(The world of Ichor of Darkness belongs to Fallingleaf)

(Written by HiddenHaven, in collaboration with Fallingleaf)

     "Yes... This one..." A voice rasped out from the shadows, half laughing. Icy fingers wrapped around her neck, caressing her throat to search for her ever-quickening pulse. They lingered there when it had been found, savoring the thrumming beneath her skin. There was a sigh of relief, and the cold breath tickled her face. It stank like rust and rot. "You will be the one."

     Every fiber of her being was desperate to run, but she was locked in place by a grip much stronger than she could fight. There was no running away. No escaping. A hand clamped over her mouth, tilting her jaw toward her fate. She screwed her eyes shut, tears flowing freely in her silent terror.

     She could feel it as he hovered there, poised to strike. A beat passed. Would he change his mind? No. Of course not.

     Sharp fangs pierced into her skin, swift and powerful, they sank deep into her veins. 

     The scream could not tear its way out of her throat in time.

********************

     She watched as bone was crushed and a gush of blood poured out onto the stone floor. Something strange curled in the mist, evaporating into the ether as the last drops fell.

     A man was silhouetted in the doorway, his figure obscured, save for his pale eyes glinting in the moonlight.

     His sigh, deep and weary, crashed against her all-too-sensitive hearing like a wave on the rocky shore. "What a waste," He lamented. The spoken words thundered against her eardrums and she flinched. Her whimper of pain and fear caught his attention.

     Those pale eyes fell on her form, tucked into the smallest shape she could manage, retreating as far into the corner as physically possible. It was not enough. He crouched in close, taking in the pitiful sight.

     "Oh, what has he done..." Dark curls swayed as he shook his head in disbelief. "Poor lamb. Well, it's finished now. There's no turning you back." He held out a hand, still dripping with glistening crimson betrayal. "Come with me."

********************

     "I-- I don't believe it..." Honey-brown eyes stared, blown wide with shock and fear. "You're not--" Her voice trembled as she ran a shaking hand through golden sunshine hair, careful to avoid stitches that had barely begun to heal. "You're not human..."

     "I wasn't trying to trick you, I promise. Please, just stay calm. Let's talk."

     "Talk?" The girl laughed. It was rueful, bitter. "Not a chance. Do you think I'd let you get in close? Give you a chance to sink your fangs into me? You'll drink me dry!"

     "No. I wouldn't--"

     "You're telling me you've never tasted human blood?"

     "That's not what I--"

     "Then you are a monster!" The girl, in her attempt at retreat, backed into the dining table.

     "I won't hurt you. Please, listen to me. I didn't ask to be made this way."

     The girl's hand closed around a knife. "Then I will unmake you."

     "Helena, no!"

********************

     Morana gasped awake, heaving deep, desperate breaths as the nightmare retreated. She scanned her bedroom, eyes darting, frantically searching for signs of danger. There was nothing. She was safe.

     Or, at the very least, she was alone.

     The last glowing embers of twilight filtered in through a gap in her drapes. Those final rays dyed her torn sheets a brilliant golden hue.

     Torn?

     As she blinked away the bleariness in her vision, she could see how her sharp nails had ripped through the fabric of her bed linens and pillows.

     Morana rose from the cloud of feather-down that was once her pillow. What a mess she'd made while trapped in the Weaver's Web. Another thing to clean later. Eventually. Probably.

     Her quilt hung about her shoulders like a cape as she dragged herself from the bed. The panic had ebbed, which left her weary in a way that felt as if she'd never slept at all. Not once in any life had she been an easy riser, but this last week had been awful.

     Ever since her trespasser's call, she had returned to lucidity. Now that she was aware again, she could also worry and dream. The Weaver could not be described as kind, but these nightmares had been cruel. Only flashes of her worst, most painful moments entwined with the dread of what may come next.

     It was always such agony to be empty, but knowing the depth of your emptiness, feeling the sea of anguish repeatedly drown her without killing... Sometimes she wished the blade had found its mark.

********************

     Crossing her bedroom felt like an eternity, but she found her way to her vanity table. At the very least, her furniture hadn't broken down over the centuries. She had plenty of skills, but her woodworking was limited to trinkets at best.

     Polished rosewood, marble, and an intricately detailed three-sided mirror. She remembered being surprised when she first found that she still had a reflection after being turned, but now her surprise was directed toward her haggard appearance.

     White feathers stuck out from her raven hair in every direction, making it look like a bird's nest in a laughably literal way. Her eyes-- stars above, her eyes... They were blank. Hollow from a fitful day's worth of miserable sleep. Once her eyes had been the color of bluebells, now they were icy and cold. A color like the glow of moonlight on fresh snow. The pale color emphasized by the deep bruise-like circles that haloed them. She looked half-starved and half-mad. Unfortunately, it was the truth.

     Taking her brush, she began to sort out her tangled locks. The bristles of stiff boar's hair gently coaxed the knots back into the rolling inky waves they were meant to be, spilling over her shoulders and down her back.

     The chaos of her hair had been tamed. The chaos of her mind would have to wait, even with the shadows waiting impatiently in the periphery of her vision.

     Those shadows followed Morana throughout the night. They helped her dress, choosing for her a gown. It was made of fine, soft fabric in midnight black. The neckline framed her collarbones and complemented the ruby pendant she wore. Morana swayed in place, mesmerized for a moment by the way the long skirt swept across her bedroom floor.

