Work Text:
Fintan was honestly annoyed at how long he had been waiting for his demise.
He’d started counting the seconds, coming to the conclusion that he had spent hours trapped in this uncomfortable metal chair, waiting for . . . something. A memory break, he supposed. That was what the Council had threatened, at least. But every second that passed was a second Fintan spent free of madness, and he was almost tempted to believe that they had been bluffing about the whole thing. Just one last, desperate ploy to get him to confess. But . . . he knew firsthand that the Council didn’t make empty threats. Not regarding situations such as these, at least. And he knew that the dwarves working in Exile wouldn’t waste time restraining him in his already-impenetrable cell unless he was expecting visitors soon.
He just wished they would hurry up.
Of course, there was the very real possibility that the dwarves had been purposefully ordered to restrain Fintan hours before the scheduled arrival of the Telepaths, just to make him miserable. Perhaps in hopes that he would properly consider the fate that awaited him and decide to take the easy road out. Or perhaps the Council just knew he was prone to impatience.
Either way, it was insulting.
Despite the fact that Fintan had basically invented this strategy, the Council should’ve known that he would catch on to their plan the moment they sent him down here. He wasn’t stupid. Most memory breaks were performed before the prisoner was shipped off to Exile. The Council had clearly wanted Fintan to see what was to happen to him if he wouldn’t give them the information they wanted.
Fintan had already known what was going to happen to him. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen a memory break before. Still, hearing the muffled moans of misery every time one of the guards opened his cell door had made him uneasy. He was still determined to protect his secrets at all costs, of course. But the past few days he’d spent in Exile had definitely rattled him more than the weeks he’d spent above ground in the Council’s custody—even if his current guards shouted at him less.
Fintan gritted his teeth, continuing to count the seconds in his head. The Council was trying to play mind games with him, but he wouldn’t let them win. Not when all of his organization’s plans depended on him now. Not when there were people who were counting on his ability to hide their secrets well enough that the memory of them shattered with him.
Fintan forbade himself from thinking of the specifics now. Anything he’d thought recently would surely be at the front of his mind, and he wasn’t the biggest fan of presenting the Telepaths with the exact information they were looking for once they arrived. He’d successfully blocked his thoughts from all of the probes the Council had thrown at him, but a memory break was a different matter entirely. He could only hope that his mental defenses held out until it was too late for anyone to search his mind further. He would destroy the memories if he had to. There was too much at stake. He was not about to let centuries of work go to waste because he was too weak to protect himself.
He shivered.
If Fintan was being honest with himself, it was less the bonds securing him to his chair that were bothering him, than the fact that the room was so goddamn cold. Being restrained only prevented him from pacing, which he hadn’t realized had been providing his body with a small amount of warmth until now.
The room was slightly humid, as well, which wasn’t so bothersome either until he had made the mistake of trying to struggle against his bonds at the beginning of the first hour of being restrained. Now he could feel his undershirt plastered to his skin with a cold sweat, occasionally sending chills up and down his body.
Fintan swallowed hard. He would barely admit it to himself, but he felt like he was suffocating. Like a flame that had been deprived of oxygen and was now slowly flickering out.
Maybe part of the problem was the fact that, despite being restrained in the Council’s custody as well, he had at least been distracted trying to satisfy them during the many, many interrogations he was subjected to. Dodging questions, changing the subject; answering questions in a way that wasn’t necessarily lying, but wasn’t telling the whole truth, either. Smirking triumphantly at Empaths when they suspected what he was doing but still couldn’t figure out a way to catch him in a lie.
Being alone in Exile was quiet. But it wasn’t quiet enough. The dull sound of wailing made sure of that. Fintan was too inside his head now. It was impossible to focus on anything except for misery.
Still, he made every effort to quiet his thoughts because he was sure this was precisely what the Council wanted—a fact that only made him angrier because he was reminded of all the effort they had gone to in order to keep him out of this situation. He had been given more chances to redeem himself than any other elf could have dreamed of being privileged with. Anyone else would have likely been sent to Exile immediately, without hesitation. And here he was still , being given one last chance even though he had made it clear over and over again that he wasn’t interested in cooperating.
It was infuriating.
Infuriating that the Council kept handing Fintan these chances on a silver platter despite the fact that he had already made his decision, and even a million more chances wouldn’t change his mind. Infuriating that the Council thought that they could wear him down if only they just kept asking him to please, please confess. Infuriating that they even had the nerve to hesitate to exile him; not because they thought his arguments were valid but because they thought that they and Fintan were friends.
