Thea shook her head in denial, muttering the word ‘no’ over and over.

  Snatching the greater healing potion off of his belt, Nyhm rushed forward, uncapped the bottle and dumped it down his brother’s throat. Thea lunged forward to grab his arm, this time shouting the word.

  “NO!”

  But it was too late.

  “Oh, Nyhm. What have you done?”

  Raith collapsed to the dirt, screaming. He had no idea how much time passed as he convulsed on the ground, heedless of the world around him. Sweat streamed from every pore. His muscles wrenched with unendurable cramps, while tears cut rivulets through the dirt and ash on his face.

  The pain rolled away like a passing wave, leaving him gasping on the forest floor. His lip hurt, and he couldn’t figure out why. A voice filtered in from what sounded like very far away.

  “Get the gag in his mouth. Don’t let him bite it off!”

  Another wave of pain washed away the voices, but when it subsided again, they were still there. It was comforting to know they’d be here when he died. He hoped he would still be able to hear them.

  “…don’t know anyone in Old Valen. Tolliver, fly straight west to the monastery. Tell my grandfather that…”

  Raith thought he almost managed a smile at the comfort of his brother’s presence before being again overtaken with agony. And with the next passing wave, he finally remembered he could make it all stop.

  [Life in Staccato]

  And then there was nothing.

  The simple absence of pain, of any sensation at all, might have been the most decadent thing he’d ever experienced. He considered entering the library, but decided he needed to spend some more time recovering in this self indulgent oblivion.

  A memory arose of speaking to his father as a child about his fear of death. Raith had broken his arm falling from a tree. It was a bad fall and a bad break, and it had scared his mother into admonishing that he could have died. He convinced himself that if coming close to death hurt this badly, death must be the biggest hurt of all.

  ‘It sounds like it’s not the dying that scares you, but the pain of it. I understand. Being in pain can be scary. No one wants that, even grownups.’

  He put his arm around his son and pulled him close.

  ‘But as a solider I can tell you true, death comes to many before they even know it’s there. No pain at all, not even a second to be scared.’

  Then he tousled Raith’s hair and gave him a kiss on top of the head.

  ‘Besides, after getting that tattoo you’ve braved more pain than most men, living or dead. You’ve nothing to fear after showing the courage to bear that.’

  His father had been wrong. He was dying, and it was the sum of all the pain he’d ever felt and more. The memory shattered the comfort of his blissful nothingness, and he activated [Mnemonic Library].

  The silence remained, but he blinked as he took in the unexpected changes to his mental domain. All of the stars had vanished from the night sky above, and when he attempted to bring them back, nothing happened. Looking around, he could see that a thin film coated every surface, dark and sticky like congealed blood.

  Raith cautiously wiped at a shelf with his hand, and the substance clung to him. He tried to brush it off with his other hand, and it spread, growing thicker until his hands grew heavy with gore. The weight of it was exhausting, and he felt the substance binding him. Drawing his body and mind downwards in a confusing spiral.

  A descent into madness.

  And the smell. Weavers help him, the smell of blood and rot and decay hung so thick in the air that it condensed into this grisly bile that coated everything around him. It oozed and crept up his arms as he stood frozen in terror.

  Someone started screaming, and he couldn’t tell if it was him or the ghost of him that sat curled up in the corner of the sofa, chin resting on its knees. Perhaps not a ghost. Some version of him, artfully sculpted from this black congealed blood that had somehow turned his refuge into a nightmare.

  “Who are you?”

  The figure on the couch looked past him with dead eyes, as though it heard him, but he was invisible. It turned to stare back across the room, ignoring Raith as if he were the ghost.

  As if it was the one hallucinating.

  And then he felt the creeping gore ooze up his neck and over his chin and reach the corner of his mouth. He tried to turn his head away, but it was clinging to his skin and he knew, he just knew, that if it got into his mouth then he would be consumed entirely from within and there would be nothing left.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “MAKE IT STOP!”

  And it did. Suddenly and completely.

  A familiar woman’s voice resonated into his head. It was deep and lulling. Comfortable, even when tinged with irritation as it was right now.

  “What is this pollution you have brought into my realm, little dreamer?”

  The vile substance pulled back from his skin, flowing like oil onto the floor. Soon after, the putrid blood began retreating from the room, flowing outwards towards the walls and disappearing. The ghost shot to its feet and cast around in silent panic before it, too, melted to the floor in a gruesome pool and sloughed away with the rest.

  When it was all gone, Raith stood there panting. Afraid that if he moved or spoke, it would all come back. But next time, no one would save him from being consumed.

  Then he remembered where he had heard the voice before and dared to speak.

  “I thought you were a dream.”

  The woman gave a warm laugh. It made him happy to make her laugh, and Raith hoped he would be able to find a way to do it again.

  “I am exactly that.”

  Raith shook his head.

  “I don’t understand. Have I gone mad? Am I dead?”

  Another chuckle made his heart soar.

