Revolutions

97 - Walumaq

My eyes snap open. The world sharpens gradually, emerging through a murky haze. Paxilche hovers above me, his face carved with lines of dread, while Saqatli peeks over his shoulder, showing both relief and worry. Noch is nestled by my side, purring faintly, though the vibration is noticeable enough against my tunic. Her warmth is oddly comforting against the chill that has seeped through my clammy skin and into my bones.

As I slowly regain consciousness, I feel as if a shadow has settled over my heart, pulsing with each beat. The moments before I apparently passed out slowly return to me. There's a dark energy that clings to me like a vicious cloak that threatens to suffocate my spirit. And there are harsh and insidious whispers that circulate in my thoughts, worming their way through the cracks in my mind, prying, pulling.

"Walumaq, can you hear me?" Paxilche's voice cuts through the fog, anchoring me for a moment against the pull of the hollow abyss. I manage to nod slightly, but the action takes more effort than it should, as though I'm moving through tar.

"I'm okay," I respond, my strained voice barely climbing out from my throat.

"How are you feeling?" a concerned Saqatli asks.

"I feel... different, changed," I say. The darkness isn't just around me—it's within me now, woven into me. It feels like wading through a marsh where every step is a battle against the suction of mud, and each tug is filled with the urge to just give in, to sink, to let go.

The struggle is incessant. There are voices, dark voices, planting seeds of doubt, blooming fears, twisting my thoughts. It's as if I've swallowed nightfall, and now the black blots out any and all reason.

The whispers intensify, morphing into recognizable voices. My imperious brother, Pahua, recklessly taunts me in a mocking tone, while my father issues stern warnings laced with malice. They twist their familiar tones into something spiteful, venomous, dredging up doubts and fears I've long buried.

Are you strong enough, Walumaq?

Why strive so hard, sister? In the end, they'll only remember your failures.

They all depend on you. Yet you will let them down.

Paxilche squeezes my hand. "We're here, Walumaq."

You fool yourself, believing to be something you're not.

Leadership demands sacrifice, daughter. Are you truly ready to bear that burden?

The voices claw at the walls of my mind. They seek to carve uncertainty into every conviction I've ever had. I clutch at my head, trying to physically shake the whispers away.

"Talk to us," Paxilche urges. "What is happening?"

Saqatli frowns and watches thoughtfully with narrowed eyes. "How can we help?"

Eventually, I sit up, rubbing my temples with my fingers while taking panicked, gasping breaths. "I'm not sure you can," I confess, slowly calming myself. "It's like I'm caught in a storm of voices. They are from those whom I trust, but their words... they're trying to drown me in fear and uncertainty."

Paxilche's eyes darken with worry, but he nods with understanding—or trying to. "We won't let that happen. You're not alone in this."

I try for a smile, but it's like I'm wearing a mask that doesn't quite fit. "Thank you. I just need to... understand this. Master this."

But how does one master a storm that uses your own memories and fears as weapons? The voices argue and persuade, a cacophony that threatens to fracture my resolve. They tempt, promising power, the strength to protect, to crush, to control. They promise to shield Sanqo, to bury my enemies beneath waves of shadow. Each offer is a gilded blade, seductive and sharp, if only I embrace the darkness.