It was a ridiculous sentiment. Fintan barely knew most of the current Councillors, and those he had met personally he currently resented. Most of them were snobbish, privileged, ignorant assholes who had no idea how the various laws they were defending were actually affecting their people. And the few who had actually been there at the time to vote on the pyrokinesis ban . . . to call Fintan a friend was just insulting. Not that it mattered anymore. Soon, Fintan would probably not be able to remember any of them, their names and faces lost to the madness. He felt his lips twitch, threatening a smile. At least that was somewhat of a pleasant thought.
He surveyed the icy room, finding himself wondering if the guards would free him from his chair after the break. He supposed it didn’t matter, since he would barely be conscious anyway. Maybe it would be best to keep him restrained, to prevent any destruction he might cause in his insanity. Perhaps they would strip him of his current clothes and force him into some sort of fireproof straitjacket.
Perhaps the Council would take one of their rare trips down to Exile just to peer at him through the small porthole-like window in his cell, mumbling among themselves about how it was oh-so-sad that he had chosen this path of destruction instead of bending to their every will for a small chance of salvation.
Perhaps they would choose to move him to a new cell, one even icier than before. He shuddered at the thought, though he was tempted by the idea of moving to a cell that at least had some sort of bed in it. Or maybe the Council would move him to a room that was much warmer, no longer worrying about him sparking a flame because with his mind broken he would be much too detached from reality to use his ability anyway. Save this current cell for whoever the next exiled Pyrokinetic would be.
Perhaps . . .
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
There was no use speculating over these things now, Fintan knew. Though he supposed he should speculate while he could. He had no idea how much thinking he would be able to do after today. But still he returned his attention back to his mindless counting task, distracted a few minutes later only by the turning of a key in his cell door.
His head snapped up. Well, there was no use in counting now. The moment had arrived.
He almost felt relieved. But then, what did that say about him? Was he really so eager to plunge into insanity just because he had grown restless from waiting ? Maybe he was already more mad than he thought.
“I guess this means the Council has decided to make good on their threats,” Fintan said. He eyed the figure that stood in the doorway, trying to place a name to the dimly lit face that stared back at him. His jaw tightened for a moment when his mind made the connection, but he forced himself to relax so as not to seem disturbed.
Alden Vacker. Admittedly, not who Fintan was expecting the Council to send. Was this another example of their favoritism toward him, perhaps? Or maybe it was simply the Council’s way of showing that they were done playing games with him; they had tried—truly had exhausted every possible option—but their world was currently a mess and now it was time to send in their favorite little Telepath to clean it up.
“Unless you’d like to make this easier on everyone,” Alden said. “It’s not too late.”
That sentiment again. Of course Alden could never understand the stance Fintan had taken—these nobles had no beliefs of their own. They willingly took in the Council propaganda that had been shoved down their throats at a young age, and made no effort to view the world in any way that contradicted what they were accustomed to. They had no idea how to stand up for something they believed in.
“Oh, it’s far too late,” Fintan assured him. “Far too late.”
He had meant the words to come across as confident regarding his actions; sure of the path he’d chosen and the choices he’d made. But he had a suspicion that his tone also betrayed the hopelessness he was feeling; the resignation . . . and the fear. Yes, he had known that this was going to happen eventually. It was only a matter of time before the Council made the connection between him and the Everblaze, even if he hadn’t been the one to directly spark it himself. And yes, he was planning on going down with his secrets. Whatever it took to keep them out of the Council’s grasp. But that didn’t mean he wanted to have his mind broken. He’d lived a long life, sure. Millennia, even. But there was no way he would ever be content with death of any sort until he saw his vision realized. Until he got to live the life that the pyrokinesis ban had robbed from him. That wasn’t possible now. He knew that. But he wasn’t going to go down without a fight, either.
A muffled wail was heard from across the hall. He wished Alden would close the door.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t think they’d send you,” Fintan added quietly, avoiding Alden’s gaze. “I guess I should see it as a compliment. They sent their star.” He made sure every syllable of the last sentence dripped with sarcasm.
Alden sighed and took a few steps forward. “Fintan. I implore you to see reason—“
But Fintan wasn’t interested in hearing his lecture, especially since his eyes had caught sight of a smaller figure standing further back in the doorway.
