Chapter Text
There is never an answer, these days.
On the rare occasion when he is still allowed into the liminal space, he becomes well aware that he is alone there now.
Not even the regular guide is present any longer, and he wonders whether the creature was something created by his master, to ensure he stayed on the track and did not stray elsewhere. Went straight to the deity in question that master needed something from.
The liminal space is blurry. It used to be bright and colourful, and easy to navigate, and full of life. It began getting cloudy a few years ago. By now it feels like he is walking through permanent fog; one that covers a wasteland where there is nothing.
He thinks of the expression that appears on Ralathor’s face whenever he speaks of his plan. A face that young should not show such sadness, and, quite frankly, he hates the deep concern Ralathor expresses over his idea the first time the hermit hears it.
Ralathor thinks it is madness. Time and again, the hermit practically begs him to drop the idea. It will not end well, he says, time and again, in a tone not quite pitying but no less sad for it.
What the hermit does not know is how, with every day, his visitor’s steps grow wearier. How much strength it now takes to do simple chores. How much more difficult it is to catch his breath, how his heart sometimes struggles in his chest like a dying bird, and how wintery cold clings to his bones.
How there is vast emptiness now where dreams used to be at night, and how that emptiness is scarier than the worst nightmares he has ever had.
It will not end well, that is Ralathor’s mantra. It does not do. You are playing with forces way beyond your understanding.
The young warlock is aware of that. For years now, he has been indebted to those forces, on somebody else’s behalf. It is not like he had any option. You get no options. You just want to live another day. Even though when you step inside that accursed circle again, you have no idea if this might be your last.
He knows that he is playing with things he does not understand.
He also knows that he does not want to die.
That is why he is here now.
In the emptiness that is now in his dreams’ stead, there is always something he can sense, but never quite grasp. It slips through his fingers like smoke. Calling. Beckoning.
How can there be emptiness, if there is something there? he wonders.
Thers is distortion in the air, and the liminal space around him trembles, ever so slightly. He feels something creep up his spine. The presence from the emptiness is strong, and it lives, and it questions his reasons for being here.
What would you give me, it asks, as its invisible fingers lock around the warlock’s throat, in return for my favour?