McIan
Journeyman
The days followed one another in swift fashion as Scar kept to himself, self-quarantining as it were lest there be another outbreak of wrath to confound him. His wound had all but healed over. The scar was nigh to vanishing - the blessing of the curse - the only one. He remembered Latifa's interest in his wounds and condition; she seemed very intrigued and he got the impression her fascination would not end with salves and bandages. He welcomed any aid, from anyone. This curse had to end. It must. If death was not its remedy, and if there was no cure, he had to find some means to adapt, to control the urge, the rage, that lit the consuming fire of his disease.
He lay still on his bed, his hands placed under the pillow on which his head lay. He closed his eyes and images came to mind unbidden but nevertheless most welcome...
"One day, my love, we shall be free, together, I swear it," he had told her.
The image wavered, to be replaced by another, his crying out to her as his body and soul were ripped into the nether world, one of many where the souls and entities roamed as tortured spirits, quarreling and fighting one another in eternal battle, bereft of final victory. He grappled with his father, the necromancer Scaramandine, after whom he was named, after which he cast off the name, only to answer as simply Scar. An appropriate title as his stigmata were many, slashed across his heart and soul by good and evil some not his own.
How long the two remain locked in combat not mortal, he could not tell. Time was of no counting there. Wounds were made and they healed. Pain brought cries but only momentary. Eventually the uselessness of combat became realized. The two faced off, glaring at one another, snarling with hate and loathing... and then they turned away, glancing back at the other, as they sought solace and, most of all, a means of escape from this grey prison of mist and shadow.
Scar opened his eyes suddenly. He lay on the bed but raised his head. This was how it was when he began again. It was if he woke from a nightmare. Yet he knew it was no nightmare, but reality. He had returned from the Abyss! The spell of Banishing had failed. Somehow he had come out of it, yet by nothing he did; his wanderings therein accomplished nothing. He lay his head back down.
If it was not he who had escaped, it was his father! But how? And why had he?
His thoughts led him to the nature of the spell he had cast to draw his father into a union of souls, so that together they would be banished. And he realized that when his father had found a means to escape, it brought him out also, and if that were true...
Their souls remained intertwined even until now.
He closed his eyes, inviting the purification of mind found only in sleep. But he could not. He knew he would have to meet his father again, and that his father would seek him out. He had something the Elder wanted. A piece of his soul, his life force, and he would surely want it back.
He lay still on his bed, his hands placed under the pillow on which his head lay. He closed his eyes and images came to mind unbidden but nevertheless most welcome...
"One day, my love, we shall be free, together, I swear it," he had told her.
The image wavered, to be replaced by another, his crying out to her as his body and soul were ripped into the nether world, one of many where the souls and entities roamed as tortured spirits, quarreling and fighting one another in eternal battle, bereft of final victory. He grappled with his father, the necromancer Scaramandine, after whom he was named, after which he cast off the name, only to answer as simply Scar. An appropriate title as his stigmata were many, slashed across his heart and soul by good and evil some not his own.
How long the two remain locked in combat not mortal, he could not tell. Time was of no counting there. Wounds were made and they healed. Pain brought cries but only momentary. Eventually the uselessness of combat became realized. The two faced off, glaring at one another, snarling with hate and loathing... and then they turned away, glancing back at the other, as they sought solace and, most of all, a means of escape from this grey prison of mist and shadow.
Scar opened his eyes suddenly. He lay on the bed but raised his head. This was how it was when he began again. It was if he woke from a nightmare. Yet he knew it was no nightmare, but reality. He had returned from the Abyss! The spell of Banishing had failed. Somehow he had come out of it, yet by nothing he did; his wanderings therein accomplished nothing. He lay his head back down.
If it was not he who had escaped, it was his father! But how? And why had he?
His thoughts led him to the nature of the spell he had cast to draw his father into a union of souls, so that together they would be banished. And he realized that when his father had found a means to escape, it brought him out also, and if that were true...
Their souls remained intertwined even until now.
He closed his eyes, inviting the purification of mind found only in sleep. But he could not. He knew he would have to meet his father again, and that his father would seek him out. He had something the Elder wanted. A piece of his soul, his life force, and he would surely want it back.