Princess Of Darkness (Editing)

Through The Gateway (edited)

I suppose at least a small part of me was hoping that maybe, just maybe, Lucian might awake at my mention of venturing to the Surface, his aversion so deeply rooted that just the mention of it might have been enough to rouse him from where ever he was trapped.

He would make every effort to stop me, he had made every effort to stop me, and the amount of surprise that I would have felt would have been small if he'd awoken then and there, just so that he could reprimand me for being a fool.

But, as the minutes dragged on, it became painfully obvious that, even despite my hoping against all hope, he remained still, stony. I resisted a sigh that almost escaped, disappointment clawing at my chest like some sort of creature.

At least, I supposed, the dissapointment acted like a distraction, a diversion for what angst should be, would ordinarily be, crippling me with uncertainty. I was calm, eerily so, thoughts of what awaited me on the Surface doing nothing to unnerve me, as they so often did. Lucian needed me, now, needed me to do this.

More than ever.

His essence was trapped by Rapture, the power in the morbid magic she wielded devestatingly effective, and there was nothing I could do from here.

I had to stop the magic at its source.

Eve had approached on silent footsteps, as she always did, her light tread attributed to being so accustomed to moving over the forest floor.

I didn't hear her, or maybe I was too absorbed in following the humming strings of Lucian's essence, once more, searching for any signs of weakness in the magic binding it, trapping him. Not a single thread in the intricate curse had come loose, nothing for me to work away at.

It was a work of art, I acknowledged begrudgingly. The skill and the attention interwoven in every fiber, even I had to admit that it was as achingly beautiful as it was painfully terrible.

I suddenly became aware of Eve beside me, though, how long she'd been there, I couldn't have said.

She was watching my fingers as they absentmindedly traced the jagged scar lining the length of Lucian's powerful forearm.

I glanced at her and she smiled tightly, glancing back at the scar again.

"Do you remember the day it happened?" She wondered as I stilled my fingers, wrapping them gently around his wrist, feeling for the reassuring, telltale sign of a pulse, timidly thrumbing rhythmicly beneath my touch.

Something about the thin, white scar had stirred something inside of me, a distant memory perhaps, or, maybe the vague, ancient remnants of the magic that had healed the wound. Magic telling me that it was significant, somehow.

At Eve's suggestion that I should know of the origin of the scar, I looked side long at her, inquisitive, trying to recall something. But, like tiny, delicate snowflakes caught in a great gust of wind, the memory, as vague as it was in my mind, evaded me, dancing away, just out of reach, then, gone completely.

Eve recognised my frustration and gave another tight lipped smile, understanding and sympathetic as always, my frustration of not knowing as acute as hers at being trapped in the Underworld.

"I know that I do," I admitted, my forlone tone giving off the impression of a regreteful confession, "but, the memory is..."