ᴏᴍɴɪꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ✵ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ✵

𝐈

☼ ꜰʀᴇʏᴀ ☼

»»-------≪ °❈° ≫-------««

"Freyyyaaaaa."

The voice is a low, dangerous hiss; one capable of terrorizing even the bravest of sorcerers. Anxiety eclipses her thoughts, and Freya feels every muscle within her body tense with paralyzing fear. Her heart pounds rapidly against her rib cage, like a caged bird desperate to break free, and the accelerated beats echo stridently in her ears.

She's hurt. Something hurts. A dull ache that expedites into an awful, searing pain in the left shoulder. Her breath hitches, yanks into her throat to form a suppressed sob, but it only leaves her lips through a silent cry.

Where am I?

Freya searches inside her for that sweet spot between fool-hardy and cowardice, though she's never been much for bravery. Soon she peeks her head ever so slightly over the tall marble headstone that hides her body to cautiously scan her surroundings, yet they are foreign.

An eerie silence is casted upon the dark and overgrown graveyard, somewhere in the distance she can vaguely make out what seems to be a small church beyond a large yew tree to the right. To the left, there's an outline of an old derelict house over a hill, and then all there's left to be seen is the moonlight that pours grey hues and yellow tinges upon the scattered gravestones for the beloved dead. This could be it, her one and only chance to escape.

Although, before Freya can even make the slightest movement, a hand swiftly grabs hers. A quiet gasp flys through her lips, but not out of fear, it's the comfortable warmth from the touch that shocks her, the effortless amity that forms between their intertwined fingers. She glances up curiously to a boy, and she's conflicted on whether he's a friend or foe. This is a face she doesn't recognize, not yet, at least.

"Stay," the boy orders through a whisper.

It's only one word, but it holds so much power. Hesitantly, almost reverently, she remains still besides him. Freya isn't sure why she trusts him, or why she finds sanctuary in the way he doesn't release her hand, but peering into his striking gray eyes builds a familiar sense of compassion between them, and in this moment, she oddly feels as though she could trust this stranger with her life.

No. She tries to scream the words out, but they remain lodged in her larynx, unable to get past her mouth. Please don't leave me.

Everything distorts. Ripples rip through the scenery like the surface of a river when pebbles skip across it. Freya tries desperately to hold on to the boy's touch of security, but he slips through her fingers like water. An icy draft drifts through her heart as everything around her disappears, her body is moved in a way that feels like traveling through space, an endless mass of nothingness.

Now, she's on the ground. Or cobblestones, she thinks, in what seems to be a dark alley. Pain sheathes through her entire body with terrible intensity, like her flesh has been flayed with a thousand white-hot knives. She tries to move, but it only ends in a half-stifled wail. The anguish is blinding, she can hardly make out the five hooded figures that strobe in out and out of focus all around her. They aren't too close, they stare at her from a distance, except one begins to approach her slowly. Not an inch of skin, not one identifying feature is revealed until they kneel down beside her, and remove their mask and hood.

The boy. Although now his eyes are devoid of any warmness that she found just moments before, and they're ringed with dark circles. His hair is lengthened into an artfully out of place mess, framing a slender face with sunken in cheekbones, and scruffy facial hair that scatters from his chin and up his jawline. He whispers something nearly inaudible, and she can't make out the words. A panic rises in her throat once her eyes glance down to his sleeve, where he has withdrawn his wand, and she shutters as the tip presses against her temple. What's happened to you? she wants to say. His lips move, but yet again, her ears hear no words.