“Ah, you’re not alone. I’d wondered,” he interrupted. Telepaths hardly ever performed memory breaks without a guide, so it had seemed strange that Alden had arrived without one. Fintan should have figured that he had one hidden somewhere.
“You—hiding back there,” he cocked his head toward the smaller figure, who was nervously hiding behind Alden. “No need to be afraid. They’ve gone to great lengths to make sure I’m perfectly harmless.”
The smaller figure hesitated a moment, then slowly peeked around Alden’s side and . . .
Of course Fintan recognized Sophie Foster.
If not for her noticeably brown eyes, then for the fact that this girl—this incredibly young girl—was accompanying the Lost Cities’ most famous Telepath on a classified trip to Exile. Fintan almost snorted. He knew the Council was desperate, but sending a child on a mission such as this? It was laughable. And while the Moonlark had potential, of course, there was no way she was truly prepared for the type of situations the Council was apparently throwing her into. Her failed kidnapping had proved—if anything—that she had no idea what she was doing.
Still, he found himself staring at her with some sort of awe. This little girl could truly be something great some day; he knew that. It was a pity she had chosen the wrong side.
“Amazing,” he breathed, meeting her eyes. It was at that same moment he realized what he found so fascinating about her.
“You’re the girl who bottled the Everblaze, aren’t you?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
That moment—the moment Sophie Foster had blindly followed the Black Swan’s commands and retrieved a sample of the Everblaze—had been Fintan’s downfall. The Council was given no choice but to accept the fact that the fires ravaging the Forbidden Cities were indeed Everblaze, thus putting a glaring target on Fintan’s back. He was the only elf alive who knew how to spark it, after all. Or, so they thought. Even though the Council had agreed that Fintan had not been directly involved with the sparking of the fires, they still suspected him of something . Which was bound to happen anyway, Fintan knew. That was why he was here. And why Alden was here. And of course, Sophie. The latter was only fitting, Fintan supposed. Let the girl who bottled the flames help clean up the mess she started.
Even so, it was hard not to get excited about having a chance to converse with someone who had actually seen the fires, and at such a close proximity. Fintan had resolved to watch the fires from the sidelines, not being able to risk any direct involvement because it was obvious that Pyrokinetics were constantly being monitored, even before the suspicious fires started.
He felt his lips stretch into a smile. “Wasn’t it magnificent?” he asked Sophie. The girl frowned, clearly not understanding what he was asking.
“The Everblaze,” Fintan clarified. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen it. But it was a remarkable thing to behold.”
He closed his eyes, letting the truth of the words resonate with him. It had probably been no more than a year since he had last laid eyes on the magnificent flames, but it felt like a lifetime.
He longed to feel the heat of the flames licking his skin, to see them burn with that bright, fluorescent yellow color that seared his eyes; images of blazing yellow tendrils that stayed imprinted behind his eyelids even after they had shut. It was the Everblaze he had spent most of his time thinking about in this cold cell, and it was Everblaze he thought about now.
It was true that even to Pyrokinetics, Everblaze could be dangerous. And there was something so alluring about the risk in that; the willingness to return to the flames day after day even though one wrong step could result in an all-consuming, fiery death. There was just . . . something . . . some part of Fintan that wouldn’t be so upset if he ever loved something so much that it ended up destroying him.
But he supposed it already had.
His eyes opened, but he let them stay unfocused, giving himself a chance to stay halfway in the memory.
“Couldn’t you just feel the way the fire breathed with power and energy and life?” he asked, no longer sure if he was talking to Sophie or himself.
The room was quiet for a moment, Sophie seeming unsure how to answer. Fintan let the picture of flames fill his mind again, content to drag out this moment forever, until Sophie finally found her voice: “Mostly I just wanted to get out of there alive and stop it from killing any more innocent people.”
Fintan’s eyes snapped back into focus, his sharp gaze meeting Sophie’s. “I suppose only a Pyrokinetic can truly appreciate the majesty of an unstoppable flame,” he said, frowning. Of course, he hadn’t expected her to completely understand, but someone who had been that close to the blaze should have at least walked away with some sort of appreciation. Was this girl not raised with humans? Did humans not used to worship fire for the warmth it brought them? All of this beauty wasted on such simple-minded creatures.
Fintan shook his head. There was no time for him to get worked up over such things now.
“The fire of the sun on the earth,” he mumbled, remembering the various phrases he had used to describe the blaze all those years ago. This was the only one that really stuck.