     The darkness acted as a glove over her hand when she selected a perfume. The scent of roses and lilies enveloped her, dulling one of her many heightened senses. Hardly anything dulled the pain of memory for her anymore. That, she would continue to endure.

     Now Morana was dressed and groomed. Ready for the night ahead. The night that had only just begun. Somehow she was already fatigued. She wanted to crawl back into bed, but fought the urge, using the shadows to open the door for her instead of her own strength.

     She had invoked them many times before, but on occasion, they seemed to visit her of their own volition. Always on bad days.

********************

     In shadows, she had companions while she drank her tea. She couldn't manage breakfast. It was too much. The pit in her stomach left no room for food. In fact, it felt very much like she'd swallowed every last one of her teaspoons and they were all trying to dig their way out of her insides.

     She stared into her teacup. The tiny blue roses that she had painted were drowning in her drink. Morana could see her reflection on the surface of the tea, but she stared past it, trying to look into secrets that she knew would never reveal themselves.

     The drink was bitter. She had over-steeped it. She used to be much better at making tea. Or at least she remembered drinking much better tea. The professor had never been one for making it, so it must have been tea that she brewed.

     She couldn't bear to drink any more of what she'd poured for herself, so she poured it down the sink instead. Her own judgment and disappointment in herself manifested in the shadows, forming the vague silhouette of her mentor looming over her shoulder.

     "I know..." Her voice barely broke free from her lips, sounding thin and fragile. Speaking out loud was a chore, but she felt he deserved a response. Even if he wasn't actually there.

********************

     It had been five months since she had been back in her head. It was the longest period of missing time that she could recall-- or fail to recall, she supposed. There had been spells of apathy or numbness, of course there had been, but at least she could remember that emptiness. This time it was well and truly a void. Five months gone in a blink, leaving her grasping for any semblance of memory.

     There was nothing. She was back, but she was still alone. She'd been alone almost two centuries now, and it showed.

     Dust, mildew, cobwebs, and threadbare rugs. Peeling paint, broken windows, holes in the roof that leaked, and a few other things she didn't care to notice right now. She resolved to take care of at least one thing that needed mending tonight. Anything as long as progress could be made. Something to show that someone still inhabited these stone halls.

     In her searching, she found that the mural on the ceiling in her ballroom needed attention. So, deciding on that as her task, she tied her hair back and got to work.

     She had suspended herself by some pulley contraption that would not have been safe if she were human. In all honesty, it still wasn't very safe for her now, but Morana wasn't concerned. It had worked so far, and that's what mattered. Brush in hand, she began to restore some color to her lonely world.

     The great swirling clockworks of the cosmos saw their gold and silver sparkles return, glimmering in divine splendor once again. Shades of lavender formed galactic clouds and glittering stars. The depth of the dark spheres were deepened further, navy blue reaching into a night so black it hummed.

     Outlined in shimmering white, so that they might stand out against the blackness, wispy obsidian wings were reborn much like a phoenix from the ashes.

     Another creature stretched across the expanse, this one a great serpent. Renewed by Morana's paintbrush, its scales glistened as if it had freshly shed its skin.

     Finally, another, somewhat farther off from those two, was an arachnid. Long spindling legs weaving a web that interconnected with one of the wheels of the cosmos.

     The Dreaming may hold many terrifying nightmares for Morana, but it was also the dwelling of her greatest inspirations. Mythology was one of her favorite studies, and when she had been turned, learning the pantheon of her new people provided an endless fountain for her creativity. There was a joy in the act of creating that she just couldn't find elsewhere.

     Reaching for one last brushstroke, a frayed rope in her pulley system gave way. She barely heard the quiet snap before she fell. She couldn't stop the yelp of fear and surprise. The ceiling had been inches away from her only seconds ago, and now it was so very far away. The floor was now so very, very close.

     Darkness enveloped her, arms of shadow catching her just before she would have crashed against the tile. The umbratic image of her mentor set her down gently.

     She would have been relieved if her knees hadn't decided to give out. Unsure if she was dizzy from the paint fumes or from something else, Morana chose to rest on the floor for a moment. She looked up at her handiwork and then to the shadow. It knelt down next to her-- or rather, she made them kneel. She knew that she was in control, manipulating the shade before her. The shadows did not have minds of their own, but sometimes it helped when she pretended. Helped her feel like her own mind wasn't about to leave her. The way he had left.

     After a long while, she spoke again to the faceless shape.

     "I've kept you here too long," She lamented, noticing the way the form flickered in her growing waves of dizziness. "I shouldn't keep you here at all..."

     It tilted its head. From imagined confusion or imagined sadness she couldn't tell. She couldn't tell the depths of her own feelings, how could she know what she was projecting onto his image? It leaned in closer, taking her face in hand.

     "Thank you for your company," Her voice trembled with emotion as she folded her hands into her lap. "It's time for you to go now." With that, it vanished. A beam of moonlight some through a window to take its place.

     A waning gibbous. The light was still bright enough to illuminate her ballroom. It glowed silver, drowning out the minute details, creating false fog from the clouds of dust and swaths of spider silk. True, those things had accumulated in abundance, but so had her art.

     Morana laid back with her hands folded over her stomach, both to alleviate her dizziness and to admire her work. It was beautiful. She was happy with it. Proud, even. At the very least, her art was something she could be proud of. Something that would always be hers. Something that she created all on her own.

     That thought, clear as crystal and bright as starlight, brought a smile to her face. A small one, a lonely one, but a smile nonetheless.