing, and his eyes flash with molten gold. I gasp, stumbling back a step as something hot and sharp lances through my temple.
Before I can even scream, I'm ripped away from Emerson's grasp. Asigr's arms lock around me, binding me, squeezing the air from my lungs. I hear Em shout my name, but his voice is fading, drowned out by the roaring in my ears. Black spots bloom across my vision as we move.
Just before the darkness swallows me whole, I feel lips brush against my ear.
"We are going to have so much fun together, doll."
Then, nothing but pain.
I sit bolt upright in bed, gasping, my lungs screaming for air—and something warm drips from my nose. I touch my upper lip. My fingers come away red.