reoite [preview]

prologue

The darkness, that never ending darkness. Time was inconsequential, day and night blurring together, until all that remained, was the darkness.

But yet, there was comfort to be found within. Despite the lack of memories, a gut feeling remained. The darkness was safe, safer than any other place they could be. It wasn't being in the dark that terrified them, but what could possibly be outside the darkness that left them feeling terrified.

The darkness is safe. In the darkness I shall remain.

Was the darkness silent? No, not silent. There was a hum, a low rumble, the odd click, but the clicks never repeated themselves, there was no pattern to it; not one they could distinguish in any case. At first, the rumble was deafening, insanity threatening to poison their mind. As time passed, the rumbling faded into the background, the clicking became a lullaby, and the threat of insanity passed.

Was that a twitch?

No, they had not moved since the darkness began, there was no way that a finger, a toe, an eye, could twitch. The cold metal beneath them, though numbing, was the only indication of a physical presence within the darkness. The needle - they remembered the needle, but after so much time in the darkness, they began to question whether it was a memory, or merely a dream. It was so faint, so fleeting.

Were they paralysed? A coma? Trapped within their own mind, they wondered if they were even alive.

Then, with a rush, the darkness receded, and in its place, their senses were flooded.

Noise.

Smell.

Light.

So overwhelmed, their hands instinctively flew to their face, covering their eyes.

Bring back the darkness.

It was cold, colder than the darkness had ever been. Loud, louder than the rumbling had ever been, but the moment their hands flew to their face, the noises stopped, and they froze.

I can move.

So distracted by their own amazement at being able to move, they had yet to acknowledge the room full of people surrounding them. The sound of heavy breathing, and the strong stench of unwashed bodies was ignored as instead, the person on the metal tray sat up, unsure of what to make of the lack of darkness. Everything their gut was saying, told them to retreat back to the darkness, yet somehow, they knew, that was never going to happen.

Finally, after a moment, they turned, facing the crowd that had gathered around the metal tray, and the person who sat upon it. None too subtly, some in the crowd began throwing curious glances between the person on the tray - who was now revealed to be a young woman, thick dark red hair, almost black in the low artificial light, unbrushed and cascading down her back, a stark contrast to her pale, porcelain skin - and the man who stood beside the tray, while others, further back in the crowd, merely wished to see who the mysterious person was, that had everyone around them so enraptured.

Long lashes fluttered, framing confused, murky brown eyes, dark brows furrowing as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Lips tinted blue from the cold quivered and a meek attempt to warm them. Slowly she curled in on herself, cowering both in an effort to shield herself from the biting cold and self-consciousness. A quick glimpse revealed she was wearing nothing more than a thin black shirt and a loose pair of black pants, both seemingly made of a light cotton, doing nothing to protect her from the freezing conditions.

Glancing up, the woman's gaze wandered, before landing on the face of the man that stood beside her. His sharp blue eyes were hard, along with the rest of his face, but there was something behind that hardness that looked like hope. His blond hair was short and covered with a black beanie, the wisp of a curl escaping at the nape of his neck. His face, should it be clean, would be a fair colour and was covered in filth and grime, much like every other person surrounding them. He had a rugged, unkept beard, as if he had been unable to shave for weeks, or ever. Hidden beneath the beard was the outline of a strong jaw. Like everyone else surrounding them, he looked underfed. His clothing seemed to hang off him, torn and shredded in places. If it wasn't for his strong hands tightly gripping some sort of axe, he would not have been considered a threat.

For the first time since the woman had awoken, the man spoke directly to her; his pink lips seeming almost hesitant yet hopeful as he pronounced one word.

One word holding so many emotions and questions.

"Máire?"