The Merciful Clutches of Darkness

I remember the darkness from many years ago, before we lit the city. It’s a chilling sensation to lose sight of everything familiar, to never be quite sure if the security of a warm hand is still within reach or has been stolen far away in the gloom. All you can do is trust that all will be as you remembered it when the sun rises again.

Tonight, I had no trust left to cling to.

I was floating through nothing, held aloft by the vaporous grip of the shadow creature, Fey. The Liara. Was I hundreds of feet in the air, or was that the ground I felt sweeping my braids? Was I stationary, or hurtling recklessly through space? No way to tell.

Amidst the blackness Fey’s voice lilted words both comforting and dreadful. She spoke of safety and destiny, and sang in a language so beautiful and cold that my heart eased, still pumping nervous adrenaline.

The darkness I remember was generous: eventually, it would allow my eyes to adjust a little. Fey’s darkness was not so kind. She held me, waiting for something. Morning.

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