He sighed, looking away. “I would’ve loved to see it again, before . . . “
He closed his eyes again, not wanting to think about the horror he was soon to experience. But he still found himself wondering how much of the Everblaze he would be able to remember after the break, and then felt sick when he had to remind himself that he probably wouldn’t remember anything at all.
“If you’d tell us what you know, there wouldn’t be a ‘before,’” Alden reminded him.
Fintan opened his eyes and shot a glare at Alden. “We both know I’m never leaving this cold, empty room with no warmth, no kindling—nothing but solid metal and fireproof clothes,” he said. His eyes dropped down to his arms, the plain metal of his chair a stark contrast to the bright red fabric of his shirt sleeves. The clothes he was currently wearing were—like the majority of his garments—fireproof, yes, but that was out of convenience rather than necessity. Fireproof fabric that wouldn’t catch when he was practicing his ability hardly felt like the same fireproof fabric that was meant to suppress his power. He found himself wanting to rip the shirt to shreds.
“A life with no heat—no fire,” Fintan continued, not lifting his gaze, “—isn’t a life worth living.”
He shivered, noticing a tingle in his hands where the cold metal of his bonds bit into his skin. His wrists were starting to blister.
“Besides,” he added, shifting as much as his bonds would allow. “Some secrets are worth protecting.”
“So you admit, you are hiding something,” Alden said, as if this was some big reveal that he had somehow coaxed out of Fintan.
Fintan simply lifted his gaze and shot him a knowing look, one that conveyed something along the lines of ‘Who isn’t?’
It certainly wasn’t a secret that he was hiding something—not to the Council, at least. While Fintan was good at fooling Empaths, his emotional defenses were not nearly as strong as his mental ones, and talented Empaths had the ability to read the emotions he had no control over. Sometimes he wondered why Empaths didn’t need to ask for permission before assessing someone’s feelings, especially if said emotions could give something away so easily. It almost seemed like more of a privacy violation than Telepathy.
“Our world is broken , Alden,” Fintan said, gritting his teeth. “And all the Council does about it is condemn anyone brave enough to acknowledge that we have a problem.” His hands curled around the metal arms of his chair, turning his knuckles white. “They break our minds, lock us deep in the earth, convince themselves that we are the criminals. But who are the ones ruining lives? Destroying families? Forbidding people from using their abilities, relegating them to working class—“
“Pyrokinesis was forbidden because your insatiable craving for power killed five people,” Alden interrupted. “You supported the decision when you resigned from the Council.”
Resigned was hardly the appropriate word to use. That was what was officially written on paper, yes, but a more fitting phrase might have been forcibly removed. It wasn’t as if Fintan had had a choice. But the Council loved to believe that this was what he had wanted—that they hadn’t been the ones to force him into a life of misery. Fintan had had more opportunities before he joined the Council than he did after he left. Most Councillors resigned to get married or to start a family, not because their ability was banned and they were suddenly deemed “Talentless” overnight. And it wasn’t like Fintan could start a family either, since all Pyrokinetics and their direct relatives were automatically labeled as a bad match to discourage the spread of their genetics. He had never really wanted a family anyway, but he was still furious that the Council had made that decision for him. He had less matchmaking opportunities than the actual Talentless, who at least could be matched with other Talentless elves. But Pyrokinetics were still seen as dangerous by the public, despite the years Fintan had spent trying to tame his ability after the accident, despite all the restraint he’d showed both in public and in his own home, despite the fact that suppressing his ability was hell and made him want to scream for the rest of eternity . . .
He swallowed a lump in his throat.
“That was a regrettable mistake,” Fintan told Alden, his voice barely a whisper. Whether he was talking about his agreeing to the ban or what had happened during the actual accident, he wasn’t sure. Both, he supposed.
“But then I lived the life they’d relegated me to,” he said. “Treated like the Talentless—with no way to satisfy my craving for flame.”
He flexed his fingers, trying to remember what it felt like to feel the comforting warmth of a flame at his fingertips.
“It’s a daily struggle not to let my sanity slip away.”
Alden’s teal eyes were ice cold. “I’m not so certain you’ve succeeded,” he said.
Fintan tightened his grip on the arms of his chair. If I’m so broken, how come no one has been able to pick the secrets out of my brain yet? he wanted to ask. But that seemed childish, and especially pointless now that Alden was here to do exactly that.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t stall the process for as long as possible.
