It was a dark, cold night in Regalia, as was the usual. Curled in her blankets, the silhouette of an Altalar could be seen in the shadows, with her head facing the ceiling. With the heavy covers up near her chin, Amara tossed and turned before finally standing to her feet. Leaving her room, she'd silently trek to her desk and would sit in her large chair. Pulling out a few pieces of paper, she tapped her pen on the desk, occasionally bringing the feather to her mouth to nip at it. Nothing came to her. Nothing jumped out. After a few hours, she could no longer stay awake and her head slumped down to the hardwood surface below. The moment she laid her head down, the night terrors would creep in like an unwanted guest at a party.
When she awoke, she was no longer in her office. She was standing in the middle of a snowy field. All around her were broken bodies. Dead before she even had a chance to fix them all. That wasn't what caught her eyes though. It was.. Another body, but upon closer inspection... No! It was Aq'uello. How could it be? Kneeling down to examine his wounds, Amara spotted bruises around his neck… as if someone had strangled him, then dug their nails into him to deliver the final blow. Too distraught to fully process what was right in front of her, she rose to her feet, dragging them through the snow as she checked each of the bodies. Nehm'ra. Aurie. Akkael. Her father, Arlen. Azëlloa. Leironse. Olly. Ebrahima. Each corpse had the same wounds on their necks, their blood pooling below them, with the exception of Azëlloa-- his was green. The normal color of Yanar blood. It was when she knelt again that she finally caught sight of her own hands-- her nails. They were red with a slight green hue. Did.. did she do this? Lowering her gaze, she placed both hands in her lap, staining her blue dress with the crimson, viscous substance. The silence around her was deafening.
Then… someone spoke up. From somewhere behind her. Where… Aq'uello's corpse lay. Or, where it did. "You killed them, Amara. You killed all of them with your hands. You're a murderer..." Aq'uello's ethereal voice echoed, coming from right behind her. Silent, Amara stood to her feet, refusing to turn towards him. "I didn't kill them. I was trying to save them!" She blurted out, mainly trying to convince herself rather than her dead companion. "I… was trying to save them. I couldn't… I didn't kill them!!! You're wrong!" Her gaze fell to the ground, trying to wake herself from this apparent nightmare-- only to be stopped by the feeling of a cold hand on her shoulder. Not saying a word, Aq'uello had gotten closer and would attempt to turn her around to face him. Amara wouldn't fight it, but kept her tearful gaze low. Placing his hand on her waist, he tugged her in, starting up a slow waltz. But when she finally looked up, it was no longer Aq'uello. It was Ebrahima. She was dancing with the dead. How ironic. Breaking the silence, he spoke in a croaking tone. "Amara. Why did you kill your friends? Why did you kill me? Don't you care about me?" He would ask in his mother tongue of Sofaal. Even though it had been years since she used that language, she understood it plain as day. His voice was comforting, but haunting. With each word that came out of his pale lips, more blood splattered from his neck to the ground. "You thought it would be easier to kill me rather than live with your insecurities, didn't you Amara? That's pathetic and you know it. You're a filthy coward. You don't deserve to be called Altalar. You don't deserve to be called 'friend'." Amara was speechless. Not only was the dead form of Ebrahima flickering back and forth between her friends, but every time they would spin, the more her defenses would falter. She could feel her sanity, or whatever was left of it, slip through her fingers like water.
Their dance halted. Their tracks drawn through the snow. Ebrahima had vanished, only to be replaced by her father. His face was gaunt. He didn't carry the same wounds as the others. He just had a bittersweet smile on his perfect face. "Tira. My sweet Tira. How much you've grown." He pulled her into a close embrace, speaking in his soft, familiar tone. Something she hadn't felt or heard in decades. Something she sorely missed. He still smelled of old, musty books… and vanilla. A scent she herself always carried about her person to remind herself of him. "Papa. Papa, I'm so tired. I can't do this anymore Papa. I miss you. I need you." Amara sobbed, her face buried tight in his chest. She was trying so desperately to keep him as close as possible.
Instead of immediately replying, Arlen moved away, holding her at arm's length as if inspecting her. In the reflection of his half-moon glasses, Amara could see herself. Curiously enough, she was once more a child-- with raven black hair, lighter skin, and wide blue eyes full of innocence. "Papa?" she began, looking up at her father, "Why am I a child again? Does this mean I have to start from scratch?" Arlen laughed at her question, then pulled her close once more. "No, my darling Tira. You do not have to start from scratch. You have to move away from your past and look towards the future. You can't let your failure define you. Do you think I got anywhere in life by holding onto my past? Of course not. I moved on. I proved everyone wrong. I became better than them." The silence took hold for several minutes and Amara/Tira moved from her spot to stare up at him. In the form she had taken, her father was much taller than her. She really was a child again, hanging on to her father's every word as if they were drops of honey, wanting to soak up every bit of knowledge he was willing to share.
"Tira. You can help others. You can make things right. But never, and I mean, never let anyone take advantage of you." His tone suddenly grew serious. The winds around them began to blow violently, frantically whipping her hair around. Amara tried to keep them out of her face, but gave up. There was no point. "Make them beg for your help, Tira. You are powerful. You are my daughter. You are an Altalar. You may be a Suvial, but act as if you were born Teledden. You are better than everyone else, and never forget that. Make them worship the ground you walk upon." With that, he disappeared. Everyone else around her disappeared. She was alone. But she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off her chest. Even in the snow, she felt warm. The sun above hit her eyes, causing her to blink.
