Born of Flames

Chapter 13 ~ Running From Shadows

Shadows covered every inch of the obsidian walls surrounding him, all but unbroken by the flickering sconces and candlelight. He'd barely seen a glimpse of the sun the past few days they'd been here.

Tarion had spent every moment at his mate's side, unwilling to leave her on her own, and unwilling to be alone himself. The minute he was, he knew the fragile control he had over himself would shatter. Panic was a leaden weight within his chest, its grip perpetual and crushing.

He couldn't escape it no matter what he did. It choked the breath from his lungs at night and threatened to swamp him with unwanted memories during the day. Tarion clung to his mask. The only form of protection he had against the terror that was drowning him.

He'd thought he could handle being here. For Morana, he thought he could do it again. But each day they remained proved him more and more wrong. He was haunted by footsteps that no longer sounded in the palace corridors. He could hear the echoes of screams that had been his own.

They were almost magnified down here in Astaroth's personal library. Tarion drew a shallow breath and thumbed through a few loose pages absently, at least attempting to look like he was being productive. Morana sat at another table across the room, buried in piles of books.

So far, they hadn't found anything worthwhile, and he doubted they would. He wasn't going to point that out to Morana though, or mention any part of what he was feeling. If he did, he knew she would make good on her promise to remove him from the city herself, and he could not leave her here alone.

Tarion closed his eyes and swallowed, despite the dryness of his throat. Perhaps he should find something to drink. But the only thing that sounded remotely appealing right now was alcohol. Anything that would drown out his screaming head.

Tarion pushed his papers aside and pulled another book towards himself. The thick cover gave a dull thud as it hid the desk and dust settled around it. As if he didn't feel smothered enough, the dust was overwhelming. He could practically taste it whenever he sneezed.

Tarion swallowed again, glancing about the chamber. Bookshelves towered over him, brimming with ancient tomes and crumbling scrolls. He blinked rapidly as his surroundings blurred. The vaulted ceiling almost seemed to stretch higher, then come crashing back down when his vision refocused.

Gods, he was losing his mind down here. It was too dark. Too enclosed. Too similar to his cell. His tomb. Tarion lurched to his feet, overturning his chair in the process. Morana jumped and let out a startled gasp.

"Hadeon's Hel," she breathed in exasperation. "What was that about?"

"Sorry," he muttered. "It was an accident." He picked the chair up and slid it back into place. Morana had risen and he sensed her worried gaze, but didn't meet it. Tarion started towards the staircase, walking as quickly as he could. He ignored her when she called after him.

With every step, he fought to keep himself under control. To keep his breaths steady and even, and resist the panic clawing its way up his throat. Shadows chased him up the steps, almost seeming to reach for him with wraith-like tendrils. Tarion began skipping steps, clutching the metal side-rail to heave himself up further, faster.

He had to get out of here. Away from this darkness to somewhere he could breathe. Tarion was scarcely breathing when he burst out of the stairwell into a lengthy corridor. Every inch of it was lined with black, just as before. He couldn't stand the sight of it.

It sent shards of obsidian splintering through his mind, digging up memory after memory. Of himself being dragged down another corridor, delirious and bleeding, into the throne room where the brand had been cut from his back and he'd been sealed into that sarcophagus once more.