“And that’s only a small problem,” Fintan said, deciding to ignore Alden’s previous comment and continue his rant. His voice was building steam now, and even if the two elves standing before him didn’t agree with his ideas, he would make them listen. He already had their attention, and maybe he would be able to say something that would distract them enough to cause them to make a mistake during the memory break. To give him time to better protect his secrets. Or destroy them if needed.
“Left to their own devices the Council will let everything we’ve built crumble to dust,” he continued. “Someone had to stand up and fight for what matters—and while I’m not the one who cast the first sparks, I am willing to help keep the flames alive.”
“The flames have been extinguished!” Alden shouted.
Fintan snorted a laugh. “That’s the funny thing about rebellions. You can’t stop them until they’ve consumed everything that fuels them. And from where I sit I see plenty of kindling.” His eyes locked with Sophie’s. “She’s as much a part of it as I am—never forget that.”
Alden stilled. “She’s not a part of anything.”
“If that were true, then why is she here?” Fintan asked, not taking his eyes off Sophie. This girl was the product of an illegal rebellion—claiming she had no part in any of this would be ludicrous. She might not have asked to be made the way she was, but that didn’t change the fact that she was—put simply—a weapon. Knowledge was how people gained power—and it was something that could easily cause fractures to appear throughout their world if it fell into the wrong hands. And for a little girl to know the details of so many classified secrets . . .
“You’re choosing the wrong side, Alden,” Fintan said. “If anyone’s mind should be broken, it’s hers. She’s hiding more secrets than anyone.”
Fintan had less than a second to register—with some feeling of satisfaction—the look of horror that had made itself known across Sophie’s face, before Alden fiercely grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him to make sure he didn’t speak another word. But no matter. Fintan had clearly gotten into Sophie’s head already, which was precisely what he had intended to do. The poor thing looked so scared, he might have even felt sorry for his comment if Alden hadn’t immediately turned to her and asked if she was ready to start the memory break. Sophie nodded shakily. Fintan sighed. It truly was a shame the girl had chosen the wrong side.
“Doing this brings me no joy, Fintan,” Alden said, turning back to face him. “But this group—this rebellion you’re protecting— will be stopped. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect what matters.”
Fintan shot him a glare that he was sure could wither flowers. What matters. Since when did Alden Vacker know anything about what mattered? A million insults ran through his mind, but all he said was, “Well, then I guess you’d better get started, shouldn’t you?”
Alden sighed. “Yes, I believe I should.” He took a step back, smoothing his hair and rubbing his temples.
Sophie was watching Fintan carefully now, and after Alden had composed himself, his tired eyes were on him as well.
Two pairs of eyes, plus undoubtedly those of a guard waiting right outside the cell door, yet Fintan still felt like the entire world was watching him when Alden said, “Last chance.”
Fintan suddenly felt sick again and was sure all the color had drained from his face, but he still gritted his teeth and said, “I’m not the first to sacrifice myself for this cause—and I won’t be the last.”
“And your sacrifice will be for nothing,” Alden assured him. “I’ll find whatever you’re hiding in the break.”
Fintan forced a smirk. “You’ll never find it in time,” he said. “I know how to protect my secrets. And if I can, I’ll drag you down with me.”
“You’ll only hurt yourself if you try.”
Alden turned back to face Sophie, likely going over some sort of Telepath instructions regarding the break and the duties of guides. But the deafening sound of blood rushing in his ears had caused Fintan to miss the conversation, which in turn led to his heart rate picking up speed even though he was sure he didn’t care about what they were saying anyway.
“. . . I’ll try to work as fast as I can,” Alden was saying when Fintan willed himself to focus. He refused to panic now. This was happening whether he liked it or not, and he should be spending this time thinking of the best defensive strategy rather than hyperventilating.
“How long will it take?” Sophie asked, seeming more nervous than Fintan was.
“No more than a few minutes,” Alden assured her.
Fintan laughed, cold and sharp. “That’s what you think,” he told them. There was no way he was going to let the Council win. Not this time.
Alden ignored him and placed his hands on Fintan’s temples, causing Fintan to immediately detect the pinpricks of warmth against his skin. He realized then, that although the Council had taken several precautions regarding this break, they had overlooked something crucial. He didn’t dare let the thought fully form in his mind, not wanting to risk the chance that either of the Telepaths would hear it. But it sat there, waiting, right behind his temples where the warmth lingered, like a spark waiting to be coaxed into a flame.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” Alden told Sophie, and Fintan watched as both Telepaths closed their eyes, likely having one last conversation before the break commenced. A moment later, Fintan closed his eyes too, sitting as still as he possibly could, worrying that even an intake of breath would cause Alden’s hands to shift atop his temples, leading to him losing track of that spark of heat. That thought.
