Dr. Achren Psiakis, PhD. (adimonia) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-03-28 02:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | acheron |
Who: Darla Summers [NPC] & her dream of the Underworld / Acheron [Closed Narrative]
Where:Darla's pscyhe.
When: Early Saturday morning, 6:30 AM.
Warnings: Dream speak.
Darla dreamed, and in her dreams, her voice was clear and her dark eyes alight, untouched by the tragedy she carried with her in waking. Songs and cries of the dead were all encompassing and devouring, a painful, woeful dirge that wound its way away around her, danced with her - like fingers playing through her inky black hair, wet with pomade and tears, the shades of the once-living surrounded her and embraced her. Every cell of her being crackled with their sorrow, but the physical pain of being no longer dripped from her ever-crying eyes.
She stepped forward. Tilting her head, she stared into the nothing before her, guided by spirits and by those who would give their soul to return to the world beyond theirs, to her world, where the sun still shined and where life was lived blindly. Water lapped at her bare ankles, and she lowered her gaze, somehow not phased by the abrupt appearance of water. A river. A river with unforgiving, swirling eddies and rocks, whirl pools and rapids - and at the river's center, where the water was so deep the roaring became silent: a boat with a haggard shadow of what was once a man. It spoke to her. It spoke to her of a world where there was no pain, where the maiden Lethe could wipe away her tears forever more, and she could find peace, at last. Forget all that came before and worry not about what will come after.
Whispers.
Somewhere, she heard the howls of the dread Furies, the furious and deep growl of Cerebus, and a distant song of those damned to walk the banks of a river aflame.
Two strong hands were at her back, guiding her into the frigid waters. A hushed voice, one of innate beauty and tragedy that it was genderless, formless, void - words came and went, drowned by the roar of rapids. Knee deep, she turned, looking over her shoulder. No one. She turned back to face where the man on the boat had been, but only Acheron's face stared back, eyes shining like black lamp-oil in the dim light of Hell, unyielding, and she reached out her hand. "Come," the River spoke, but her lips did not move. "Follow me."
And she was gone.
An asphodel plant remained, as grey and dreary as the fields from which it came, drifting in the swirling waters before her She leaned to pick it, held it to her nose to smell, and found herself sinking in the abyss. Drowning, her fingers gripped the flower until petals were torn asunder by the deathly cold water encasing her and her faux-frantic struggle for survival.
Only one petal remained, and she was compelled to shove it into her mouth, letting the last bit of withheld breath escape.
Darla woke with a start, breathing heavily, her eyeliner smeared and tears streaming down her cheeks. She reached with trembling hands to her glass of water.
Elsewhere in the city, in a somber and modestly decorated, albeit posh, condo, Akhe was sprawled across the length of her cobalt-blue couch, sleeping as the sun rose beyond the panes of her floor-to-ceiling-windows, dreaming of a mortal losing herself in waters from which there was no hope of return.
And, in her sleep, Acheron smiled.