And just like that, she was awake. Tugging at a piece of paper that had stuck to her face, Amara placed it flat on the table in front of her. It was blank, but it wouldn't be for long. Grabbing her pen and inkwell, she began writing.
The calm inside her heart had left. Now all that remained was the storm. It brewed inside her. Started a fire within her.
She would make things right. She would make them see, whether they wanted to or not.
When she awoke, she was no longer in her office. She was standing in the middle of a snowy field. All around her were broken bodies. Dead before she even had a chance to fix them all. That wasn't what caught her eyes though. It was.. Another body, but upon closer inspection... No! It was Aq'uello. How could it be? Kneeling down to examine his wounds, Amara spotted bruises around his neck… as if someone had strangled him, then dug their nails into him to deliver the final blow. Too distraught to fully process what was right in front of her, she rose to her feet, dragging them through the snow as she checked each of the bodies. Nehm'ra. Aurie. Akkael. Her father, Arlen. Azëlloa. Leironse. Olly. Ebrahima. Each corpse had the same wounds on their necks, their blood pooling below them, with the exception of Azëlloa-- his was green. The normal color of Yanar blood. It was when she knelt again that she finally caught sight of her own hands-- her nails. They were red with a slight green hue. Did.. did she do this? Lowering her gaze, she placed both hands in her lap, staining her blue dress with the crimson, viscous substance. The silence around her was deafening.
Then… someone spoke up. From somewhere behind her. Where… Aq'uello's corpse lay. Or, where it did. "You killed them, Amara. You killed all of them with your hands. You're a murderer..." Aq'uello's ethereal voice echoed, coming from right behind her. Silent, Amara stood to her feet, refusing to turn towards him. "I didn't kill them. I was trying to save them!" She blurted out, mainly trying to convince herself rather than her dead companion. "I… was trying to save them. I couldn't… I didn't kill them!!! You're wrong!" Her gaze fell to the ground, trying to wake herself from this apparent nightmare-- only to be stopped by the feeling of a cold hand on her shoulder. Not saying a word, Aq'uello had gotten closer and would attempt to turn her around to face him. Amara wouldn't fight it, but kept her tearful gaze low. Placing his hand on her waist, he tugged her in, starting up a slow waltz. But when she finally looked up, it was no longer Aq'uello. It was Ebrahima. She was dancing with the dead. How ironic. Breaking the silence, he spoke in a croaking tone. "Amara. Why did you kill your friends? Why did you kill me? Don't you care about me?" He would ask in his mother tongue of Sofaal. Even though it had been years since she used that language, she understood it plain as day. His voice was comforting, but haunting. With each word that came out of his pale lips, more blood splattered from his neck to the ground. "You thought it would be easier to kill me rather than live with your insecurities, didn't you Amara? That's pathetic and you know it. You're a filthy coward. You don't deserve to be called Altalar. You don't deserve to be called 'friend'." Amara was speechless. Not only was the dead form of Ebrahima flickering back and forth between her friends, but every time they would spin, the more her defenses would falter. She could feel her sanity, or whatever was left of it, slip through her fingers like water.
Their dance halted. Their tracks drawn through the snow. Ebrahima had vanished, only to be replaced by her father. His face was gaunt. He didn't carry the same wounds as the others. He just had a bittersweet smile on his perfect face. "Tira. My sweet Tira. How much you've grown." He pulled her into a close embrace, speaking in his soft, familiar tone. Something she hadn't felt or heard in decades. Something she sorely missed. He still smelled of old, musty books… and vanilla. A scent she herself always carried about her person to remind herself of him. "Papa. Papa, I'm so tired. I can't do this anymore Papa. I miss you. I need you." Amara sobbed, her face buried tight in his chest. She was trying so desperately to keep him as close as possible.
Instead of immediately replying, Arlen moved away, holding her at arm's length as if inspecting her. In the reflection of his half-moon glasses, Amara could see herself. Curiously enough, she was once more a child-- with raven black hair, lighter skin, and wide blue eyes full of innocence. "Papa?" she began, looking up at her father, "Why am I a child again? Does this mean I have to start from scratch?" Arlen laughed at her question, then pulled her close once more. "No, my darling Tira. You do not have to start from scratch. You have to move away from your past and look towards the future. You can't let your failure define you. Do you think I got anywhere in life by holding onto my past? Of course not. I moved on. I proved everyone wrong. I became better than them." The silence took hold for several minutes and Amara/Tira moved from her spot to stare up at him. In the form she had taken, her father was much taller than her. She really was a child again, hanging on to her father's every word as if they were drops of honey, wanting to soak up every bit of knowledge he was willing to share.
"Tira. You can help others. You can make things right. But never, and I mean, never let anyone take advantage of you." His tone suddenly grew serious. The winds around them began to blow violently, frantically whipping her hair around. Amara tried to keep them out of her face, but gave up. There was no point. "Make them beg for your help, Tira. You are powerful. You are my daughter. You are an Altalar. You may be a Suvial, but act as if you were born Teledden. You are better than everyone else, and never forget that. Make them worship the ground you walk upon." With that, he disappeared. Everyone else around her disappeared. She was alone. But she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off her chest. Even in the snow, she felt warm. The sun above hit her eyes, causing her to blink.
And just like that, she was awake. Tugging at a piece of paper that had stuck to her face, Amara placed it flat on the table in front of her. It was blank, but it wouldn't be for long. Grabbing her pen and inkwell, she began writing.
The calm inside her heart had left. Now all that remained was the storm. It brewed inside her. Started a fire within her.
She would make things right. She would make them see, whether they wanted to or not.
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