Sitting still in that metal chair, Fintan barely let himself think. He shoved everything toward the back of his mind, burying what he deemed to be most important the deepest.
He almost didn’t feel Alden enter his mind at first, but was able to swiftly locate him after sifting through his own consciousness layer by layer. Alden’s glimmer of consciousness was like a soft, icy halo in Fintan’s mind, making him easy to follow through his own mental inferno. But Fintan realized he hadn’t appreciated how mild the icy glimmer had been before it quickly turned into an icy hurricane, a torrential downpour that hurled jagged shards at his mental defenses and left scratches and scars on the walls of his mind.
It was painful, yes. But nothing could have prepared him for the sensation that followed; an explosion of pain so fierce and unbearable—like a lightning bolt being shot directly into his brain—that he immediately tried to retreat deeper into his mind, only to find his path blocked by the shards of his defenses Alden had left behind. He couldn’t go back the way he came, either—he was trapped. He tried to scream as his mind was attacked again and again and again and white bolts of lightning danced across his vision, but he was so disconnected from his body that he didn’t know if any sound escaped his mouth or if his mouth was even working anymore at all. He couldn’t feel a single spark of heat anymore, either; couldn’t feel the pressure of hands against his temples or the chill of metal bonds against his wrists. He thought that this lack of heat might be the worst thing he’d ever experienced—until the flood of memories started pouring in.
Seeing so many at once was overwhelming. Alden had been looking for Everblaze-specific memories, of course, but what Fintan didn’t know was that seeing them all at once would also cause him to feel them all at once. His mind filled with choking smoke and burning yellow flames that traveled up and down and sideways and burned his body from the inside out. He saw the memory of himself sparking Everblaze for the first time at the same moment he felt his stomach heave at the sight of the charred bodies of his former friends.
He wanted to return to the cold now—would gladly return to the world of lightning and icy misery so long as this burning just please stopped.
Some of the scenes had already started to become warped and twisted as some sort of defense mechanism, but the more vivid memories stayed sharp and clear and Fintan couldn’t push the Telepaths away no matter how hard he tried. He decided that now was the time—he needed to start destroying some of the memories.
He focused on the memory that showed the accident that had led to the pyrokinesis ban in the first place; the memory that replayed the death of his friends in vivid detail. It was by far the most painful of all the Everblaze memories. He would destroy that one first.
Rallying his mental energy, he imagined himself doing to the memory what one might do in order to explode something with outward channeling, which then caused the memory itself to splinter into a million glinting shards that got swallowed up by the dark abyss of his mind.
Alden had already moved deeper into the memories, but some of the shards had caught on to him and were now attempting to pull him down deeper into the darkness with them. But the images kept pouring and pouring into Fintan’s mind, giving the intruder something to grab onto to resurface himself.
The memories had begun to warp and twist even faster, dissolving into nothing whenever anyone tried to focus them. The upper levels of the mind were complete chaos, so Fintan found himself retreating further down, down to the memories that actually needed protection. There was a mental fog growing thicker and thicker now, suffocating and choking and trapping anyone that dared to come near. But it was also acting as a layer of protection, the volume increasing with every memory that dissolved and evaporated.
Then there was a sudden shove of energy into his mind, thinning the fog slightly but not nearly enough to break through. He wanted to cling onto that warmth, deciding that succumbing to the icy downpour of memories that chilled him to the bone was a far worse fate than the searing heat of the Everblaze. At least the burns reminded him that he was alive.
He wanted to curl up in the fog—lay down to rest and never resurface. His entire body was burning, stinging, aching all over and yet somehow still shivering from the cold even though he was fairly certain he didn’t have a body anymore—he was just a blip of consciousness in his own mind which seemed to be growing smaller and smaller. And god, he was so tired.
His mind felt so weak and weary and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing anymore—though he knew there was something. Something important. Something that lingered in the back of his mind that prevented him from melting into the fog and succumbing to the madness. He just wished he could remember what it was.
He resolved to gather all the broken shards of his memories, adding them to the fog and protecting himself from what lay beyond.