  “You are neither. At least not yet, although that may soon change.”

  She paused, and Raith somehow knew she was considering, so he needed to wait and hold his questions.

  “I have not spoken with a human in this manner for many thousands of years. Let us begin with introductions. I am Amaris, the goddess of Dream. And you, Raith, are my very distant descendant. Within you, a small fragment of the dreaming walks the mortal realm.”

  He had never before heard of one of the godlaced directly identifying their lineage like this. Although it made sense that it was a rare occurrence, since the Order sought to sever that tie the moment a [Divine Skill] was revealed. More than sever. Mold the Templar into a foil against any power the gods try to reestablish.

  “How are you here and not trapped in your tower?”

  As he understood it, even [Priests] couldn’t communicate directly with their deities outside of the godtowers.

  “The Weaver’s towers confine our reach in the mortal realm, but you have stepped into the Dream Realm, where my power had never waned. While many of my lesser kin have no domain outside of their prisons, I am among the first of the gods. Not even our parents can bind me in my own kingdom.”

  This was confusing, and Raith warred internally between wanting to spew an endless stream of questions and being fearful of irritating a goddess. He settled on trying to clarify his most salient point of confusion.

  “I thought [Mnemonic Library] was simply a mental construct. Like, entirely in my own head. Are you saying it is in the Dream Realm?”

  “Yes, child. It is constructed of dreams, and your mind serves as the bridge. Your [Divine Skill] is also a sliver of the dreaming. That thread is very likely why you were drawn to seek out this library.”

  “[Life in Staccato]? I thought that was controlling time in some way.”

  “I possess no authority over time. Your divine thread simply takes advantage of my realm’s strange relationship with time. Years may pass in the blink of an eye, or a moment dragged out for eternity. Never have I imagined it might be used in such a way as your [Skill], however. The pattern was not mine for the choosing, but my parents’ design. The Weaver’s Gifts are for mortals alone, and the gods may not meddle in their weaving.”

  He felt a sadness come over her now, and the sorrow was reflected into the core of his being. The memory of the fear and pain and madness from only a few minutes ago came rushing back, after being briefly forgotten in this extraordinary exchange. Raith knew she was preparing to leave, but he still had so many unanswered questions.

  “Am I to die now?”

  “That is not for me to decide. If you remain in this place, it is a simple matter for my power to keep that foul darkness from the dreaming. But I can do nothing for your physical body. The fate of the mortal realm lies beyond my reach.”

  Raith felt a momentary surge of relief before considering the implications of that statement. He could stay here in [Staccato] indefinitely. Perhaps forever, as far as he knew. But his body would remain as it is, paused in the midst of being overtaken by the Grins and wracked with agony.

  If he dropped [Staccato] then he could still stay in the library, Amaris's power keeping the pollution of the Grins at bay, but the pain would return. He would feel every bit of it, even here. Wouldn’t it be ironic to avoid the madness of the Grins only to be driven insane from the torment?

  Or he could just end both [Skills] and succumb entirely. At least it would be over soon.

  Alright, that last one wasn’t an option. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t give up completely. His brother and Thea were rushing him to his grandfather’s monastery, and she had all the notes from the Rootmother about a possible cure.

  There was hope he might come out the other side of this.

  But to get there might be more pain than he could bear.

  “I’m really scared.”

  “I know, child. You face a terrible choice. I wish that I could lift this burden from your shoulders. But it has never been my way to interfere, even before my troublesome kin brought the Weaver’s Wrath down on us all.”

  A comforting hand stroked his hair, much like his mother would do as he lay in her lap as a child. He closed his eyes for a moment, and let the slow, steady brushes soothe him. The burgeoning panic began to subside, and when it was finally gone, so too was Amaris.

  Another memory arose unbidden. This time of getting his tattoo. He’d used his [Skill] then to escape the pain. It was probably the longest he ever spent in [Staccato]. First, trying to understand with a child’s mind Nyhm and his mother’s betrayal. Then, after finally realizing they only did what they must out of love, working up the courage to return to that merciless needle.

  Stars had returned to the sky, and he stared up at them, drawing comfort from their distant serenity. He felt a tug on his pant leg and looked down to see Veil standing with its arms outstretched like a child wanting their parent to pick them up. He reached down and held the little daemon close. Raith then sat cross-legged on the rug and set Veil down before him.

  “I’m going to end [Staccato] in a minute.”

  Explaining things to the daemon calmed him, and he was grateful for its presence. It was sometimes easier to be strong for someone else.

  “When that happens, I’m going to be in a lot of pain. It may seem really scary, but I don’t want you to worry. If it looks like this place is being poisoned or collapsing, leave and go find Nyhm or Thea. They’ll take care of you. Understand?”

  Veil nodded, then scooted over to lean against Raith’s leg.

  I really don’t want to do this.

  But he did it anyway. And for the next eternity, his entire universe dissolved into unrelenting agony.

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