35th of Frost, Year 119
He was stabbing the mess that was the cadaver, ripping his dagger through its limp form. The sound of a blade puncturing flesh echoed through the moldy chamber that was the room he had been trapped in. There was no light, save for the glimmer of moonlight through the one, closed window. They looked to be in some sort of rotted vestige of opulence; a Rien manor, with nothing now but dead and dread.
Taelian tore through the flesh. Maggots crawled out. Blood that was more bile than anything else, spilled. Taelian began to sob uncontrollably as he let his dagger lodge into the dormant slab of flesh, his arms falling limp before him as the tears streamed down to the line of his jaw.
A nightmare. He awoke to the sound of his own whimpering screams, though almost distant, as if he had been detached from his own form.
He looked around him. He was... in Lethiril's room?
"What's wrong?!" the Dratori yelled hurriedly, his panicked stare descending upon Taelian from the now open doorway. The Siltori's eyes were wide; he must have looked crazed.
"How am I here?" he asked, his eyes darting around the room to ensure he somehow had not mistaken himself for being in a different place. But, no -- this was Lethiril's home. All the way out in the forest... he did not remember anything of the sort.
"You came here in the night," the Dratori told him. "You were crying. You said you wanted to sleep, but couldn't at home. Don't you remember?"
The Siltori frowned. He was suddenly filled with a feeling of deep anxiety; one he had not ever experienced, at least in the same way. "No," he replied. "Help me remember. Help me, Lethiril..."
The Dratori nodded. His face bore its own frown, wide and worried. "You showed up at my doorstep half-naked," he began, "...with nothing but an Enkindled twig in your palm. And blood on your clothes."
Ah...
He felt that he remembered.
Taelian closed his eyes. He felt the cool touch of the wintry forest winds, blowing against his cheeks, his exposed lower legs. His arms. He was that he had the Beacon; if not for it, perhaps he would have frozen out in the woods as he had been. He could see things so vividly, as if he were really there again. As if he were... in some way, reliving the moment.
He had his blade in his hand. So -- where had it gone? It was Enkindled, firm within his grip, and acted as a brazier for him in the night. Even though the Black Sun already lit his eyes. He... remembered the form of a woman, well-dressed with thick-padded wintry clothes, colored black, with raven's plumes extending from her collar. She had long, dark hair and gilded embroidery upon her gloves. Yes; he recalled her very clearly, though her face somehow remained at the edge of his peripheral.
A wounded wolf came, desperate for a meal. With such ease, Taelian butchered it. And she remained; at the edge of his vision, she remained. He couldn't remember whether she had even spoken to him, in all that time, but the glimpses of memory continued from there.