He was aware of the heat—the other force of energy—fading, slowly dissolving and letting the fog thicken and thicken until his mind was a mess of cloud and smoke. That is, until another force was thrust into his mind; a shock of heat that collided with the last of the previous energy and rebounded in every possible direction.
The energy had nowhere to go—nowhere to escape. The previously fading energy had seemed to regain some of its strength and was now swirling and swirling around in his mind with the other force, twisting and warping and spinning around each other to form a cyclone of heat that made it feel like his skull was about to split open.
And for a moment he thought it did; there was an explosion of white hot heat and light and shards that scraped at every surface they could find until they too imploded and burned away the last of the fog, leaving his mind feeling empty and numb. Nothing. He couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe. He was sure he screamed but had no idea if it had been heard; he was also fairly certain he was dead.
That is, until a burst of color filled his mind, causing him to suck in a breath and pour all his energy into clinging to that memory. He would not be washed away again.
He was even grateful to feel the throbbing pain again, was glad to feel something because he knew he needed to stay grounded. Because he recognized the scene he was seeing.
This memory so far had not been damaged, though it was slightly blurry and distorted from the fog. But he recognized the young elf standing before him, long red robes and arm stretched out to the sky. Fintan found he could not bring himself to look away even as a small ball of neon yellow flame sprang to life over the elf’s palm, multiplying the stabbing pain in his mind by a significant amount.
He had to watch. This memory was important. This was what he needed to be protecting.
And it was a good thing he had grounded himself, for the memory acted as a sort of bubble that temporarily protected him from the madness that was overtaking his mind, allowing him to remember who he was and what he needed to do. He could feel that flicker of heat pulsing at his temples again, begging him to let it twist and burn and destroy. To let it grow and expand. To let it free.
It was quite an effort, what with the mind fog and the overall chill of the prison cell, but Fintan was able to hone in on the warmth, use the last of his energy to feed it, and let the spark swell and swell until he released it with a strained shout. A bolt of heat shot up Alden’s arm, causing him to lose concentration. Allowing Fintan the time he needed to shatter the memory.
The broken shards of the scene immediately tore at the protective bubble Fintan had taken refuge in, plunging him deeper and deeper into the darkness until there was nothing to hold onto. Above him, the entire stream of memories cracked and splintered, crumbling into tiny, unrecognizable shards. The chaos rained down on him, pushing him deeper, deeper, deeper into the depths of his own broken mind.
The intruder’s consciousness faltered and then flickered away entirely, lost in the sea of chaos of his own doing.
And then the mind seemed cold and empty—more so than before because now there was absolutely nothing to fill it.
But the emptiness didn’t last long, the forgotten fragments of memories stirring once again and molding and twisting and caving in on themselves until they were something new entirely—a horrific type of jumbled, inescapable madness. Every color and sound and sensation converged on him all at once, but at the same time there was nothing to sense at all. He was bombarded with flashing lights and piercing screams but his vision had long since gone dark and he couldn’t make out a single sound. Everything was scratchy and inky and black and every breath was rewarded with a million searing flames that shone with every color of the visible spectrum but were somehow devoid of any color at all. Every second was an hour and every hour was a century; every broken memory was multiple memories shattered and molded and stitched back together into something terrifying that left him laughing and screaming and clawing at nothing. One second he was cold and another second he was hot, but at the same time these sensations were not familiar to him at all and his head spun and spun until there was no sense or direction or reason to anything.
He just wanted to rest—just wanted to hide from the madness and stay there forever. But his mind wouldn’t let him. Every moment he was attacked with flecks of light that stung like needles and currents of darkness that filled his lungs and dragged him even further down. He had nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go. And even if he did, he was sure he would not be welcome, because he was no longer anything or anyone and hardly existed at all. The only reality he knew was one of pain and madness and misery, one that led him to crave the sweet release of death. But no release was coming. He knew that. Other than the pain, that was the only thing he knew now. He didn’t know how to scream; how to cry or beg or plead; didn’t know how to breathe. Everything he wanted to let out only buried itself deeper, traveling further and further down before collapsing in on itself and shooting out like bolts of fire that targeted the fragmented images of places and people he didn’t recognize.
All he knew were the flickers of light, the pain, the hopelessness. And he would stay like this forever, with no reason to believe that an end to his torture would ever come. This was it. Nothing. Everything.
No—there was one last coherent thought in his mind that refused to break, one that offered him no relief but didn’t amplify his pain, either.
A thought born from his misery, his anger, his desperation.
A promise.
Everyone will pay.